You become what you despise. Violet Weston was sure she had stumbled upon that very quote in her husbands collection, or words to similar effect. The art of American literature was not second nature. Whom would have been more apt in her case: you become whom you despise.
The imprint of her open palm on Barbara's cheek, pink blush and red sore. It was the first time she had hit one of her children. Oh, sure, she had spanked them once or twice. A restrained hand to their tender backside was considered felicitous consequence for undesirable behaviours. But, this was different. Her wrist ached from the force. "Barb-Barbara," she stammered the name of her eldest, prematurely cynical at the tenderness of seventeen. The offensive hand reached out to soothe the host to an inevitable bruise but Barbara flinched and recoiled from her mothers toxic orbit. Why was she so Goddamn self-destructive?
Beverly withdrew into his sanctuary of dusty shelves and the smell of old pine. The written word had been his soulmate since he was three years old. It was peaceful, in stark contrast to his wife's brute force. She perfected the Jekyll-and-Hyde routine he had introduced their family to; she bested him every time, curse for curse, addiction for addiction. His shrinking Violet. Her once youthful insecurity had matured into a debilitative paranoia.
"Barbara," Violet pursued the adolescent up the stairs and thumped hard upon the bathroom door slammed shut in her face. It was reminiscent of a scene years previous: Barbara, barely a decade old, crouched tearfully beside the toilet and her knees curled into her chest for protection; her mother incensed and intoxicated, and the pound of her fists intercepted only by Mattie Fay's sweet, deflective smile. It was her blunt unpredictability that rendered Violet violent. "Barbara, please." Violet popped another Lorazepam to quell the built-up panic, her stomach tied into a lethal knot. "I didn't mean it -"
"Fuck you." Barbara furiously lashed out from the other side, and the door vibrated from her kick.
The crisis point precipitated the compulsory intervention and the Weston family suffered verbal smackdown after smackdown from Violet - a heavy duty inventory of accusations aimed at her husband, and children - but they endured, and her hardened shell eventually cracked under the pressure of every blasphemous impact. Barbara, perhaps childishly so, procured pleasure from the distress her mother dissolved into. It was a petty victory, in view of the chaotic disarray her mother had unleashed; but it was a victory, nonetheless. And so, Barbara played her dutiful part and held her mothers hand; her blood circulation cut off in the three hour drive to the nearest rehab centre and her brain numbed by the incessant, mundane chatter between Charlie and Mattie Fay from start point to destination point. If Little Charles didn't pay more attention in class, he would be held back another year.
"Please don't leave me here." Hyperaware and in the first period of detox, remembrance of the trauma that awaited her body and mind almost launched Violet into the open plains of Oklahoma. She had been unconscious the first time Beverly dumped her at the county psych ward. In the months that followed Karen's dismal arrival, Violet had been devoured by profound postpartum psychosis, enhanced by a multitude of overprescribed medication. Grey walls and a white jacket rewarded her despondence and the eternal loneliness had traumatised Violet more than the violations of her childhood.
"We love you, honey," her baby sister brushed the chestnut curls from her sweat-drenched skin and planted a tender kiss to her forehead. Violet wondered why Mattie Fay hadn't inherited their mothers mean streak, too.
"Barb," Violet cried, unashamedly and propelled herself onto her first born - and, irrefutably favourite - child. Her nose buried in Barbara's abundance of auburn curls as if she could hide out from the reality of the world. "Barb," she whimpered the name inspired by Barbara Stanwyck, a screen siren she had admired. Her characters embodied the complete opposite of the wallflower Violet had been in her youth, before Beverly and the disappointment, before all the chemical malfunction.
Barbara afforded her mother the merciful affection that had been alien to Violet. Because for all the resentment toward her mother that Barbara had built up in her heart, there was an equal amount of pity, too. Capable and formidable as she may have been, Violet Weston simply didn't have the power to address her addictive nature. She had attempted to climb that particular Mount Everest once before and the withdrawal period alone had sent her into immediate free-fall. If not for the physical weakness, Violet would have relapsed within the first twenty-four hours; the blood ran from vein to vein, while her body ached and shuddered. Karen toddled back and forth with a cool, damp cloth for Ivy to wipe the sweat that poured from their mothers flesh, and Barbara read from their fathers book Meadowlark, the fictional world a bleak comfort until Violet blacked out. Barbara prayed and thanked God that she and her sisters would not have to withstand round two.
"I'm so sorry, I never should've hit you." Her mothers clipped Oklahoma drawl was intercepted by every muffled sob. She didn't have the coherency or the vocabulary to explain why she had lashed out, why Barbara had bore the brunt of her ire… why Barbara was so often the safe space for Violet to unleash all she held deep inside. Violet could still picture how Barbara's wide eyes were pin-pricked and water-colour hazel the first time her volcanic temper had erupted; Ivy had been unwell with colic and, after several weeks of sleep depravation, her patience dissipated. Perhaps it was that ever-present paranoia Beverly accused her of but Violet could have sworn Barbara never looked at her the same after that.
Barbara remained resolute beneath her mothers hold, reassurance thrown in, "It's okay, mom, I love you."
Violet recoiled and hunted affirmation of the previous statement in Barbara's eyes. Their eldest child had inherited Beverly's ability to sell a story with conviction. Yet, the windows to her soul professed otherwise. The sad truth Violet had succumbed to was that the only one able to root herself and withstand Violet's tempestuous nature was Ivy; her Ivy-leaf, who overlooked Violet's pronounced failures and fuelled her with unconditional love. Violet steeled herself from Barbara's duplicity and softly caressed her cheek, before she surrendered herself to the arduous routine of rehabilitation that lay ahead.
"You okay, dear?" Charlie curled his arm around Barbara's staunch shoulders. It was an injustice that Barbara be forced to bear the hardship. Beverly's absence disappointed Charlie.
Barbara heavily exhaled and nodded her head; how different the world would have been, had Charlie and Mattie Fay Aiken been her parents.