Mothered (82)

She stood at her mother’s door. “I thought about it. Like you asked me to do,” she said softly.

Her mother scrutinized her. And then the terrible grin of a wicked witch transformed her face. “Oh. I see it now. Ha! You remember. I see you remembering!”

“Fuck off.”

“You can live in peace now, when you embrace the truth!” Jackie’s eyes had a weird, intense glow.

Grace turned and headed down the stairs.

“You’ll thank me later!” her mother called after her. “For setting you free! Maybe you’ll return the favor someday—tell someone you love what they really need to hear!”

Grace made a beeline for the kitchen, the back door, the stoop, needing some distance to shut out the sound of her mother cackling. The air wasn’t as refreshing as it had been before, the neighborhood not as quiet. Earlier she’d found a moment of calm here, as she took in the day. She wanted it back, but it wasn’t the same now. Like so much else, her mother had ruined it.





52


Grace sat on the sofa in her childhood home. The fabric curtains that had once given her sister some privacy had been taken down, but the bed was still in the dining room. It was dark outside, but the living room was brighter now that the ugly twin lamps had been reunited. Mommy left her birthday present on the kitchen table, and Grace had already opened it even though Mommy said they’d celebrate when she got home from work. On previous birthdays Grace and Hope had shared a cake. Mommy promised to bring home a cupcake; Grace wasn’t sure if she’d ever get a cake again.

She didn’t get the lamp she’d asked for, though maybe it didn’t matter now. The gift she received instead made her very, very sad, and a part of her wondered if it was intentional. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Mommy just couldn’t be bothered, in the weeks since Hope’s funeral, to shop for something else. Grace held the zippered pouch on her lap, filled with the eye shadows and lipsticks, eyeliner and concealer, that Hope had so wanted.

“I’m sorry you don’t like your present.” Out of nowhere, Hope appeared on the couch. Alive and healthy. She wasn’t even in her wheelchair.

“It was meant for you.” Grace was supposed to be twelve in the dream, but she looked like her adult self. She handed the cosmetic pouch to her sister.

“Thank you,” said Hope.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry Mommy didn’t get you what you wanted.”

Grace shrugged. “I have no idea anymore what I want.”

“Well, I got you something.” Hope pulled a small box with a bow on it from behind her back.

The sisters smiled at each other, and Grace took the box. Something inside the box made a pitiful little squeak. The smile started to slide away from Grace’s face before she got the lid fully off. There, nestled atop the tissue paper, was a hamster. It made a scared, tortured noise, and Grace started to cry. The delicate creature was half-crushed. Its back legs weren’t working, and there were drops of blood on the tissue paper.

“Why would you give me this?” And now Grace was a child again, newly twelve, weeping.

“It was just a joke, jeez.”

Hope reached for the hamster and stood—unassisted—and flung the animal as hard as she could. The hamster’s limp body slid down the wall, leaving a thin trail of blood. Grace was glad, she supposed, that it wasn’t suffering anymore. But she wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. Sometimes the world was too cruel, and her sister had a knack for spotlighting the horrors Grace didn’t want to see.

“Stop crying, you big baby. Here—here’s your real gift.” Hope pulled a slightly larger box, with a slightly larger bow, from behind her back.

Grace held it on her lap. She really didn’t want to open it. More than ever, she wanted to find that hole—or dig it herself—and curl up with her eyes shut tight. Her heart was going to burst. She felt it ballooning in her chest.

“Go on,” Hope urged. “It’s just what you always wanted.”

What had Grace always wanted? She carefully lifted the lid, slow and steady, as if it were a bomb. Now she was an adult again, gazing into the box—gazing at a human fetus, clean and waxy as a doll. She felt her fury rising, without understanding who or what she was angry at. By all appearances it was sleeping soundly on its tiny blanket, but Grace knew it was dead—or, more accurately, she knew it had never opened its mouth to breathe.

Fearing her sister’s mockery, Grace tried to swallow away her tears, but they escaped down her cheeks. Tenderly, she replaced the lid and handed the gift back to Hope.

“You can’t return it,” Hope said, refusing to take the gift from her. “I’m not being mean to you,” she added gently. “This—this embryo—is you, your second chance. You have to try, really try, to be a better person.”

“I will,” Grace whispered.

Hope nodded. “Do the right thing.”



Sweaty and hot, Grace kicked the comforter into a ball at the foot of the sofa. Napping wasn’t helping, and she didn’t want to go back to sleep, but she also didn’t want to be awake—not with the electricity still out. Duquesne Light continued to claim the power would be back at one o’clock p.m., never mind that it was after two. She felt antsy now, like she’d had too much caffeine. The most recent dream snaked through her veins. Was it a call to action?