Don’t You Usually

The empty socket in my mouth where my tooth had been pulled ached. I needed to get home, lay in bed and watch some entertaining but not mentally strenuous television.

As I stuck the key into my ignition, I sighed. I remembered my roommate chasing me down the hall last night as soon as I’d gotten home from having my tooth pulled. “Will you have rent by Friday?” He mumbled. “Whaht?” I asked, gargling the extra spit and blood in my mouth around the gauze. “Rent. Will you have it by Friday?” He asked again.

At first, I wanted to tell him to just message me these things instead of chasing me down the hallway like my hair was on fire but I didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation, so I rolled my eyes and said. “Yeah. I’ll have it tomorrow.” And turned away. I shouldn’t be so hard on him. He has diagnosed Asperger’s Syndrome, and he simply bulldozes through social cues because of it.  

Feeling sorry for myself and the pain in my left cheek, I arrived at the bank and sarcastically weaved through the stanchions. I walked straight up to the Hispanic woman behind the thick glass and requested the money order. After the usual bank interactions were over, she paused while handing me the money order and smiled awkwardly like she was studying me and wanted to ask me something, asked, “Don’t you usually come in with your Mom?”

I blankly stared at her. She’d gotten me impressively wrong with her assumptions.

The first assumption was that I was young enough to normally go to the bank with my mother, which shaved off at least a decade of my actual age. And before you say that I’ll appreciate it when I get older, I really don’t think I will. The repetitive discussion of disbelief is already annoying and boring to me, so I doubt it will become more interesting the more I hear it. But also, my apparent youth is simply an excuse for people to dismiss my opinions, abilities and experiences. And as I grow older and continue to gather knowledge and experiences that are further discredited; I suspect that it will only irritate me more.

The second assumption was that my mother was alive. Which she wasn’t. She’d died six months ago. And died brutally at the hands of her abusive husband.

At this sudden reminder, I wanted to yell and cry at her. I wanted to call her a bitch and make her feel terrible for her question.

I would never be able to go anywhere with my mom again. I’d never hear her voice again. Because she was gone. Underground. My beautiful mother, also frequently dismissed for her youthful look, would have laughed at and shared my frustration at always being carded for over the counter medicine and monster energy drinks. But she was gone forever. And I’d never get to laugh with her again.

The bank teller’s smile began to fade. I winced, fighting back my anger, sadness and memories of my mom smiling and laughing. There was no way she could have known that her question would stab me straight in my heart. It was innocent curiosity and mistaken identity. I couldn’t turn my anger and sadness on her.

I took a breathe. Forced a smile. And shook my head no. Who was I to change the questions that she asked people? I’d rather be reminded of my Mom, and how we used to laugh, then to be asked how I was doing and then continue to feel sorry for myself and the temporary pain in my mouth.