sleep…?”
Lillian Beeby’s words are like a waterfall, tumbling forward under their own power and stopping for no one. Why didn’t Beth call her first thing this morning…? Did Beth have trouble getting to sleep…? Did she need any medication…? Did she remember to take only half of the yellow pill…? Was the mattress too hard…? Was the mattress too soft…? Was the room too cold…? Was the room too hot…? Did her room-mate snore…? Are her allergies playing-up…? Has she thrown up yet…? What is she having for breakfast…? What if they don’t do poached eggs…? What if they don’t have wheat-free toast…? Has she checked the pollution levels…? She did bring the sunblock, didn’t she…?
Gabriela holds the phone away from her ear. What’s wrong with this woman? She barely stops to breathe. All Gabriela wants is to hang up – maybe even make a break for freedom while Delila’s getting dressed – but Lillian doesn’t give her a chance. Though what she reminds Gabriela of isn’t a waterfall; what she reminds her of is her uncle’s parrot. He’ll talk for hours, on and on and on and on, using every word and phrase he’s ever heard again and again and occasionally breaking into song or impersonations of doors closing and timers going off, until finally someone throws the cover over his cage. My God , thinks Gabriela, how am I ever going to shut her up ? No wonder Beth hardly ever says anything in class; she’s probably never had the chance to really learn how to speak.
All the time this monologue is going on, Delila thumps around getting dressed, stopping every few minutes to shout things like: Tell your mom you can’t talk too long! Tell your mom you’re not dressed yet! Tell your mom everyone’s waiting for us! Beth! Beth! We’re gonna be late! But although Delila’s voice is loud enough to be heard in Tuscaloosa, Lillian rolls on.
And while she rolls, Gabriela gets up and looks through Beth’s clothes in the closet. If she’s going to leave the room, she’s going to have to get dressed. There’s not exactly a big choice. If everyone were like Beth, the fashion industry would be one factory in Jersey. Grey trousers or a darker grey skirt. A white blouse with a round collar or a white blouse with a bow. One grey dress as stylish as a paper bag. The black shoes or the other black shoes. And that’s not even mentioning the underwear she finds neatly folded in Beth’s bag. She can hardly bear to touch it. Plain white cotton underwear. Gabriela didn’t even know they made stuff like that any more. And then she remembers Beth’s legs. What is she supposed to wear to cover them ? Tights? In April? God help her, if she’s hit by a car and rushed to emergency. She’ll die of mortification before they get her on the operating table. And Delila is right; there is no make-up. Gabriela, accustomed to checking her appearance with the regularity of a soldier on patrol checking each door and gate, can’t believe that somewhere in Beth’s extensive collection of bags there isn’t at least some lipgloss and an eyeliner pencil. The girl is human, isn’t she? Surely she can’t go out into the world with naked skin every day? Doesn’t she care what people think? But the answers to these questions are obviously: no, yes and no. There are a lot of pills and essential oils, and a bag filled with tubes of ointment for everything from mosquito bites to rashes – as if she were going to the jungle for the weekend, not the coolest city on the continent – but there isn’t so much as a stub of pencil or an old tube of lipstick flecked with dust.
Good Lord. If Lillian ever lets her off the phone, she’s about to go out in public with no make-up and wearing clothes bought not for what they say about you (trendy, hot, gorgeous, fashion know-it-all) but for how much of your body they cover (all of it).
Her only consolation is that no one will ever know that it’s her.
Remedios has been talking
Lillian Beeby’s words are like a waterfall, tumbling forward under their own power and stopping for no one. Why didn’t Beth call her first thing this morning…? Did Beth have trouble getting to sleep…? Did she need any medication…? Did she remember to take only half of the yellow pill…? Was the mattress too hard…? Was the mattress too soft…? Was the room too cold…? Was the room too hot…? Did her room-mate snore…? Are her allergies playing-up…? Has she thrown up yet…? What is she having for breakfast…? What if they don’t do poached eggs…? What if they don’t have wheat-free toast…? Has she checked the pollution levels…? She did bring the sunblock, didn’t she…?
Gabriela holds the phone away from her ear. What’s wrong with this woman? She barely stops to breathe. All Gabriela wants is to hang up – maybe even make a break for freedom while Delila’s getting dressed – but Lillian doesn’t give her a chance. Though what she reminds Gabriela of isn’t a waterfall; what she reminds her of is her uncle’s parrot. He’ll talk for hours, on and on and on and on, using every word and phrase he’s ever heard again and again and occasionally breaking into song or impersonations of doors closing and timers going off, until finally someone throws the cover over his cage. My God , thinks Gabriela, how am I ever going to shut her up ? No wonder Beth hardly ever says anything in class; she’s probably never had the chance to really learn how to speak.
All the time this monologue is going on, Delila thumps around getting dressed, stopping every few minutes to shout things like: Tell your mom you can’t talk too long! Tell your mom you’re not dressed yet! Tell your mom everyone’s waiting for us! Beth! Beth! We’re gonna be late! But although Delila’s voice is loud enough to be heard in Tuscaloosa, Lillian rolls on.
And while she rolls, Gabriela gets up and looks through Beth’s clothes in the closet. If she’s going to leave the room, she’s going to have to get dressed. There’s not exactly a big choice. If everyone were like Beth, the fashion industry would be one factory in Jersey. Grey trousers or a darker grey skirt. A white blouse with a round collar or a white blouse with a bow. One grey dress as stylish as a paper bag. The black shoes or the other black shoes. And that’s not even mentioning the underwear she finds neatly folded in Beth’s bag. She can hardly bear to touch it. Plain white cotton underwear. Gabriela didn’t even know they made stuff like that any more. And then she remembers Beth’s legs. What is she supposed to wear to cover them ? Tights? In April? God help her, if she’s hit by a car and rushed to emergency. She’ll die of mortification before they get her on the operating table. And Delila is right; there is no make-up. Gabriela, accustomed to checking her appearance with the regularity of a soldier on patrol checking each door and gate, can’t believe that somewhere in Beth’s extensive collection of bags there isn’t at least some lipgloss and an eyeliner pencil. The girl is human, isn’t she? Surely she can’t go out into the world with naked skin every day? Doesn’t she care what people think? But the answers to these questions are obviously: no, yes and no. There are a lot of pills and essential oils, and a bag filled with tubes of ointment for everything from mosquito bites to rashes – as if she were going to the jungle for the weekend, not the coolest city on the continent – but there isn’t so much as a stub of pencil or an old tube of lipstick flecked with dust.
Good Lord. If Lillian ever lets her off the phone, she’s about to go out in public with no make-up and wearing clothes bought not for what they say about you (trendy, hot, gorgeous, fashion know-it-all) but for how much of your body they cover (all of it).
Her only consolation is that no one will ever know that it’s her.
Remedios has been talking
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