My morning usually starts as it has for the last three weeks that seem like an
eternity. I sit in bed under my blanket because London is cold and
merciless, much like my land lady, and check on craigslist for new
places to live. I'm not going alone-my mother and I rent rooms in the
same residence. Between two people making a comparatively decent
income, we'd be able to find something. The answer is no, because
everyone expects us to come up with triple rent in order to move in.
The saddest part is when I started my current job, full time with
benefits, everyone thought the pay of eleven dollars an hour was
super. Then real life happened.
Inevitably
my bladder betrays me and I reluctantly climb out of bed, grab my
pill wheel and my tooth brush, and peek into the hall. A lot of other
people live here-my Fairy God Mother across from me, my fairy god
mother. Down the hall lives Jack and Jill, an unfortunate couple
though I think he is far worse then her. Recently a new house mate
moved into one of the empty rooms. Then, next to the stairs, is the
master bedroom where my land lady and her husband sleep. I usually
rush past it in a blur, or on my hands and knees, if I know she's in.
At the far end of the hall is my only sanctuary, my mother's room, up
another flight of stairs. Its colder, but up there I know our land
lady can't bother me.
If
the coast is clear and the bathroom across from Jack and Jill is
empty, I shoot across to bathroom and shut the door quick. Relieving
myself is easy, and so is brushing my teeth. Its the rest of my
morning routine that makes me die inside. The bathroom scale-after
spending years on the plataeu of 265, not healthy but not horrible,
I've gained 15 pounds since moving in. The reason for that is because
using the kitchen is a hassle.
Between my mother and I, we're allotted a small corner in the fridge
and thats about it. We have some shelf space somewhere, and our eggs
are constantly being stolen. That is, the last time we had eggs they
were constantly being stolen. I think it has been months since we
bothered. Going into the kitchen usually means facing the land lady's
wrath for something insignificant or not our doing. Someone left a
spoon out of place, or a speck of dirt on the stove. Her son, a man
my mother and I used to trust with our lives, says its because she’s
got something else on her mind constantly-one of her dozen children
hasn’t paid back a loan, she discovered another bill. Honestly
knowing that doesn’t help, because she still takes it out on my
mother and I. Knowing its literally nothing we did makes it worse.
Frequently
it has nothing to do with the kitchen-on the way to work a scrap of
paper fell out of my car, and I didn't pick it up. I don't even know
this scrap exists until she yells at me about it. How dare I have so
many possessions, how dare I leave my windows open over the summer
when it rained, how dare I exist and not just donate a hundred
dollars a week to her. That last one isn't something she says, but
its in the way she acts. I know the only reason she rents is not the
goodness of her heart but desperation to keep her house. Then
why do you drive all your tenants away?
I want to scream, but I keep it to myself. No good can come from
confronting her.
In
the long run, using the kitchen just wasn't worth the anxiety or
frustration. Thus we (my mother and I) have resorted to hording non
persihable fool in her room. Crackers, fruit cups, cookies, jerky,
dried fruit when we can find it. Its hardly a fulfilling existence,
and if I didn’t work in Hyannis on the ferry snack bar I’d
probably be starving to death. On shift, when its slow, we can help
ourselves to a selection of food made by the company. Its usually not
the most nutritious, all carbs and fats, but its a good supplement.
Either way, its no surprise where my additional fifteen pounds came
from.
I
hate living here, even though once it seemed like a beacon. It was a
spider web. I gathered all my things, made my former land lady resent
my departure simply by departing (a woman previously a second mother
to me), and flew to this place. Suddenly I was caught in the sticky
silk, unable to escape as my land lady sucks the life out of me.
The
first attack from our land lady came while I was at my first job
here. She didn’t like that I had possessions, that I had so much
stuff, and that, gods forbid, I wanted to use the closet attached to
my room. When I was first shown
the room, I was under the impression the closet was included, but its
become confusing since then. When I first visited I thought the
little sign in the lower bathroom that read “Don’t agree with me
I’ve already changed my mind” was funny. Now its depressing
reality, and without a lease there is nothing I can do about it.
My
mother and I received hope from Peter Pan, dubbed this because of his
position of power on Neverland. Formerly Peter was my mother’s best
friend, who helped her find this place because at the time she
thought her previous residence was worse. When I met him I thought we
formed a connection, and I believed in him more then anything I ever
had in my life. That Man became my fairy god father for a time. He
promised that as soon as his wife, because he was in the process of
divorce, moved out of his house down the hill we could rent that for
a grand a month. One of his sons still lives there, and I call him my
brother, whom for the purpose of this narrative I shall call John.
Mom has become a surrogate parent for him, his fairy god mother.
She’s good at that, and I am lucky to have her as my mother. The
house down the hill, living with John, was a dream, it was hope, and
it was light at the end of the tunnel that helped me persevere over
the summer.
Peter
Pan met the Siren, and everything went to hell. After getting John
used to the idea of us moving in (and we three becoming thrilled with
the idea), he changed his mind. No, she
changed his mind. Michael, John’s younger brother, believes the
Siren wants his house. She has also in no small way, in relatively
few meetings, come to hate
my mother for the simple fact that Peter Pan had a female best
friend. That said, both his sons, my mother, and myself-someone he
previously deemed Boudicca-hate her. She is rude (he thinks she’s
'strong’), does not try to interact with any of us (she is always
'nervous about opening up’), and trying to cut him off from
everyone but her.
My
mother and I have forsaken him. A few weeks back we went to his
military home on the island, nicknamed Neverland. He occupies a
position of high rank there and loves the place. Its only after
meeting the Siren that That Man resented being given another term
there. It is very expensive to live on Neverland as a civilian, so
even together they cannot afford rent. To live with her in base
hosuing would be conduct unbecoming.
We
went there for an activity planned months in advance-my mother’s
birthday. Eventually it grew to include his sons, who we had grown
attached to. It was directly organized to correspond with the movie
release of “Pan”, a new take on the Peter Pan origins. It seemed
only appropriate to see the movie my mother was so excited about in
Neverland. I thought then he was Peter Pan, my mother Tinkerbell, the
boys lost boys, and myself Princess Tiger Lily. Things have changed
much since then.
Through
a freak event no one could have predicted, the preceding weekend the
cape was slammed by a tropical storm. Peter Pan was unable to see the
Siren, because the ferries were mostly canceled, and as a coast guard
he was kept busy. I know this because I myself work on the ferry and
they were practicing a single ferry back from Neverland to London in
the morning, and one to Neverland in the afternoon.
For
this reason our visit, an overnight arrangement he had agreed to
before the Siren poisoned him, meant it was that much longer before
they could see each other. Even though Peter Pan and she had been
enjoying long weekends together ever since they met, frequently to
the point they he ignored his sons when he was on the mainland. No,
always ignoring his sons in favor of her and her
family. John was more aware then Michael, and has grown angrier at
his father about it.
He
even tried to claim illness, hoping we would change our minds. To be
fair he was sick, and he did allow us to visit, but he spent much of
the time ignoring everyone else (myself, my mother, and his sons) to
text message the Siren. Also, knowing my mother was sensitive to
prodding (or he would have known if his correct head was operating
rather then his lower head focused on the Siren) about the state of
the kitchen she had just barely finished cooking in, he made jabs
repeatedly about it. When she began to cry, between the conversation
I had overheard from upstairs the night before and years of watching
my father emotionally abuse my mother amplified by the Hell House we
are now living in, I snapped. I smacked him with a pillow, and told
him it was because he made my mommy cry. Peter Pan got angry,
disproportionately angry, and stormed upstairs and refused to talk to
anyone for a while. We wound up being late to the movie, and it
wasn’t long after my mother left Neverland. I don’t believe we
will ever return for our own accord, and my heart aches whenever we
pass the second star on the right on the ferry, forcing me to
confront Neverland and the pain Peter Pan has caused me.
The
night before, my mother and Peter Pan had both had a beverage called
Dark and Stormy, consisting of rum and ginger beer. It forced them to
have conversations they needed to while they thought I couldn’t
heard because I was dressing the guest room for my mother and myself.
Again this brought back unfortunate memories of my father, and I sat
in the corner and cried and texted John about the occurrence.
The
Siren had been spreading lies about my mother, suggesting she was in
love with Peter Pan and not just his friend. She hated the idea of us
moving into his home, and grimaced whenever my mother’s name came
up. John and Michael had become quite attached to my mother, so they
spoke of her often in the occasions Peter Pan tried to put them and
the Siren together. While we have no confirmation, we’re quite sure
Peter Pan hoped my mother would say ‘no problem, we’ll make do’.
Instead she offered to suspend their friendship if he promised the
house was still an option, which is what had triggered the
conversation.
By
then I had already been to the Emergency Room once, set off by an
anxiety attack when our land lady demanded to know why I didn’t
tell her I was planning to vacuum my room. I’m so wound up lately
that was all it took, ever on the brink of endless tears. My mother
has always, and I know will always, prioritize my well being over
all. Of course she wasn’t going to tell him we could make do, not
when the Hell House was destroying me.
It
came as no surprise, unfortunately, a few days later when Peter Pan
said we couldn’t move into his home. What came as a surprise was
his cowardice and attempts to make excuses. How his ex wife could
cause trouble (so fight for us), or how it wasn’t registered as a
rental location (so register it). He abandoned us at our hour of
need, and I realized no, he never was the hero he thought he was. Not
if he could do that.
The
night before he called off the arrangement my mom went to the ER
because of what we now know is Broken Heart Syndrome. Following an
emotional trauma (the anger, fear, and rejection of what was supposed
to be her birthday weekend) hormones had caused half her heart to
swell and cave her an irregular rhythm. I was on the ferry when it
occurred, but John texted me and took her there. The hospital was
right next to the dock so I rushed there as soon as we made land.
Unknown to us at the time, Peter Pan called his son and made an
excuse no to rent to us for an entirely different bogus reason.
There
is no lawyer friend. We all know this to be true. There is only the
Siren, with her paralegal certificate. We have learned she is false,
a background check done, and false in many ways. However she has him
ensnared. He is shocked my mother and I are angry and will not
forgive him, even as we are now still stranded in the Hell House that
is killing us. I wound up in the ER again myself for my anxiety, and
my dose has been increased.
I
know now I am Wendy, the girl who believed in Peter Pan and had her
heart broken. My mother is my mother, Mrs. Darling, who never
completely bought into the illusion. His poor abandoned sons are my
brothers, John and Michael. He has revealed since his reason for
going to the Coast Guard was to escape his mother-making me wonder
why he ever sent my mother and I here. The answer is simple, because
he is Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up, and will never take
responsibility.
