CHAPTER 1
THIS IS THE LIFE I WANTED, RIGHT?
Ignoring the droning voice of the old man talking up front,
I let my thoughts wander. As usual, they went back to my youth. Growing up in
the Seventies and Eighties, I was blissfully ignorant of how screwed-up my life
would turn out when I reached the A-word: Adulthood.
I’m the oldest sibling of three girls born into a
middle-class family. We grew up living in the suburbs, safely hidden from the
dangers of “the big city.” God, life back then had been a breeze. We walked to
school, without fear of stranger danger, on sidewalks wide enough for three
people to stand side by side, with shade provided by sprawling oak trees. We
played with our friends—outside, mind you—until the streetlight in our
cul-de-sac buzzed, ready to come on. We didn’t have electric gadgets to tether us
inside, weakening our bodies and turning our minds to mush. Nope! We survived
skinned knees and bike wrecks, eager to go out and do the same thing again the
next day after school. We’d run to the house and land on the porch before the
streetlight sparked to life and eat a home cooked meal—at all places—the dinner
table.
We weren’t rich, like my best friend Elizabeth Gelmini’s family—they had a swimming pool
and a tennis court, for Godsakes, and both her parents drove BMWs—but we
weren’t poor, either. Since I was the oldest, I got the new clothes, and my
younger sisters, Rebecca and Rachel, were forced to wear my hand-me-downs. Boy,
do I miss the days when Rebecca whined and complained while stomping around in
her Pepto-Bismol-colored room throwing hissy fits
as only a pre-pubescent girl can.
“I don’t want Roxy’s
clothes! Look, Mom! There’s a stain on these jeans. And this shirt is so out of
style! No one wears puffed sleeves anymore! I’ll look like a fool and all my
friends will laugh at me. Why can’t I get a new pair of Calvin’s
or Jordache’s? Tennis shoes without holes in
them, or even the latest design of a shirt?”
“Rebecca Denise,
that’s enough. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Your father works very
hard to provide a good life for you girls so I can stay home and raise you. Stop
being so unappreciative. I didn’t give up a chance for a career in nursing just
to listen to an ungrateful child yell at me.”
“Mom! I can’t wear her shirts. Roxy’s big boobs
stretched them out! I’ll have to stuff my bra!”
The memory made me smile, which I quickly
concealed with my hand. This was not the place or appropriate time to be happy.
I glanced over at Rebecca. Though her features had
matured and changed, her attitude certainly remained the same. Rebecca was the
quintessential middle child. Textbook case. Hell, her picture was probably
underneath the caption “Middle Child Syndrome” in every psychology book on the
planet. If it wasn’t, they were missing out on the perfect poster child.
Cosmos, forgive me, but I’ve hated her ever since
the day my parents brought her whiny ass home from the hospital.
Mom and Dad lived by The Suburbia Handbook. Roger and Claire Rayburn
built their lives around the ancient, mental code of ethics. Mom and Dad
almost nailed Rule Number Two, chapter and verse.
All married couples must procreate and raise, at a minimum, 3.2
children, preferably staggered in ages by three years.
They missed the target goal by having offspring of the same
sex. They needed at least one with a set of balls to pass with flying colors.
Unfortunately, the estrogen pool was deeper and stronger—or perhaps Daddy’s
sperm refused to bring forth another knuckle-dragger into the world. Who knows?
But, they made up for missing the bar by acing Rule Number One: High school sweethearts must marry; the wife is to stay at home
and raise the children while the husband brings home the bacon.
Nailed it.
Like my mother, I aced Rule Number One—the track
star married the football jock. Boom! Item number one checked off the list. I
didn’t count the demerit (we had to
get married our second year of college). Getting married at 20 wasn’t because
of overwhelming, all-consuming, mind-altering love. Nope. I tied the knot with Carl A. Davenport because I neglected to read the instructions
that came along with the prescription—taking antibiotics might disrupt the effectiveness of birth control pills.
Fuck. I got knocked up at 20 because of a freaking
sinus infection.
Demerit!
No, wait, I wouldn’t count that one. It was the
manufacturer’s fault—they should have written that part in big, GIANT print,
rather than using letters so small one could only read with a microscope.
Carl continued his studies and obtained a master’s
degree in education and was now a tenured professor at the local college. Me? I
gave up the dream of going back to school, following the guidelines of the
invisible handbook passed on to me by my mother. I was a “stay-at-home Mom”
(better known as Drunk Wino). I tried
to follow the rules, but sometimes missed the mark. No one could ever label me
an overachiever!
Rule Number Two altered a bit during the Nineties—inflation
and such—and the required number of children went from 3.2 to 2.5 (unless you
were a devout Catholic and preferred to birth an entire baseball team). I
failed Rule Number Two and only popped out one child—a daughter— who decided I
was the Wicked Witch of the West, minus a broom, when she hit puberty. Hormones
turned my sweet child into a raging alien life force. Thank goodness Carol
planned to attend college in a few weeks or our home would be a demilitarized
zone.
God, I really miss Carol being little. My daughter
is a replicated copy of me. Carol had dark, thick black hair; alabaster skin;
long legs and full lips, and thankfully, a rack smaller than mine. Carol had
been an inquisitive child, full of life, a sweet laugh, and boundless energy. A
tiny shadow stuck to my side, mimicking everything I did. That lasted until
Carol hit the age of 5 then poof! My clone rebelled, running in the opposite
direction of my life. I sensed the disturbance in the force, so instead of
attempting to indoctrinate Carol’s mind with the rules, I simply hoped she’d
follow them later in life, after watching me from a distance.
Wrong.
Carol Claire Davenport
put as much distance as possible between my world and the one she desired to
live. Headstrong, and determined to succeed in life without a man’s help,
paying her own way through life, and—gasp!—hiring help to perform such trivial
tasks as cleaning or cooking, Carol bucked tradition every chance she had,
including phases of punk haircuts, head-to-toe black clothing and makeup (for a
while, it felt like Morticia Addams lived in our
house) and refusing to clean her room. My little straight-A student and lovely
mixture of introvert and extrovert wanted nothing to do with my “old school
ways” as she liked to refer to how I lived my life. Carol idolized her aunt
Rachel’s free-spirited approach to life, and jumped at every chance to spend
time with Rach when she was in town.
Had I wanted another brat—er—offspring—I was shit
out of luck. My ovaries opted to shrivel up and die not long after Carol was
born. Maybe my body had the ability to see into the future and knew I couldn’t
handle raising another bundle of flesh I’d give up my life for only to have him
or her turn on me the second puberty hit. Yeah, that was it. Thank God for
omniscient reproductive organs! There is a clause in the Handbook noting bodily failure in Rule Number Two, which kept me
from accruing a demerit.
Score!
I took after my mother’s side of the genetic pool.
Jet-black hair, long legs, and boobs the size of ripe watermelons. Everyone
else adored my full chest, but not me. Carrying all the weight around—every
freaking day—was painful. Running track was dangerous. I had to wear three
sports bras just to corral the heavy flesh so I didn’t bust an eye socket. By
the time I was 25, back problems surfaced, along with my preferred method of
numbing the pain: Drinking wine. That little lesson landed on my doorstep,
courtesy of Mom and Grandma. I watched them down wine like it was fresh
mountain water all my life. Of course, they preceded the wine with handfuls of
pills—Valium for Grandma and Xanax for Mom—a tradition I didn’t follow.
Other women flocked to their nearest plastic
surgeon to get implants to look like me, which I found rather amusing. Why, oh
why in the world did they do it? Personally, I think it should be required
pre-surgical treatment to strap two, 10 lb weights on their chests for at
least a full month. Get the entire “heavy breast experience” prior to
undergoing the knife. Just one month of being forced to sleep on their backs,
trying to find a bra that fits, enduring catcalls, and never having a man look
you in the eye while speaking—ever again—would deter most. Give them a real
taste of what to expect, before having some cocaine-addicted surgeon slice into
their milk dispensers so they could then afford the newest Mercedes to drive
around town.
Rule Number Eight: One must always drive a vehicle that is better than the ones owned by
friends and neighbors. (This is not a guideline it’s a hard-core edict!
See Rule Number Nine about houses, too).
Then again, maybe the wretched experience with
strap-on boobs wouldn’t matter. The media had ingrained its warped perception
of beauty since the dawn of the big screen and TV. Boys were indoctrinated with
ridiculous, impossible body types as their ideals, and young girls learned to
be ashamed they weren’t “perfect” every single time they looked in a magazine,
watched a movie, or plopped in front of the boob tube. Ah! Lightbulb alert!
Boob tube—an appropriate name! And who paid for this mind-altering phenomenon?
Not the men. They reaped the benefits of unhappy girls who went under the
knife.
Pathetic.
I sought out, and found, a surgeon to reduce my
oversized chest, much to the dismay of my husband, Carl (yet another young boy
whose views of beauty were warped by media-generated garbage). For the first
time since puberty dumped too many hormones into my breasts, I could walk
around without a bra on and it didn’t look like two baby hippos were fighting
under my shirt. Hallelujah! After going from cup size Holy Shit Those Are Huge down to Gee, I’m No Longer Carrying Fucking Watermelons On My Chest—Just Nice
Oranges, I continued my relationship with wine. Why the hell not? Several
glasses of Moscato each night kept me from acting out my sick, knife-wielding
fantasies on those who’d pissed me off one way or another.
Though I wore the persona of a normal,
well-adjusted person for others to see, inside my mind had always been a
different story. Even when young, I learned to fake the smile and serene
demeanor when faced with adversity, only unleashing my real emotions inside.
Rather than slit the throat of my fourth grade teacher for dressing me down in
front of the entire class over what she perceived as a “less than stellar” book
report, I remained quiet. After school that day, I went home and took out my
anger on one of Rebecca’s favorite dolls.
Adhering to the strict set of proper and correct
rules for living, I refrained from punching in the throat—or worse—rude
cashiers, snarky friends, impatient waitresses or any short‑tempered
individuals within my hearing range. Instead, I satisfied my dark, demented
thoughts of retribution by simply envisioning my reactions.
Ol’ middle sis Rebecca didn’t have the same
worries, for her body had been dipped in the pool of mishmash genes from my
father’s side of the family. Shorter legs, smaller breasts, dingy brown hair,
and an attitude the size of Texas. Oh, and Dad’s horrible eyesight. When she
found out she needed to start wearing glasses—the kind as thick as Coke
bottles—Rebecca Denise Rayburn flew into the biggest, ugliest, snot-filled
tantrum of all time.
It was hysterical. I laughed so hard while she
bawled and squalled like a newborn kitten, Dad grounded me for a week. Those
seven days of banishment to my room had been worth the few minutes of hilarity
at Rebecca’s expense.
If I had to pinpoint the moment our sisterly
relationship curdled like sour milk, it would be the day she came home with
enormous frames swallowing her small face. I teased her nonstop for hours until
she sobbed. And no, an additional week of grounding didn’t faze me in the
least.
Things were never right between us again. We’d
fought before, but after the incident of the poor eyesight, it was full-on war.
Roxy versus Rebecca was probably foretold by some ancient sage—detailing the
apocalyptic event between two strong-willed, mean-as-fuck women.
Not that I gave a rat’s ass. Rebecca was a bitch.
A raving, I’m-off-my-meds, lunatic bitch. When the song “Lunatic
Fringe,” by Red Rider hit the airwaves in 1981, I changed the title and
words to “Lunatic Bitch,” in honor of my insane sister. Rebecca didn’t stick to
the rulebook completely. Yes, she married her high school sweetheart right
after college, but she went to work immediately after graduating with a degree
in accounting. Bucking tradition, Rebecca paid the bills while her hubster
finished med school.
Demerit.
Rebecca earned another bad mark for not giving
birth. Mom gave her—and Rachel—grief for years to give her grandchildren.
Apparently, my single contribution wasn’t enough. Before Mom’s mind traveled to
a new dimension, she’d whine and bitch about how all her friends had several
grandchildren to spoil.
Demerit. Demerit.
Rachel, on the other hand, was the best sibling
ever created from the union of an egg and sperm. Ever. She was kindhearted,
full of smiles, never a complainer, which was sort of odd since she was the
baby. Rachel was a free spirit, flitting from one moment to the next,
distracted easily by a light wind, never one to hold a grudge. Rachel wasn’t as
tall as me, yet had a similar build. She’d been born with an ample chest,
thick, mahogany hair, and generous curves.
Out of the three of us Rayburn girls, Rachel was
the animal lover, though Rebecca attempted to keep up, yet always failed (i.e.,
Rebecca neglected to remember animals need to eat or they die). Every baby bird
on the ground, abandoned cat, scrawny stray dog, half-dead hamster—they
gravitated to Rachel’s sweet soul. Like some cosmic connection, a weird
instinct guided them to head directly into her path. And sure enough, Rachel
Danielle Rayburn scooped them up and brought them home, much to the dismay of
our parents.
I didn’t have any lovey-dovey, sisterly,
protective feelings toward Rebecca (again, Lunatic Bitch), but boy, I sure did
with Rachel. Instead of getting caught up in the Eighties’ drug scene (like
Rebecca and I both dabbled with—Lunatic Bitch snorted so much she had to stop
and have surgery for a deviated septum—ha!) Rachel was the exception to the
hedonistic lifestyle embraced by most.
Looking back on it now, it was kind of like Rachel
was an old soul meant to be in her teenage years during the Sixties. Rachel
would have been the perfect flower child, right at home in Haight-Ashbury,
wearing flowy dresses, her dark mahogany hair dotted with flowers as it
billowed around her sexy body. Well, a flower child minus the drug part. To my
knowledge, Rachel never got high or drunk. Life, and all it had to offer, was
enough stimulation for my baby sister.
God, I miss her so much. It isn’t right. Carol and
Rachel were my two reasons for living. Rachel should be here, sitting on the
stiff, uncomfortable pew, mourning the loss of one of her screwed-up sisters,
not the other way around. Rachel’s life ended with eerie finality before the
age of 35, damn near close to how Dad always said it would: Animals would be
her downfall.
Rachel’s ill-fated stint working undercover for
some whiny, ASPCA-type sacks of shit, ended her
life. While trying to save a dog from being put down, Rachel suffered a wicked
bite. Instead of going to the doctor immediately, she waited until infection
set in—and rabies. For two weeks, doctors fought to save her life, yet failed. The
only Rayburn daughter to toss The
Suburbia Handbook to the wayside and live in—gasp!—the big city, was dead. I
hate myself for thinking it, but I’m sort of glad Dad passed on and Mom is lost
inside her mind, wandering the locked hallways of Dementia Hotel.
No parent should have to bury their child. It was
wrong—a crime against the natural progression of the way the world was supposed
to work.
***
**Here are the prizes one lucky winner will receive - open to U.S. residents only and must be 21 years of age or older to win.**
One bottle of Moscato especially designed for the book, along with an engraved wine glass PLUS a signed copy of the paperback.
To enter, you must be the first person to comment with the correct answer to this question:
What is Roxy's final rule?
Marriage Made Me Do It releases on September 15, 2017. Preorder your copy now so you will have the answer on release day!
Links:
Amazon
Amazon UK
One bottle of Moscato especially designed for the book, along with an engraved wine glass PLUS a signed copy of the paperback.
To enter, you must be the first person to comment with the correct answer to this question:
What is Roxy's final rule?
Marriage Made Me Do It releases on September 15, 2017. Preorder your copy now so you will have the answer on release day!
Links:
Amazon
Amazon UK