Mothered (62)
Grace strolled through the Rite Aid, killing time before meeting Talia at the library. If she and Talia had really been friends, Grace would’ve asked her to meet at the drugstore, and they could’ve judged the merits of the shimmery eye shadows and bold nail polishes together. But Talia was her assigned project partner for their world-history class—a pairing that had made the serious, curly-haired girl roll her eyes. The other Allderdice eleventh graders regarded Grace’s social standing as something between White Trash and Pothead. That made Grace roll her eyes. She wasn’t that trashy, and she’d only tried pot a few times. For Talia’s benefit more than her own, Grace had made a real effort with her research; she hoped her partner would be pleasantly surprised.
In the meanwhile, she took in the amazing array of junk and necessities that filled the store’s shelves. Vitamins and first aid gear. Shampoo and shavers. A half-dozen different brands of cosmetics, all competing for the same eyelashes and lips. Pantyhose. Tampons. Adult diapers. School supplies, light bulbs, a random selection of electronics. Grace meandered around the store, preoccupied by her inability to decide if she should buy snacks before meeting Talia. Was Talia more a Doritos girl or a KitKat girl? If Grace aimed to be extra considerate—buying both salty and sweet snacks—would her partner just gossip to everyone that Grace the Pothead hadn’t been able to get through a simple project session without succumbing to the munchies? Perhaps instead of food she should get a couple of Diet Cokes.
None of this would have mattered if she hadn’t liked Talia. But the truth was Grace liked a number of the girls in her classes who never gave her the time of day. Her most recent best friend had moved to Cleveland over the summer, and Grace refused on principle to continue associating with the kids on her street (most of whom really were glassy-eyed potheads). Eleventh grade was pretty lonely.
When Grace turned into the greeting card aisle her awareness snapped into sharp focus as she realized where she’d wandered. The birthday cards were so bright and festive. And familiar. She stopped to admire them, unable to keep from smiling as she remembered being in this store—in this very spot—with Hope. Stealing baubles for their paper dolls. Jewels for Mona and Rona.
A tsunami of grief threatened to pummel her. Grace was usually good at keeping Hope out of her thoughts. But now she craved her, yearned in that impossible way for Hope to be there beside her. Grace wanted it so badly she saw ghost glimpses of Hope’s power chair, heard her yapping about how dumb high school was. The dumb teachers and dumb rules and dumb after-school clubs. How dumb it was to have to get up so early and eat lunch so early and have daily homework that was only stupid busywork. No smart person would waste their time on that crap! But with Grace as her assistant, Hope would’ve gotten straight As—even if Grace got B minuses for turning in the same work. They could’ve griped about that too.
Grace needed someone to gripe with. Her mom had no interest in her teenage world. When Grace allowed herself to think about it, she wasn’t sure how she’d managed to survive these years without her sister.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She stopped it with her tongue; it tasted delicious. Salty. Cataclysmic.
Fuck this. Refusing to fall deeper into her maudlin mood, she grabbed four snack-size bags of potato chips in different flavors. If Talia gave her shit about it, Grace would eat them all herself.
She awakened feeling melancholy. The dream had been as accurate as her memory of that day. Talia had thanked her for the chips. They’d huddled on the floor in a far corner of the library, crunching greedily as they worked, giggling when they feared they were being too loud. They’d gotten an A on the project, and while Talia never rolled her eyes at Grace again, they also never became friends. She had come into the salon once, during Grace’s early years at Barbara’s. Talia’s appointment was with another stylist, and she and Grace had pretended they didn’t see each other.
That’s not what Grace was sad for, though. She’d been young enough when Hope died that she hadn’t yet started imagining the future, the unknown land of her older life. Young Grace hadn’t projected herself into scenarios where there was an empty space where her sister would’ve been. For many years Hope was simply gone. It wasn’t until Grace was a few years older that she started thinking things like Hope would be in college now, or I bet Hope would’ve auditioned for Project Runway, or Would she have gotten married?
It was cruel that Jackie wanted to revive her loss, compel Grace to think about these things. And perhaps her mother recognized that and was trying to make up for it: she was in one of her perky, best-mom-on-the-block moods when Grace came downstairs. Apparently she’d ordered a grocery delivery; bags were scattered around the kitchen floor. As soon as Grace came in, Jackie’s face lit up. She stopped putting the food away and slipped her bony hands into a new pair of silicone hot mitts.
“I made you some breakfast.” Jackie opened the oven and pulled out a cookie sheet neatly stacked with buttermilk pancakes.
“You did?” Grace couldn’t fathom why her mother was being so congenial, but her mouth watered at the sight of the perfectly golden-brown pancakes.
“I’m in a cooking mood. If you want sliced strawberries on top, I just had a couple pounds delivered—they should be in one of these bags. Or, I got real maple syrup.” Jackie set the cookie sheet on the stove and picked up the syrup bottle from the counter, displaying it like a game show hostess.