planning to Emma the one time Emma could not make it to the initial planning session.
Her Bitchiness now when Stephie should be allowed some young adult choices.
And then Emma is temporarily saved by the sound of her sister’s voice. “Stephie, Stephanie, are you in the darn closet?” she can hear Joy yelling and then Stephie’s hilarious and very teenage response, “I wish I was in the closet, Mother, I wish I was a lesbian so you could tear your hair out and put me in some kind of reindoctrination program, which would mean that at least I could be sent away and get the hell out of here!”
“Stephie,” Emma pleads into her phone. “Don’t yell at her. Stay calm. Just tell her you are talking to me.”
“What?” Stephie yells back into the phone, forgetting who is who, and which person she is supposed to be angry with at this specific moment.
“Honey, please be quiet. Just tell her we are talking. Do not get angry, especially if she has been drinking.”
But Stephie cannot be quiet. Many parts of her are really, really, really sixteen—almost seventeen—and she cannot help it. There are hormones upon hormones stacked up in every corner of her terribly beautiful body. Beyond the piercings and the hair and the interesting selection of mostly secondhand clothes, Stephanie is a natural dishwater-blonde, hazel-eyed beauty who has inherited the light Scandinavian highlights of skin, hair and eyes from her Gilford mother and the delightfully dark undertones of the same features from her paternal ancestors. Stephanie and herbright yellow hair are about to pass from that gawky almost-woman stage where she constantly finds herself tripping over nothing, spilling everything, and always bruising her thighs on pieces of furniture, to the graceful “Have you seen my legs and breasts?” young woman who does not so much walk as float.
“Auntie Em, my mom hates it when we talk. She gets jealous.”
Emma’s heart stops in total amazement. “What?”
“I didn’t want to tell you but Mom thinks you are like brainwashing me and every time I do something she doesn’t like, well, she blames you. Did you hear how she yells?”
“I have been hearing her since the day I was born, my sweet girl.”
“She’s crazy.”
“We are all crazy sometimes. Is she still there?”
“No, she left, I think, unless she has a glass to the door and she’s listening. If she thought I was on the phone with you for a long time, she’d break down the stupid door.”
“Come on—”
“She’s done it twice.”
“Serious?”
“More like serial for God’s sake. Is she on something?”
Emma cannot believe that even Her Bitchiness would be jealous of a lovely aunt-niece relationship.
“Auntie?” Stephie asks with just a wobble of terror in her voice.
“I’m here, sweetie.”
“Sometimes I really think she is crazy, Auntie Em.”
“Well …” Emma holds on to the word well so long it’s almost like a song because she is trying to figure out how to dispute her very smart young niece. “I think it’s hard to watch a child grow up and to know they are going to go away,” she finally says. “She loves you and I think there is some unwritten rule that says mothers anddaughters are supposed to hate each other and stay as far apart as possible during this specific period of time.”
“Does it ever frigging end?”
Hell no is what Emma thinks she should say. Absolutely no damn way . Your mother is a fruitcake who freaks out too much, can’t let anyone else—child or otherwise—think or be or do or live, and it is, yes, quite possible that she is on something. Booze. Drugs. Sex. Rock and roll. A hard blow to the head. Something an evil neighbor slipped into her drink when she was your age. A wrong turn twelve years in a row. Your mother is certifiable, sweet Stephie, and you should run out of that closet, jump out the window, and get the hell over here before she kills you in your sleep.
But what Emma manages to
Her Bitchiness now when Stephie should be allowed some young adult choices.
And then Emma is temporarily saved by the sound of her sister’s voice. “Stephie, Stephanie, are you in the darn closet?” she can hear Joy yelling and then Stephie’s hilarious and very teenage response, “I wish I was in the closet, Mother, I wish I was a lesbian so you could tear your hair out and put me in some kind of reindoctrination program, which would mean that at least I could be sent away and get the hell out of here!”
“Stephie,” Emma pleads into her phone. “Don’t yell at her. Stay calm. Just tell her you are talking to me.”
“What?” Stephie yells back into the phone, forgetting who is who, and which person she is supposed to be angry with at this specific moment.
“Honey, please be quiet. Just tell her we are talking. Do not get angry, especially if she has been drinking.”
But Stephie cannot be quiet. Many parts of her are really, really, really sixteen—almost seventeen—and she cannot help it. There are hormones upon hormones stacked up in every corner of her terribly beautiful body. Beyond the piercings and the hair and the interesting selection of mostly secondhand clothes, Stephanie is a natural dishwater-blonde, hazel-eyed beauty who has inherited the light Scandinavian highlights of skin, hair and eyes from her Gilford mother and the delightfully dark undertones of the same features from her paternal ancestors. Stephanie and herbright yellow hair are about to pass from that gawky almost-woman stage where she constantly finds herself tripping over nothing, spilling everything, and always bruising her thighs on pieces of furniture, to the graceful “Have you seen my legs and breasts?” young woman who does not so much walk as float.
“Auntie Em, my mom hates it when we talk. She gets jealous.”
Emma’s heart stops in total amazement. “What?”
“I didn’t want to tell you but Mom thinks you are like brainwashing me and every time I do something she doesn’t like, well, she blames you. Did you hear how she yells?”
“I have been hearing her since the day I was born, my sweet girl.”
“She’s crazy.”
“We are all crazy sometimes. Is she still there?”
“No, she left, I think, unless she has a glass to the door and she’s listening. If she thought I was on the phone with you for a long time, she’d break down the stupid door.”
“Come on—”
“She’s done it twice.”
“Serious?”
“More like serial for God’s sake. Is she on something?”
Emma cannot believe that even Her Bitchiness would be jealous of a lovely aunt-niece relationship.
“Auntie?” Stephie asks with just a wobble of terror in her voice.
“I’m here, sweetie.”
“Sometimes I really think she is crazy, Auntie Em.”
“Well …” Emma holds on to the word well so long it’s almost like a song because she is trying to figure out how to dispute her very smart young niece. “I think it’s hard to watch a child grow up and to know they are going to go away,” she finally says. “She loves you and I think there is some unwritten rule that says mothers anddaughters are supposed to hate each other and stay as far apart as possible during this specific period of time.”
“Does it ever frigging end?”
Hell no is what Emma thinks she should say. Absolutely no damn way . Your mother is a fruitcake who freaks out too much, can’t let anyone else—child or otherwise—think or be or do or live, and it is, yes, quite possible that she is on something. Booze. Drugs. Sex. Rock and roll. A hard blow to the head. Something an evil neighbor slipped into her drink when she was your age. A wrong turn twelve years in a row. Your mother is certifiable, sweet Stephie, and you should run out of that closet, jump out the window, and get the hell over here before she kills you in your sleep.
But what Emma manages to
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