Chapter 15
DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPAREL
*
"Which looks better?" Maggie draped a lacey-collared shirt with billowy ruffled sleeves against her chest, modeling the first choice for me, then exchanged it for a roomy blazer that had shoulder pads so thick it looked like she was gearing up for a football game. A frilly tablecloth or a quarterback? Sometimes I sincerely did not understand fashion.
I weighed my decisions as I sloped my shoulders, looping the straps to one of Maggie's bras over each arm and fastening the front-clasp. Wearing it outside my sweater gave me the extra padding I needed to fill it - well, almost - I noted with satisfaction. "Neither," I finally admitted, giving the bra cups a pat so they sunk in against the empty space rather than poke out. Sitting perfectly erect on Maggie's bed, I thrust my bosom forward and surveyed my reflection in the mirror across from me. "You should've given me bigger boobs for Christmas," I told Maggie when she paused to watch and snigger.
"I wouldn't mind having those myself," she said, tossing the rejected clothes aside and vocalizing her frustration with a cross between a sigh and a shrill growl. She let her posture sag and gazed at the mound of skirts and slacks and other items either she or I had deemed not good enough. Her hair fluffed around her face like a whirlwind had blown through, taking her sense of style with it. "Why didn't you tell me sooner that my clothing was this... shitty?"
"You don't have to dress up. It's Grandma. She'll be wearing a flower print blouse and an A-line skirt." Grandma Corrie Jo was very predictable that way. I don't think she'd ever slouched around in a pair of pants a day in her life, and her entire wardrobe seemed to consist of nothing but the same exact style of blouses and skirts, just in alternating colors. I'd bet Eric one time that if we peeked in Grandma's closet we'd find row after row of identical outfits. Like Wilma Flintstone's endless supply of white dresses and signature strand of pearls. Our snooping was interrupted when Grandad, napping in the antique four-poster bed, choked on a grizzly bear snore and sent us high-tailing it out of the room.
Thoughtful for a moment, I situated the loose straps that kept drooping off my shoulders and added, "And flats. She always wears flats."
"Why do you think I don't own a single pair?"
"Because you're too short for them," I said matter-of-factly. "They make your legs look stumpy." I pretended not to see the indignant, dagger-eyed glare Maggie aimed at me, though I had a perfect view of it parroted in the mirror. She harrumphed, waded up a very nunly gray turtleneck and pitched it right at my head. I ducked, rounded my shoulders, caught the incoming missile to the back. "Easy there, Stump."
"A lot of help you are!" Maggie cried, forever the drama queen. But there was a smile hiding behind that gripe, assuring me that my dry humor hadn't actually rattled her internal hornets nest. All depression and conniption fits aside, my mother possessed a decent, if somewhat erratic, sense of humor. She had taught me to weep, but she had also taught me to laugh.
I waited till she resumed picking over clothes, then I gave up on silently ridiculing my image and stretched on my stomach across the bed, propped on both elbows, watching Maggie stress about the right pumps to blend with her brown eyes and sheer, cocoa-tinted stockings. As if footwear set the tone for the entire ensemble, and anything less than the perfect shade would create utter chaos. How she ever got through dressing herself in the morning was beyond me. "Good thing you've got until New Year's to 'throw something together,'" I commented, the words coming out a mumble because I was supporting my chin with the heels of my palms, fingers curled in against my lips. That's how Maggie'd put it when she wrangled me in as a judge for her fashion show: she'd throw something together. That was over an hour and thirty-seven minutes ago. Make that thirty-eight. I might've skipped a minute during her tirade about not owning any slips the length she needed to go with her favorite skirt.
"What?" She glanced at me, distracted.
"I said, 'D'you think Aunt Shelia will notice that huge run up the back of your pantyhose?'"
Horrified, Maggie went slack-jawed, her mouth gaping, eyes enormous, and twisted from side to side, contorting to see the nonexistent snag. "Oh my God, where? They didn't have one when I got them out of the drawer. How long has it been there? I knew I shouldn't have bought the cheap brand," she howled, then stomped her foot like she was murdering a cockroach. "Damn it!" Her head practically turned a full circle, still hunting for the tragic flaw.
"Oh..." I tilted sideways, squinting like I needed glasses to improve my vision, and examined the hose more closely. I'm not sure what had gotten hold of me - Grandma Corrie Jo would grin and call it deviltry - but I felt a gleam of wicked pleasure as a result of fooling my mother. She didn't know just how sly I could be, how cunning. I bet I could even slip away in the middle of the night without waking a soul. Of course I'd never do it. But I had the skill. "Never mind." Deliberate pause. "It must've been a shadow."
If tones and looks had the power to kill, I would have died twice on the spot.
"Abigail."
I smiled sweetly and batted my eyelashes. "Margaret."
"Ornery brat," she said, supposedly joking, and reached over to conk me on the head like I was one of those tricky plastic alligators you bash with a club, on the game strip at carnivals. I grimaced and rubbed my scalp, though it didn't really hurt. At least that's what I told myself. I thought about using the jagged edge of a broken fingernail I hadn't yet clipped, to put an actual snag in her nylons, then decided against it. That was pushing the limits. A rap to the head was warning enough. It said, Watch yourself, Abby. She's not Corrie Jo and you are not Maggie.
"I still have a headache, you know." Chastised or not, I wanted to point that out to her. Maybe get some sympathy while I was at it. She should pity me, be sorry for what she'd done. Not just for making the steadfast throbbing in my skull jump up about five notches, but everything. She should be grateful she still had me for a daughter, that I hadn't followed through the million or so times I'd yearned to runaway. That I didn't treat her with the same disrespect she flung at her mother. That I wasn't pregnant or on drugs. And I could have been so easily. It was common knowledge at school which kids were the potheads, which wanted to do It with you. Chances came and passed me by. One, I knew Maggie would slaughter me for those things. Two, I had to remain stable for her. Being asked to set the table for dinner or to help braid Maggie's hair or wash dishes while she dried or hear the new greeting she planned to use when she sold cosmetics door-to-door: those were the moments that I thought of when I was tempted to misbehave the way my friends did. Moments like now when my opinion mattered to her and I got to spend time with her, watching how she moved, touching her belongings, exchanging ideas and smiles... being her daughter. It's what kept me good. And she didn't even comprehend it.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Like the thump on my head had knocked loose a shitload of bitterness I'd been doing my best to suppress all day.
"It's called a hangover, precious." Maggie lifted her eyebrows as if to say, You made your bed, now lie in it. "If certain little girls are going to get drunk, they shouldn't whine about the ramifications."
I jammed the uneven fingernail in my mouth and chewed till a piece came off between my teeth and created a sharper angle than I'd had before. Why couldn't she be a normal mom who came right out and said what I'd done wrong and give me a really long lecture so I'd never doing it again? Why couldn't she fish a bottle of aspirin from her purse and tell me it was all right if I got under the covers of her bed to sleep awhile? Why couldn't she baby me for once? Why couldn't she? Disgusted, I spat out the nail fragment and stabbed the pointy remainder into my tongue, battling back a ton of hateful remarks. Watch yourself, Abby.
"Stop biting your nails," Maggie scolded, her nose wrinkling up at my bad manners. "Nasty, nasty habit." She wiggled her fingers in front of my face, showing off a self-manicured hand with flashy red polish. Movie star quality. The red wasn't even chipped after days of wear.
I stabbed harder. Watch yourself.
"I never bite mine."
"If you're so freaking perfect, pick an outfit by yourself then."
My finger wasn't in my mouth anymore, so it had to be me that said it. I got to my knees on the bouncy surface of the bed and sat against my heels, briefly studying Maggie's astonished expression. It urged me on. "You're just gonna mess things up anyway. You'll go meet Grandma and Aunt Shelia for dinner on New Year's, probably make a bunch of dumb resolutions to never fight with 'em again and to keep in touch more often. But you won't. You'll get pissed about something you remembered one of them saying, like, 400 years ago. Something stupid that wasn't even about you and nobody else even remembers. Then you won't speak to either of 'em for months, and I won't get to see them, Eric won't get to see them. You think you're hurting them, but you're really hurting us. We love Grandma and Grandad and Aunt Shelia. They're good to us." I looked at her accusingly, not adding what I could've. Not saying, Unlike you. "They'd be good to you too if you let 'em. But you're just so... so..." I'd worked myself up to the verge of tears, and I panted as I searched for the right word. "Selfish!"
I figured I'd get slapped again, but I didn't care. I drove my own palm into the bedspread - the place where she slept, where she'd probably conspired with Beau to fool her dumb kids and steal away together - inviting her to take a swing at me. It couldn't hurt more than what I was already feeling. Not even hangers felt that bad. "You're selfish!" I echoed, loud and furious, pointing at my mother so there would be no mistaking where all this anger had originated. I was acting exactly like her, and that only ticked me off more.
"I'm sick of you telling me not to do stuff, then turning right around and doing it yourself. Don't drink, Abby. Don't be a tramp. Don't disrespect your mother. Blah, blah, blah. How come you don't have to follow those rules? It's not fair. Even when I listen you don't notice. Every morning before school you tell me to be good, but you never ask me about it when I get home. You don't even know the teacher said I'm the best speller in the class or that I got extra credit for turning in a project early. Do you know I'm never in detention? No. You'd only notice if I got suspended for smoking in the bathroom." I imitated her and took a puff on an imaginary cigarette, theatrically blowing a stream of air through my lips. "Don't smoke, Abby. It's bad for your health," I said affectedly.
"Maybe YOU'RE what's bad for my health, Mom," I raged, my voice getting hoarse from so much use. I had never in my life spoken to her this long without her talking over me or telling me to shut my mouth. A dam had broken somewhere inside and the water gushed out too fast to be halted. I really did feel drained when I pushed off the bed, standing on weak legs, a hollow pain creeping around in my belly, and the backs of my eyes aching like they were being squeezed in a vise. They threatened to pop if I wiped the moisture from them, so I left it there and waited. Maggie looked like a robot whose batteries had died, rendering her immobile. Emotionless. Speechless. It reminded me of that Freaky Friday movie where the mom and daughter switched bodies, Disney-style wackiness ensued, and no one knew which end was up. Now it was me in Maggie's place, pitching a hysterical fit, while she was in my shoes, the stoic bystander who didn't make any sudden movements. Freaky Christmas.
After what seemed like eons of silence, I gave up hoping for a reply and padded towards the door. My mother followed me with her eyes, resembling a half-dressed store mannequin in just her bra, nylons and black knee-length skirt. "I'll be in my room," I said, crossing the hall and slamming my bedroom door behind me. The apartment shuddered. My head pleaded for mercy.
*
Tap, tap, tap.
Seated cross-legged on my bed, I perked up and listened to the knock. There was a short pause before it came again. Tap, tap, tap. Steady, regular. It might seem silly, but I'd learned to decipher some of the ways a person knocked. People had different styles for different attitudes. Urgency and impatience were accompanied by a series of fast, woodpecker knuckle-raps, like a frantic, pulsating heartbeat; happiness usually called for drumming out a cheerful tune: "Shave and a haircut, 2 bits"; anger hurled itself against the door, pounding, demanding entrance; and then you had your ordinary, run-of-the-mill knocking that could mean any number of things. The latter is what I was hearing now. I stared at the door like it might give me more of a hint if I waited, but it must not have known what to expect from Maggie any more than I did.
I fingered the white cashmere sweater that was spread across my lap. The same one I'd worn nearly a week ago, the day my mother dropped me and Eric as carelessly as she abandoned clothing that fell to the floor. It bothered Eric to see me wearing something of hers, so I'd stowed it inside my pillowcase, where I could hold onto it at night, twisting the soft fabric between my fingers the way a child would fondle a beloved security blanket. That had lost most of its comfort, though, after a particularly vivid nightmare in which the sweater became a living, breathing creature and I - reduced to the size of an ant; an insignificant nothing - hid under my pillow, only to be squashed flat by the white monster. Now it lay limp and harmless against my thighs, flowing over my kneecaps, an empty shell of the beast in my dream. I clutched the shoulders and tried to shake out wrinkles like Maggie did, snapping the garment in the air like a flag bursting open on a windy day, dislodging any traces of the specter it had been. I folded the sweater and placed it on the end of my bed.
"Come in," I said.
The door creaked. Maggie glanced around apprehensively before stepping into my room. Guiltily, I recognized it as the same look Eric and I usually wore in the aftermath of her screaming fits. Spying a piece of fuzz on my sock, I became engrossed in picking it off. "What is it?" I demanded, miffed that she kept rubbing in how alike we were, even if she wasn't doing it intentionally.
"I..." Maggie hesitated, cleared her throat. Was she going to apologize? I lost interest in the fuzz and looked up at her. "Do you still have a headache?"
Figures. She'd probably come to play taps next to my ear, with a pot and spoon serving as her makeshift drum. "It's called a hangover, cupcake," I sassed, and mimed the way she arched her eyebrows at me during our previous topic of headaches versus hangovers.
And you know what she had the nerve to do? She laughed. Just tossed her head back and chortled as if I'd told the cleverest joke she'd ever heard. I glowered at her, my skin simmering and tinged bright pink. "Stop it!" I ordered, getting worked up all over again. A whole hour had passed since my last outburst, but my temper hadn't been given sufficient time to cool. "Why can't you ever act normal? You're so damn--"
Humor gone, Maggie cut short my rant by sticking her palm in front of my face, revealing two tiny pills. Aspirin. Her other hand brought forward a glass of water. I glanced back and forth so many times, one would think I'd never seen aspirin or water in my life. "Selfish," she finished for me. "I know. You're right. And I'm sorry. For leaving. For laughing. Everything. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." She thrust the medicine closer. "Here. A peace offering. You don't have to forgive me right away; I'll understand. Just don't hate me, either."
"I don't hate you," I muttered, tentatively pinching the tablets between my fingers. I popped both of them into my mouth and washed them down with a long swig of water, keeping an eye on Maggie the entire time.
"Don't like me much, though, huh?" She said softly, reaching for the glass - half empty - when I was finished.
I resumed fussing with my sock.
"Okay..." Maggie sounded as though she were psyching herself up for a leap off the high dive. She swirled the leftover water around, sloshing it against the glass and nearly dribbling some on the floor. She straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin upwards. "Okay," she repeated, more confident, on firmer ground.
I shrugged indifferently. "Okay," I answered. I wasn't sure how long we could go on avoiding what really need to be said and cramming all our emotions into that single word, but Maggie saved us both the trouble of any further nuances. She started to leave. Quickly, I stretched out my legs, swung my feet off the bed and planted them on the floor like I might be ready to pounce from that spot and block the doorway. What would I say? Did I want to yell again or cry and hug her? Or maybe just do a pratfall to bring back the laughter I'd extinguished? I couldn't decide. Whatever had come uncorked earlier, giving me the freedom to tell her exactly what I was thinking, was plugged up tight now. She had apologized. Lousily. But it was an apology, nonetheless. The ball had been lobbed into my court.
"Wait. Here." I snatched her sweater from the end of my bed and offered it up like a swaddled baby, cradled in my palms. With or without actual presents, we were having a Christmas exchange, after all. "This is what you should wear to dinner with Grandma. I recommend jeans or dressy slacks" - I knew she'd never go for the jeans suggestion - "and your black boot-things. The ones with the fat heels. I'll help you curl your hair, and we can pull it back with the big banana clip. It'll be..." I chewed my bottom lip, trying to recall the term she used on occasion, when we would pass an especially stylish pants suit or dress while browsing some ritzy department store with sky-high prices we could never afford. Why pay an arm and a leg when an identical twin could be crafted at home using her trusty old Singer? Maggie would brag, shooting her nose straight in the air, high as it'd reach, as we passed uppity sales clerks. I saw the want in her eyes when she snorted at price tags for designer labels, though.
"Tres chic," we said simultaneously. I allowed a smile to creep onto my lips; the corners of Maggie's mouth quivered and twitched, until she burst into a grin as well. And just like that, our troubles were behind us, retreating to the backs of our minds, unsorted, unresolved. Uncomplicated. It was a habit by now, and I didn't fight it. Where would it get me? We'd have enough tears and fighting waiting for us next time the cycle began.
"I see you've inherited my superb fashion sense." Maggie plopped down beside me, jostling the mattress, making it sink in. Tiny as she was, she sure could flop that weight around. "Well... almost." When I cocked my head to one side, questioning, she directed my attention to the long-forgotten brassiere I still flaunted on the outside of my sweater. "You might want to rethink that look. It's-- how should I put this?" She tapped her chin with her index finger, thoughtful for about half a second. "Horrendously tacky."
Pensive, I glanced at the loose bra sagging against my chest like a wilted flower. "Nuh-uh. I think it's pretty."
She furrowed her brow and cupped a hand against my forehead, checking for a fever, feigning shock. "Mercy sakes, that headache's done damage to your brain." As she said this, she gently guided my head towards her lap, situated it against her thighs while I wiggled and squirmed my way into a comfortable position, and proceeded to massage my temples, applying pressure in slow, circular motions with her fingertips. Involuntarily, my eyelashes fluttered, then sewed themselves completely shut. A barely audible moan gurgled in my throat, thinned into a sigh before passing through my lips. Maggie churned out the tension in my skull as smoothly as butter.
"How does pizza sound?" she asked after a while, her voice as drowsy as I had become.
"Huh?" Lazily, I peeped up at her through one eye, not bothering to open the other.
"Well, it's too late to cook a big meal," she expounded, "and we don't really have the fixings anyway. Since we don't eat pizza often, and it's just you and I..."
"Pizza on Christmas?" I murmured, contemplating the novel idea. Eric would've liked that. A low, insistent rumbling in the pit of my stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten in forever and cinched my answer. "Ok. Let's have that. It's not the kinda pie Bridget meant, but it'll do."
"What?"
"Never mind." I batted the air with my palm, discouraging her curiosity. "You weren't there."
My mother replied with silence. Worried that I had offended her with my last statement, I forced both eyes wide this time and prepared to explain. The story was immediately interrupted by a brisk knock at the front door, a Morse code kind of tapping that seemed uncertain, rushed into. Her hands poised like a pianist's above my face, Maggie ceased kneading the skin at the bridge of my nose. I turned my head and listened.
"Who on earth could that be?"
"I don't know." I rolled onto my side, nudging myself upright, hair spilling across my face. "Maybe Grandma Corrie Jo couldn't wait till New Year's." Feet on the floor, I rocked forward until I was standing and shook the wavy strands from in front of my eyes. "Want me to stall her while you spruce the place up?"
"Don't be ridiculous. She couldn't have made it here that fast." Maggie hadn't stood yet. She patted and plucked at her bangs, fringing them neatly across her forehead, then nervously swept the whole lot aside with unsatisfied fingers. "Could she?"
"Not unless she's taken up hot-rodding."
Sounding relieved, Maggie giggled at the absurdity of that and joined me as I moseyed into the hall. I decided not to rush ahead to answer this summons as I had with the phone. It was probably just Mary, the elderly and purely senile lady a few apartments over, making her rounds to wish everybody a happy holiday. She'd done the same thing on Thanksgiving, catching us in the middle of our feast, and invited herself in for a plate of turkey and cranberries. "Dig in!" Maggie had said, completely unfazed, shoveling in a forkful of stuffing while Eric snickered into his milk and I focused on the lake of creamed corn overflowing my mashed potatoes. The minute Mary wandered home, still gumming a mouthful of mush, we had lost our composure. Eric laughed till a frothy jet of white gunk shot out of his nostrils, Maggie's eyes watered as she shrieked that we were going to make her pee her pants if we didn't settle down.
I was busy grinning at the memory when Maggie tapped me on the shoulder. "Bra," she said.
My features twisted in confusion.
"Unless you want whoever's on the other side of the door to think we've got something weird going on in here..." She wagged her finger at me, indicating my racy fashion statement.
Cheeks flushed, I fumbled with the clasp and worked myself out of the bra, balling it up and passing it off to Maggie. "Hey," she protested, concealing it behind her back just as I opened the door and stared at the pair who'd been waiting for an answer.
"I'm home," Eric announced before my brain had even processed whose face I was seeing. Jimmy stood behind him, his hands on Eric's shoulders, helping him stay balanced on the two crutches protruding from his armpits. My father nodded hello to Maggie, but seemed to find the most solace in my eyes. He held my gaze for a moment, his smile wan, then looked away and, to no one in particular, said, "Somebody was missing his mom and big sister."
My brother's grin stretched so far up, his eyes squinted as he hobbled across the threshold, joining my and Maggie's side of the apartment. "I knew you couldn't bear to celebrate without me," he teased, probably not even guessing how right he was.
Astonished, Maggie and I just at looked them, the other half of our used-to- be family. Jimmy fidgeted, shoved his hands in his pockets, and took them out again when he spotted Eric's suitcase on the floor at his feet. Jumping at the distraction, he grabbed the handle and awkwardly leaned inside the doorway, resting the suitcase against the wall to his left. I thought he was going to jerk back into the hall, like stepping fully inside would morph him into a pillar of salt, but he lingered in position long enough to tousle Eric's curls. My brother didn't turn around; he couldn't because Maggie had him by the face, sprinkling him with kisses. Then my father, his lanky frame towering high above mine, gathered me into his arms and squeezed me too tightly. I could hear his heart pounding as my ear pressed against his chest. "Goodbye," I whispered, my voice getting lost in the folds of his coat.
" 'sides, Dad don't have an Atari," Eric was saying when I emerged from Jimmy's embrace.
"Doesn't," Maggie corrected.
"Nope, he don't. So I wouldn't be able to play the game you got me."
At the mention of the gift I'd been so proud of finding for Eric - though he believed whole-heartedly it came from Maggie - I turned, just to catch a glimpse of the happiness on his face when he mentioned it.
"Can I play it now?" Eric said, not waiting for our mother's reply. "Hey, Dad, you wanna play with me?"
I was the only one who didn't show surprise or disappointment when the three of us looked towards an empty doorway.
DON WE NOW OUR GAY APPAREL
*
"Which looks better?" Maggie draped a lacey-collared shirt with billowy ruffled sleeves against her chest, modeling the first choice for me, then exchanged it for a roomy blazer that had shoulder pads so thick it looked like she was gearing up for a football game. A frilly tablecloth or a quarterback? Sometimes I sincerely did not understand fashion.
I weighed my decisions as I sloped my shoulders, looping the straps to one of Maggie's bras over each arm and fastening the front-clasp. Wearing it outside my sweater gave me the extra padding I needed to fill it - well, almost - I noted with satisfaction. "Neither," I finally admitted, giving the bra cups a pat so they sunk in against the empty space rather than poke out. Sitting perfectly erect on Maggie's bed, I thrust my bosom forward and surveyed my reflection in the mirror across from me. "You should've given me bigger boobs for Christmas," I told Maggie when she paused to watch and snigger.
"I wouldn't mind having those myself," she said, tossing the rejected clothes aside and vocalizing her frustration with a cross between a sigh and a shrill growl. She let her posture sag and gazed at the mound of skirts and slacks and other items either she or I had deemed not good enough. Her hair fluffed around her face like a whirlwind had blown through, taking her sense of style with it. "Why didn't you tell me sooner that my clothing was this... shitty?"
"You don't have to dress up. It's Grandma. She'll be wearing a flower print blouse and an A-line skirt." Grandma Corrie Jo was very predictable that way. I don't think she'd ever slouched around in a pair of pants a day in her life, and her entire wardrobe seemed to consist of nothing but the same exact style of blouses and skirts, just in alternating colors. I'd bet Eric one time that if we peeked in Grandma's closet we'd find row after row of identical outfits. Like Wilma Flintstone's endless supply of white dresses and signature strand of pearls. Our snooping was interrupted when Grandad, napping in the antique four-poster bed, choked on a grizzly bear snore and sent us high-tailing it out of the room.
Thoughtful for a moment, I situated the loose straps that kept drooping off my shoulders and added, "And flats. She always wears flats."
"Why do you think I don't own a single pair?"
"Because you're too short for them," I said matter-of-factly. "They make your legs look stumpy." I pretended not to see the indignant, dagger-eyed glare Maggie aimed at me, though I had a perfect view of it parroted in the mirror. She harrumphed, waded up a very nunly gray turtleneck and pitched it right at my head. I ducked, rounded my shoulders, caught the incoming missile to the back. "Easy there, Stump."
"A lot of help you are!" Maggie cried, forever the drama queen. But there was a smile hiding behind that gripe, assuring me that my dry humor hadn't actually rattled her internal hornets nest. All depression and conniption fits aside, my mother possessed a decent, if somewhat erratic, sense of humor. She had taught me to weep, but she had also taught me to laugh.
I waited till she resumed picking over clothes, then I gave up on silently ridiculing my image and stretched on my stomach across the bed, propped on both elbows, watching Maggie stress about the right pumps to blend with her brown eyes and sheer, cocoa-tinted stockings. As if footwear set the tone for the entire ensemble, and anything less than the perfect shade would create utter chaos. How she ever got through dressing herself in the morning was beyond me. "Good thing you've got until New Year's to 'throw something together,'" I commented, the words coming out a mumble because I was supporting my chin with the heels of my palms, fingers curled in against my lips. That's how Maggie'd put it when she wrangled me in as a judge for her fashion show: she'd throw something together. That was over an hour and thirty-seven minutes ago. Make that thirty-eight. I might've skipped a minute during her tirade about not owning any slips the length she needed to go with her favorite skirt.
"What?" She glanced at me, distracted.
"I said, 'D'you think Aunt Shelia will notice that huge run up the back of your pantyhose?'"
Horrified, Maggie went slack-jawed, her mouth gaping, eyes enormous, and twisted from side to side, contorting to see the nonexistent snag. "Oh my God, where? They didn't have one when I got them out of the drawer. How long has it been there? I knew I shouldn't have bought the cheap brand," she howled, then stomped her foot like she was murdering a cockroach. "Damn it!" Her head practically turned a full circle, still hunting for the tragic flaw.
"Oh..." I tilted sideways, squinting like I needed glasses to improve my vision, and examined the hose more closely. I'm not sure what had gotten hold of me - Grandma Corrie Jo would grin and call it deviltry - but I felt a gleam of wicked pleasure as a result of fooling my mother. She didn't know just how sly I could be, how cunning. I bet I could even slip away in the middle of the night without waking a soul. Of course I'd never do it. But I had the skill. "Never mind." Deliberate pause. "It must've been a shadow."
If tones and looks had the power to kill, I would have died twice on the spot.
"Abigail."
I smiled sweetly and batted my eyelashes. "Margaret."
"Ornery brat," she said, supposedly joking, and reached over to conk me on the head like I was one of those tricky plastic alligators you bash with a club, on the game strip at carnivals. I grimaced and rubbed my scalp, though it didn't really hurt. At least that's what I told myself. I thought about using the jagged edge of a broken fingernail I hadn't yet clipped, to put an actual snag in her nylons, then decided against it. That was pushing the limits. A rap to the head was warning enough. It said, Watch yourself, Abby. She's not Corrie Jo and you are not Maggie.
"I still have a headache, you know." Chastised or not, I wanted to point that out to her. Maybe get some sympathy while I was at it. She should pity me, be sorry for what she'd done. Not just for making the steadfast throbbing in my skull jump up about five notches, but everything. She should be grateful she still had me for a daughter, that I hadn't followed through the million or so times I'd yearned to runaway. That I didn't treat her with the same disrespect she flung at her mother. That I wasn't pregnant or on drugs. And I could have been so easily. It was common knowledge at school which kids were the potheads, which wanted to do It with you. Chances came and passed me by. One, I knew Maggie would slaughter me for those things. Two, I had to remain stable for her. Being asked to set the table for dinner or to help braid Maggie's hair or wash dishes while she dried or hear the new greeting she planned to use when she sold cosmetics door-to-door: those were the moments that I thought of when I was tempted to misbehave the way my friends did. Moments like now when my opinion mattered to her and I got to spend time with her, watching how she moved, touching her belongings, exchanging ideas and smiles... being her daughter. It's what kept me good. And she didn't even comprehend it.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Like the thump on my head had knocked loose a shitload of bitterness I'd been doing my best to suppress all day.
"It's called a hangover, precious." Maggie lifted her eyebrows as if to say, You made your bed, now lie in it. "If certain little girls are going to get drunk, they shouldn't whine about the ramifications."
I jammed the uneven fingernail in my mouth and chewed till a piece came off between my teeth and created a sharper angle than I'd had before. Why couldn't she be a normal mom who came right out and said what I'd done wrong and give me a really long lecture so I'd never doing it again? Why couldn't she fish a bottle of aspirin from her purse and tell me it was all right if I got under the covers of her bed to sleep awhile? Why couldn't she baby me for once? Why couldn't she? Disgusted, I spat out the nail fragment and stabbed the pointy remainder into my tongue, battling back a ton of hateful remarks. Watch yourself, Abby.
"Stop biting your nails," Maggie scolded, her nose wrinkling up at my bad manners. "Nasty, nasty habit." She wiggled her fingers in front of my face, showing off a self-manicured hand with flashy red polish. Movie star quality. The red wasn't even chipped after days of wear.
I stabbed harder. Watch yourself.
"I never bite mine."
"If you're so freaking perfect, pick an outfit by yourself then."
My finger wasn't in my mouth anymore, so it had to be me that said it. I got to my knees on the bouncy surface of the bed and sat against my heels, briefly studying Maggie's astonished expression. It urged me on. "You're just gonna mess things up anyway. You'll go meet Grandma and Aunt Shelia for dinner on New Year's, probably make a bunch of dumb resolutions to never fight with 'em again and to keep in touch more often. But you won't. You'll get pissed about something you remembered one of them saying, like, 400 years ago. Something stupid that wasn't even about you and nobody else even remembers. Then you won't speak to either of 'em for months, and I won't get to see them, Eric won't get to see them. You think you're hurting them, but you're really hurting us. We love Grandma and Grandad and Aunt Shelia. They're good to us." I looked at her accusingly, not adding what I could've. Not saying, Unlike you. "They'd be good to you too if you let 'em. But you're just so... so..." I'd worked myself up to the verge of tears, and I panted as I searched for the right word. "Selfish!"
I figured I'd get slapped again, but I didn't care. I drove my own palm into the bedspread - the place where she slept, where she'd probably conspired with Beau to fool her dumb kids and steal away together - inviting her to take a swing at me. It couldn't hurt more than what I was already feeling. Not even hangers felt that bad. "You're selfish!" I echoed, loud and furious, pointing at my mother so there would be no mistaking where all this anger had originated. I was acting exactly like her, and that only ticked me off more.
"I'm sick of you telling me not to do stuff, then turning right around and doing it yourself. Don't drink, Abby. Don't be a tramp. Don't disrespect your mother. Blah, blah, blah. How come you don't have to follow those rules? It's not fair. Even when I listen you don't notice. Every morning before school you tell me to be good, but you never ask me about it when I get home. You don't even know the teacher said I'm the best speller in the class or that I got extra credit for turning in a project early. Do you know I'm never in detention? No. You'd only notice if I got suspended for smoking in the bathroom." I imitated her and took a puff on an imaginary cigarette, theatrically blowing a stream of air through my lips. "Don't smoke, Abby. It's bad for your health," I said affectedly.
"Maybe YOU'RE what's bad for my health, Mom," I raged, my voice getting hoarse from so much use. I had never in my life spoken to her this long without her talking over me or telling me to shut my mouth. A dam had broken somewhere inside and the water gushed out too fast to be halted. I really did feel drained when I pushed off the bed, standing on weak legs, a hollow pain creeping around in my belly, and the backs of my eyes aching like they were being squeezed in a vise. They threatened to pop if I wiped the moisture from them, so I left it there and waited. Maggie looked like a robot whose batteries had died, rendering her immobile. Emotionless. Speechless. It reminded me of that Freaky Friday movie where the mom and daughter switched bodies, Disney-style wackiness ensued, and no one knew which end was up. Now it was me in Maggie's place, pitching a hysterical fit, while she was in my shoes, the stoic bystander who didn't make any sudden movements. Freaky Christmas.
After what seemed like eons of silence, I gave up hoping for a reply and padded towards the door. My mother followed me with her eyes, resembling a half-dressed store mannequin in just her bra, nylons and black knee-length skirt. "I'll be in my room," I said, crossing the hall and slamming my bedroom door behind me. The apartment shuddered. My head pleaded for mercy.
*
Tap, tap, tap.
Seated cross-legged on my bed, I perked up and listened to the knock. There was a short pause before it came again. Tap, tap, tap. Steady, regular. It might seem silly, but I'd learned to decipher some of the ways a person knocked. People had different styles for different attitudes. Urgency and impatience were accompanied by a series of fast, woodpecker knuckle-raps, like a frantic, pulsating heartbeat; happiness usually called for drumming out a cheerful tune: "Shave and a haircut, 2 bits"; anger hurled itself against the door, pounding, demanding entrance; and then you had your ordinary, run-of-the-mill knocking that could mean any number of things. The latter is what I was hearing now. I stared at the door like it might give me more of a hint if I waited, but it must not have known what to expect from Maggie any more than I did.
I fingered the white cashmere sweater that was spread across my lap. The same one I'd worn nearly a week ago, the day my mother dropped me and Eric as carelessly as she abandoned clothing that fell to the floor. It bothered Eric to see me wearing something of hers, so I'd stowed it inside my pillowcase, where I could hold onto it at night, twisting the soft fabric between my fingers the way a child would fondle a beloved security blanket. That had lost most of its comfort, though, after a particularly vivid nightmare in which the sweater became a living, breathing creature and I - reduced to the size of an ant; an insignificant nothing - hid under my pillow, only to be squashed flat by the white monster. Now it lay limp and harmless against my thighs, flowing over my kneecaps, an empty shell of the beast in my dream. I clutched the shoulders and tried to shake out wrinkles like Maggie did, snapping the garment in the air like a flag bursting open on a windy day, dislodging any traces of the specter it had been. I folded the sweater and placed it on the end of my bed.
"Come in," I said.
The door creaked. Maggie glanced around apprehensively before stepping into my room. Guiltily, I recognized it as the same look Eric and I usually wore in the aftermath of her screaming fits. Spying a piece of fuzz on my sock, I became engrossed in picking it off. "What is it?" I demanded, miffed that she kept rubbing in how alike we were, even if she wasn't doing it intentionally.
"I..." Maggie hesitated, cleared her throat. Was she going to apologize? I lost interest in the fuzz and looked up at her. "Do you still have a headache?"
Figures. She'd probably come to play taps next to my ear, with a pot and spoon serving as her makeshift drum. "It's called a hangover, cupcake," I sassed, and mimed the way she arched her eyebrows at me during our previous topic of headaches versus hangovers.
And you know what she had the nerve to do? She laughed. Just tossed her head back and chortled as if I'd told the cleverest joke she'd ever heard. I glowered at her, my skin simmering and tinged bright pink. "Stop it!" I ordered, getting worked up all over again. A whole hour had passed since my last outburst, but my temper hadn't been given sufficient time to cool. "Why can't you ever act normal? You're so damn--"
Humor gone, Maggie cut short my rant by sticking her palm in front of my face, revealing two tiny pills. Aspirin. Her other hand brought forward a glass of water. I glanced back and forth so many times, one would think I'd never seen aspirin or water in my life. "Selfish," she finished for me. "I know. You're right. And I'm sorry. For leaving. For laughing. Everything. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." She thrust the medicine closer. "Here. A peace offering. You don't have to forgive me right away; I'll understand. Just don't hate me, either."
"I don't hate you," I muttered, tentatively pinching the tablets between my fingers. I popped both of them into my mouth and washed them down with a long swig of water, keeping an eye on Maggie the entire time.
"Don't like me much, though, huh?" She said softly, reaching for the glass - half empty - when I was finished.
I resumed fussing with my sock.
"Okay..." Maggie sounded as though she were psyching herself up for a leap off the high dive. She swirled the leftover water around, sloshing it against the glass and nearly dribbling some on the floor. She straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin upwards. "Okay," she repeated, more confident, on firmer ground.
I shrugged indifferently. "Okay," I answered. I wasn't sure how long we could go on avoiding what really need to be said and cramming all our emotions into that single word, but Maggie saved us both the trouble of any further nuances. She started to leave. Quickly, I stretched out my legs, swung my feet off the bed and planted them on the floor like I might be ready to pounce from that spot and block the doorway. What would I say? Did I want to yell again or cry and hug her? Or maybe just do a pratfall to bring back the laughter I'd extinguished? I couldn't decide. Whatever had come uncorked earlier, giving me the freedom to tell her exactly what I was thinking, was plugged up tight now. She had apologized. Lousily. But it was an apology, nonetheless. The ball had been lobbed into my court.
"Wait. Here." I snatched her sweater from the end of my bed and offered it up like a swaddled baby, cradled in my palms. With or without actual presents, we were having a Christmas exchange, after all. "This is what you should wear to dinner with Grandma. I recommend jeans or dressy slacks" - I knew she'd never go for the jeans suggestion - "and your black boot-things. The ones with the fat heels. I'll help you curl your hair, and we can pull it back with the big banana clip. It'll be..." I chewed my bottom lip, trying to recall the term she used on occasion, when we would pass an especially stylish pants suit or dress while browsing some ritzy department store with sky-high prices we could never afford. Why pay an arm and a leg when an identical twin could be crafted at home using her trusty old Singer? Maggie would brag, shooting her nose straight in the air, high as it'd reach, as we passed uppity sales clerks. I saw the want in her eyes when she snorted at price tags for designer labels, though.
"Tres chic," we said simultaneously. I allowed a smile to creep onto my lips; the corners of Maggie's mouth quivered and twitched, until she burst into a grin as well. And just like that, our troubles were behind us, retreating to the backs of our minds, unsorted, unresolved. Uncomplicated. It was a habit by now, and I didn't fight it. Where would it get me? We'd have enough tears and fighting waiting for us next time the cycle began.
"I see you've inherited my superb fashion sense." Maggie plopped down beside me, jostling the mattress, making it sink in. Tiny as she was, she sure could flop that weight around. "Well... almost." When I cocked my head to one side, questioning, she directed my attention to the long-forgotten brassiere I still flaunted on the outside of my sweater. "You might want to rethink that look. It's-- how should I put this?" She tapped her chin with her index finger, thoughtful for about half a second. "Horrendously tacky."
Pensive, I glanced at the loose bra sagging against my chest like a wilted flower. "Nuh-uh. I think it's pretty."
She furrowed her brow and cupped a hand against my forehead, checking for a fever, feigning shock. "Mercy sakes, that headache's done damage to your brain." As she said this, she gently guided my head towards her lap, situated it against her thighs while I wiggled and squirmed my way into a comfortable position, and proceeded to massage my temples, applying pressure in slow, circular motions with her fingertips. Involuntarily, my eyelashes fluttered, then sewed themselves completely shut. A barely audible moan gurgled in my throat, thinned into a sigh before passing through my lips. Maggie churned out the tension in my skull as smoothly as butter.
"How does pizza sound?" she asked after a while, her voice as drowsy as I had become.
"Huh?" Lazily, I peeped up at her through one eye, not bothering to open the other.
"Well, it's too late to cook a big meal," she expounded, "and we don't really have the fixings anyway. Since we don't eat pizza often, and it's just you and I..."
"Pizza on Christmas?" I murmured, contemplating the novel idea. Eric would've liked that. A low, insistent rumbling in the pit of my stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten in forever and cinched my answer. "Ok. Let's have that. It's not the kinda pie Bridget meant, but it'll do."
"What?"
"Never mind." I batted the air with my palm, discouraging her curiosity. "You weren't there."
My mother replied with silence. Worried that I had offended her with my last statement, I forced both eyes wide this time and prepared to explain. The story was immediately interrupted by a brisk knock at the front door, a Morse code kind of tapping that seemed uncertain, rushed into. Her hands poised like a pianist's above my face, Maggie ceased kneading the skin at the bridge of my nose. I turned my head and listened.
"Who on earth could that be?"
"I don't know." I rolled onto my side, nudging myself upright, hair spilling across my face. "Maybe Grandma Corrie Jo couldn't wait till New Year's." Feet on the floor, I rocked forward until I was standing and shook the wavy strands from in front of my eyes. "Want me to stall her while you spruce the place up?"
"Don't be ridiculous. She couldn't have made it here that fast." Maggie hadn't stood yet. She patted and plucked at her bangs, fringing them neatly across her forehead, then nervously swept the whole lot aside with unsatisfied fingers. "Could she?"
"Not unless she's taken up hot-rodding."
Sounding relieved, Maggie giggled at the absurdity of that and joined me as I moseyed into the hall. I decided not to rush ahead to answer this summons as I had with the phone. It was probably just Mary, the elderly and purely senile lady a few apartments over, making her rounds to wish everybody a happy holiday. She'd done the same thing on Thanksgiving, catching us in the middle of our feast, and invited herself in for a plate of turkey and cranberries. "Dig in!" Maggie had said, completely unfazed, shoveling in a forkful of stuffing while Eric snickered into his milk and I focused on the lake of creamed corn overflowing my mashed potatoes. The minute Mary wandered home, still gumming a mouthful of mush, we had lost our composure. Eric laughed till a frothy jet of white gunk shot out of his nostrils, Maggie's eyes watered as she shrieked that we were going to make her pee her pants if we didn't settle down.
I was busy grinning at the memory when Maggie tapped me on the shoulder. "Bra," she said.
My features twisted in confusion.
"Unless you want whoever's on the other side of the door to think we've got something weird going on in here..." She wagged her finger at me, indicating my racy fashion statement.
Cheeks flushed, I fumbled with the clasp and worked myself out of the bra, balling it up and passing it off to Maggie. "Hey," she protested, concealing it behind her back just as I opened the door and stared at the pair who'd been waiting for an answer.
"I'm home," Eric announced before my brain had even processed whose face I was seeing. Jimmy stood behind him, his hands on Eric's shoulders, helping him stay balanced on the two crutches protruding from his armpits. My father nodded hello to Maggie, but seemed to find the most solace in my eyes. He held my gaze for a moment, his smile wan, then looked away and, to no one in particular, said, "Somebody was missing his mom and big sister."
My brother's grin stretched so far up, his eyes squinted as he hobbled across the threshold, joining my and Maggie's side of the apartment. "I knew you couldn't bear to celebrate without me," he teased, probably not even guessing how right he was.
Astonished, Maggie and I just at looked them, the other half of our used-to- be family. Jimmy fidgeted, shoved his hands in his pockets, and took them out again when he spotted Eric's suitcase on the floor at his feet. Jumping at the distraction, he grabbed the handle and awkwardly leaned inside the doorway, resting the suitcase against the wall to his left. I thought he was going to jerk back into the hall, like stepping fully inside would morph him into a pillar of salt, but he lingered in position long enough to tousle Eric's curls. My brother didn't turn around; he couldn't because Maggie had him by the face, sprinkling him with kisses. Then my father, his lanky frame towering high above mine, gathered me into his arms and squeezed me too tightly. I could hear his heart pounding as my ear pressed against his chest. "Goodbye," I whispered, my voice getting lost in the folds of his coat.
" 'sides, Dad don't have an Atari," Eric was saying when I emerged from Jimmy's embrace.
"Doesn't," Maggie corrected.
"Nope, he don't. So I wouldn't be able to play the game you got me."
At the mention of the gift I'd been so proud of finding for Eric - though he believed whole-heartedly it came from Maggie - I turned, just to catch a glimpse of the happiness on his face when he mentioned it.
"Can I play it now?" Eric said, not waiting for our mother's reply. "Hey, Dad, you wanna play with me?"
I was the only one who didn't show surprise or disappointment when the three of us looked towards an empty doorway.
