Mothered (50)

She ordered a cheeseburger and french fries through Grubhub—and an extra order of fries for Jackie, though she wasn’t sure where her mother stood on delicious, greasy comfort food. When the driver messaged her that he was leaving the food by her door, Grace tiptoed out of her room (so as not to disturb the cat) and galloped downstairs. She opened the front door in time to see the driver returning to his car.

“Thank you!” She waved at him from behind the storm door, its barrier—and the no-contact transaction—a blunt reminder of her quarantine. Her mom was right: they had to restart their two weeks of self-isolation, but it was worth it to help Miguel. Especially if she never got to see him again. Don’t think like that! The driver waved. Grace ducked onto the porch to grab her bag of food.

She went to the kitchen via the dining room and scrubbed her hands before putting her meal—and her mother’s fries—on plates. The restaurant had included little packets of ketchup, but Grace got the squeeze bottle from the fridge. She tucked it under her arm with some napkins and carried the plates into the living room.

“A little snack,” she said, setting the fries on the coffee table in front of Jackie. Grace took her new regular spot at the other end of the sofa and handed her mother some napkins.

“Thank you,” Jackie said, with no emotion.

After squirting a fat glob of ketchup onto her plate, Grace handed the bottle to her mother. This felt like a pivotal moment: Would Jackie accept the peace offering?

She hesitated, but took the bottle of ketchup and squeezed a dainty dollop beside her fries. “Thank you,” she said again.

Good. Better. Grace rested her plate on her lap and her feet on the coffee table and started on her cheeseburger. Big, messy mouthfuls. It tasted like charbroiled heaven. With a side of starchy nirvana.

“This is so good,” she mumbled, sriracha mayo dribbling down her chin.

Jackie was back to watching one of her shopping networks, and while Grace really wanted to change the channel, for the sake of their fragile truce she let it be. Beside her, Jackie took ladylike nibbles on her fries, and it occurred to Grace that eating them at all might be her way of respecting the truce.

“I could’ve ordered you a salad,” Grace said, “but I figured you already had some.”

“It was nice of you to think of me. Thank you.” Her mother’s chilly politeness was off-putting. Grace knew it masked something more unforgiving.

The infomercial came to an end. Grace turned to her mom, trying to gauge if it was safe to find another show to watch. Jackie kept her gaze on the television, studiously ignoring Grace (or so she thought), though she was gobbling the fries with a little more enthusiasm.

“Mind if I turn on one of the true-crime shows?” It was meant to be an equitable compromise, something they both liked.

“Whatever you want,” Jackie replied, feigning indifference.

Grace was getting annoyed. Her mother was being petulant. Since whatever Grace did was going to displease her, she went ahead and switched to Disappeared. They proceeded to eat in silence . . . until her mother started sniffing. Sniff-sniff, on repeat.

Reluctantly, Grace looked over to see what was going on. Jackie’s nose was wrinkled, a sneer as exaggerated as her sniffing. Grace first assumed that Coco had sneaked down to have a poop, but when she tested the air herself, she didn’t detect a foul odor.

“It’s you,” said Jackie, answering the unspoken question. “That disgusting mash of rotten meat. How can you eat that?”

The cheeseburger was two-thirds gone, but Grace glanced at it, so well conditioned by nightmares that she expected to find maggots squirming out from between the bread. But no, the sandwich was fine—a bit of a smooshed-up mess, but it was easier to eat that way. She crammed it in her mouth and took an unholy bite to stop herself from saying anything snarky.

“It’s gonna ooze through your pores,” Jackie said, eyes on the television. “While all the fat and flesh ferments in your intestines, the smell will start seeping through your pores.”

Grace gave her mother a withering glare. But then a thought struck her—struck her hard enough to make her swallow wrong and start coughing: Hope would’ve said something like that. Her mother sounded like Hope, trying to convince her of some kind of crazy bullshit. There was a freaky image—grown-up Hope, Mommy’s little clone.

“Why are you being such a jerk?” That’s what Grace would’ve said to her sister, so why not her mom.

“Because there’s nothing else I can do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And why do I keep having to say that to you? Christ . . .” Grace almost blurted out that they needed family therapy. But at the chance that Jackie might agree, she held her tongue. Her mother definitely needed to learn how to communicate like a normal person, without playing cryptic games. Grace wanted to walk away, refuse to humor her manipulative crap, but she was afraid that would simply prolong the inevitable. If Jackie needed to get something off her chest, better to not let it fester.

She gazed at her mother, waiting for her to speak. Now that she had center stage, Jackie crossed her arms. Closed off and defensive. Grace recognized the behavior. The show went to commercial, and Grace put it on mute. If Jackie didn’t want to talk, she could stew there in silence.



“I just don’t have a lot of choices,” she finally blurted. “I tried to make the best of it—I’m trying. But I can’t go anywhere. I can’t do anything.”