How Do You Grab a Naked Lady?

“SHARON, I AM WRITING A BOOK! The title is Fuck!”

Fuck was Mother’s favorite word.

“F is for, U is you”—she points at me—“C is see”—she points to her eyes—“and K is clearly.” She spoke deliberately. An. Emphasis. On. Every. Word. “Come on, Sharon! Don’t you get it? For. You. See. Clearly. Everything is so fucking clear to me!”

She plopped down next to me at the kitchen table while I was eating an afternoon snack of milk and cookies. Her green eyes were wild and frenetic; sharp as cut glass, they darted about as though they were looking for a place to land. I was terrified of her eyes, and instantly my stomach clenched.

This was how it started—enunciating every word in slow motion, and then the restlessness and the itching. Her bright-red polished nails tap-tap-tapped on the tabletop. She was a watch wound too tightly; it was only a matter of time until the spring popped. Mother laughed at her own cleverness and then leaped from the kitchen chair and began pacing.

I had to admit it: it was clever—the way her mind worked and the way she saw things differently from most people. Still, at sixteen, I was more interested in the fact that I was homecoming queen for Roosevelt High School and that the football game on Saturday was against our biggest rival, Punahou School. I was more interested in imagining my dress. How it would be strapless and pink, with loads of crinoline and dyed shoes to match. How I would be smiling and waving, and the entire city of Honolulu would be cheering for me as I rode around the Honolulu Stadium in a horse-drawn carriage.

“Sharon, are you listening to me? I had a twenty-four-karat gold necklace made for me with the letters FUCK to dangle across my chest. It costs fifteen thousand dollars. Let’s go pick it up.”

I shoved another cookie in my mouth and became intensely interested in the scratches on the table. The good news: we were still sitting at the table, which meant this wasn’t actually a problem—yet. Still, my stomach knotted.

I didn’t want to go with her. I never knew how to handle her when she started careening out of control. There was no telling what she’d do, and it was her unpredictability that left me unbalanced. Will she hurt me? Will she hurt someone else? Will she hurt herself? Still, there was that split second when I thought that maybe this time she would hold it together, as though she had a choice, as though she controlled her brain rather than the other way around.

“Come on! What are you waiting for?” Mother slapped the table.

The room began to pitch and roll. I gripped the sides of the table, trying to keep my balance. Mother filled the room; she pressed herself into every corner. It suddenly felt claustrophobic in our wide-open kitchen, even though it was surrounded by windows and sliding-glass doors. I twisted my head and looked through our kitchen sliding-glass door, out past our backyard and its pristine green lawn, out past the palm trees swaying in the breeze to the blue of Maunalua Bay. Out there, all was calm and serene. Peaceful.

“Let’s go, Sharon!” Mother’s voice slungshot me back into the kitchen.

Suddenly, I was in our convertible hurtling at breakneck speed down the middle lane of Kalanianaole Highway, broken yellow lines on either side. Mother winked at me. “This is my special lane.” Horns honked loudly and insistently at us for being in the wrong lane, the lane used for passing vehicles only. Mother shook her fist like a dictator. “Don’t they know who I am? Some people can be so stupid!” I crouched down in the seat and gripped the door handle with both hands.

Mercifully, we pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later. Mother had barely turned off the engine when she leaped from the car and shot, like a bullet, through the front doors of the upscale department store straight for the fine jewelry department. Then, for reasons unknown, I followed her.

The cool of the air-conditioning hit me in the face as I stepped through the doors. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the lighting. I saw Mother standing at the jewelry counter talking to a tiny Japanese saleslady. I’d be willing to bet the word fuck had never once crossed her lips. I positioned myself behind a rack of women’s Hawaiian dresses. My eyes peeked out just above the metal bar of the clothes rack.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hicks,” the saleslady said in her breathy, nonconfrontational voice, “but management would not allow us to make the necklace.”

Mother stiffened. I pressed myself deeper into the clothes rack, camouflaging myself in silk prints of red hibiscus and golden pineapple. My heart pulsed in my throat. Other shoppers milled about—perfectly manicured housewives. They were innocents. I felt a bit jealous. The air around Mother warped and then expanded, like a balloon being stretched beyond its capacity. She was bristling.

“Oh, yeah? Well … fuck you!”

The balloon burst.

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!”

The words rained down on me like shotgun fire. It happened that fast. One minute I was sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a tidy little snack of milk and cookies, and the next I was hiding inside a rack of women’s clothes while my mother sprayed unsuspecting customers and salespeople with “Fuck you!” like Howitzer gunfire.

Without warning, my mother spun around and headed for the escalator to the second floor. When she reached the top, she positioned herself behind the Plexiglas barrier directly above the jewelry department. A smile inched its way across her face. I wanted to close my eyes. I didn’t want to watch. Some things children should never witness. But it was sort of like a train wreck: you know you shouldn’t stare, but you are compelled to just in case someone asks you about it later and you should have all the facts straight.

Yes, Officer. Yes, she did pull her muumuu over her head. No, no she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Yes, sir. Completely naked. No, she never did this before. Yes, sir. This was the first time she stripped naked in public. May I go home now, please?

It happened in one swift, fluid motion. Mother pulled her muumuu over her head and then let it flutter over the railing, where it settled gracefully on the fine jewelry counter below. There she stood, my mother, on the second floor, behind the see-through Plexiglas barrier, naked.

My heart crashed to the floor. I took a deep breath and clenched both fists to my chest, where my heart once dwelled. My world stopped abruptly and then fast-forwarded when I heard Mother scream, “Fuck all of you!”

She threw her head back and then started to descend to the first floor on the escalator. All eyes were fixed on her, just the way she liked it. As she paraded down the escalator, she yelled, “You’re all a bunch of shitheads! All of you! Shitheads!”

Shithead was Mother’s second-favorite word.