My daughter Carol May packed up her suitcase and stormed out the door about three months ago, wailing about how she was going to break the cycle and have a real family. I watched her go, calling after her to shut the door on her way out, and turned back to my coffee. Of course, she left the door open. The walk down the hallway of nails patiently awaiting photos to shut it myself was an unpleasant reminder that I had no images to hang there. I was never one to capture life on film. It was far too complicated to get out the camera, force a pose, and get the pictures developed when you’re already there watching it unfold in real time (not to mention the absurd cost). 

     I remember standing at the door, watching her sneakers hit the pavement, her run uncharacteristic for a young woman. Carol May had always been what they called a TomBoy growing up, though I never called it that. When she was a child, probably nearing the third grade, she would be dragged home from the neighbors houses by unforgiving mothers, their faces boiling over with disdain for how I was raising my daughter. 

     “Betsy,” they always started, the same stick-up-the-ass tenseness in their voice. “Carol May took off her blouse again,” accentuating that word the same way. They didn’t want to question my parenting skills, but requested Carol May maintain lady-like behavior around their children.

     “Sure thing,” I always replied, flashing a smile equally unamused as apologetic. Carol May would pull herself away from their tight grip on her shoulder and march into the house. I would watch the mother walk away, confident she had proven her motherly capabilities far exceeded mine. Last time this happened, Carol May came to me, arms crossed, and said matter-of-factly, 

     “If the boys get to, then I should too. We’ve got the same nipples, don't we?”

     I chuckled. “It’s not the nipples Carol May.”

     “So what! If they were gonna get breasts too, I wouldn’t care.”

     “I know, baby.” I joined her at the kitchen table, where she took a cookie from the jar and broke it up piece by piece until a pile of her angry thoughts sat in a heap, awaiting its descent into the trash can. We sat there, space empty of words, until Carol May looked up at me beside her mountain of crumbs.

     “Mom?” She asked, brushing off her hands against the plastic tablecloth.

     “Yes?”

     “What’s a Bastard Baby?”

     Mirroring her serious tone, I replied, “A baby born to an unmarried lady.”

     I made it a goal in my relationship with my daughter not to treat her as though she was too young to understand. As a child, I asked the same questions Carol May did, always curious about the harsh realities of life. My mother, Lucinda Joanne Linett, never met me with the answers I longed for. Instead, she would push past the conversation, talking to me as though I was far too innocent and ignorant to understand the goings on of adult life. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to fully grasp the truth behind the ponderings of my childhood mind, but being treated as though I was blatantly unaware of how the world worked infuriated me. I was not about to talk to Carol May the same way. She would be my equal in all ways but height.

     “Oh,” she had replied after taking a minute to grapple with this idea. “So it’s just like calling me Carol May. I may not like that I was born into the name, but it’s just what I am.” 

      “You’re more than your name, Carol May.”

     She hugged me, grabbing onto the fabric of my sleeves as I ran my hands through her ginger curls. Pulling away, she reached forward to grab another cookie and bolted upstairs before I could tell her to clean up the decimated cookie now scattered across the table.

     I saw a lot of myself in my little girl. I hadn’t liked my name either when I was her age. To prove my unique personality and independent nature, I had my friends call me Lulu, derived from my middle name Lucinda after my mother. I much preferred it to Betsy, which I had always thought to be a fat, wrinkly name with harsh cheekbones and arthritis, the kind that shows in the fingers and makes them look like misshapen carrots. Carol May proclaimed a new name at dinner about once a month, trying on new names like dresses until she found one that fit, though they never did. When she first entered grade school, she decided that she must be called CM.

     “It’s cool,” she had said, a spoonful of chicken soup dripping down her face. “Something Judd and RJ would use.”

Judd Kippler and RJ Mason (formerly referred to as Richard Joseph until he disposed of this name along with his lettermans and good manners) were the two boys who Carol May had decided were her soulmates. Every weekday afternoon at 2:30 when the boys biked home, Carol May perched herself on the window seat in the living room to watch them pass. She would whisper dreams of her future, allowing herself to slip away into a fantasy world of happy families and yellow suburban homes in wealthy neighborhoods. The second she noticed I was listening, she snapped back to reality as though nothing had ever happened. For ten years, Carol May had entertained this daydream of being with RJ Mason. She moved from the window seat, to the chairs on the porch, to bikes alongside the boys until she drove past the house in the passenger seat of RJ Mason’s Ford Thunderbird, his arm slung over her shoulders. Eventually, she started requesting I allow her to invite RJ over to the house.

     When he came over for dinner, he was suited in a leather jacket, white T, and straight cut jeans held up by a black belt. He clearly made an effort not to leave anyone questioning that was a Greaser, stopping short of scrawling it across his face in permanent marker. He sat himself down at the table without introduction, asked my daughter to bring him a Coke from the refrigerator, and swung his feet up on the chair beside him. Carol May did so, giving me an apologetic glance that, with time, morphed into a taunt, asking me “what are you gonna do about it?”

     At first, I was not going to do anything. I would spend sleepless nights, my bed pressed up against the wall adjacent to her room, desperately trying to drown out the cacophony of creaking wood and moans. At her age, I wanted sex like every other girl. Maybe I was a little more flirtatious as I perceived any boy that crossed my path was a new and improved target, but nonetheless I understood the desire. 

      At one point, I pulled her aside and demanded she and RJ take their adolescent explorations elsewhere. She only continued louder. I loved my daughter, she was my whole world, but she was also a reminder that some things were out of my control. I thought I was a responsible girl when I was a teenager, but little did I know the boy having sex with me behind the drive-in movie when I was just 17 would quickly prove me wrong. On the day I found out I was pregnant, I walked 14 miles across town to go tell him. Coated in a thin layer of sweat that had soaked through my dress the most unflattering places, I knocked on the door shamefully. His mother answered, a tall redhead with perfectly set curls and flawless skin. I stared up at her in awe, mesmerized by her ethereal glow. I see her face in Carol May’s sometimes. When I asked if I could talk to her son, she eagerly let me in, excited her son had met a pretty little blonde girl like me. Still not 18, I had already matured into a young woman, with a trim waist, thin legs, and breasts that my girlfriends called “just perfectly sized”. As shocking as it was, that was not reason enough for him to stay after he heard the news. He sat there, perfectly still, head in hands, and said nothing for what felt like forever. When he finally spoke, his words here were direct and forceful. 

     “Get out,” he said through gritted teeth, not looking at me once.

     I left without saying a thing. A week later, I watched his family’s car pass my house, overflowing with suitcases, cardboard boxes and three monsters who didn’t have the decency to say goodbye. I was left with a mother who scowled at my waist growing larger by the day and a baby I was nowhere near ready for. Those nine months tested me, left an empty cocoon for the baby inside me. But on June 17th, 1951, after 36 painful hours of labor, she was born. I had sat in that hospital accompanied only by nurses and doctors, poked and prodded and bossed around until I finally pushed her right out of me, unable to suffer another minute of nonsense. She was beautiful, but not in the way that beauty is usually seen. Newborn babies are wrinkled little sacks of skin and some viscous liquid covering their screaming bodies. My baby was beautiful because she was mine. After they cleaned her off, the nurse lay her on my heaving chest and she stopped crying instantly, a sign to me that it had all been worth it. I had decided to name her Carol May after a pretty pin-up girl I had seen in a magazine. It had no real meaning, but a nice ring to it.

     Our bond unnaturally was strong. Being a mother was hard, especially with my own mother unwilling to assist. She would tell me it was “my own fault for not waiting until marriage,” which I laughed off, knowing she had not waited either. When Carol May was only six months old, my mother got really sick with polio. She moved away from me and Carol May to go live with her cousin, Lorraine, across the country. Although I did not miss the constant disappointment and ridicule, not having a mother at home left me to figure out how to take care of Carol May and I alone. On my 19th birthday, I discovered that would become a familiar way of life. 

     I got a call that day around 2 o’clock. I picked up the phone, unsure who would be calling me. I glanced at Carol May in her playpen, hoping the ringing did not startle her.

     “Hello, this is Lulu Linett.”

     “Betsy,” only my family called me Betsy, no matter how I told them I despised it. “Your mother has passed.” It was Aunt Lorraine. I could tell by the cigarettes and vodka lingering in her voice.

     “Oh,” I replied, unsure of what to say. “Will there be a funeral?”

     “Yes, on April 30th.”

     “In your town?”

     “Yes.”

     “Should I fly over?”
     “Too costly.”

     “Drive?”

     “Too far, dear. There is no need for you to come hundreds of miles for a couple of melancholy hours.”
     “Oh.”

     “I’m sorry for your loss, Betsy. Your mother loved you very much.”
     They were meaningless words, spoken out of obligation to comfort me.

     “Thanks Aunt Lorraine.”

     “I hope you and Carol May are doing alright?” I was well aware she had no interest in the goings on in our life, it was just a sign of good manners to ask.

     “We are.” I started anyway, taking the rare opportunity to talk about my baby. “She started laughing a couple months ago. I think she has a fondness for funny faces. Her birthday is coming up, so I’m hoping to invite a couple friends over. You remember my girlfriend Jane Pickering? Well she and her husband are pregnant now and-”

     “Yes yes, dear,” Aunt Lorraine interjected, clearly unamused by my pleasant talk. I was instantly embarrassed at my ignorance in talking about such menial things.

     “Well I better go,” I said. “Carol May should be put down for a nap about this time.”

     “Probably a good idea. Goodbye, dear,” she replied and hung up.

     I put the phone back on the receiver, and turned to the playpen, Carol May looking up at me wide eyed. I picked her up, cradling her in my arms. Looking lovingly at her face, I began to hum the tune of Moon River, a song my mother had sung to me. I could barely carry a tune, but Carol May shut her eyes and fell into a peaceful slumber. It was only her sweet face that kept me from letting the tears slip out.

     Now at 34, I still haven't cried about my mother's passing. It saddens me to think about, as I am not heartless, but I never felt like I had lost a part of my life. Of course, you can't lose something you never had to begin with. However, that feeling resonated with me today. 

     Sitting at the right corner chair at the kitchen table, there’s a clear view down the hall to the front door. When the door opened to reveal Carol May, a suitcase, and a heartbroken smile, I was looking directly at her. 

     “Hey Mom,” she said, forced joy behind the greeting. 

     Her  beige capris and sneakers had been replaced with a jewel toned dress and shiny black flats. She looked older, but I was unsure if it was from time passed or the shadowy eyes and pale skin that revealed days of lost sleep. Her face was bare of makeup. She hadn't fully given up, as a light coating of mascara had been brushed on her lashes. Clearly not herself, she picked up her suitcase and took a step into the house, shutting the door behind her.

     “Hey Mom,” she repeated, making her way towards the kitchen. 

     “Hello,” I replied casually, as though she had returned home from work.

     Sitting herself down, and readjusted her top.

     “Hungry?” I asked, standing to make my way to the fridge.

     “No. Maybe a cup of coffee?”

     “Cream? Sugar?”

     “Do you have maple syrup? I’ve come to like it in my coffee.”

     She said it matter-of-factly, as though there was nothing strange about it. Her words held the confidence I expected from my daughter.

     “When I was pregnant with you I loved weird food combinations all the time. Believe it or not, your godmother Jane and I would go out at midnight sometimes to get chocolate cake and chili flakes, and I would stuff it in my face without even stopping for air.” I smiled at the memory of my youth. “Honestly, some of those cravings still linger. Every so often I-”

     “I think I’m going to go take a bath,” Carol May interrupted, pushing back from the table forcefully.

     “Go right ahead,” I said, startled by her rude interjection.

     She turned to leave the kitchen, but stopped in the doorway, holding to the trim with a right grip. 

     “Mom?” she said, her voice wavering.

     “Yes?” I answered, continuing to pour my cup of coffee.

     A silence filled the room, one anticipating the arrival of something else. I looked at Carol May, waiting, and after a moment, she looked at me, a commercial-like smile spread across her face.

     “I love you,” she said, then continued to the stairs.

     I smiled, adding a splash of milk to offset the bitter dirt taste of it. Going to sit, I heard the bath water start to flood into the tub above me. I let out a relieved breath, settling into the comforting sound of her noise making. Carol May was the reason I got through each day. I had turned down bad relationships, been there for every game where she cheered, every school performance -- made sure she always had her Mama. Through all the love, she always fought back, and somehow I loved her more for it. I was beyond grateful she had come home.

     After a few sips of coffee, I noticed a silence echoing through the house, the only interruption a distant drip of water. I no longer heard Carol Mays footsteps. After a moment, splashes hit the floor above me. The sound began to grow, splashes quickly becoming waterfalls sloshing onto the ground.

     Standing up from the table, I began walking towards the stairs, quickening my steps with the growing sound of flooding water. I picked up my pace, skipping two steps at a time. My heart began to race, fear shooting through my body. I stumbled to my room, uncomfortable pristine, no signs of movement. As I looked to the bathroom door, my gaze was pulled down the wood floor, now shiny under a thin coat of water. I rushed towards it, my breath shaky and rushed. When I pushed the door open, my feet were met with a soapy ocean filling the room from wall to wall. I followed the flow of water upstream to the faucet, where a stream of water gushed out, hitting the water in the tub with shocking force. Then I realized I hadn’t yet noticed Carol May. Without thinking, I ran towards the tub, plunged my hands into the water, and pulled her out of the boiling water. 

     I leaned her against the back of the tub, her arms reaching out to grab the sopping sleeves of my dress. It took a couple tries before she was able to grab a hold, her body weak and trembling. I could feel goosebumps forming where her hot skin met the cold air. She coughed aggressively, water spurting out with each forceful breath. Her chest was heaving, ribs near tearing through her skinny body. 

     “Mama,” her voice was shockingly weak, nearing the brink of nothing. I looked down at her face, meeting her wide eyes. They were scared, startled with what had just happened. The confusion on her face scared me, as though she wasn’t aware of what she had just done.

     “What happened,” I asked, my voice a mix of fear and anger as I turned the faucet off.

     “I-I don't know.” Carol May answered, looking around anxiously. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, desperately trying to warm her shaking body.  “It felt so warm and safe I guess I just lost track of where I was. I didn’t want to pull myself back up and then it all started to fade away.” Startled at her own words, she looked at me for an answer. 

I smiled, sorrowful though unapologetic.

     “I understand,” I said, reaching out to comb my hands through her ginger curls, now dripping with soapy water.

She cocked her head, words she didn’t yet have beginning to form on her lips.

     “I can’t have a baby mama. RJ and I tried but… I can’t do it. I begged him to stay, but he just left after one too many fights. He said he didn’t want a pretend future. He didn’t want me.” She paused, watching water drip off her hair into the bath. That's when I noticed her body was decorated in green and blue and purple a Jackson Pollock of bruises and cuts. I ran my hand down her arms, passing lightly over the marks. 

     She didn’t bother flinching, but instead began to speak. “I wanted to stay there. I don't know why,” She looked back up at me, “But it was the first time I felt like I could be alone with myself without feeling like a-” She looked back down a muttered, “a failure.”

I pulled her close to me, leaning her head against my chest. She relaxed into my body, her hair dripping onto my skirt. We stayed like that for a moment, sitting in a familiar closeness that hadn’t been felt in years. Then Carol May began to cry. They were silent tears, but I could see them rippling as they hit the layer of water on the floor. I didn’t say anything, but just let her cry. She could fill up the whole bathroom with tears if she needed. 

     “How am I supposed to know what to do next?” She said once her body had ceased shaking.

I smiled, hearing a curious little girl I knew again. 

     “You know,” I brushed her hair against her head gently,  “I don’t know.” 

     She let out a heavy breath, it’s heat blowing past my arms. Bringing her arm across her body, she grabbed a hold of my sleeve once more and leaned into me, the water sloshing with the movement of her body. Closing her eyes, her heartbeat slowed, moving from her skin back into her chest. I began to hum to her Moon River, the rhythm mimicking the pace of her breathing and the drips of soapy water still escaping the bathtub on their way down the ocean of tears and bubbles beneath me.