could help her be different, be better. She was imagining kissing him when the sound of the garage door brought her back to reality. A few minutes later, her mother came in carrying two armfuls of groceries. Without looking at or speaking to her daughter, Rebecca Engel sat them down on the table and on her way back to the garage said, “You’re more than welcome to help me unload the trunk, Kerri.”
“Timmy!” Kerri shouted.
Her brother appeared. “What’s up?”
“Mom wants you to help her unload the groceries.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I have to leave for work soon. Besides, you are the man of the house.”
“Whatever!” he said, and went out to help.
While her brother and her mother wordlessly covered the table with bags of groceries, Kerri feigned interest in an article explaining the necessary lies a woman must tell the man in her life. Timmy then disappeared with a bag of potato chips and Rebecca put the food in the cupboards. “I’m not bothering you, am I?” Kerri’s mother asked her.
“Not at all,” Kerri said, noticing that Mother was wearing another of her shirts. For the past several years, Rebecca had been helping herself to Kerri’s closet whenever she felt like it. Kerri had retrieved a half dozen of her shirts from her mother’s bedroom a week ago. As usual, not a word had been spoken on the subject, not when the shirts traveled to her mother’s closet nor when Kerri had taken them back. There were certain things, many things, they just didn’t discuss as if not talking about them made him nonissues. Rebecca had, for example, done random searches of Kerri’s bedroom since she was fourteen. Conversations of the right to privacy and personal property had been laid to rest long ago by her mother’s simple, nonnegotiable law: my house, my rules.
She emptied the last bag, folded it neatly, and placed it under the sink with the others. “Where were you last night?” she asked, still without looking at Kerri.
“Where were you all weekend?” Kerri asked. She loudly flipped a page in the magazine.
“When you cover the bills around here, I’ll be happy to give you a full report,” she said, looking out the window over the sink. “Where were you last night?”
“Out,” Kerri said.
Now her mother turned and looked at her. “I’m in no mood, Kerri.”
Under the full brunt of her mother’s dark eyes, Kerri said, “I was at Lynn’s house. We watched a movie and I fell asleep.”
“You could have called,” she sighed, still looking at her. “You know how Timmy gets when you don’t come home.” Then, she asked, “Are you eating?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re looking anemic again.”
“I’m eating. I feel great, actually.”
Her mother took the magazine Kerri was looking at and smiled at something in it.
“Guess what?” Kerri pushed out a laugh, making another attempt to be different. “Lynn’s pregnant…again.”
Her mother’s facial expression didn’t change. She tossed the magazine aside. “You have always had weird friends, little girl,” she said, walking out of the room.
Kerri turned to the doorway her mother had just gone through and gave her the finger, but knew better than to risk holding the pose for more than an instant. Mother’s retaliations could be vicious and unpredictable.
Kerri was eight years old the first time she recognized her mother’s quiet cunning. They’d been bickering all day and that evening while Rebecca was trimming Kerri’s hair, there’d been a “slip with the scissors.” Rebecca had “no choice” but to cut her daughter’s beautiful, long hair short. Brutally short. Kerri had cried for days and Grammy—who had spent hours brushing Kerri’s “princess hair”—had gasped when she first saw it as if her granddaughter had come in missing an arm. Rebecca, however, claimed to like the new style (which wasn’t a style at all) and no amount of pleading or crying or fit-taking on Kerri’s part
“Timmy!” Kerri shouted.
Her brother appeared. “What’s up?”
“Mom wants you to help her unload the groceries.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I have to leave for work soon. Besides, you are the man of the house.”
“Whatever!” he said, and went out to help.
While her brother and her mother wordlessly covered the table with bags of groceries, Kerri feigned interest in an article explaining the necessary lies a woman must tell the man in her life. Timmy then disappeared with a bag of potato chips and Rebecca put the food in the cupboards. “I’m not bothering you, am I?” Kerri’s mother asked her.
“Not at all,” Kerri said, noticing that Mother was wearing another of her shirts. For the past several years, Rebecca had been helping herself to Kerri’s closet whenever she felt like it. Kerri had retrieved a half dozen of her shirts from her mother’s bedroom a week ago. As usual, not a word had been spoken on the subject, not when the shirts traveled to her mother’s closet nor when Kerri had taken them back. There were certain things, many things, they just didn’t discuss as if not talking about them made him nonissues. Rebecca had, for example, done random searches of Kerri’s bedroom since she was fourteen. Conversations of the right to privacy and personal property had been laid to rest long ago by her mother’s simple, nonnegotiable law: my house, my rules.
She emptied the last bag, folded it neatly, and placed it under the sink with the others. “Where were you last night?” she asked, still without looking at Kerri.
“Where were you all weekend?” Kerri asked. She loudly flipped a page in the magazine.
“When you cover the bills around here, I’ll be happy to give you a full report,” she said, looking out the window over the sink. “Where were you last night?”
“Out,” Kerri said.
Now her mother turned and looked at her. “I’m in no mood, Kerri.”
Under the full brunt of her mother’s dark eyes, Kerri said, “I was at Lynn’s house. We watched a movie and I fell asleep.”
“You could have called,” she sighed, still looking at her. “You know how Timmy gets when you don’t come home.” Then, she asked, “Are you eating?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re looking anemic again.”
“I’m eating. I feel great, actually.”
Her mother took the magazine Kerri was looking at and smiled at something in it.
“Guess what?” Kerri pushed out a laugh, making another attempt to be different. “Lynn’s pregnant…again.”
Her mother’s facial expression didn’t change. She tossed the magazine aside. “You have always had weird friends, little girl,” she said, walking out of the room.
Kerri turned to the doorway her mother had just gone through and gave her the finger, but knew better than to risk holding the pose for more than an instant. Mother’s retaliations could be vicious and unpredictable.
Kerri was eight years old the first time she recognized her mother’s quiet cunning. They’d been bickering all day and that evening while Rebecca was trimming Kerri’s hair, there’d been a “slip with the scissors.” Rebecca had “no choice” but to cut her daughter’s beautiful, long hair short. Brutally short. Kerri had cried for days and Grammy—who had spent hours brushing Kerri’s “princess hair”—had gasped when she first saw it as if her granddaughter had come in missing an arm. Rebecca, however, claimed to like the new style (which wasn’t a style at all) and no amount of pleading or crying or fit-taking on Kerri’s part
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