Mothered (79)

“I framed the Vogue layout, every page—I’m so proud of you!” Jackie beamed at Hope.

“Thank you. You’ll have to come to New York for fashion week. You can come to the Paris show too, if you want.”

“That sounds so exciting, but I don’t even have a passport.”

Grace watched them interact. Here were her only known relatives, and they seemed like complete strangers.

“And what have you been up to, Grace?” her sister asked. “Still at the same salon?”

Was that a subtle dig at her lack of ambition? “Yes.”

“You must be doing well.” Hope directed the comment at the four narrow walls of Grace’s cottage.

Instead of replying, Grace poured herself a full glass of the dark red wine. And drank.

Hope’s hand took a sudden wrong turn and smacked her goblet, sending it crashing to the floor. “Oops. I’m sorry.”

It was unlikely that Hope was sorry; a smile tugged at her lips. But Grace came around the table to clean her sister’s spill. She collected the broken pieces of glass into her cupped hand.

“Just need a few paper towels,” she mumbled, getting to her feet, head down, unable to stop herself from acting like a dutiful servant.

As she passed Jackie’s chair on her way to the kitchen, her mother abruptly stood. With two hands she grabbed Grace’s blouse—and ripped it off her body. “Just use this.”

Grace stood there in shock, shards of glass in her hands, elbows pressed against her stomach to cover her exposed bra. Jackie flung the torn shirt in her face and sat back down.

“You’re going to cut yourself. Dump it here.” Her mother held out Grace’s wineglass, intending it as a place to deposit the shattered remnants of Hope’s goblet.

Confused and unsure what to do, Grace emptied her hands over the glass. Wine splashed as the fragments dropped in. And then Jackie returned the glass to Grace’s place setting, as if she might yet drink the rest once she sat back down at the table. Her ripped blouse dangled from her arm. Her mother and sister resumed eating their meal as if nothing had happened, while Grace stood there half-undressed. She was too humiliated to protest, and the shirt was already destroyed, so she got on her knees beside her sister’s wheelchair and sopped up the bloody wine.

“Ready for the next course?” The question was directed at Hope.

“Yes please! You’ve become a wonderful cook!”

With the aplomb of a world-class waiter, Jackie picked up Hope’s plate and then her own and whisked them off to the kitchen.

Grace felt a drop of cold water land on the skin of her back. She looked up and saw Hope’s face looming over her. Hope gulped from her water glass; Grace thought she intended to throw it to the floor or dump it on her head. Another icy droplet struck her skin and Grace realized it was the condensation dribbling off the glass. Hope set her water down but continued gazing at Grace, still on her knees.

“Are you mad I didn’t invite you to New York? Or Paris?”

Grace shrugged. She really wasn’t a traveler, so she didn’t care about going to fashion week. But her sister’s intentional omission stung a bit, as surely Hope knew.

“Well, if you didn’t want to feel left out, you shouldn’t have killed me.”



Grace awakened thirsty. The house was pitch black and eerily quiet. Her hands fumbled around the surface of the coffee table until she found the miniature flashlight. She turned it on and went to the kitchen. The dream had left her craving ice-cold water, but the best she could do, without opening the freezer, was let the tap water run. She guzzled it, wishing it were colder, and refilled the glass before returning to the living room.

When she checked her phone, it was after midnight. She called Duquesne Light again and this time the recorded message said they hoped to have the power back on by four a.m., but due to “widespread outages,” it could be later. With the flashlight’s narrow beam pointed at the floor, she made her way upstairs to use the bathroom. She didn’t bother to shut the door. And when she was finished using the toilet, though nothing was wrong with the plumbing, she didn’t bother to flush. The world was ending—outside, inside. She had every right to abandon the niceties of civilization.

Alone in the dark, with no other means of escape, she lay back down on the sofa and hoped sleep would return quickly. Not so long ago she’d wanted to avoid sleeping so she could avoid dreaming. But now it was worse to be awake, worse to be left with her thoughts. She could tell herself the nightmares weren’t real, and there was some comfort in that. But in their absence, in the light of day, came the dawning prospect of something she couldn’t face.



Barbara went all out for her retirement party and held it at LeMont, the schmancy five-star restaurant atop Mount Washington. Grace had always wanted to go there, and while her coworkers flocked together with their cocktails, gossiping, she gazed at the incredible twilight views of the city and its rivers.

Miguel sidled up to her, taking in the panorama. “It almost makes it worth losing our jobs.”

She gave him a smirk. “Not quite.”

“Get drinking, Barbara got us an open bar.”

Grace walked across the lounge to the bar and ordered an artisan martini. It wasn’t the kind of drink she usually had, or could afford, but it was a special occasion—and she didn’t have to pay for it. She felt a bit like Cinderella in her sparkly dress and strappy heels; if she was lucky and the night went well, she wouldn’t turn back into a pumpkin (or was that a bumpkin?) until way past midnight.