My
mother was a whore.
Her name
was Leah Isabelle Anderson—“Leah Belle” for short, and she was one of New
Jersey’s most sought after escorts.
With deep
green eyes that could take any man’s breath away, and skin so porcelain and
smooth that it looked too perfect to touch, she was breathtakingly beautiful.
Often compared to a supermodel, her raven black hair fell past her shoulders,
and her naturally long eyelashes were always coifed to perfection.
Growing
up, I had no idea what she did with the men who picked her up in their shiny
and expensive cars—the men who wore thousand dollar suits and patted me on the
head while saying, “Your mom is really something special.”
In a
way, these strangers became the closest thing I had to a family since I never
knew my father: Her regulars, Christian and William, sent me gifts every
Christmas. Arnie bought me my first bike, Steve taught me how to change a tire,
and her most ruthless suitor—Vincent, took me shopping for designer clothes
once a month.
Leah
Belle—she never ever let me call her
“mom,” wasn’t exactly a mother to me;
she was more like an older friend. An older
‘I’ll-be-there-when-it’s-convenient’ friend.
She
missed every elementary school play, every middle school writing competition,
and never gave a damn about my grades. At first, the involuntary loneliness
bothered me, but after I created an army of invisible friends and easily
accessible fantasies, I came to terms with her neglect and happily accepted any
attention she was willing to give me.
When I
became a teenager, she started to hang around me more often—promising that she
would do better, promising that she would make sure that “from here on out,
[we’d] be best friends.” Since she’d
run away from her parents after having me at sixteen, she made a point to never
lecture or discipline me. But, she did teach me three very important lessons:
1.) “Always
put tons of effort into the way you look. You need to be beautiful on the
outside, no matter how fucked up you are on the inside. If you ever feel sad or
depressed, suck that shit up and add more mascara.”
2.)
“Don’t make friends. Make sponsors.
If you can’t get anything out of someone or use them for a specific purpose,
kick that person out of your life ASAP.”
3.)
“Beauty wins over brains every time. Your body will always be your most
important asset. Remember that.”
For my
fourteenth birthday, she poured me my first shot and offered me a short line of
coke, saying, “Welcome to life, Em!”
I shook
my head at the coke—I’d read about the effects, but I happily took the red shot
glass from her hand.
“To the
best fuckin’ daughter in the world!” She lifted her glass in the air, waiting
for me to do the same, and then she ordered me to toss it back.
The initial
burning sensation was painful—disgusting, but in the years to come, that
bitterness tasted better and better, and I looked forward to the two of us
drinking together. It was the only time that she gave me her undivided
attention.
In those
moments, I would tell her about another writing competition I’d won or how I’d
received more early college scholarships. When it was her turn, she would tell
me about “turning tricks” like other parents told their kids about a day at the
office.
“I can’t
tell you how weak Ben’s dick was today,” she’d say. “I mean, I feel like I
should be charging him double for the
weak ass fucks he puts me through.”
“You
don’t enjoy it with him? Ever?” I’d
ask.
“No.
Never with him. But he’s a sponsor, I’m getting his money, and that’s all that
matters. I just lie there, scratch his back, and say ‘Harder… Harder’ to make
him think I’m into it until—”
“Until
he cums?”
“Yep.”
She’d pass me a cigarette before sighing. “With him and a few others, I usually
have to take a few shots beforehand to numb my mind. With the really good ones,
all I have to do is relax. Sex can be fucking incredible when it’s done right…”
One
particular Friday, after she let one of her regulars take me shopping for a
Chanel bag, I unlocked the door to our home and saw droplets of blood all over
the floor.
“Leah?”
I set my shopping bag down. “Did you get another nose bleed?”
No
answer.
I headed
into the kitchen, looking for her usual remedies—hot tea and Q tips, but she
wasn’t there.
“You
here?” I walked around our living room and checked all the rooms upstairs.
Confused, I pulled out my cell phone and called her.
No
answer again.
I
shrugged and opened a bottle of vodka, tossing back a few shots. I figured
she’d left with one of her sponsors for a quickie and would be back by the time
our favorite show started.
I
decided to take a shower before it came on and headed into the downstairs
bathroom.
The
second I hit the lights, my heart fell out of my chest.
I wanted
to believe that what I was seeing was simply a sick joke by my imagination—a
twisted fantasy I’d snap out of in seconds.
Pale and
blue, Leah’s body lay lifeless in our tub. Her left arm was dangling over the
edge, and the small velvet bag where she kept her cocaine was dangling from her
fingertips.
Scattered
across the floor were hundreds of prescription pills and empty orange bottles
that bore the names of strangers. On the vanity, there was an empty syringe and
a folded note that read “For my Em…”
Trembling,
I rushed to her side and pressed my finger against her neck, hoping for a
pulse.
Nothing.
I tilted
her head back and tried to breathe life into her—pressing her chest with my
hands every few seconds, but it was no use.
She was
gone.
I sank
down to the floor in tears—cursing her, hating
her, for doing this to me. To us.
I had no
friends to call, no family either, so in my numb and dazed state I somehow
managed to call 9-1-1. While the operator attempted to calm me down by asking
me to take deep breaths, I walked over to the vanity and unfolded Leah’s last
note:
Em,
I know you’re
confused right now, but I want you to know that I love you. I love you so
fucking much… You were the only thing that made my life worth living, and I
wish I was strong enough to keep that in mind…
I’m not.
I’m tired of living
a lie and I haven’t been happy in a very long time… I just can’t take it
anymore…
I’ve fucked up a
lot of things in my life, but the biggest regret I have is the way I raised
you…I’m so sorry… This is going to be hard for you to believe—especially since
I’m gone, but I need you to forget all that shit I taught you. Right now.
Fuck using your
looks to get what you want. Go to college and do some good shit with your life,
like write or something. You’re a good writer, you’re very smart, and you need
to use your brain to get ahead. Can you promise to do that for me, Em?
Then again…It’s
probably too late and I’m willing to bet that you’ll end up just like me: A
beautiful nothing…
It won’t be your
fault though. It’ll be—
I
stopped reading and flushed that note down the toilet. Her last words were
clearly written out of sadness and they were only compounding my pain.
As far
as I was concerned, Leah had raised me the best she could and she was far from
a “beautiful nothing” in my eyes. In fact, I cherished every single thing she’d
taught me.
Even
though I was beyond hurt that she’d selfishly left me all alone, I was
determined to remember her at her best and for everything she was to me:
My
mother.
My best
friend.
My role model.
***
Beautiful Failure. Coming Soon.
--MC
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