Mom was on the phone a lot over the next couple of weeks. I did not know what to think, and since the phone line in her study was secure, I could not eavesdrop on her conversations. I came home from school one day to find the hard disk of my laptop formatted. Mom claimed the technician had erroneously formatted the memory while trying to upgrade my system to the new Microsoft Vista. I had not asked her to upgrade my operating system; the Microsoft XP was doing just great. I was pissed. I lost a lot of things I had written, my photos and school assignments. I assumed she was trying to surprise me and it had gone wrong.
It was with surprise I greeted the news Mom made over dinner two weeks later.
‘I have written a new book.’ She announced brightly. I looked up from my vegetables.
‘Really?’ I asked. Dad kissed her gently.
‘What’s it called?’ Billy asked after swallowing.
‘Ten Storeys High.’ She replied brightly. I should have choked on my vegetables, or on my drink, but I did not have anything in my mouth. I just stared at the woman I call Mother in surprise, my mouth hanging slightly open. I watched as my mother narrated an abridged version of my story to Dad and Billy. I was sitting across her on the square, four-sitter dinner table, but she did not look at me once. Billy and Dad were listening attentively. I chewed my bitter vegetables slowly and listened to her, while a thousand things ran through my mind. Maybe later, she would explain to me why she was stealing my story; Maybe she would tell me that she needed to give something to her publisher because she had signed a five book deal and was under intense pressure to deliver; Perhaps she would beg me on bended knees, not to feel betrayed as I glare down at her; Maybe she would bribe me, give me hush money. My mother did none of those. After the meal she and Dad went into the kitchen to wash up, while Billy went to the living room to watch TV. I left my room door wide open; it was my silent invitation for her to come in and explain herself. Mom walked past twice but did not enter my room.
I came back from school and Billy showed me the finished book, Mom’s publishers had sent over. The cover art was beautiful; maybe not what I might have had in mind, but it was good. The only error I spotted was, the publishers had printed boldly -Ten Storeys High by Cynthia Schroeder instead of Ten Storeys High by Abigail Schroeder. She had dedicated it to her husband “for his love and support”. I was still waiting for Mom’s apology, but she had been avoiding me. I rushed upstairs to peruse it. It was still my story, the style was hers, but it was my story. She had changed the names of most of my characters.
I was still waiting for Mom’s apology when Ten Storeys high began to make waves around the country. It entered the New York Times bestsellers list and was still there ten weeks later. Mom went on shows nationwide promoting my book, she spoke about the characters like they were her creations, and answered various questions about the twists and the tragic manner the novel ended. She gave them the same answers I had given her in the study. Critics were raving, calling it her best book so far. It sold twelve million copies in three weeks. I watched Mom do book signings and book readings. I watched her on various talk shows; she laughed sweetly as ABC’s Sandra Sullivan interviewed her; she spoke warmly on NBC’s tonight show when asked about family life; her cheery voice came out the radio speakers as she discussed Ten Storeys High on YWO Radio. I watched her squeal excitedly as her agent called to say three studios had indicated interest in buying movie rights to my book.
In the twelfth week that Ten Storeys High was on the New York Times Bestseller list, we moved to a bigger house in a more affluent neighborhood, and hired a maid full time to clean the big house. Mom bought me a Porsche that made me the envy of my schoolmates and bought Billy a terrific Mountain Bike that even wealthier kids in the neighbourhood wanted to ride. Ten storeys high was phenomenal. Mom began to rub shoulders with the bigwigs in the literary world. She sent Toni Morrison an autographed copy of the book. She was on a judging panel with John Grisham, Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon. Guys whose books I had, prominently displayed on my shelf, Men whose books coloured my youth. My ex-crush –CNN’s Shihab Rattansi, was quoted as saying he loved my book; there was a paparazzi shot in People magazine of Ryan Gosling clutching my book. Jealousy clutched my heart. Hate. Hate was conceived inside of me, dwelling inside of me, feeding on everything I was seeing and hearing. I did not want her to concede publicly that I wrote the book- it would destroy her reputation. I wanted her to tell me face to face, that she had stolen my story; and she was sorry; could I ever forgive her?
I don’t think Mom knew I admired her, that the autographed copies of her books that I had on my shelf were just as important to me as my worn copy of Sidney Sheldon’s If Tomorrow Comes. She did not know I would have been excited to help her, honored to be of assistance, if only she had asked.
This short story is part three in a four part series. Click to continue reading parts one, two and four.
It was with surprise I greeted the news Mom made over dinner two weeks later.
‘I have written a new book.’ She announced brightly. I looked up from my vegetables.
‘Really?’ I asked. Dad kissed her gently.
‘What’s it called?’ Billy asked after swallowing.
‘Ten Storeys High.’ She replied brightly. I should have choked on my vegetables, or on my drink, but I did not have anything in my mouth. I just stared at the woman I call Mother in surprise, my mouth hanging slightly open. I watched as my mother narrated an abridged version of my story to Dad and Billy. I was sitting across her on the square, four-sitter dinner table, but she did not look at me once. Billy and Dad were listening attentively. I chewed my bitter vegetables slowly and listened to her, while a thousand things ran through my mind. Maybe later, she would explain to me why she was stealing my story; Maybe she would tell me that she needed to give something to her publisher because she had signed a five book deal and was under intense pressure to deliver; Perhaps she would beg me on bended knees, not to feel betrayed as I glare down at her; Maybe she would bribe me, give me hush money. My mother did none of those. After the meal she and Dad went into the kitchen to wash up, while Billy went to the living room to watch TV. I left my room door wide open; it was my silent invitation for her to come in and explain herself. Mom walked past twice but did not enter my room.
I came back from school and Billy showed me the finished book, Mom’s publishers had sent over. The cover art was beautiful; maybe not what I might have had in mind, but it was good. The only error I spotted was, the publishers had printed boldly -Ten Storeys High by Cynthia Schroeder instead of Ten Storeys High by Abigail Schroeder. She had dedicated it to her husband “for his love and support”. I was still waiting for Mom’s apology, but she had been avoiding me. I rushed upstairs to peruse it. It was still my story, the style was hers, but it was my story. She had changed the names of most of my characters.
I was still waiting for Mom’s apology when Ten Storeys high began to make waves around the country. It entered the New York Times bestsellers list and was still there ten weeks later. Mom went on shows nationwide promoting my book, she spoke about the characters like they were her creations, and answered various questions about the twists and the tragic manner the novel ended. She gave them the same answers I had given her in the study. Critics were raving, calling it her best book so far. It sold twelve million copies in three weeks. I watched Mom do book signings and book readings. I watched her on various talk shows; she laughed sweetly as ABC’s Sandra Sullivan interviewed her; she spoke warmly on NBC’s tonight show when asked about family life; her cheery voice came out the radio speakers as she discussed Ten Storeys High on YWO Radio. I watched her squeal excitedly as her agent called to say three studios had indicated interest in buying movie rights to my book.
In the twelfth week that Ten Storeys High was on the New York Times Bestseller list, we moved to a bigger house in a more affluent neighborhood, and hired a maid full time to clean the big house. Mom bought me a Porsche that made me the envy of my schoolmates and bought Billy a terrific Mountain Bike that even wealthier kids in the neighbourhood wanted to ride. Ten storeys high was phenomenal. Mom began to rub shoulders with the bigwigs in the literary world. She sent Toni Morrison an autographed copy of the book. She was on a judging panel with John Grisham, Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon. Guys whose books I had, prominently displayed on my shelf, Men whose books coloured my youth. My ex-crush –CNN’s Shihab Rattansi, was quoted as saying he loved my book; there was a paparazzi shot in People magazine of Ryan Gosling clutching my book. Jealousy clutched my heart. Hate. Hate was conceived inside of me, dwelling inside of me, feeding on everything I was seeing and hearing. I did not want her to concede publicly that I wrote the book- it would destroy her reputation. I wanted her to tell me face to face, that she had stolen my story; and she was sorry; could I ever forgive her?
I don’t think Mom knew I admired her, that the autographed copies of her books that I had on my shelf were just as important to me as my worn copy of Sidney Sheldon’s If Tomorrow Comes. She did not know I would have been excited to help her, honored to be of assistance, if only she had asked.
This short story is part three in a four part series. Click to continue reading parts one, two and four.
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