FNL Fic: growing up, she wanted to be a pirate
growing up, she wanted to be a pirate
she’ll remember her exactly as she’s always been; pigtails, full grin, and knees always covered in dirt. mothers and daughters always carry band aids in their pockets. friday night lights. post-let’s get it on. pam garrity. lyla. 1101 words, g.
for deadduck008.
If Pam’s going to be thoughtful about this, she’ll remember her exactly as she’s always been; pigtails, full grin, and knees always covered in dirt or bruises, depending on the kind of day it is for her to stay still. There was never any she laughed the loudest or ran the fastest, but she likes to say that her daughter had something different about her anyway.
She doesn’t mean to feel old, standing in the frame of the door to Lyla’s room. Peeking in has become some sort of mediocre connection she tries to have with her daughter, no matter how far and few between their relationship seems to falter. But there she always is, even now, at the corner of her bed with her elbows tucked over her knees.
Her youngest said something about his sister getting her minutes ago, but he’s downstairs with his other sister and the new milestone of her life - Pam’s just not ready to say boyfriend. And whatever was said had sparked this trip up the stairs, just to see if Lyla was okay.
So she tells herself.
There’s a bag looped over the other side of the bed, swinging still and closed. There was something about a trip - she remembers, she panicked and actually swallowed to say something to Buddy. But that was the baby, baby, baby mistake and she hung up with no chance; getting used to it is the problem and Pam’s long been weary, but this is her daughter and she should be to bridge something between them.
“You wanna talk?”
It just falls and Lyla’s turning, barely halfway, her hair stumbling over one shoulder and her hands digging back into the sheets. The colors are too dim in the room, she thinks, or has it really been awhile? This is what losing touch feels like.
Lyla’s distant. “No.”
Pam looks away and into the room, biting back her well, i’m your mother because indignation is going to further peel away any sense of focus. They were close once, she thinks, and yet, yet she can’t even being to remember the last time they’ve had any real conversation. Since the separation, not the inevitable divorce, her thing has been the real family dinners and watching her children come to the table, unsure and uncomfortable, only furthers her try and try again mantra.
So it’s another attempt, moving to Lyla’s desk. Her fingers skirt over the few empty spaces that should be pictures; a couple of the cheerleading squad, she remembers, a wedding anniversary picture of Buddy and her, Jason and that Riggins boy, and few faces here and there that would be lost, as everything is, to the changes that come with getting older.
But it’s unsettling, looking around her room, and picking just the simple things. Homework. Bags. No clothes on the floor anymore or in the chair by the window. A bible - tucked away haphazardly, but she wouldn’t dare to say anything. That, that she knows needs to stay locked in the space of figuring things out. She might not like it. She might blame Buddy. The point is the same though and Lyla’s making choices.
It’s what she wanted. It’s what she’s always wanted.
“Your pictures are gone again.” And yet, she can’t help herself. Careful or not, she’s watching her daughter turn away again, a gaze off to the side.
“Yeah,” Lyla murmurs, almost faint. “I guess.”
It’s a chance gone and she’s drawing back from the desk, turning back to the frame of the door, where it’s safer and easier. She’s between the hall and Lyla’s room, offering an acknowledgement of space that her daughter seems to avoid even fighting.
Pam frowns, sighing. “You coming to your sister’s recital?”
Her daughter stands without an answer, wrapping her fingers around the strap of her bag that still hangs off to the side. She drops it and clothes peak out, some actually scattering across the floor. There’s a sigh and finally, Lyla’s looking up at her. They’re frowning at each other and it could be funny, one of those moments where they’ll laugh later. It doesn’t come though and there’s nothing but tension, thick and unwavering from her daughter to the door - she just feels like she’s missing out on something, on being there, if she hasn’t been. Her thoughts, even like this, are far from in order and she does blame the break of her marriage on all of this. It doesn’t explain anything, the misstep that she’s apparently taken or even how to reach her eldest, but more and more, it’s becoming too apparent.
There’s a sigh and Pam catches the tail end of “- Is the new boyfriend?” as per the insinuation that she apparently missed as well.
“Sweetie,” she sighs.
The clothes are suddenly being dropped between them, cotton dress and beach shorts, flip flops and a brochure for your Mexican getaway! that makes her swallow. Her fingers curl and Lyla’s watching her with a mix of curiosity and disappointment; it’s far from what she recognizes on her daughter’s face, but learning always comes this soon, this close.
“I know you don’t get it, Mom,” there’s a pause and a waver, “I don’t expect you to - if you want me to give everything a chance, you’ve got to give me some sorta leeway too. To all of us - we’re still Buddy Garrity’s kids. I’m still his daughter, apparently just as messed up as he is.”
It stays like that because there’s nothing she can say. She was this way too and she hates, hates falling into the line of mothers and daughter and mothers and daughters and all those wrinkles to come. She has no reassurance and she’s staring back at her daughter with wide eyes, waiting for that moment where she can say honey and it’s okay.
Her throat stays dry.
But she’s looking to the brochure again, as her gaze drops to her hands, and almost reaching for the paper. She ends up watching Lyla pick it up and fold it away into some space. A drawer opens. It slams closed. She still keeps it in her head, tempted to asks, and still, still offers a bridge of in between; it’s awkward and coarse, lost when another drawer slams.
“Maybe, you should take a trip.”
Lyla turns around again with no pause, ducking over the corner of her bed and rolling onto her stomach. Pam can’t see her face and steps back.
“I’m not ready to go, Mom,” she calls absently.
There’s nothing to hear anyway.
she’ll remember her exactly as she’s always been; pigtails, full grin, and knees always covered in dirt. mothers and daughters always carry band aids in their pockets. friday night lights. post-let’s get it on. pam garrity. lyla. 1101 words, g.
for deadduck008.
If Pam’s going to be thoughtful about this, she’ll remember her exactly as she’s always been; pigtails, full grin, and knees always covered in dirt or bruises, depending on the kind of day it is for her to stay still. There was never any she laughed the loudest or ran the fastest, but she likes to say that her daughter had something different about her anyway.
She doesn’t mean to feel old, standing in the frame of the door to Lyla’s room. Peeking in has become some sort of mediocre connection she tries to have with her daughter, no matter how far and few between their relationship seems to falter. But there she always is, even now, at the corner of her bed with her elbows tucked over her knees.
Her youngest said something about his sister getting her minutes ago, but he’s downstairs with his other sister and the new milestone of her life - Pam’s just not ready to say boyfriend. And whatever was said had sparked this trip up the stairs, just to see if Lyla was okay.
So she tells herself.
There’s a bag looped over the other side of the bed, swinging still and closed. There was something about a trip - she remembers, she panicked and actually swallowed to say something to Buddy. But that was the baby, baby, baby mistake and she hung up with no chance; getting used to it is the problem and Pam’s long been weary, but this is her daughter and she should be to bridge something between them.
“You wanna talk?”
It just falls and Lyla’s turning, barely halfway, her hair stumbling over one shoulder and her hands digging back into the sheets. The colors are too dim in the room, she thinks, or has it really been awhile? This is what losing touch feels like.
Lyla’s distant. “No.”
Pam looks away and into the room, biting back her well, i’m your mother because indignation is going to further peel away any sense of focus. They were close once, she thinks, and yet, yet she can’t even being to remember the last time they’ve had any real conversation. Since the separation, not the inevitable divorce, her thing has been the real family dinners and watching her children come to the table, unsure and uncomfortable, only furthers her try and try again mantra.
So it’s another attempt, moving to Lyla’s desk. Her fingers skirt over the few empty spaces that should be pictures; a couple of the cheerleading squad, she remembers, a wedding anniversary picture of Buddy and her, Jason and that Riggins boy, and few faces here and there that would be lost, as everything is, to the changes that come with getting older.
But it’s unsettling, looking around her room, and picking just the simple things. Homework. Bags. No clothes on the floor anymore or in the chair by the window. A bible - tucked away haphazardly, but she wouldn’t dare to say anything. That, that she knows needs to stay locked in the space of figuring things out. She might not like it. She might blame Buddy. The point is the same though and Lyla’s making choices.
It’s what she wanted. It’s what she’s always wanted.
“Your pictures are gone again.” And yet, she can’t help herself. Careful or not, she’s watching her daughter turn away again, a gaze off to the side.
“Yeah,” Lyla murmurs, almost faint. “I guess.”
It’s a chance gone and she’s drawing back from the desk, turning back to the frame of the door, where it’s safer and easier. She’s between the hall and Lyla’s room, offering an acknowledgement of space that her daughter seems to avoid even fighting.
Pam frowns, sighing. “You coming to your sister’s recital?”
Her daughter stands without an answer, wrapping her fingers around the strap of her bag that still hangs off to the side. She drops it and clothes peak out, some actually scattering across the floor. There’s a sigh and finally, Lyla’s looking up at her. They’re frowning at each other and it could be funny, one of those moments where they’ll laugh later. It doesn’t come though and there’s nothing but tension, thick and unwavering from her daughter to the door - she just feels like she’s missing out on something, on being there, if she hasn’t been. Her thoughts, even like this, are far from in order and she does blame the break of her marriage on all of this. It doesn’t explain anything, the misstep that she’s apparently taken or even how to reach her eldest, but more and more, it’s becoming too apparent.
There’s a sigh and Pam catches the tail end of “- Is the new boyfriend?” as per the insinuation that she apparently missed as well.
“Sweetie,” she sighs.
The clothes are suddenly being dropped between them, cotton dress and beach shorts, flip flops and a brochure for your Mexican getaway! that makes her swallow. Her fingers curl and Lyla’s watching her with a mix of curiosity and disappointment; it’s far from what she recognizes on her daughter’s face, but learning always comes this soon, this close.
“I know you don’t get it, Mom,” there’s a pause and a waver, “I don’t expect you to - if you want me to give everything a chance, you’ve got to give me some sorta leeway too. To all of us - we’re still Buddy Garrity’s kids. I’m still his daughter, apparently just as messed up as he is.”
It stays like that because there’s nothing she can say. She was this way too and she hates, hates falling into the line of mothers and daughter and mothers and daughters and all those wrinkles to come. She has no reassurance and she’s staring back at her daughter with wide eyes, waiting for that moment where she can say honey and it’s okay.
Her throat stays dry.
But she’s looking to the brochure again, as her gaze drops to her hands, and almost reaching for the paper. She ends up watching Lyla pick it up and fold it away into some space. A drawer opens. It slams closed. She still keeps it in her head, tempted to asks, and still, still offers a bridge of in between; it’s awkward and coarse, lost when another drawer slams.
“Maybe, you should take a trip.”
Lyla turns around again with no pause, ducking over the corner of her bed and rolling onto her stomach. Pam can’t see her face and steps back.
“I’m not ready to go, Mom,” she calls absently.
There’s nothing to hear anyway.