Mothered (78)

The miniature flashlight was incredibly bright but sharp and narrow like a laser beam. It was better than nothing. Grace had a couple of plump decorative candles in her living room, but she wasn’t sure about lighting them. She clearly remembered Miguel’s tale of horror, recalling how Coco had once gotten on his table and sauntered past his romantic candles—and set her tail on fire. Hopefully the flashlights would be enough for now; hopefully she wouldn’t be in the dark for much longer.

Good Daughter that she was, she made her way upstairs—dismayed by how much of her house was already in shadows. Only the living room benefited from a large picture window, and even that advantage was dwindling with the overcast sky and encroaching night. In another thirty minutes it would be too dark to see.

“Mom?” Grace stood at her mother’s bedside. Without the fan, the air felt dense and warm. Jackie stirred. “Mom? The power’s out. I’m leaving a flashlight here.”

Grace flicked on the light to show her and then set it on end where her mother could reach it.

“The storm?” Jackie sounded as groggy as she looked.

“Yup. Really big one. Be careful if you have to get up. Do you need anything? Do you want me to open your window?”

“No. ’Tsokay.” Her mother rolled over and went back to sleep.

As Grace headed downstairs, Coco followed her. The cat was fine now that the thunder and lightning were over, and unlike Grace she could see perfectly well in the dark. Grace stood in her living room, unsure what to do with herself. Couldn’t watch TV. Couldn’t do anything online. What else was there? She heard Miguel scoff at her and suggest she read a book. But even if she had something she wanted to read, it wouldn’t be easy to do under the harsh glare of the tiny LED flashlight.

She checked her phone, wishing she’d thought to charge it earlier in the day. It was at 58 percent power. As tempted as she was to use it as an entertainment source, she knew she should save the charge in case of emergency. But she made one phone call, to Duquesne Light to report her power outage.

The recorded voice informed her that they were aware of an outage in Oakland, Squirrel Hill, Greenfield, and Hazelwood. That was bad; that was a big chunk of the east-end neighborhoods. The voice estimated the power would be back on by eleven thirty p.m. It was almost eight thirty. As Grace sat there in the darkening gloom, she imagined other people in their houses and apartments, at a loss for what to do, sitting there in the lifeless husks of their technology-driven homes.

She lay down on the sofa. For now, with the doors and windows closed, the rooms were preserving their air-conditioned chill. Like the refrigerator. Boredom had a soporific effect—one that Grace couldn’t fight. The room grew darker, until finally it wasn’t worth keeping her eyes open anymore.





50


Grace set the dining room table, meticulously placing the flatware and folding the cloth napkins, nervous about her dinner guest. She’d cleaned the entire house top to bottom, and though she’d offered to order in something special, she was glad now that her mom was doing the cooking. Tantalizing, savory aromas filled the air.

There was a knock on the front door.

“She’s here!” Grace called toward the kitchen and then hurried to the door and opened it. “Hi! Welcome!”

There she was, all grown up. Hope. Dressed in all her finery. Grace couldn’t afford to buy the garments her sister designed, and by comparison she felt like a paper doll wearing a child’s approximation of dress clothes. Hope rolled in past her, and Grace didn’t notice how her sister navigated the step: one moment she was outside, and the next she was inside. Jackie bustled in from the kitchen and threw her arms around Hope.

“Oh darling, you look wonderful!” Jackie kissed both of her cheeks.

Grace stood against the wall, out of the way, and got a more thorough look at her sister. Hope wore palazzo pants in the same bright pattern as her blouse. Grace had never been able to create such intricate, sophisticated attire for Mona and Rona, primarily because she couldn’t draw well enough. Only rich people could pull off garish fabrics, she thought. When poor people did it, they looked tacky and cheap. Her sister’s hair was long and blonde, twisted into a chignon. Her nails were perfectly manicured and polished, and her ears were adorned with emeralds set in gold.

Hope maneuvered her wheelchair into the dining room, bypassing Grace as if she weren’t even there. She stayed hidden in the entryway for a moment, listening as Jackie and Hope babbled in the other room. (Hope’s speech was somewhat improved from the chaotic articulation of her youth.) Grace looked at herself. Her nails were uneven, and the polish was chipping. Her shoes looked dumpy and worn, and the clearance outfit she’d gotten in Shadyside was a little too tight. Oh well. It wasn’t a surprise that she couldn’t compete with her sister—though it had been a surprise that Hope had deigned to come back to Pittsburgh to see her new house.

“Your little cottage is adorable,” Hope said as Grace joined them in the dining room.

How long had Grace been standing by the front door? Jackie had already served the two of them the first course of their dinner. The candles were lit, and they were drinking wine. Grace ducked into the kitchen to fix herself a plate of food.

Jackie was at the head of the table, so Grace sat across from her sister. Hope’s movements, though still stiff and sometimes jerky, were better than they’d once been. She was able to feed herself without spilling too much on her beautiful clothes. Maybe that’s why she wears such busy patterns.