Read Online What Happened to My Sister: A Novel by Elizabeth Flock - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Flock
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better. She’ll start making some new friends soon, I’m sure. And you’re, well, you’re getting up every day. That’s a start. You’re trying—I see you trying, honey, and I’m so proud of you for it. I’m fine. Your brother—well … he’s about as good as he’ll ever be, God help him. Everything’s getting somewhat settled finally, and you’re convinced the world’s about to end. Can’t you see there’s something wrong with that, honey?”
“I don’t think the world’s about to end ,” I tell her. “I like being prepared for emergencies is all.”
“You really need a comb in a Tupperware container? What kind of emergency would require a comb?”
“I’ve got my reasons.” I say this with little conviction because, now that the kidding has stopped and she’s focusing, Mother’s going to tick off all the things she calls crazy and there won’t be a word I can get in edgewise.
“Okay, so, what’s the reason for the comb?” She calls my bluff.
The chair creaks as she settles back into it. The Big Chair. That’s what Eddie and I secretly call it because that’s what it is: Big with a capital B . Mother was always on the heavy side, but when my father died, ten years ago, she started eating and never stopped. I’d find candy wrappers everywhere—jammed into the glove box, stuffed under the couch cushions, under her bed. Literally, everywhere. At first we thought it was a phase, that she would even out or taper off when the grief subsided. I tried talking to her about it gently, telling her we just worried about her eating habits for health reasons, but she got really defensive and teary and over time began cutting me off with a raised hand and “don’t even start” any time I broached the subject.
When it became clear Mom’s fat was here to stay, I had Eddie remove the arms of one of the kitchen chairs and reinforce the legs with thick pine spindles interspersed between the delicate existing ones. The whole thing looks like a chair version of Frankenstein’s monster. But it will hold Mom’s weight, so at least I don’t have to worry about her crashing onto the floor.
“All right, fine.” I give up. “What if Cricket comes home from school with lice? Someone’s going to have to comb through her hair and all the other kids’ hair to check if they’ve spread and they’ll need a comb to do it and guess who’ll be there, ready and waiting.”
“Honor, honey—”
“You know how many kids are in this neighborhood?” I ask her. “There are eight on this block alone, and that’s not even counting the missionary kids, who, if you ask me, are the exact ones who’ll probably get lice. Where are they now? Nicaragua or something? Shoot, I’ve got to hustle if I’m going to get Cricket on time. Can we talk about this later, when I get back?”
“Oh well fine,” she says. “Go on and go. By the way, they’re in Guatemala not Nicaragua, and that’s mean to say about a family out there doing God’s work …”
We both know she agrees with me on the do-gooder neighbors but feels she has to pay them lip service.
“I love you so much,” Mother says. She reaches out, and I can tell she wants to push some hair behind my ears—she hates it when my hair gets in my face—but because of her size she can’t get close enough, so I lean forward so she can mother me because that’s what she loves to do. She loves to mother me. And her granddaughter, Cricket.
“I worry about you is all,” she says. “You’re the best thing I ever did with my life, you know that? You are, don’t roll your eyes. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Well, you won’t have to find out,” I say. “I love you too, Mom. Look, I’ve got to go. Call me on my cell if you need me to pick up anything on my way home.”
“Help me up before you go, will you?”
Mom holds the edge of the table while I get behind her to help her out of the chair. She rocks back and forth to get some
“I don’t think the world’s about to end ,” I tell her. “I like being prepared for emergencies is all.”
“You really need a comb in a Tupperware container? What kind of emergency would require a comb?”
“I’ve got my reasons.” I say this with little conviction because, now that the kidding has stopped and she’s focusing, Mother’s going to tick off all the things she calls crazy and there won’t be a word I can get in edgewise.
“Okay, so, what’s the reason for the comb?” She calls my bluff.
The chair creaks as she settles back into it. The Big Chair. That’s what Eddie and I secretly call it because that’s what it is: Big with a capital B . Mother was always on the heavy side, but when my father died, ten years ago, she started eating and never stopped. I’d find candy wrappers everywhere—jammed into the glove box, stuffed under the couch cushions, under her bed. Literally, everywhere. At first we thought it was a phase, that she would even out or taper off when the grief subsided. I tried talking to her about it gently, telling her we just worried about her eating habits for health reasons, but she got really defensive and teary and over time began cutting me off with a raised hand and “don’t even start” any time I broached the subject.
When it became clear Mom’s fat was here to stay, I had Eddie remove the arms of one of the kitchen chairs and reinforce the legs with thick pine spindles interspersed between the delicate existing ones. The whole thing looks like a chair version of Frankenstein’s monster. But it will hold Mom’s weight, so at least I don’t have to worry about her crashing onto the floor.
“All right, fine.” I give up. “What if Cricket comes home from school with lice? Someone’s going to have to comb through her hair and all the other kids’ hair to check if they’ve spread and they’ll need a comb to do it and guess who’ll be there, ready and waiting.”
“Honor, honey—”
“You know how many kids are in this neighborhood?” I ask her. “There are eight on this block alone, and that’s not even counting the missionary kids, who, if you ask me, are the exact ones who’ll probably get lice. Where are they now? Nicaragua or something? Shoot, I’ve got to hustle if I’m going to get Cricket on time. Can we talk about this later, when I get back?”
“Oh well fine,” she says. “Go on and go. By the way, they’re in Guatemala not Nicaragua, and that’s mean to say about a family out there doing God’s work …”
We both know she agrees with me on the do-gooder neighbors but feels she has to pay them lip service.
“I love you so much,” Mother says. She reaches out, and I can tell she wants to push some hair behind my ears—she hates it when my hair gets in my face—but because of her size she can’t get close enough, so I lean forward so she can mother me because that’s what she loves to do. She loves to mother me. And her granddaughter, Cricket.
“I worry about you is all,” she says. “You’re the best thing I ever did with my life, you know that? You are, don’t roll your eyes. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Well, you won’t have to find out,” I say. “I love you too, Mom. Look, I’ve got to go. Call me on my cell if you need me to pick up anything on my way home.”
“Help me up before you go, will you?”
Mom holds the edge of the table while I get behind her to help her out of the chair. She rocks back and forth to get some
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