it was the first time I’d ever seen Nini wearing a bra. She still didn’t look like she needed one, but there it was. It had a little yellow butterfly in the center.
We were standing around in our underwear like we’d done a million times before, since we were two years old. No big deal. And then, she said it. “Wow, Isabelle. You’re getting big.”
“What?” I said. I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
Nini kept right on brushing her hair. “What size are you now, anyway?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t know. My mom buys my bras.”
“Not your boobs, dummy. I mean, what size are you?”
I opened my mouth to say none of your business, but no words came out.
Nini put her brush down on the bureau and turned to face me. “What do you weigh now, Belly? Like one-ten?”
I grabbed the closest thing to me, which was Nini’s sleeping bag, and wrapped it around my body. I bit my lip hard, so I wouldn’t cry.
True story. See why I’m not planning on talking to her anytime soon?
Upstairs, I lay down on Mom’s bed and listened in on the phone conversation. This is not as hard as you would think. All you have to do is pick up the receiver really carefully and try not to make any sudden movements. Also, you should cover the mouthpiece with your hand in case you feel the urge to sneeze.
“You’re not getting any younger, Beth,” I could hear Aunt Weezy saying. “I hate to break it to you, but the big four-five is just around the corner.”
My mother said, “For you too.”
“True,” Weezy said. “But, well . . . have you thought about kicking up your heels a little? Getting your hair foiled, maybe? Something?”
My mother snorted.
“Well?” said Weezy.
My mother said, “No, I haven’t thought about it.” And then she turned things around. “Have you thought about getting your hair foiled?”
Aunt Weezy didn’t answer.
“Well?”
“Honey,” my aunt said quietly.
“What?” said my mom.
There was a pause.
“What, Louise? Just say it.”
“Bethy,” Weezy said, her voice soft. “Won’t you even think about starting to date again?”
I could feel my stomach contract, squeezing in on itself.
“Beth?”
My mother wasn’t saying a thing, but I wanted to scream into the phone NO!!! She won’t think about starting to date again!
“I know this is hard for you to hear,” Weezy continued. “I know it’s painful. But, honey, there comes a time when you have to . . . you know . . . life does go on.”
“Louise,” Mom said. She took a breath. “I’m fine. We’re all . . . fine. Life is going on, in its way.”
“Okay,” said Weezy.
“Can you understand?”
“Yes. But this conversation is always . . . I mean, nothing is really . . . well . . . Bethy, it’s been two years.”
I wanted to scream into the phone, One year and eight months, you idiot!
When my mother spoke, her voice sounded like gravel. “What is it that you want me to do, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” said my aunt. “I don’t know, honey. I’m sorry. I just . . . I hate seeing you so . . .”
“I’m fine. Really. We’re all fine.” In case you haven’t noticed, fine is my mother’s favorite word. I’m fine, we’re fine, everything’s fine.
“I know,” Weezy said. “I know that.”
“Okay?”
My aunt sighed. “Okay,” she said. But you could tell she didn’t mean it. She just had enough sense not to keep going.
I waited awhile before going downstairs. When I got there Mom was still lying on the kitchen floor, eyes closed, skirt bunched up. She and the potatoes hadn’t moved in an hour.
I stood in the doorway watching her. I tried to imagine my mother on a date, sitting in a dark movie theater somewhere, wearing one of Aunt Weezy’s Ann Taylor outfits. A purple sweater set maybe, with pearls. Next to her, some older guy in a blazer, gray hair gelled back into a helmet, one arm circling her shoulders. Next to him, on the other side, was me. Punching him in the face.
I cleared my throat, loud. “What’s for dinner?”
Mom opened her eyes, which were red. “Oh, honey. Hi. I didn’t see you there.” She got up to walk the potato pan over to the counter. Her skirt was tucked into her underwear, and it looked so ridiculous I wanted to scream.
“If you think I’m eating your crotch potatoes,” I said, “you’re crazy.”
Mom turned around. “Excuse me?”
“If you’re going to make mashed potatoes sitting on the kitchen floor with the pan between your legs, I’m not going to eat them. Crotch potatoes.”
“Cute, Isabelle,” my mother said. “Very cute. Anyway, I’m making us a healthy meal. There’s baked chicken. Skinless. Salad. Corn on the cob.”
“I can’t have corn on the cob,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Hello?” I pointed to my mouth. “Braces?” Sometimes I wonder if my mother knows anything about me.
