Tell Me Something Real by Calla Devlin Page A

Mambo, plays on the turntable. Dad moves his hips like Desi Arnaz on I Love Lucy . A testament to his stories about courting Mom with his superior dancing skills. I think of the many photo albums filled with snapshots from trips to tropical places with spicy food and passionate music. Mom in one of her many party dresses. Dad grinning in every photo. Then came our slim baby books. They haven’t been abroad since Adrienne was born.
    â€œWe should play a game,” Adrienne says. “Like pin the tail on the donkey. Here.” She hands Dad a sign, stiff with layers of scotch tape. “Close your eyes and spin around three times.”
    Mom emerges from her room, groggy from painkillers, which she consumes more than food since that horrible day at the clinic almost two weeks ago. Still, she dressed for the party in a sundress, turquoise, at least a size too big. More like two. A spaghetti strap slips off her shoulder, and I pull her shawl from the back of her favorite chair. I need to cover her, hide the sight of her bones, so visible underher translucent skin. She doesn’t look like the woman in the vacation photos or in the snapshot from Sea World. More like a walking skeleton. She forces a smile. She put on lipstick for the celebration.
    Marie bounds to Mom, arms open, eager for a hug. Small Marie, who now looks more substantial than Mom. “No!” I say too sharply. Marie isn’t accustomed to being strong, to having enough physical force that she might squash Mom like a bug. I watch Marie’s eyes widen and her smile vanish.
    â€œI haven’t seen Mom all day,” she says with tears in her voice.
    Mom’s eyes, narrow with disapproval, land on me. “I’m perfectly capable of hugging your sister,” she says.
    â€œSorry,” I say. “I was worried you’d get hurt.”
    I can’t read Mom’s expression—the strangest combination of hard and soft. She opens her mouth and closes it again, clearly searching for words. For some reason, a shiver runs through me and my hands feel clammy. I haven’t seen her like this for months. She doesn’t look away. She wants something from me, I’m certain, but I can’t figure out what. I’ve developed a talent for predicting her moods before she voices them: tired, nauseous, overwhelmed, in pain.
    What could have happened? I wonder. But nothing’s changed, our routine unwavering, with Mom and Barb spending even more time together, like this morning when they holed up in Mom’s room with the door shut. Only then, Barb emerged lantern-jawed, almost scowling, walking down the hall with resolve.
    â€œYou shouldn’t worry so much. I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry. Not yours. And certainly not Barb’s.” Then, as an afterthought, “Sweetheart.”
    She doesn’t sound reassuring.
    â€œIris!” Dad says. “Think you could manage a sip of something bubbly? Barb and Caleb are picking up sparkling cider and dinner. They’ll be back any minute.”
    She smiles at him and her face fills with affection, almost normal. “What’s that in your glass?” she asks.
    Dad takes a sip. “Mediocre champagne. Nothing special. Found it in the pantry. It’s perfect.”
    â€œI’ll have some of that. Nessie, please pour me some.”
    Despite her softer tone, I want her to look at me, fill me with the same warmth she normally bestows, but she doesn’t glance my way.
    â€œAre you sure that’s a good idea?” Dad asks.
    â€œAbsolutely.” Mom cocks an eyebrow, catching me by surprise. Adrienne does the same thing all the time. Her punctuation. I’d forgotten she’d inherited it from Mom.
    Adrienne turns her attention away from the sketches. “Jesus fucking Christ, if she wants some booze, why the hell not?”
    Mom clears her throat and tightens the shawl around her body. Marie fills the chair next to her,