Read Online You Take It From Here by Pamela Ribon - Free Book Online
Authors: Pamela Ribon
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funny. They say alcohol reduces the risk of some cancers.” She shook her head and rubbed her nose with the heel of her hand.
“If that’s true, I don’t understand how the cancer could come back. With the amount of preventive drinking you do, a relapse should be scientifically impossible.”
“That’s my girl,” Smidge said, giving my elbow a gentle squeeze between her thumb and forefinger. “That’s better. Thank you. Now drink a lot of that.” She wiggled her fingers toward my drink. “I’ve got a proposition that’ll sound better if you are nowhere near sober.”
“A proposition? I don’t recall you ever having a proposition. You mean I’m about to get some orders.”
Smidge had all the information and I was trying to get a foothold on the situation. Just how she liked it.
Her dark eyes sparkled in those twinkle lights as she leaned in and said, “When I die, I want you to take over my life.”
I think I laughed.
“I mean it, Danny. Consider it what I’m leaving you in my will. I’m giving you this life. You come in and finish the job.”
Then she made these jazz hands, like that was it. That’s all I needed: case closed.
I opened my mouth to say something, but filled it with a slow intake of air instead.
“Soooooo!” she sang. “Great. I wonder if they serve food here.”
I grabbed her arm before she could raise it any higher toward the bartender. She tightened up, wrestling herself from my grip. For an allegedly sick lady, she was notably strong.
“Hey!” she shouted, outraged.
“Are you being funny?” I asked.
When Smidge knew she was trying to get away with something ridiculous, she would talk down to the person who was growing wise. This method worked especially well when she was haggling over a price tag at a flea market, or if she wanted extra work done on her kitchen for free. She had a way of making it sound like she figured all of this out a long time ago: “Oh, let me explain where you probably got confused.”
There was the time she accidentally ran a red light and hit someone. Fifteen minutes later, the guy in the other car was apologizing to Smidge for not looking both ways while he was legally traveling through the intersection. He practically begged her not to file an insurance claim.
Part of her power lies in the accent. Americans think that British people just sound smarter. Maybe bossiness in a Southern accent comes across as “Duh, dummy. Get on board.”
Smidge puffed out her chest, practically shining a spotlight on herself as she made a big production out of sighing, looking around for all the other people she assumed would besympathizing with her, as here it was, so difficult to deal with my mental incapacity.
“I am dying,” she said, emphasizing each word. “We covered this.”
It’s this next phase of the tactic—where she repeats only the parts that are emotionally heavy, getting her victim all jumbled up in empathy—that allows logic to take a backseat.
“So after I am gone, once I am dead,” she said, “once the cancer wins and I am deep in the ground, I want you to live out my life. You finish raising Jenny. You be with Henry.”
“Live out your life? Like run your errands? Raise your kid? Sleep with your husband?”
“Yes to all three.”
“Come on, is this a joke?”
“No, ma’am,” she said. “I ain’t playing. I am dead serious.” Then she laughed, having heard herself. “Okay, right now I’m only serious. Later, I’ll be dead serious. And then you’ll be Smidge 2.0.”
Like it was nothing, no big deal. Just take control, sliding over in the seat like the designated driver of her life. The godparent to her day planner. I still hadn’t come close to processing her being sick again and now she was asking me to do something that sounded absurd, not to mention possibly illegal.
“Don’t think about it too much,” Smidge said, waving a hand in front of my face. “Because then you’ll screw this up. It’s a
“If that’s true, I don’t understand how the cancer could come back. With the amount of preventive drinking you do, a relapse should be scientifically impossible.”
“That’s my girl,” Smidge said, giving my elbow a gentle squeeze between her thumb and forefinger. “That’s better. Thank you. Now drink a lot of that.” She wiggled her fingers toward my drink. “I’ve got a proposition that’ll sound better if you are nowhere near sober.”
“A proposition? I don’t recall you ever having a proposition. You mean I’m about to get some orders.”
Smidge had all the information and I was trying to get a foothold on the situation. Just how she liked it.
Her dark eyes sparkled in those twinkle lights as she leaned in and said, “When I die, I want you to take over my life.”
I think I laughed.
“I mean it, Danny. Consider it what I’m leaving you in my will. I’m giving you this life. You come in and finish the job.”
Then she made these jazz hands, like that was it. That’s all I needed: case closed.
I opened my mouth to say something, but filled it with a slow intake of air instead.
“Soooooo!” she sang. “Great. I wonder if they serve food here.”
I grabbed her arm before she could raise it any higher toward the bartender. She tightened up, wrestling herself from my grip. For an allegedly sick lady, she was notably strong.
“Hey!” she shouted, outraged.
“Are you being funny?” I asked.
When Smidge knew she was trying to get away with something ridiculous, she would talk down to the person who was growing wise. This method worked especially well when she was haggling over a price tag at a flea market, or if she wanted extra work done on her kitchen for free. She had a way of making it sound like she figured all of this out a long time ago: “Oh, let me explain where you probably got confused.”
There was the time she accidentally ran a red light and hit someone. Fifteen minutes later, the guy in the other car was apologizing to Smidge for not looking both ways while he was legally traveling through the intersection. He practically begged her not to file an insurance claim.
Part of her power lies in the accent. Americans think that British people just sound smarter. Maybe bossiness in a Southern accent comes across as “Duh, dummy. Get on board.”
Smidge puffed out her chest, practically shining a spotlight on herself as she made a big production out of sighing, looking around for all the other people she assumed would besympathizing with her, as here it was, so difficult to deal with my mental incapacity.
“I am dying,” she said, emphasizing each word. “We covered this.”
It’s this next phase of the tactic—where she repeats only the parts that are emotionally heavy, getting her victim all jumbled up in empathy—that allows logic to take a backseat.
“So after I am gone, once I am dead,” she said, “once the cancer wins and I am deep in the ground, I want you to live out my life. You finish raising Jenny. You be with Henry.”
“Live out your life? Like run your errands? Raise your kid? Sleep with your husband?”
“Yes to all three.”
“Come on, is this a joke?”
“No, ma’am,” she said. “I ain’t playing. I am dead serious.” Then she laughed, having heard herself. “Okay, right now I’m only serious. Later, I’ll be dead serious. And then you’ll be Smidge 2.0.”
Like it was nothing, no big deal. Just take control, sliding over in the seat like the designated driver of her life. The godparent to her day planner. I still hadn’t come close to processing her being sick again and now she was asking me to do something that sounded absurd, not to mention possibly illegal.
“Don’t think about it too much,” Smidge said, waving a hand in front of my face. “Because then you’ll screw this up. It’s a
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