“Up already?”
Meg’s mother sat at the kitchen counter. Her frizzy brown hair floated around her head, untamed and tangled. A short, paisley, robe was draped across her shoulders, and she was painting her nails a vampy, violet, color. It was an improvement over the previous week’s color, Overripe Pumpkin. Meg often wondered what her mother’s patients thought of those ten little spears clawing at them when she was changing their bedpans or taking their temperatures. Perhaps they were too oblivious with pain to care. Maybe they were grateful to be momentarily distracted by the color.
“It’s only noon.”
“Very funny,” Meg grumbled as she trudged down the stairs. “It’s Saturday. I’m allowed to sleep in. Is there coffee?”
“It’s ice cold.”
“I don’t care.” Meg crossed into the kitchen and, yawning wide, poured what was left in the coffee pot into her favorite mug. She shoved the mug into the microwave, punched some buttons, and turned to look at her mother. The little robe was wide open, and underneath, her mother was wearing nothing but a pair of lacy, red panties.
She sighed as she pulled her coffee from the microwave.
“Must this be a PG-13 breakfast?”
“Prude.” Her mother blew on her wet nails. “Do I need to be fully dressed all the time? In my own home?”
“Just in the kitchen. It’s more hygienic.” Meg savored her first sip. It wasn’t the same without cream and lots of sugar, but it still tasted a little bit like heaven.
Her mother shot her a sour look, but she tucked the robe around her and knotted the belt. Meg sat down next to her, holding the steaming mug in her hands.
“Just look at the lazy lump you’ve become. I had to change the roll of toilet paper myself this morning. I think you’re slipping in your old age.”
“I was up until three, writing a paper,” Meg said, after taking a long sip. “Those Bolsheviks are a bitch.”
Her mother stared at her, looking torn between amusement and horror. “You’re taking this school thing seriously, aren’t you?”
“Of course! I love it,” Meg lied. She’d always coasted in class before, but that was at Boston Jefferson, where she’d been an above-average student. She’d thought Rose would be a breeze, nothing but morning chapel and etiquette lessons, but Meg’s teachers expected her actually to work. At Jefferson, all she had to do was show up to class and be sober.
“I love being challenged and intellectually stimulated.” She drank her slightly metallic tasting coffee. “It’s…fun.”
“Fun?” Her mother’s smile nearly split her freckled face in two. “A place like that must be lousy with rules. Tell me, what would the nuns do if you ever dared speak to a boy?”
“Pfft, boys.” Meg rubbed her finger against the rim of her mug. “I’m way too busy for boys. Besides, I read on Buzzfeed that girls perform better in a single-sex classroom,” Meg said, proud to be quoting from a legitimate news publication. “Boys can be so distracting.”
“Isn’t that the point?” Her mother reached for her cigarettes. “When I was your age, I would have committed murder to go to a big, co-ed, city school.”
“I was almost murdered, inside one,” Meg mumbled under her breath. She reached over and snatched the cigarette pack out of her hands. “Not in the house, please.”
Her mother glowered at her. “I can’t believe you’re my child.”
“Maybe I was switched at birth.” Meg allowed herself to fantasize a bit. What would her birth parents be like? Maria Von Trapp and Atticus Finch maybe? Whoever they were, they’d be clean, for one thing. Non-smokers. They’d be interested in her and concerned for her general wellbeing. If a group of thugs were tormenting her at school, she’d be able to run straight to her real Mom and Pop, and they’d sweep her up into their arms and make everything OK. Anything else would be a bonus. “It happens all the time.”
“Nah, you’ve got my thunder thighs,” her mother said. “That’s genetic evidence right there.”
Meg straightened her spine and took her mug to the sink to empty it and rinse it out. When it was sparkling clean, she leaned down and checked her reflection in the toaster. As she struggled to hold back her tears, her eyes had turned red and watery. She’d blame the sleep deprivation if her mother noticed them.
Her mother wouldn’t notice them. She never saw anything.
Meg watched as her mother reached for the newspaper. She barely glanced at the front page before heading straight to the horoscopes. Her finger searched. She read her horoscope eagerly, mouthing the words as she read.
Her mother had grown up the spoiled only daughter of a wealthy general practitioner in a small town in the West of Ireland. She didn’t like to talk about her father, Meg’s grandfather, except to say that he was very fond of his stable of racehorses. He had hoped she would marry a neighbor with equally beautiful racehorses, but she had run away from home at seventeen, climbing out the second-story window of her convent-run school. She hitched a ride to Shannon airport and once there, realized she had exactly enough money for one of two departing flights. Both destinations, Boston and Australia, seemed equally exotic to a country girl who’d never even been to the city, so she had a terrible time deciding which ticket to buy. In the end, she left the decision up to fate, tossing a coin in the air.
It landed on heads, which meant she was bound for Boston.
She should have gone to Australia.
“What’s on your agenda today?” Meg asked as her mother moved on to the advice column.
“Since this is the first day off I’ve had in almost three weeks, not a whole hell of a lot. I see a television in my future, some Chinese Food, and a pillow.”
Meg wanted to mention the laundry that needed folding, the sorry state of the bathroom, and the refrigerator’s distinct lack of groceries but thought better of it. Even if her mother promised to take care of these things, she would likely forget, or find better things to do, and it would be up to Meg to iron the shirts, scrub the toilet, and hit the supermarket. Her mother didn’t care about clean dishes or freshly made beds. Meg had been tidying up after her mother since she was a kid in pigtails. She liked a neat, orderly house.
It helped her pretend she had a clean, orderly life.
“Can I borrow a blouse?” Meg asked. “For school? Maybe the white peasant one?”
“I thought you hated that shirt.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Meg. “Didn’t you say it makes me look like I was kicked out of Coachella?”
Meg shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. She reached for an orange from the fruit bowl.
“If it fits you, you can borrow it,” her mother said, stretching her arms over her head. “It’s very tight though.”
“I’ve lost weight,” Meg said. She’d shed fourteen pounds since June. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
“Well, look at that, you have! It almost looks like you have a waist.” Her mother smiled. “I barely recognize my little pork chop anymore. Don’t grow up too fast, kiddo, k? You’ll go off and leave me, and I’ll have to take care of myself.”
Meg thought of the story she’d told the Department of Social Services. They’d been so eager to believe it. They had barely questioned her. Eight years later, her mother remained blissfully ignorant of how Meg had schemed to keep her happy, safe, and sober.
“Heaven forbid.”
Meg left the orange in the bowl. She poured another cup of coffee instead and then went to raid her mother’s ramshackle closet. She helped herself to three shirts and a scarf and kicked the door shut behind her.