I decided to head back home for the weekend so Mother would let up on me staying with Aunt Portia. Spacing my nights there apart was probably a good idea so she wouldn’t ban me altogether. By the time I got back to Highland Park, Mona had already left, leaving me alone for the weekend in a ten-thousand-square-foot house. Cold and opulent, our residence was one of the newer ones in an area consisting mostly of mansions built over fifty years ago. My parents had built their estate by purchasing two adjacent homes, tearing them down, and then building our house on the combined 3.29 acres, making it the largest on our street. And you needed all that land when you had twelve bedrooms, ten bathrooms, an eight car garage, a gatehouse, a water garden, a tennis court, and a pool. The Blakely home was the pride of the neighborhood.
Most of our money came from Texas oil, inherited from my dad’s grandparents, who’d helped make this area the exclusive place it is today. They’d fought to keep us from being annexed by Dallas in the 1950s, protecting Highland Park from being swallowed up by the expanding city. Because of our history here, the Blakely name carried weight, epitomizing the conservative beliefs held by most in this suburb.
Mother’s family? I didn’t know jack about them. Had never met them. I wondered if she hated them and that’s why she refused to talk about her relatives.
Mona had left me grilled salmon and a salad in the fridge, so I sat down and ate alone. As usual, it was too quiet, and I turned the radio on in the kitchen to keep me company. After putting my dishes in the dishwasher and carefully cleaning the area where I’d eaten, I wandered around the house aimlessly, my boots echoing hollowly on the polished marble floors as I passed by an original Picasso.
I went in the family room, a huge room featuring a pool table and a wrap-around leather sectional. Two 65” flat screens with surround sound were mounted on either sides of the room. Unopened family games, like Monopoly and Clue, were aligned on the built-in shelves. A bar was in the corner, the wine and liquor just waiting for me to steal whatever was inside.
Had we ever sat in here, all of us together? Never. Mother had been busy at the station; Father had been busy “working” which was most likely code for sleeping with other women; and Finn, if he was home, he’d still be in bed, sleeping off the hangover from the night before.
I left the family room and crossed the hall into the formal dining room. A professionally decorated table dominated the space, but like a magnet, my eyes were automatically drawn to the mahogany china cabinet against the wall. I peered inside the ostentatious piece of furniture, staring at the sixteen Noritake place settings. I’d read somewhere that the making of fine china is a painstaking process, requiring all sorts of skilled artisans and several types of machinery to get the perfect piece.
I gazed at the beautiful place settings with their little pink rosebuds and shiny platinum trim. They were so lovely and delicate, yet like me, no one cared about them, no one had a use for them. All that time spent to make such precious pieces, and all it takes is one moment to destroy it forever. Just like all it had taken was one horrible thing to ruin me forever.
I opened the glass door and gingerly picked up one of the plates, holding the weight in my hands. I hated the cold perfection it represented and hated myself, too, for pretending to be perfect for so long. I turned the plate over and stared at the tiny chips I’d starting making on Mother’s china years ago. It wasn’t much, really. Just tiny little flecks of porcelain that were missing from the bottom here and there, small bits that no one ever paid attention to or looked at too hard. And like the missing chips in this china, pieces of my spirit were also gone, destroyed by people who claimed to love me.
I set the plate down on the table and picked up another one and turned it over, staring at the missing flecks on it as well, caressing the imperfections. I set it down. I kept pulling the china out, checking each piece to make sure they weren’t really perfect, that they were as flawed as I was. Maybe it was crazy that I’d scratched and clawed at Mother’s china for years. It hadn’t matter anyway. She’d never noticed.
I stood frozen, horrified when I came across a dessert plate I’d never picked at. How had I missed one? No, no, not possible, I thought, searching it thoroughly, turning it this way and that, my suddenly sweaty hands trying to find a bit of damage; just the littlest bit would soothe me. And when I didn’t, I slammed it down hard against the dining table, feeling instant relief at the destruction, at seeing the too-perfect plate smashed. And then something inside my soul fractured too, and I couldn’t stop myself. I just couldn’t. Madness burned like a fire inside me, hot and bright, wanting to shatter everything. Unwelcome tears ran down my face, and it made me angry, this wacked emotional tailspin I’d brought on myself by coming into this room. I cursed and grabbed another piece and another and another, slamming each and every plate, cup, and saucer down against the table over and over until every single dish lay pulverized at my feet. Until I felt spent. Until nothing perfect would ever be in this house again.
After that, I went upstairs and dyed my hair a deep red.
***