of fun for her.
At three o’clock, we’d been mass cooking all day, and we were still empty. Belinda had woken up, snuffled, snorted, and left after using the bathroom. I could tell she’d used our sink to take a mini-shower, though the bathroom was perfectly cleaned up when I checked.
I had dug through the trash where Janie and I had tossed pies and cookies and bread. Now, to be fair, these goodies were several days old and wouldn’t taste fresh.
Still. The bread tasted like sand and water mixed with a dead scorpion thrown in. The doughnuts tasted like soggy sugar and the cookies tasted like corrugated cardboard laced with paper. I gave a bite to Janie. She spat it out.
‘Good. That helps me with my book. I needed to know what dead flesh would taste like.’
‘It wasn’t dead flesh.’
‘I know. But I needed a way to describe it.’
What do you say to things like that?
People ambled on by outside, some carrying windsurfing boards, others pushing strollers. Two women with briefcases. A man wearing a blue apron. Three teenage girls giggling, followed by three strutting teenage boys.
Now why weren’t they all in here? Spending money?
Easy. The food sucked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That night we went to see Momma in the ICU. Janie drove her Porsche, which means we got there only slightly ahead of a turtle travelling backward.
Eventually our turtle made it to the hospital.
On the way my brain had a fight with my emotions over Momma. I loved her, but sometimes I hated her. I did.
Nothing I had ever done was good enough for her and I had stopped trying to get approval or kindness from her long ago. Cecilia had never stopped, and Momma still scared the intestines out of Janie.
Momma would never think I was anything more than a wandering, difficult, loose daughter she couldn’t possibly relate to. Not having Momma’s approval about ripped my heart out for years, but somewhere along the way, probably about the time I went home to visit her in my late twenties after being shot in Afghanistan and still had a bandage wrapped around my upper arm and she told me I was a ‘slut’ and a ‘disappointment’ as a child, I had let it go.
I had to. It was let it go or die emotionally. I was already half dead emotionally anyhow, and survival instincts kicked in.
But I wanted Momma to recover. I did.
I’m not that vengeful. Vengeful, but not that bad. Bad, but not murderously so.
But, man, she was a damn terror.
We met with the doctor on call first. Dr Gordon was about fifty, short, African-American, and had studious glasses and big green-grey eyes.
‘How’s our momma?’
The doctor tensed a bit.
‘She’s not bouncing back like we’d like. No energy. Physically lethargic. Complains of pain. So you can go in and see her for a few minutes, but her recovery time is going to be lengthened. She’ll need to stay here longer than we expected.’
‘Oh!’ Janie whispered. ‘Tranquillity. Serenity.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Bummer.’
‘That’s hellaciously good news,’ Cecilia mused.
‘Why good?’ the doctor asked, tilting his head.
Cecilia cackled. ‘Ah. I see. You have not spoken with our momma much, have you?’
‘I had the pleasure of making your mother’s acquaintance.’ The doctor stared at the ceiling and stroked his chin. ‘She could hardly speak, but I heard something about how I was too young and too short and was I really black? As in black black? Were my great-grandparents slaves?’
Janie leant against a wall. I exhaled, slumped. So tactful, our momma. So sweet.
‘I believe she also said that I was not, under any circumstances, to burst into any rap songs or play rap music at any time. I had to reassure her I have never belonged to a gang nor did I carry a gun.’
‘That would be our momma,’ I sang out. ‘Cheerful and filled with goodwill and love for all.’
Janie and Cecilia and I then apologised at one time. How many times had we had to do that? A thousand? Eighty god-zillion?
The
At three o’clock, we’d been mass cooking all day, and we were still empty. Belinda had woken up, snuffled, snorted, and left after using the bathroom. I could tell she’d used our sink to take a mini-shower, though the bathroom was perfectly cleaned up when I checked.
I had dug through the trash where Janie and I had tossed pies and cookies and bread. Now, to be fair, these goodies were several days old and wouldn’t taste fresh.
Still. The bread tasted like sand and water mixed with a dead scorpion thrown in. The doughnuts tasted like soggy sugar and the cookies tasted like corrugated cardboard laced with paper. I gave a bite to Janie. She spat it out.
‘Good. That helps me with my book. I needed to know what dead flesh would taste like.’
‘It wasn’t dead flesh.’
‘I know. But I needed a way to describe it.’
What do you say to things like that?
People ambled on by outside, some carrying windsurfing boards, others pushing strollers. Two women with briefcases. A man wearing a blue apron. Three teenage girls giggling, followed by three strutting teenage boys.
Now why weren’t they all in here? Spending money?
Easy. The food sucked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That night we went to see Momma in the ICU. Janie drove her Porsche, which means we got there only slightly ahead of a turtle travelling backward.
Eventually our turtle made it to the hospital.
On the way my brain had a fight with my emotions over Momma. I loved her, but sometimes I hated her. I did.
Nothing I had ever done was good enough for her and I had stopped trying to get approval or kindness from her long ago. Cecilia had never stopped, and Momma still scared the intestines out of Janie.
Momma would never think I was anything more than a wandering, difficult, loose daughter she couldn’t possibly relate to. Not having Momma’s approval about ripped my heart out for years, but somewhere along the way, probably about the time I went home to visit her in my late twenties after being shot in Afghanistan and still had a bandage wrapped around my upper arm and she told me I was a ‘slut’ and a ‘disappointment’ as a child, I had let it go.
I had to. It was let it go or die emotionally. I was already half dead emotionally anyhow, and survival instincts kicked in.
But I wanted Momma to recover. I did.
I’m not that vengeful. Vengeful, but not that bad. Bad, but not murderously so.
But, man, she was a damn terror.
We met with the doctor on call first. Dr Gordon was about fifty, short, African-American, and had studious glasses and big green-grey eyes.
‘How’s our momma?’
The doctor tensed a bit.
‘She’s not bouncing back like we’d like. No energy. Physically lethargic. Complains of pain. So you can go in and see her for a few minutes, but her recovery time is going to be lengthened. She’ll need to stay here longer than we expected.’
‘Oh!’ Janie whispered. ‘Tranquillity. Serenity.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Bummer.’
‘That’s hellaciously good news,’ Cecilia mused.
‘Why good?’ the doctor asked, tilting his head.
Cecilia cackled. ‘Ah. I see. You have not spoken with our momma much, have you?’
‘I had the pleasure of making your mother’s acquaintance.’ The doctor stared at the ceiling and stroked his chin. ‘She could hardly speak, but I heard something about how I was too young and too short and was I really black? As in black black? Were my great-grandparents slaves?’
Janie leant against a wall. I exhaled, slumped. So tactful, our momma. So sweet.
‘I believe she also said that I was not, under any circumstances, to burst into any rap songs or play rap music at any time. I had to reassure her I have never belonged to a gang nor did I carry a gun.’
‘That would be our momma,’ I sang out. ‘Cheerful and filled with goodwill and love for all.’
Janie and Cecilia and I then apologised at one time. How many times had we had to do that? A thousand? Eighty god-zillion?
The
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