The Chicken Sisters(80)
On second thought, she would go in through the front door. Anything to avoid Mae. She went back around the house and walked straight in, and was instantly punished for her boldness. She nearly collided with Barbara, who held a box in her arms and was followed by Andy, arms fully loaded with clothes on hangers, a coatrack perched precariously on top. Barbara stopped short, and Andy, too close behind, nearly ran her down.
“Amanda!” She put down her box and put both hands on her hips, facing her daughter. “Good.” Amanda faced her mother, waiting. “We’re just getting started in your old room. I know a bunch of this junk is yours; now you can decide what you want to take with you.” With that, she picked up the box and set it off to the side with a pile of similar boxes, then turned and marched back into the house.
That was not the reception Amanda had expected. With no one else there to turn to, Amanda shot a confused glance at Andy. Did she know Amanda had told? She couldn’t. Or about the recipe? Amanda struggled to frame a question. “She doesn’t—”
“Know about the recipe?” His voice was flat, as if he was being carefully neutral. “Or that you’re responsible for all of this? No. Don’t ask me why not, but your sister said not to tell her, and so far no one has.”
That made no sense. Why wouldn’t Mae tell her? It could hardly make things worse, and might even make Mae look better, so why not just go all in? Amanda shrugged and strode through the door and up the front stairs. She wasn’t going to bother trying to figure out Mae now. Her old room was about the last place she wanted to go, but her feet took her there regardless, until she stood in the doorway, loath to go further.
This had been her room, shared for years with Mae until one day her sister declared herself done with sharing. Mae being Mae, she’d forcefully cleaned out the room next door, packing its contents into other rooms and closets that already seemed so stuffed that adding things was unthinkable, then dragging what she wanted into the newly empty space. Mae’s move had inspired Amanda, and Mae took pity on her and helped her clear out Amanda’s now-solo room.
Mae bought a lock for her own door with money earned from tips at Mimi’s—which she had also fought for the right to keep—not to lock herself in but to lock their mother out. Amanda, though, had been helpless when faced with Barbara, who was soon filling the room again, adding things “just to get it out of the way” or “because I thought you could use it.” Amanda had felt a little special then, like she was more part of her mother’s world than Mae. After Mae moved out, Amanda thought that maybe Barbara would talk to her like she did Mae, teach her to do the cooking like Mae had, sit with her out on the patio after work. But she never asked, and Barbara took over cooking again, staying late to clean the kitchen after Amanda was done behind the counter. Amanda had never fried a piece of chicken in her life, and she never would, and at this point that was fine by her.
Barbara’s increasing distance had made the welcome Frank’s family offered feel even warmer. In Nancy’s house, she found what she’d been missing, even when Mae was home—people who were interested, encouraging, who listened when she spoke, congratulated her successes, supported her few failures. She loved Frank, with his earnest approach to school, the sweet way he finally, after she’d nudged it near him for so long, took her hand at the movies, but oh, she had loved Nancy and Daddy Frank too, basking in their approval. When they were first married, she and Frank lived with his parents. Amanda had little room for things she’d left behind and, once she realized Barbara wasn’t letting her back into the restaurant, very little desire to go back for them. Now, standing in the doorway, she surveyed the few things left from her pre-Nancy life. Old track shoes. Flip-flops. Some books, a boom box, and a stack of CDs.
Well, hell. Those old running shoes were completely cool again now. She took a deep breath and entered the room, picking up the shoes and trying not to look around or be caught by her memories. Maybe Frankie wanted the books. Or Gus could laugh at the CDs. How could they never have been in here with her? Even Frank had never come in.
Gulping back a sob, Amanda stared at the floor, trying to concentrate on a stain in the old rug. Was it any wonder she always felt like two totally different people, the before Amanda and the after Amanda? And now—she didn’t feel like either, and these track shoes wouldn’t help. This was pointless, and it hurt like hell, and she wasn’t going to do it anymore.
Amanda rushed out of the room, nearly knocking Andy over on the stairs, blinded by the tears she wasn’t able to hold back. He caught her by the shoulders, and she yanked herself away. “Sorry,” he said, then, looking at her more closely: “It’s okay. Sorry. Just—catch your breath.”
She gulped, and snorted, an ugly great sniff that she didn’t help at all by wiping her face with the arm holding the dusty sneakers, and started past him, but he stopped her, putting a quick hand on her shoulder again, then yanking it away.
“You might want to wait,” he said, gesturing down the stairs. “It’s—there are a lot of people down there.” He smiled, a weak, dubious smile. “Um, you a runner, then?” He pointed to the sneakers, still in her hand, and it was all Amanda could do not to slap him across the face with them. Anybody downstairs was better than standing here with him. She didn’t answer, just kept going, but at least she didn’t feel like crying anymore. She was just pissed. Why the hell was he even trying to be friendly?