inside.
“You should go a little easier on her,” said Mother. “She loves you, after all.”
“She loves having someone to criticize,” I corrected. “Maybe you’re lucky I’m fat. Otherwise, all Aunt Mary’s attention would be focused on you. Do you know what it’s like to be under constant scrutiny? At school people stare at my lunch tray. At the salon old ladies actually come right out and ask how my diet’s going. At home I’m harassed over a treadmill that I never asked for in the first place.”
“Okay,” said Mother quietly. I could tell she wasn’t in the mood for fighting. “Are you going up to bed?” she asked. I shook my head.
“I’m gonna hang out down here awhile.” Mother opened her mouth to speak, but I stopped her words with my eyes. She was about to tell me not to snack before bedtime, but she clamped her mouth shut and drifted off down the hallway to her room.
I thought of going upstairs, but it was too depressing to go to bed before ten o’clock on a Saturday night. Instead, I slipped off my shoes and lay down on the slipcovered sofa. The living room was the nicest room in the house, yet we barely ever spent any time there—blue walls with shiny white moldings, a fireplace we’d only used once (Mother preferred candles to real flames), a pretty floral rug purchased at a discount store that looked anything but discount, elegant striped draperies with pinched pleats that stretched from ceiling to floor (a trick Mother claimed made the smallish windows appear bigger). I gazed up at the beautiful bookcase wedged in between two windows. The massive structure was a perfect contrast to the draperies and walls. It popped , according to Mother.
I switched off the lamp and lay staring at the shadows on the walls. “Stop,” I whispered at the ceiling. “Please just help me stop.”
If possible, Monday was even worse than Saturday. Mother had a consultation with a specialist in Nashville, a Dr. Prescott Wheeling, some fancy Ivy League Hodgkin’s expert guy. Did Mother take me, her only child, with her to this important appointment?
No. Only Child went to school.
Did Mother take Aunt Mary?
Yes.
The two of them picked me up at Spring Hill High School on their way back from the doctor’s. I could tell by Aunt Mary’s polite coolness she was still mad about Saturday night (that made two of us). Without a word, I squeezed into the backseat of Mother’s Honda and listened as Aunt Mary rattled on and on about Hodgkin’s and chemo and radiation as if she were now some kind of expert after accompanying Mother to one doctor’s visit. Aunt Mary’s talking must’ve annoyed Mother, too. She shot through two traffic lights on the way to Aunt Mary’s apartment.
“Rose Warren, why in God’s name are you in such a hurry?” Aunt Mary snapped after Mother zipped through the second light. “I’d prefer not to be maimed in a traffic accident today.”
“Rosie’s due at Dr. Cooper’s,” said Mother. “I don’t wanna be late.”
“We’re not going to see Mrs. Wallace today , are we?” I protested. Truthfully, I’d forgotten all about my appointment.
“Why wouldn’t we be going today ?” Mother snapped. “You know I hate it when my clients just don’t show up. I refuse to do that to somebody else. And I had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, not a heart transplant. I wish you both would just stop talking about this!” Mother scowled at me in the rearview mirror.
“Both?” I said indignantly. “She’s the one—”
“That’s enough!” Mother shouted—at me.
Aunt Mary got out of the car. “Call me if you need anything, Rose Warren,” she said sweetly, then tossed a dirty look my way. I pretended to be engrossed in an English paper I’d gotten back from Mrs. Edinburgh that morning, and I made sure the A+ was in plain view. Neither of us said good-bye.
“Mother, I never agreed to see Mrs. Wallace,” I said after we drove away.
“Do
“You should go a little easier on her,” said Mother. “She loves you, after all.”
“She loves having someone to criticize,” I corrected. “Maybe you’re lucky I’m fat. Otherwise, all Aunt Mary’s attention would be focused on you. Do you know what it’s like to be under constant scrutiny? At school people stare at my lunch tray. At the salon old ladies actually come right out and ask how my diet’s going. At home I’m harassed over a treadmill that I never asked for in the first place.”
“Okay,” said Mother quietly. I could tell she wasn’t in the mood for fighting. “Are you going up to bed?” she asked. I shook my head.
“I’m gonna hang out down here awhile.” Mother opened her mouth to speak, but I stopped her words with my eyes. She was about to tell me not to snack before bedtime, but she clamped her mouth shut and drifted off down the hallway to her room.
I thought of going upstairs, but it was too depressing to go to bed before ten o’clock on a Saturday night. Instead, I slipped off my shoes and lay down on the slipcovered sofa. The living room was the nicest room in the house, yet we barely ever spent any time there—blue walls with shiny white moldings, a fireplace we’d only used once (Mother preferred candles to real flames), a pretty floral rug purchased at a discount store that looked anything but discount, elegant striped draperies with pinched pleats that stretched from ceiling to floor (a trick Mother claimed made the smallish windows appear bigger). I gazed up at the beautiful bookcase wedged in between two windows. The massive structure was a perfect contrast to the draperies and walls. It popped , according to Mother.
I switched off the lamp and lay staring at the shadows on the walls. “Stop,” I whispered at the ceiling. “Please just help me stop.”
If possible, Monday was even worse than Saturday. Mother had a consultation with a specialist in Nashville, a Dr. Prescott Wheeling, some fancy Ivy League Hodgkin’s expert guy. Did Mother take me, her only child, with her to this important appointment?
No. Only Child went to school.
Did Mother take Aunt Mary?
Yes.
The two of them picked me up at Spring Hill High School on their way back from the doctor’s. I could tell by Aunt Mary’s polite coolness she was still mad about Saturday night (that made two of us). Without a word, I squeezed into the backseat of Mother’s Honda and listened as Aunt Mary rattled on and on about Hodgkin’s and chemo and radiation as if she were now some kind of expert after accompanying Mother to one doctor’s visit. Aunt Mary’s talking must’ve annoyed Mother, too. She shot through two traffic lights on the way to Aunt Mary’s apartment.
“Rose Warren, why in God’s name are you in such a hurry?” Aunt Mary snapped after Mother zipped through the second light. “I’d prefer not to be maimed in a traffic accident today.”
“Rosie’s due at Dr. Cooper’s,” said Mother. “I don’t wanna be late.”
“We’re not going to see Mrs. Wallace today , are we?” I protested. Truthfully, I’d forgotten all about my appointment.
“Why wouldn’t we be going today ?” Mother snapped. “You know I hate it when my clients just don’t show up. I refuse to do that to somebody else. And I had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, not a heart transplant. I wish you both would just stop talking about this!” Mother scowled at me in the rearview mirror.
“Both?” I said indignantly. “She’s the one—”
“That’s enough!” Mother shouted—at me.
Aunt Mary got out of the car. “Call me if you need anything, Rose Warren,” she said sweetly, then tossed a dirty look my way. I pretended to be engrossed in an English paper I’d gotten back from Mrs. Edinburgh that morning, and I made sure the A+ was in plain view. Neither of us said good-bye.
“Mother, I never agreed to see Mrs. Wallace,” I said after we drove away.
“Do
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