Be Sweet by Diann Hunt

thing she has against me.
    â€œSorry.” Why is it that at the age of forty-seven I’m reduced to a five-year-old when my mother’s around?
    â€œYou know what I always say—”
    It takes everything in me to keep my eyeballs from rolling back in my head. I recite the words with her in my mind, but dare not move my lips.
    â€œThere’s a time to joke and a time to listen.”
    I could be wrong, but I think I learned to quote that before my first Bible verse. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I try to say with an appropriate amount of contrition. “Did Janni tell you I was here?” The little snitch. No won-der Mom favors her.
    â€œNo. I ran into Gail Campbell.”
    â€œ She goes to church?”
    â€œNow, don’t you get ugly, Charlene Marybelle.”
    Okay, the fact that she gave me the middle name of Marybelle should tell you something about my mother. Number one, that she’s terrible with names. Number two, she flunked all the “which one does not belong here” questions in school.
    â€œYou have to admit her tongue drips more than maple trees at sap time,” I say, laughing at my clever self as I edge over to the sofa.
    Mom sucks in air. “I will admit no such thing, young lady. You know my motto, if you don’t have something nice to say—”
    â€œCome sit by me?”
    Mom blinks. I’m trying to make her laugh, but it’s not happening. “You know, if you don’t have something nice to say, come sit by me.” I’m laughing, hoping to set the example. Mom’s expression is totally snatching my joy. “It’s a joke, Mom.”
    â€œWell, you can make fun all you want. But it’s still true. If you don’t have something nice to say about someone, you shouldn’t say anything at all. You need to learn to control that tongue of yours.”
    Now there’s the pot calling the kettle black. I’m not sure where I got my sense of humor, but I can tell you right here and right now it was not from my mother. I sink down into the sofa. And I do mean sink—as in, if I slip under the cushion, they may never find me again. Which, at this moment, might be a good thing.
    â€œHey, everybody, we’re home,” Janni says, entering through the back door and into the living room. “Hi, Mom.” She grins and tosses me a wink.
    The least she could do is help me off of this sofa. With a grunt, I try to heave upward, but it’s like climbing the Alps. Maybe I should yodel. That would get their attention.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me your sister was in town?” Mom snaps.
    â€œShe hasn’t been in town long.” The sound of hanger wire scraping against a metal pole muffles Janni’s words as she hangs their coats in the hall closet. “You and Dad want to join us for lunch, Mom?”
    Oh, yoo-hoo. Anybody notice I’m struggling to get off this sofa? Can we say Venus flytrap? Wait. Did someone say “Feed Me”? I’m almost sure I heard that coming from somewhere beneath the cushions. This is Stephen King material, literally, and I want out of here.
    â€œNo. We have plans after lunch. The Hillarys are celebrating their fiftieth anniversary. Their daughters are throwing a big party for them .” She stares pointedly at Janni and then at me.
    My arms and legs flail about as I fight for my life from the bowels of the sofa.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Charlene Marybelle?” Mom asks, staring at me for only a fraction of a second before she turns back to Janni.
    â€œHow nice for the Hillarys,” Janni says to Mom before discreetly tossing a wink my way. “They’re your neighbors, right?”
    Janni’s comment catches Mom off guard. “Well, of course they are.”
    At last, with one final exertive push, I roll myself out of the sofa and dump onto the floor with a loud thud.
    Janni and Mom look at me.
    â€œFor goodness’ sakes,