Missed America
by Caroline A. Bell
“You have such a pretty face, you could be Miss America—if you’d just whittle down.” The words cut—they always did—despite Sheila’s efforts to shrug them off. But they hadn’t come from Momma this time. The stylish woman in the first booth had used Momma’s words with her pudgy, dimple-cheeked daughter, dredging up Sheila’s private pain and hurt. Sheila’s heart quickened as the child’s smile faded and the light went out of her eyes. Sheila knew.
Obsessed with some ideal of beauty that arose from her own ugly duckling phase, those teen years she would only hint at, her mother had methodically slashed away at her for years—all in the name of love and concern for her happiness, of course. Catching Sheila slouching, she would admonish her to “stand up straight. Pretend there’s a string tied to your breastbone and pulling you up. Carry your chest high and shoulders back. There, now. That’s the way a lady carries herself. It gives you such poise.”
Sometimes she would see Sheila walking, as ordinarily as pre-adolescent girls do, and remind her to “glide.” She’d bark, “Envision your thighs as two champagne glasses, filled with bubbling liquid. Glide. You don’t want to spill a drop; keep the tops of your thighs even. Such a pretty walk will attract the boys.” Sheila glided and slid, trying to cross the room smoothly, desperate not to spill any of the golden elixir in those imaginary glasses. Too often she failed, and Momma would sigh. “What’s so hard, Sheila? It’s such a little thing. With a little effort on your part, you could improve that clumsy walk of yours. And think of the benefits. If you walk elegantly, people won’t notice your size so much. They’ll just see what a lovely young lady you are.” But Momma herself never saw.
And, of course, there was the weight, ounce by ounce, pound by pound, each a measure of her failure to be the lady, to look the lady. Sheila had wound herself in a cocoon of her own making, protection against the hurt she could never seem to deflect, never understanding its true source. Insurance against her mother’s continuing attacks on her soul. Behind a mask of excess flesh, Sheila was no longer visible. Hidden, she could try to deny the hurt because she was not really there anymore. And no one noticed. No one cared.
For a long time she had asked herself who was this so-called lovely young lady her Mom wanted her to be? Where did she come from? Why did Momma revere her? What was so great about her? Why was she never good enough? Sheila never figured out, exactly, as she became inured to her mother’s rant, almost afraid of the resentment she tamped down with every, “You have such a pretty face…” or “If you’d just whittle down.”
That ideal her mother worshipped still hovered at the edges of Sheila’s consciousness, an unwelcome spirit flickering like a moth in the penumbra of a streetlight. It never seemed to go away for long, returning at the oddest times to dart intrusively into her soul, summoned by a word, a phrase. By memories of her mother’s unending attempts to re-create Sheila into that perfect image.
Whirling around so fast she scared even herself, Sheila screamed at the woman in the booth, who cowered in astonishment, even fear. “I’m too frickin’ old to be Miss America and”—enunciating each word distinctly—“I’m not a frickin’ piece of wood!” Again and again and again, fists clinched and pounding the air: “I’m not a frickin’ piece of wood, I’m not a frickin’ piece of wood, I’m not a frickin’ piece of wood, I’m….” The words trailed off into the thick silence of the diner. For a moment no one spoke; no one moved.
Stricken, Sheila realized it was she who had shouted. She quickly scanned the booths where diners sat in stunned silence, forks and coffee cups at the ready. Turning, she grabbed her purse from beneath the counter, and, head high, string attached, she marched toward the door. One hand on the jamb, the other flipping her brunette bob, Sheila took a last look at what had been her home, her hideaway. At the woman who had cracked her world.
By now having regained her composure, the woman, turned toward her daughter, beseeching those frightened little eyes. She recognized that she must have triggered Sheila’s outburst with her comment, and it hurt her to the quick. Gathering the child into her arms, the woman held her close, stroking her hair and murmuring, “I’m sorry, sweetie, so sorry. I never knew, never knew. I’m so sorry.”
Gathering her reserve, knowing she could never go back, Sheila slammed out the door and into the gray drizzle that punctuated the mood. Choking back sobs as she ran through the parking lot, she barely noticed the trash that blew against the curb. A section from the Gazette, turning to pulp, caught her eye with the headline: “freak accident takes local woman.”
Mildred Hoogenboom was found in her garden late Tuesday afternoon, impaled on a tomato stake. ‘Miss Mildred’ was noted for her lush garden, and gave much of her prize-winning produce to friends and loved ones. In the 1950s, Mildred Hoogenboom had been a talented dancer, competing in several local pageants. Second runner up to the Watermelon Queen and later to Miss Peach Blossom, she placed third in the Miss SC pageant. Mildred Hoogenboom is survived by one daughter.
Sheila could not stop crying for the little girl.
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Caroline A. Bell is a pseudonym. Bell's writings reflect the frustrations of an intelligent, creative spirit forced to survive in the opposite [real] world. Many of the stories percolated for years in Bell's psyche before now gasping into life. Bell up in the South, was an English major, and recently retired from an administrative position at an institution of higher education. Ha. Contact Caroline.
