“She is very old and very protective,” Mother says.

  “I am not a man you need protection from,” he says.

  She laughs and swats the idea away with her delicate hand. “Your imagination is wild, you know.”

  “I know I love you. That’s as real as anything.”

  “And I love you. Let’s take a walk.”

  They walk, hand in hand, through the rose garden, Vernon stopping to smell each variety and Mother stooping down to follow his lead. He is five foot seven. She is five foot eleven. As they walk, you can sense his discomfort in this.

  From the way they talk and interact, you’d think the rose garden behind our large Victorian home is a time tunnel to a century before. But Mother, twenty-six, is in a pair of faded black jeans with a hole in the left knee. She wears combat boots open at the inside zippers and a ragged sweatshirt off-shoulder that reads How Low Can a Punk Get? Vernon, twenty-eight, is wearing casual office clothing, though he has not had a job since he worked for his uncle as a telemarketer a year ago. His ironed chinos and ill-fitting polo shirt do not match Mother’s style at all. He looks like her child—a mere boy.

  She is sure of herself.

  He is not.

 

  When one knows the roots, one can understand the leaves.

  The movies are the roots.

  Our Home

  The hedge around the rose garden is a nearly two-stories-high arborvitae. Milorad, our gardener, keeps it trimmed to give the illusion of perfection. The roses are in beds according to color and variety. In spring, there are tulips divided the same way—color, variety—that look like a carpet from my bedroom window.

  I am lucky to have a bedroom that overlooks the back garden. Henry’s room faces the front of the house, which means he can hear cars and walkers and fire engines and anything else that goes down Spruce Street. Lately, there’s been an increase in people on bicycles because the town has completed a walking and biking trail and its entrance is a half mile past our house. Vernon fought the trail, claiming it would invite people to come into the garden, but no one has and I don’t think anyone even knows it’s here. From Spruce Street, our house looks untouchable and, to me, a little scary. The aesthetic is Pristine Victorian Prison.

  I have only been on the road when I have to go places, which isn’t often. Since the global pandemic several years ago, our family has stayed indoors at home because Vernon fears we will get sick and die.

  He was always saying, “I couldn’t bear to lose you!”

  He says it with such feeling you’d think he means it. He can’t help it. His lies to God have been part of him for a lifetime, like his liver. Since he landed here in this old Victorian home—the home of my mother’s family, once a country retreat for her late great-aunt Lily’s parents—he acts the part. His dress is that of a lord of the manor, including the ridiculous pocket watch. His modus, a mix of I couldn’t bear to lose you! and I’ve a governess on order to mind you / teach you / love you / listen to you.

  Father married up.

  Mother married way down.

  It’s not about money. It’s misfired potential. Mother believed in her 1999 ripped-leather-and-punk-rock heart that this was a man who would love her, no matter their vast differences. She trusted, which is the way of women no matter the century. That trust landed her in the tubes, contained in a capsule that is entirely of her ancestors’ making, an example of irony and ingenuity both.

  TUBES & CARGO

  How I came to Lesson One later than I should have

  Until I was sixteen, too old to be catching on to the situation, and until last week when I found the cache of home movies, I believed my mother wanted to be in the tubes. She was fragile and she was fierce. She could kill you and she might faint from chronic weakness at any moment. The story seemed plausible even in its inconsistency because it was the one told to me.

  I viewed Mother as a convenience or a bother depending on the day. I viewed Mother through Vernon’s eyes as if my own were daffy. My brother, Henry, has no choice—being a boy and the son of Vernon, he is terrified to step out of his assigned role. Any future plan designed to free Mother cannot be shared with him.

  I remember days when I was young—while Mother still walked the hallways of this house. She read me stories so often; in my memory, the years before her total confinement were made of scenes that had her splayed on the bed / couch / garden bench / thick grass with a book in front of her and me on her lap, hooked to every word. She acted the books—put on voices for sprites and dragons and sometimes would drop the book and act out the scene. One time she chased me all the way across the lawn to the fountain and then splashed us both with water because in the book, it was raining.

  These are the times I choose to remember.

  The rest are more complicated.

  Now Henry and I take lessons in the study from Vernon, and if she’s not on tour or recording in the studio, Mother watches and listens from the corner, where she is confined to a wooden chair that is inside a capsule that shuttles her around the house’s large System of tubes. It’s a pneumatic system—like the capsules in the bank drive-through or in old office buildings. Her third great-grandfather was the first in America to use them in his department stores to send mail and memos to different areas of the store. Nobody knew his grandson-in-law had tweaked the design to build a larger System that would carry his wife—contained in their country home an hour northwest of Philadelphia.

  I didn’t question it. After all, I had grown up here. Each room had its tube stop in the corner, and the noisy whir of the air that transported Mother from room to room was quite normal. One time, before the pandemic, I went to a birthday sleepover at Gretchen Brown’s house. I was eleven. Gretchen Brown had a koi pond in her foyer. I truly believed that our tubes—the System laced through each room of the house—were something akin to a bubbling indoor pond with real fish in it.

  I suppose it is.

  The fish is Mother.

  The Ballad of Mina Placenta

  That is the fish’s name. My mother. Mina Placenta. Don’t worry—you’re not the only person who screws up your face like that upon hearing it the first time. Everyone is confused.

  Some are brave. “Is that your family name?”

  Some are not. “What a lovely name.”

  Placenta is the name of Mother’s punk band. Formed in the mid-1990s in West Philadelphia, Placenta has shared the stage with bands like Iggy and the Stooges, Hole, and Sonic Youth, as well as hundreds of bands you never heard of. Mina, my mother, has stories of being on private jets with your favorite punk stars and probably watching them do copious amounts of drugs with copious numbers of groupies. She even has her own groupies, but she doesn’t pay attention to that stuff. She is busy trying to solve the problem of domestic violence and providing menstrual solutions to girls and women all over the world.

  Plus, she always said she was dedicated to Vernon.

  Fact is, I don’t really know her the way I should.

  I’m downplaying the whole thing quite a bit here, but that’s normal. I’m the daughter of a rock star, quite literally, and we have been raised in a house where our father has outlawed music. We still have turntables and speakers and radios, but we can only listen if we have headphones plugged in, and if Vernon is nearby, we mustn’t dance or show enjoyment.

  Conversely, Vernon has decorated the entire first floor in Mina’s framed gold and platinum records, tour posters, magazine covers, and other Placenta memorabilia. Last month, a reporter from Rolling Stone was here, and while they were waiting to talk to Mother, Vernon showed them around like a proud, doting husband. She is about to release a new album, her eighth, and will start touring again next month for the first time since the pandemic.

  Up until I found out the truth about everything, I didn’t care much for Mother’s fame. Mina Placenta was a joke. Why would anyone listen to a flake like her? This was a question often asked around the fire, the dinner table, and the pool in summers. This was given to me as the only path—Why would anyone listen to a flake like her?—the way Christians are raised with only Jesus. I tried to play the part, but I couldn’t help but follow my curiosity. I read all of her lyrics, even the bad words, from the sleeves of the vinyl records she gave me upon each release. None of it made sense until I found the home movies.

  Vernon’s Rules

  There are lists of them displayed on the kitchen bulletin board. New ones get added. For example, the ban on music was only added in 2018, the day after The Christmas That Changed Everything, which was the day Vernon locked Mother into the System for good. She is now only allowed out for special occasions like birthdays and rare family game nights.

  GENERAL HOUSE RULES

  Keep your thoughts and emotions to yourself at all times.

  Do not interfere with others in a way to aid them in times of fear or sadness. They must learn their own escape.

  Do not talk to people outside the home about our family.

  If you have complaints, bring them to Vernon only.

  Do not talk to the servants about personal business.

  Do not leave the property for any reason. The property is defined as follows: the house structure and grounds, including the pool and pool house; the rose garden; the lawn; and the croquet course. The vineyard and orchard are off-limits, as is anywhere beyond the hedge along the front of the home.

  Do not believe anything Mina says. Check all stories with Vernon.

  Music shall not be played aloud in any area of the property. [Added 12.26.18.]

  SYSTEM, COMMUNICATION, AND ELECTRONICS RULES

  Only Vernon can adjust System attachments. (There are five types: two-way, one-way, wet nurse, meal, and silence—ALL five types are off-limits.)

  Only Vernon may use the System remote control.

  All those entering the property must surrender any electronics to Vernon.

  All phones, tablets, and computers are subject to inspection by Vernon upon surrender.

  Under no circumstances is anyone allowed to use the house telephone without permission from Vernon.

  No one may look at Mina while she is in the System. [Added 01.01.2019.]

  No one may help Mina if she is emotional in the System. [Added 01.15.2019.]

  Any attention paid to Mina while she is in the System is punishable by being grounded to one’s room. [Added 01.25.2019.]

  ADDITIONAL RULES

  Mina is not to be let out of the System. She will eat all meals in her bedroom. [Added 12.26.2018.]

  Mina is not allowed to speak to the children unless Vernon grants permission and attaches the correct System attachment. [Added 12.27.2018.]

  As Jane has turned 16, the lady’s maid may not visit unless Jane is taking a suitor and needs help dressing. [Added 03.04.2024.]

  Gemma

  With Mother in the System or on tour, I was provided with a lady’s maid early in life. The term was delicious—to me, then—at maybe eight years of age. Lady’s maid—so fancy! No one in my school had one or had even heard of one. Gemma was only nine but had the skills of a grown woman. Very useful. She could do everything from washing my clothing and cleaning my room to playing a competitive and endless game of Uno on a rainy day while French braiding my hair. She was especially good at hairstyling and there was nothing like feeling her hands on my scalp. She became a fast sister.

  Gemma doesn’t live here, but she has a bed in my room, away from the window, behind a screen. It’s a small bed—a twin with an old mattress. My childhood was full of sleepovers and sometimes we’d have two-person pool parties with croquet tournaments, karaoke, and Marta’s homemade ice cream. Gemma’s favorite flavor is cinnamon sugar. We spent hours talking about romance. Especially when we were ten and eleven. Before the pandemic. Something about a virus took the romance out of everything.

  Gemma has a phone and when she enters the house for any reason, she has to surrender it to Vernon. Henry and I are not allowed electronics—even though in elementary I had a tablet computer provided by the school. Now that we homeschool, our lessons are done with pencils and paper. If I want to call my friends or even Mother if she’s away, I must use a phone that is attached to the wall by a cord. We have three in the house—placed in the kitchen, the study, and the upstairs hallway, next to an overstuffed upholstered chair and small walnut-topped table that has been polished so shiny it resembles glass. The area with the most privacy is the kitchen. Though, it’s not like I have any friends to call. The pandemic hit when I was in fifth grade. I have not been outside our estate since. Even my closest primary school friends like Gretchen Brown have moved on and become real live teenagers. I remain Jane—girl with white starched nightgowns and a lady’s maid.

  Mother’s upcoming tour—in America from October to December this year and then Europe and Asia in winter and spring 2025—proves that I should be back in regular school. People are out again, breathing the air, going to concerts, living normal lives.

  Gemma makes it bearable. She has an infectious laugh and dry wit that drops me to my knees. Now she’s seventeen and comes around less often—only to help me dress for suitors. Sometimes we sneak in a sleepover, but these days I’m so busy researching the home movies at night I don’t have time.

  She still calls me her best friend and I feel bad for it. She doesn’t know about the home movies and I can’t tell her because the iPad I use to access the movies is stolen. From her.

  The School of Vernon

  It has been four and a half years since March 2020, when the pandemic shut us all into our homes. I was twelve years old. School closed down and we were made to attend online school, which was more than complicated for me and Henry because we were not allowed electronics, so Vernon decided then to homeschool us. This was further complicated by the fact that, though Mother was home, she was, since Christmas Night 2018, completely confined to System. She couldn’t help with math problems, and she couldn’t read books to us in her calm, kind voice. Instead, she sat in the tube and stared out at us.

  Vaccines were arranged, booster shots after that, and by the time I turned thirteen, schools had opened and all my fifth-grade friends headed to middle school. I truly thought I’d be heading back for seventh grade.

  Vernon sat Henry and me down in the study in late August. Mother was in System, fitted with the two-way communication attachment, a rare privilege by that time, and she wore a smile like she belonged there. I was so angry. Reader, forgive me. I was so angry.

  When Vernon said that we were going to be homeschooled another year, I wailed.

  When he said Mother agreed, I said, “Well, of course she did. Look at her! What a flake!”

  Mother and Vernon had a similar disappointment at the time. Mother was supposed to go on a second tour for her only platinum album, Safe House, in late 2020, and Vernon was supposed to cash her checks, but the pandemic made that impossible. When she tried to reschedule the tour in 2022, the fervor for live shows was still quite low, so the record company scrapped the idea. Vernon talked endlessly about how we had to keep our purse strings tight because Mother wasn’t earning, which worried me. He said we’d lose the house and the help. We didn’t. Now Mother is heading on tour again, and Vernon seems upset about it even though he’ll get to cash her checks again. I suppose it doesn’t help that she titled the new album Run, Jane, Run.

  “I open my heart and the things I really want to say come out,” she explained to Rolling Stone. “Jane is my daughter. She’s sixteen and a half. I can already see the monster with its maw open, ready to devour her completely. This country shits out women. Eats them and shits them out. Hate to sound pessimistic, but it’s never going to change. Run, Jane, Run is about making your own world inside your head so you can survive it.”

  FREE MOTHER

  An opera

  By Jane Vandermaker Cook

  Contact:

  Jane Vandermaker Cook

  1111 Spruce Street

  610-555-5555

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  (in order of appearance)

  JANE, a sixteen-year-old young woman, lead singer of Free Mother

  MILORAD, a Serbian gardener and driver

  DAVID, drummer from Free Mother

  ELLIS, bass player from Free Mother

  WENDYLISA, guitarist from Free Mother

  FANS, assorted audience members from the punk club

  MINA, Jane’s mother

  BRUTUS THE RAT, Milorad’s pet

  OAK TREE

  FINCH, Jane’s aunt, Mina’s sister

  MARTA, Mina’s best friend and the family cook

  VERNON, Jane’s father, Milorad’s employer

  HENRY, Jane’s younger brother

  GEMMA, Jane’s lady’s maid

  TREE FROGS

  SET DESCRIPTION

  Center Stage: Revolving stage with four main sets: Sitting Room, Study, Dining Room, Kitchen. All décor Victorian Era. Transparent System tube in center accessible from all four rooms.

  Center Stage Elevated: Jane’s Bedroom and En Suite Bathroom.