July 23rd - "Midsummer Sonata"

It came in midsummer. When the days grow so long you almost get tired of all that light. When the heat gets so high you're wishing for a sudden snow to wipe it all away. Lucille had so much free time before she got a job, but now that she got a job, she appreciated that free time so much more. There was a sort of urgency to it, a sort of “let’s make the most this time while we still have it” sort of feeling. But when time’s limited, your options grow limited as well. Paralysis by analysis sets in, and despite having so many things you can do, you can’t choose any because it might be the wrong one, as if there’s an incorrect way to spend your free time. So you end up doing nothing at all except lay on the floor because you’re bored and overwhelmed.

Technically, laying on the floor was an upgrade for Lucille. She used to lay in bed all day while endlessly scrolling on her phone. But they say to fix your sleep schedule, you gotta only use your bed for sleeping, so Lucille migrated to the floor. No phone, either, because she kept it in the kitchen, away from her own prying eyes and fingers. So with no phone and no real desires because she desired so much she couldn't choose, she laid on the floor. It was cool, at least, and the hardwood floor actually performed miracles on her back. Back pains at age 22! But stretching on the floor made pain and pleasure radiate throughout her body in equal measure as she felt the tension in her back slip away.

When that whole process was complete, Lucille wasn’t sure what to do next. Staring at the ceiling can only sustain your interest for so long. She opened and closed her mouth, making exaggerated lip smacking sounds.

“I am so bored,” she said aloud, having nobody to talk to but herself. Regina was working the late shift, and Lucille wasn’t the kind of person to drive into the city on a Wednesday evening when she had work the next day, no matter how appealing hanging out with Jackie sounded at the moment. So instead, she smacked her lips and stretched her back and thought about how much more fun going on her computer was back in 2009.

Technically, she did have someone she could talk to, because it’s not like she was alone in her house. That’s how the idea originated in her subconscious, slowly drifting to the surface until a phrase, long dormant in Lucille’s mind, broke through:

I should go talk with my mother.

Lucille’s face scrunched up in disbelief.

Did I really just think that?

She found herself sitting upright.

Why would I ever go talk to my mother?

Lucille stood up and slowly left her room.

My mother? We have nothing to talk about.

She made her way down the stairs to the first floor of the house.

What am I even supposed to say? “Hey Mom?” What do mothers and daughters even talk about?

As always, Lucille wracked her mind for knowledge, and as always, much of that knowledge came from mass media. In anime, mothers were generally

Out of focus and absent

Ditzy and still acting like a high schooler

Dead

Technically, Lucille’s mother checked box number one, but now that Lucille was about to talk to her, God knows why, she entered the realm of reality. And besides, Lucille supposed that when it comes to your real life family, anime wasn't the best source of knowledge. Maybe it’s not the best source for anything, but that’s besides the point.

When she reached the bottom step of the stairs, Lucille rubbed her face. I should’ve watched Gilmore Girls.

But that’s when it hit her. Live action media! Talk about an untapped source of knowledge. As Lucille trudged towards the kitchen, she tried to remember a mother-daughter relationship in any sort of live action media she had seen. But she hadn’t seen a whole lot of live action media, so she came up blank.

Damn my weebiness!

Then her eyes lit up. She had seen at least one movie focused on mother-daughter relations - Ingmar Bergman’s Autumn Sonata. The King of Swedish, and therefore global, cinema, Bergman made many acclaimed films such as Through a Glass Darkly. Schizophrenic incest? Lucillecore through and through. Autumn Sonata was the final film to feature Ingrid Bergman, the Queen of Swedish, and therefore global, acting. She starred as a mother who goes to visit her estranged daughter (oh yeah, spoilers for 45-year-old Swedish film). The mother is a famous pianist; the daughter, not so much. The film starts off pretty nicely - the two women open up to each other, explaining how they see their relationship, and then the daughter talks about the mother’s verbal abuse, her disabled sister whom the mother essentially dumped on her, the…the abortion the mother made her get…yeah, not really an applicable example of mother-daughter relations. Never mind.

And then Lucille was in the kitchen.

“Lucille,” her mother said, not looking up from the pile of bills.

“...hey Mom,” Lucille greeted, feeling a little lightheaded as she passed by the kitchen table. Her mother was a shorter, aged version of Lucille, her hair having faded into a light, light brown compared to Lucille’s darker shade. And that’s kind of all Lucille knew about her. Well, she knew more, of course, but nothing really stuck out in Lucille’s mind at the moment.

It’s not like she could just go up and say, “Hey Mom, want to talk?” No, when you haven’t talked with someone for a while, you have to be smooth about it. The kitchen was quiet while Lucille made a ham sandwich. A very normal procedure, nothing out of the ordinary. But then, rather than disappear back into her room like always, Lucille instead took a seat at the kitchen table.

“Not eating in your room?” her mother asked, not looking up.

Lucille rubbed the back of her neck. “Ah, you know…trying to keep my room clean, don’t want crumbs and all…”

Her mother nodded. Lucille ate slowly, very slowly, trying to think of something to say.

How do conversations even work?  Lucille was moving into existential territory. How do you talk to someone you don’t really talk to, someone you kind of don’t like but that feeling’s sort of faded by now, so you’re feeling pretty neutral towards them?

What do mothers and daughters even talk about?

Lucille had no idea, so she admitted defeat. It was a stupid idea, anyway. She finished eating and went to slip away from the table-

“How’s work going?” her mother asked, not looking up.

Lucille stayed in her seat. “Ah, you know. Twenty bucks an hour is pretty good. And Regina’s the best boss you can ask for. My coworkers are really nice, too. I mean, one girl thinks I’m autistic, but…you know.”

“Sounds about right,” her mother said. Then something unexpected happened - her mother looked up at her. Lucille wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do - do people make eye contact with their mothers?

“How’s Regina doing?”

Lucille darted her eyes away. “Good. She’s gonna be a manager soon.”

“That's nice. And how’s Jackie doing?”

“She’s doing good as well. She’s gonna move in with Regina’s parents here in East Eden once her lease in the city ends next month.”

“That’s great. You know, I used to dislike her. I still do, but that feeling was a lot stronger when you were in high school.”

Lucille chuckled. “The baseball bat flew out of her hands, Mom. She wasn’t aiming for your windshield.”

“And setting fires in the woods?”

“Well, you know…her parents were in the middle of a messy divorce and all…”

Lucille’s mother wiped her face. “Yeah, I guess I should be more considerate. But I’m glad she’s doing well.”

The conversation died down, and Lucille realized this was her turn to ask her mother something. It took her a moment to think of something involving her mother she could ask about.

“How are the bills?”

Her mother chuckled. “They’re bills. About as good as you can expect them to be.” She then glanced at a clock on the wall. “Your father’s out of town and I don’t feel like cooking, want to order a pizza?”

Lucille shook her head. “Nah, I don’t feel like picking it up.”

“We can get delivery.”

Lucille rested her hand on a palm and gave her mother a sideways look. “You used to never let me get delivery.”

“In high school. You had a car, no reason for you to not get it when I’m paying for it. But now…I must be mellowing out.”

“You gotta give a good tip for delivery,” Lucille reminded her.

“Ah, I hate tipping.”

What’s this feeling? Something deep in my chest, in my heart even…why is this making me happy? I don’t even like her.

“Me too,” Lucille agreed, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards in a smile.

After ordering the pizza, her mother opened the fridge and gestured inside. “Want a drink? I got this strawberry liquor thing.”

Lucille immediately raised her hands. “Ah, no! I mean…I’m all set, thank you.”

“You cutting back? You must be, I don’t hear you thrashing about upstairs anymore or yelling at your TV.” Her mother put her hands on her hips and laughed. “Same with smoking. You don’t smell like a perpetual skunk anymore.”

Lucille felt her face go red. “Was it that obvious?” That nod that answered her question only made her turn a darker shade of crimson. “Well, I am cutting back, but, you know…I feel like I have to be perfect around you. If I start drinking with you, I’d feel uncomfortable.”

She wasn’t sure if saying something like that was too harsh, nor was she sure if she was supposed to tell her mother truths like that. But her mother just leaned against the counter with a look of understanding on her face. “Yeah. I guess I wanted you to be perfect. You’re so smart, but back then, I’d always go to your room and see you on 4chan or whatever it’s called instead of doing homework and I'd want to throttle you.”

The two women sighed at the memories. Then Lucille decided to be both harsh and truthful.

“Are you happy about me messing up college?”

Her mother tilted her head. “Huh?”

Lucille narrowed her eyes. “Are you happy that your prediction came true? I wanted to go to school to be an author. You said I was stupid. You said it wouldn’t work. And it didn’t.”

“I said that was stupid, not you,” her mother corrected. “College isn’t about pursuing dreams, not in this economy. It’s a transaction. You go to school, you come out with a job. That’s the only point of it nowadays.” Her voice softened. “But why would I be happy about it?”

Lucille gave a lackadaisical, sarcastic shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe it’s how you told me ‘good luck’ and that was that. Not a single moment of support, not a single moment of understanding. Just ‘good luck, I’m right and Lucille, you’re wrong, you’re gonna have to find out you're wrong the hard way’. And I did. So you must be happy.”

The kitchen fell into silence again. Deep in her mind, Lucille knew she was just being pouty, spouting off about something that occurred over four years ago now by this point. But it had to be said. Time hung on a knife’s edge - if Lucille ever wanted to talk to her mother again, she wanted to say it here and now. To let four years of anger out.

In Autumn Sonata, when the daughter confesses all her negative feelings, the mother simply starts crying. About how ungrateful her daughter is. That’s how the mother avoided recognizing the consequences of her own actions. The movie ends with the central conflict unresolved; the mother leaves, nothing was accomplished, the daughter revealed her emotions and perhaps she’s better off for it, but the movie ends before you can tell.

Real life doesn’t end like that, not until being lowered into the grave. The world keeps spinning and life keeps moving. And Lucille fully expected the usual barrage from her mother, about how Lucille just can’t understand because she’s a stupid kid who’s never paid bills or had a mortgage or raised an ungrateful child who just can’t understand, but instead-

Her mother slowly nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“...huh?”

“I should’ve been better,” she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “You were such an idealist back then. You thought you were the best thing since sliced bread, that the sun was gonna orbit around you. You thought it would all work out just because you’re you and you’re the greatest. I was afraid you’d crash and crash hard. But I’m double your age. It’s my fault for not presenting my perspective better. And I’m sorry if I ever made it seem like I was against you personally.” She opened her arms. “I want what’s best for you. I didn’t agree with your decision, but I should’ve helped you once you made it. But instead, like you said, I left you on your own. I’m sorry.”

Lucille kept quiet in the chair. It really sounds like she’s thought this through. Has she been waiting to say this? But why not approach me? I don’t talk to my mother because I don’t like her. That’s what I thought. But maybe it’s really just because I’m afraid I’ve disappointed her and destroyed the relationship already. Maybe she feels that same way.

“It’s okay,” Lucille said, lifting her head off her palm. “I probably should’ve listened more, anyway. And maybe I should’ve done more career stuff at college than sit around all day, too.”

“Do you still write?”

The question hung in the air. After a long while, Lucille slumped in her seat. “No. Not for a while.”

“You’re very talented at it. I don’t think you should’ve gone to school for it. But I think you should keep pursuing it.” Her mother grinned and tapped a finger on her chin. “I use to read your stories all the time. They were good. I don’t agree with all the sex scenes-”

The sound of palms slapping table echoed around the kitchen as Lucille rose to her feet, her face flushed with enough heat to make a volcano blush. “You read my writing!?”

Her mother just shrugged. “You saved it on the family computer in a folder called ‘Lucille Stuff’. Considering your internet history I needed to make sure you weren’t being recruited by terrorists-”

“You checked my internet history!??” Lucille wasn’t sure which one was worse.

“Oh, before I forget,” her mother interrupted, and left the room, leaving a fuming Lucille to pout and pace angrily with her fists clenched. Yet why does my heart feel so nice?

A minute later, her mother came back with a yellowed sheet of paper. She moved carefully with it, so Lucille took it gingerly in her hands.

“The Adventures of Batman,” she read aloud. “By Lucille Brown, Ms. Smith’s 1st grade class at East Eden Elementary…”

Lucille couldn’t believe it. She was looking at her own chicken-scratch writing from fifteen years ago, the pencil faded, the crayon drawings of Batman beating up Sound Village ninja still as bright as the day she drew them. “You…you kept these?”

“Of course. You’re my daughter, you know?”

Eat your heart out, Bergman.

Lucille found herself hugging those papers.

“Thanks, Mom.”