Today's goal is to leave the house with a modicum of confidence to offer the wide eyes and stalking vehicles. You think people inspect you like a celebrity but paranoia grips you by the skull. It's nothing but a fantasy. Every time your eyes meet the mirror, they skitter away. To be cool and collected, will you ever achieve that in your lifetime? A big clock adjacent is tick-tick-ticking. The throbbing at your temple marches to its tune. You try to stay focused on getting ready to leave. Impossible. Calm eludes you and a nearly coropeal stench of desperation exudes from your body. 

Your daughter is a music junkie and has never appreciated the gifts you gave her. Marcelline walks by with her headphones too loud for your taste. She appears in the corner of your eyes, timid yet hulking. Her urgency is that of a mouse, with a demeanor that makes you want to stomp on her. You call her over and note the questioning look on her face. Her nose even twitches. Each expression from her is so comical and exaggerated. Marcelline is your favorite because, of your five children, she makes you feel the most relaxed.

“There is something wrong with you Marcie.” The words evoke satisfaction unbecoming of a mother. You crush her. 

Today, Marcelline has watery, wandering eyes but your headache has just about disappeared. You glance at the clock. Why was it hung over a picture from your glory days? Now your eyes can’t let it go. Still, it's the perfectly pouted lips and youthful blushing skin in the framed photo that give you a boost of confidence. You’ve lived fifty years total. It is year sixteen in the house with the big clock that never stops counting down. Your visage in the vanity allows you to observe the anxiety in your ocean eyes and the minute tremble in your hands. You take a deep breath and evoke stillness. The woman in the mirror draws a perfectly straight wing with the “ultra black” gel liner and smiles with triumph. 

Marcelline is already in the car when you enter the driveway so you’re a bit peeved you didn’t get to say the scathing words you prepared just for her. There is silence in the car as you cruise onto the main street. You find it difficult to focus on anything but how the driver behind you is pulling up too close behind your Lincoln Aviator. Your anxiety wails like a hungry ghost and your facade of calm cracks down the middle.

“We’ve gotta stop to get cigarettes if you want me to take you to your friend’s house without having a breakdown.” 

The sunglasses that act as a barrier against the world, also keep Marcelline from reading your expression. “Newport Lights 100.” The reminder isn’t needed. She’s been buying your cigarettes for you since she was fourteen. Marcelline doesn’t ask for money to pay for the cigarettes. You feel a sense of loss as she runs into the familiar red and white CVS with the peeling paint.

Waiting, you note the crowd gathered at the next door establishment. You’re curious but you slide down in your seat and push the sunglasses further up the bridge of your nose. You think they’ll swarm you like ants if they catch even a glimpse.

Marceline finally gets in the car and hands over the cigarettes. You take it with a shaky hand and scrabble for your lighter. There’s several beats of silence. As you break open the pack of Newport Lights, Marcelline suddenly speaks up, “I love you Mother, I wish you wouldn’t smoke.” 

You wonder if she’s a sociopath. You say it aloud and Marceline becomes quiet again.

Cigarette between the teeth, your elevated heart rate stabilizes and your mind clears. Maybe there's some regret from your harsh words but you don't take it back. It’s a ritual. Though you don’t wish to acknowledge it, this conniving and manipulative aspect of your personality is one of the reasons even your own children say “I love you” with hesitation. 

You want to know why it calms you down to hurt Marcelline. Her words repeat in your head. Then your own response. You examine the words every which way.  No conclusions. Your hands itch to call your psychiatrist and demand answers, but your brain responds that you don’t have a psychiatrist. You can’t afford a psychiatrist any more than you can afford to buy the Newport Lights 100 yourself.