More On Patrice

My father was a looker. Last time I saw him his ways had caught up to him and his skin was worn and tired and his biceps were loose and soft. My mother would have liked to see that he fell a part as he aged, as she was bitter. She wasn’t over their divorce and she’s in her late 50s now. She still lives in the same house we grew up together in. We lived in a wealthy bedroom community and I learned to look and act like the rich, evn though I wasn't. I went to all the proper schools, had the proper dates, and the proper clothes.

When my dad left my mother got a pretty good divorce settlement since he was quite successful but she was left with three kids. Beneath her tainted surface my mother is quite a smart woman. She immediately contacted a well-known investment advisor and saved every penny. We didn’t go with out things we needed and we had a few educational and pretentious extras, but for the most part we didn’t have a lot of extravagances. It paid off, because at 57 she’s never worked a day in her life. Her face and body held up well to the test of time; her soul has not. It’s sad, really.

I have a younger sister Grace, who turned out pretty normal with a husband and a happy baby, and a brother who is a womanizer and has been married three times in his 40 years. I guess he is like my dad, or how my dad had been described to me as I grew up. I was six when my dad left my mother for “that young girl.” I don’t remember much about him except how his aftershave smelled and that mom used to pick out his ties for him before he went to work. Once he left, he never looked back. We’d get birthday and Christmas cards, but we’d only see him on occasion. He married the “young girl” he left my mom for. They had a child (a half-sister I’ve never met) and then he left her for someone even younger. He’s been married five times since my mom. Thankfully only the first two yielded children. He’s left quite a trail of broken hearts. At a young age I vowed my husband would never cheat on me because I wouldn’t marry that kind of man.

My mom took a lot of it out on Max, my brother. She’d yell and scream at him that he was a womanizer and he should treat women with respect. The funny thing though is that he wasn’t always a player. His first girlfriend was a very nice and respectable girl who was a lot of fun. My mother couldn’t stand to see anyone in love so she pushed and pushed until finally she broke a part their relationship. My brother then proceeded to turn into every thing she accused him of being.

Interestingly however, I always had pretty healthy relationships. Nice boys who treated me well. I was afraid my mother would do to me what she did to Max. That was how I learned to hide emotion and not talk about how I felt. I became the master of perfection, being exactly what my mom wanted me to be in the way I looked and acted. It is some what amazing to me, upon reflection of my childhood that I have a healthy attitude toward men.