Chasing Cloud9

“Come in,” she breathed as she heard the knock on the door. It was going to be her first time. They knew what was going to happen. She wanted to surpass her expectations of herself, as well as his expectations of her. She made sure she looked perfect enough for him to want what he would see. She wore a black silk lingerie to up her charm with the thought that this was how it was supposed to work. Her make-up was minimal enough for her to simply improve her facial qualities, but not enough for it to be ruined by the intimacy: a touch of red on the lips to show dominance, and a touch of blush on the cheeks to show submission. The door locks unlatched. She was ready.

Geneva grew up to believe that love would be impossible to sustain. She thought that once she had found it, it would be difficult to have its blissfulness remain. As she grew up she started to believe that love was simply an infestation of negativity and a false display of affection. Who could blame her? Her parents were living proof of it. Her father worked overseas while her mother stayed with her. She noticed how her mum gradually lost sight of why he had to go away, and began to wallow in doubts and questions: why she let him leave; why they can’t all be together; why she had to stay; and why she was stuck with her, Geneva. She not only forgot to look after her child, she also forgot of herself in the process. Geneva would at times feel she was to blame. No, she feels she is being blamed.

She walked towards the main door when she heard her mother came in. She stood a couple of meters away from her mum to keep safe and yet she could still smell the stench of alcohol. Her mum was wearing the plain grey shirt Geneva bought her for Christmas. It was tattered, and drenched in alcohol spills and vomit residue. Her hair looked like she had troubles putting it up with strands of hair still hovered over her face. Red veins coated her eyes. She was a mess. Geneva was neither angry or happy to see her. She was numb. She had gotten used to this routine that all she could bother to do is ask where her mum went to show a little less apathy, and a little more sympathy.

Her mum just stared at her with a blank face. Geneva saw how those impassive eyes displayed no sympathy, no maternal instinct. She saw how they were filled with questions, including how her daughter was able to tolerate her behaviour. But above all, she saw how her mother tried to care but couldn’t.

“It’s late. Where’d you go?” Geneva asked.

There was no answer.

“Applications for colleges are coming up. I need money so I can send my applications.”

No answer.

“Have you gotten the money from dad?”

No answer.

“Or have you already spent it all on your nightly getaways?”

Her mum loured at her, presenting a somewhat half smile before she proceeded to walk towards her room.

“I messaged dad. He said he sent the money a week ago. It should’ve arrived by now. Where is it?” Geneva stared at her mother with superiority and no pity.

“It’s gone. Or at least half of it.” Her mum tittered.

“Well how do you plan I get into a college?”

“Me? Don’t ask me. It’s you who wants to go to a fucking elite institution. You don’t need to go there. It’s useless. They just want your money. You know some people who didn’t attend college end up getting the same jobs as those who do,” Her mum tried to justify her behaviour. Although Geneva was not convinced, she thought maybe this is her mum’s way of showing remorse.

“Just get a job at McDonald’s or something. And if you really want to get loads, don’t use your brain, use your body. Where do you think I get the money when we use up all of the cash your dad sends? Maybe you can do that so you can get the money for your applications if you’re really determined.” She laughed.  

There was a moment of silence.

“Okay, maybe I will.” Geneva said.

“Just trying to lighten things up. I still haven’t paid the electricity bill, by the way. But hey, if you get lucky, hand me some of that cash, would ya?” Her mother said as she finally reached her room. She slammed the door right after her.

How could her own mother allow her to sell her body? How could her own mother not care about her future? How could a mother let herself go to waste without considering the effects it would have on her child? How could a mother put herself first before her own child? Geneva began to feel again. It was only in moments like this where she began to feel something towards her mother.  She felt pain. Betrayal. Anger. Disappointment. Confusion.

She would often think to herself why she had to suffer her mum’s recklessness. Perhaps it was because despite all the turmoil that they go through, despite her pronouncing her apathy towards her mother, she still had a great deep regard for her. Perhaps Geneva still believed her mom could restore her own sanity. Or perhaps she’s just waiting for her father to come back and re-establish the family. She had questions, too – the same questions her mother had.

She was torn between the idea of idling by and hoping her father would come back soon, and the idea of her separating herself from all of them, from all of it. Geneva knew it was no longer love that she felt for her mother. Same as how she knew love was no longer the reason why her mother still stayed, towards her father or towards her. It was because she had to. She’d committed to being her guardian while her dad had to sweat for their living. It is not in every situation that commitment equates with love. But love, in all aspects, could coincide with commitment. Geneva decided to break her shackles of commitment that was tying her to her mother.

She grabbed her backpack still filled with her school materials, and tried to squeeze in as much clothes as she could. She got dressed into the nearest set of jeans and shirt she could find in her room. She then rushed over her to her mother’s room. Just as she had expected, her mother was passed out on the bed. She knew she was able to rummage through her things without waking her up. She found where her mum stored away the money and pocketed half of what was left. It was in one of her drawers, hidden among the pieces of lingerie she had bought herself during the times she was still optimistic about when her husband was flying back home. Geneva immediately recalled what her mother had told her – the motherly advice. “Why not?” she asked herself. She grabbed one and forced it into her bag. “Do it for your future,” she assured herself.

She was near the door when she looked back at her mum. She raced over to her and gently pecked her on her forehead. Her mother never looked so at ease even with her brows scrunched. “I’m sorry,” Geneva whispered in her ear. All the response she had gotten back was her mother’s heavy breathing, as usual. She took one last look at her, remembering every bit of her face – each fold of her wrinkles, each strand of hair, her smudged mascara, her chapped lips, the mole on the upper left side of her forehead. Geneva was going to miss her.

At a young age, Geneva had questioned what love was and what love was supposed to feel like. She thought love was how her dad used to tie her hair in a braid, how her mum used to pack her food for school, how they would fetch Geneva from school every afternoon and welcome her with an embrace. The common thread between them, she realised, was the happiness that she felt. She grew up noticing how that happiness slowly turned into a system of responsibilities and burdens. Love is happiness, and happiness was what was lacking at home.

Geneva exited their front door and stared at the blackness overshadowing the streets. She gazed over it as if she was trying to discern where her future would lie. She shut the door behind her and stepped towards the dimmed neighbourhood. Her questions consumed her thoughts as she immersed in silence.   She was only able to hear her strides until she heard collective laughter of grown men coming from a nearby bar. Maybe that is where happiness is, she thought.