“Weird, Bash. Weird, like—” She gestures wildly at the food. “Like this is all just a dream and I’m trying to wake up, but I can’t.”
“That’s because usually we’re in a nightmare,” I quip, smiling.
It’s the bright colors and vivid smell of the food, the fancy crockery, the almost soupy heat inside the kitchen. I didn’t get very far with my paper, but I’m suddenly itching to write some more.
Out of nowhere, I get the urge to hum. Nothing in particular, just a jaunty little tune.
I’m grateful for?—
“Stop!” Sybil snaps, slamming down the napkin she’d been folding.
“Jeez Louise.”
Her face clears, and she blinks a few times. “Sorry.”
I snatch a bread roll from the basket and toss it at her. “Here, cranky pants. You’ve probably got low blood pressure again.”
Billy fumbles with the bread. “I can’t. She’ll know.”
I grab a roll, take a bite, and shove it back in the basket with the bite facing down. “How?” I mumble through a mouthful of bread.
Usually I’d get at least a giggle. But she stares at me with too-big eyes, then slowly puts her roll back in the basket.
…Because our mother is standing behind us. I swallow everything in my mouth, forcing the lump of dry bread down my throat as Evelyn walks past me to inspect the table.
She turns, chin raised, as if she’s upset there wasn’t anything to complain about. Then her eyes drop to my chest. “There are crumbs on your shirt.”
My eyes slide shut as I quickly brush my shirt with my fingers.
I’m going to pay for that. Thank God Billy isn’t as impulsive as me.
“Go wash up, and bring your papers down with you.” Evelyn busies herself at one of the kitchen cupboards. “Our guest will be arriving shortly.”
Billy throws me a frantic look over her shoulder.
Her face is suddenly as white as the snow drifting past the window.
I don’t think it has anything to do with her uterine lining or low blood pressure.
When we come back downstairs, Evelyn is seated at the table, sipping a glass of wine. We take our seats, both glancing suspiciously at the glass of milk beside our place settings. Evelyn stopped letting us drink milk a couple of years ago. Somethingabout hormones. Now the only milk we get is the watery skimmed stuff in our cereal—just enough to wet it.
There’s a second wineglass at the empty place setting.
I’ve never seen our mother drink alcohol. Not once in sixteen years. She refers to it as a crutch for the intellectually feeble.
Half an hour later, she’s on her second glass.
Her guest still hasn’t arrived.
We sit in silence, our hands in our laps, our eyes on the food we know we’re not allowed to touch. My stomach has moved past cramping into a hollow ache that makes it hard to think.
Sybil’s gripping the edge of her chair so hard that her knuckles are white.
“It’s a shame to let such a stunning meal grow cold,” I venture carefully. “Could we perhaps?—”
“We wait until our guest has arrived.”
“It’s just, Sybil’s been struggling with her blood pressure today, so?—“
