Volume 1: The Siege
______
A year ago my mother Ellen stumbled onto a real catch. Alexander Bennett was 33 years old, blonde and blue-eyed. He would have looked like an All-American man if he wasn't perpetually scruffy, if he didn't have such a quietly scornful personality, or even if he cut his hair a little. Instead he looked like the guy your mother warned you about. In my case, my mother married him.
He softened her a little. Made her giggle with his cutting barbs towards her friends. She even blushed when he paid her a compliment. I knew he didn't mean any of it. He was full of shit.
As the son of a well-to-do politician, he was expected to become a prominent member of society and marry a "nice" girl from a "nice" family. Since Alex was a dick, he gave his father the middle finger, invested his trusts into a few restaurants and became a wealthy restauranteur all on his own. Mom wasn't a nice girl, but she did come from a great family and she knew which fork to use. She was also excellent in bed, if I was to believe her numerous lovers after Dad left, and very beautiful. Alex met her one night in his most popular restaurant and must have decided she'd be fun to marry, mostly because she would absolutely let him do what he want. It didn't hurt that he could make fun of her on a daily basis and she wouldn't get it.
Our relationship was... complicated.
When I met Alexander I was instantly attracted to him, which was strange considering how I was into the alternative look at the time. Tattoos and lip piercings got me wet--not guys who, after a shave, could run for President. I'd also never thought an older guy who wasn't a celebrity was hot before. Mom introduced us and shockingly a thousand butterflies wept in my stomach.
Then I noticed the sardonic glint in those blue eyes. His lips curled into something not quite a smile. His gaze swept up from my flip-flops, over the pink sundress I wore, and finally met mine. It felt like a challenge. It gave me chills, chills that I knew he saw and catalogued. He probably cherished them.
"How sweet," he said, taking my hand. I knew there was something going on behind those eyes but I couldn't be sure of what it was.
It was like that every time he looked at me. He'd utter some false compliment, some empty line of praise. Yet he was aware I knew he was full of bullshit. It became a game. How many times could he get me to roll my eyes?
"You look like you belong running on the Swiss Alps," he told me one day when I wore my hair in braids, wrapped around the crown of my head.
Another day I wore a red dress to go out to dinner with friends. He kept pulling on the hem as I ran around, getting ready.
"If you go out in that, every man is going to try and tackle you down."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, distracted as I slipped my feet into some black heels.
He blocked my way to the front door and gave me a long look that made my toes curl. "You look like a naughty schoolgirl personified. You're every sick man's daydream come to life and out at night."
I swallowed and stepped back from him. He lifted his eyebrows, like "see?", and disappeared upstairs.
I changed my dress after that.
And then whenever we were all together-- me, Mom, Alexander-- there was the strangest hum of tension between us. He'd converse with my mother but he would keep his eyes on me, watching me take sips of water or chew on bits of steak.
I never realized there was a sexual undercurrent to all of this until one night when my friend Jackie pointed it out to me.
"Um, your stepdad totally wants to fuck you."
I coughed. "Excuse me?"
She gave me a wicked grin. "Hello, he only eyefucks you every time you're in the same room with him."
"We're always bickering," I defended, feeling uncomfortable.
"Right," she laughed. "Foreplay."
"Stop it." I smacked her with my pillow. "He's my stepdad."
Jackie nodded. With a mocking tone she said, "Totally. Quite the paternal figure."
"Fuck you."
"I wish your stepfather would, but he's too busy fantasizing about you."
I laughed it off then, but from that day forward it was aways in the back of my mind whenever we spoke, whenever he watched me pour milk or whenever we passed one another in the hall.
I knew the full extent of his evil when he got my mother to pay attention to the boys I dated.
"Your daughter is fond of slumming," he said one morning, buttering his toast.
I didn't even get what he meant at first. Neither did my mother. "What?"
"Slumming? Is this 1950?" I asked. Next he was going to start describing things as "swell".
He smirked and bit into one corner. With his mouth full, he said, "Noticed her boyfriend. Looked like the guy who bagged my stuff last time I was in the supermarket."
Mom merely snorted.
The next week, however, is when the speeches came. When my curfew got tightened. I knew it was all his fault, and I couldn't figure out why he was torturing me.
Mom began telling me that just because I was 19 didn't mean I was a real woman. That I didn't understand men. That I needed to be more aware of what I was doing and who I was hanging out with. This constant harping wasn't due to maternal love; she just didn't want to have to look into the eyes of all her friends whose daughters were either in Yale or married and tell them I got knocked up by "one of those boys", AKA the boys I typically dated. If a guy with a fancy pedigree hung around me, she'd likely hide my birth control.
I was currently grounded because I went on a few dates with a guy of questionable character and an even murkier family name. Ellen didn't want a guy like that sniffing around me. When I came home one day at dawn, she was shockingly waiting for me in the kitchen. She was dressed for tennis with Jackie-O sunglasses on and a huge mug of coffee in front of her.
Calmly she announced, "You're grounded."
I could have innocently said, "What do you mean- I've been home this whole time!" or, "Please, Ellen," and stalked to the fridge for some OJ. Variations of such protestations had worked in the past. But she was getting desperate for me to transform into a Stepford Daughter, and she had really caught me off guard by being awake before noon. I underestimated her will for making me as miserable as she was.
"You can't ground me. I'm 19!" I eventually sputtered.
Mom smiled almost kindly. That was eerie enough. "And you still live under my roof."
"This is so ridiculous! You've never bothered to ground me before."
