Chapter 3
My mother was in my house for all of one hour. She was there just long enough to cut me to ribbons, while simultaneously pretending she was being a good mother. Sounds impossible, right? Not for my mother. But let me tell this from the beginning.
The bell rang at five thirty exactly. I ran to the door, pausing to take a deep breath before opening the door to Emily Elizabeth James nee O'Conner. She was two full inches shorter than I was, put pushed her height up by wearing huge stilettos. She was dressed in a modest black skirt suit, her short red (dyed) hair combed and styled, with not a wisp out of place. She was, in a word, immaculate. She came in and kissed my cheeks European style, smiling her plastic smile of death. She turned to Holmes, and waited to be introduced like a shark waits to feed. Shudder.
"Mom, " I began, trying not to betray how nervous I really was. "This is my boyfriend-" I stopped, panicked. We hadn't come up with a pseudonym, and if I introduced him as Sherlock Holmes, she would just tear in even faster. Holmes, quick thinking as always, stepped neatly to fill the gap, much to my relief.
"Scott Holmes, a pleasure to meet you, madam." He kissed her hand, just as he had done upon introducing himself to me. We may just pull this off yet! I thought, trying to keep the mood up.
"Charmed, I'm sure." She said to Holmes, obviously tickled by his good manners. Then she turned on me. "Elizabeth, darling," she began, sitting down on the sofa and looking around the living room like she hadn't been there a million times before. "Aren't you ever going to redecorate this hideous room? Really, dear, I am beginning to be worried about your sense of taste!" she laughed, as if she had made a joke.
"I like the furniture, Mom. I tell you that every time you come here." I smiled back, as if this was pleasant banter, instead of an attack on me personally, which it was. Holmes seemed to notice and went to stand behind me, settling his hands on my (very tense) shoulders, letting waves of reassurance flow into me.
"Very well, but at least let me take you shopping, I'll update your wardrobe for you; you dress as if you were still in High School." She was still smiling at me.
"Mom. I dress the way I want to dress." This was going to be a long night.
Dinner went the same way, her picking apart every aspect of my life, from my being a vegetarian, to the way my kitchen was cleaned, to the coffee I served after dinner, to my shoes, to the fact that I couldn't manage to bake something in the two hours I had to prepare. She chattered away, mostly to Holmes (who was unfailingly polite the entire time, so she left him alone completely; apparently she approved of him) when it became obvious that I would not rise to her bait. I just sat there in silence, picking at my cheesecake, as she shredded my life, and tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to ruin my makeup.
Finally, she left. She was probably sick of pushing her cake around and getting no results from me. According to Richard, dad did the same thing to him, but I just couldn't see my father being so mean. Holmes and I walked her to the door; she said good bye to Holmes, saying that he was a nice boy, and she couldn't imagine what he was doing with me. Then it was my turn.
"Good bye, Elizabeth dear. Perhaps next time, you will be more…grown up. Good night!" she flashed another smile, then was gone. It was seven thirty one.
I took a huge shuddering breath, and went to the window. Throwing off my slippers in favor of the beat up sneakers that were laying under the sill, I threw open the window and started to climb out.
"Elizabeth! What are you doing?" Holmes' sharp question stopped my halfway out the window. He probably thought I was going to jump.
I turned my now damp face to him and sniffled, "I am going to sit on the fire escape." He relaxed; he had thought I was jumping.
"It is snowing," he pointed out, looking out of the window I was trying to climb through.
"What's your point?" with that, I hiked up my skirt and stepped out onto the metal grating to think about how horrible my mother was.
I sat on the step of the apartment above me and let my face drop into my hands and I sobbed. This was as much ritual concerning my mother as letting her rip me to pieces and not saying anything was. My makeup was freezing in tear-tracks down my face, and I was halfway to becoming a human snowdrift when I heard the window open again. I looked up into Holmes' face and was surprised at the concern on his features. Although, I suppose, he could just have been worried that the woman he was living with was crazy. And I was crazy for sitting out on the fire escape at the end of December in the snow. "Yes?" I sniffed, my shoulders shaking with emotion as well as with the cold.
"This is madness." He muttered to himself as he climbed out and sat next to me. He draped the afghan from the back of the chair over my shoulders (after having brushed off the snow) and asked, "How do you deal with…that?"
I laughed, pulling the blanket closer around my shoulders. "Like this. But I've never had company before."
"Do you wish me to leave?" he asked quietly, avoiding my eyes.
"No, no, that's not what I meant. It's just…" I stopped, unable to articulate my feelings.
He chuckled softly. "Believe it or not, I do know what you're going through." I arched an eyebrow full of suspicion. "My father is the same way. He hated my career choice, and is making it his last crusade to make my life at Baker Street miserable." He fell silent, amazed at how much he said to someone who was still a stranger to him. Or, at least, that's what I would have been thinking, had I been in his place.
"Looks like we've got more in common than we thought, eh Holmes?" I elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to wince. Oops. I'd forgotten. "Oh, God, Holmes, I'm so sorry…I forgot" I finished lamely. He smiled tightly at me and suggested that we go inside and finish off the coffee left from dessert. Quite the caffeine addict, our Mr. Holmes. Not that I had any room to talk at all.
Ever the gentleman, Holmes insisted upon helping me back through the window, bruised ribs and all. I flung my arm around his…waist because I couldn't reach his shoulders…and walked with him back into the kitchen. Coffee poured and cheesecake cut, we walked arm and arm back into the living room, plopping down on the couch in front of the TV. Or, well, I plopped. He just sat like a normal person. I flicked on the television, and the old movie channel popped up.
Side note: I was an old movie addict. I'd seen just about every movie made before 1960, and every Hepburn (Katherine or Audry) movie ever made. Back to our story.
The Philadelphia Story had just begun. Seeing as it was my favorite movie, I settled back into the squishy couch to watch. Holmes sat back as well, watching the moving pictures with curiosity. "What is going on? What is that thing?" he asked, gesturing at the TV.
"Umm," I began articulately. "It's a television. And what you're watching is a movie…moving picture…like a play in a box. I'll have Pip explain it to you better tomorrow, if she shows up."
He blinked several times, before accepting the truncated explanation. "What is happening, then?"
Assuming he meant the plot, I launched into the movie. "Okay, she," I pointed to Hepburn's character, "Was married to Carry Grant, but they got divorced because he was an alcoholic. Now, she's gonna marry that guy," I pointed to the man by the horse as the picture faded out of the mansion and into the inside of a newspaper office. "Jimmy Stewart and that girl next to him are going to go to the wedding and do an article for the society page, with help from Carry Grant, because he wants revenge on Katherine. Of course, being a thirties movie, everybody ends up with who they're supposed to, and it ends with this spectacular stage kiss. Really, it's one of the best I've seen, and I've seen them all." I looked over at him; he'd been sucked into the movie before I'd even gotten to the part about Jimmy Stewart. I would make an old movie fan of him yet! Although…for him, they wouldn't really be old…
We watched the movie the whole way through, side by side, with me tearing up at the end like I always did at the end of The Philadelphia Story. Holmes silently handed me a handkerchief that he had somewhere on his person as the credits rolled. "So, what did you think?" I asked eagerly.
"It was most amusing." He dismissed my favorite movie of all times with one flat phrase. Men.
"That's it? 'Most amusing'? Come on, it was…amazing!" I'd unconsciously turned toward him, my hands stretched out, palms up, in a gesture of entreaty. I realized, belatedly, that that speech, such as it was, was delivered with way too much emotion than was necessary for a thirties movie. Even a Hepburn movie.
Evidently, Holmes agreed, for he turned to me, one eyebrow raised. "Do you always speak with so much passion, or is it reserved for these 'plays in a box' of yours?" he asked me, a touch of amusement colouring his accented voice.
"It's not the movie itself, but what it represents." I mumbled, looking away from that piercing gaze. "I want my life to follow along those lines. Well, " I went on to add hastily, "Not the alcoholism/ divorce thing. Just that spectacular kiss and the happily ever after." I finished quietly. Still not looking at him, I stood, stretching. I tried to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn, and said, "I'm going to bed. D'you think you can manage the sheets by your self?" I asked, for nonchalance.
"I think that, perhaps, I can make up a bed without hanging myself. I have made it this far in life without damaging incident." He replied acidly.
Well and truly put in my place, I slunk to my room, throwing his sheets out into the living room before slamming the door.