A Different Kind of Forever - By Dee Ernst Page 0,92
know,” she whispered back, “I love you too.”
BETTER OFF WITHOUT HIM
APRIL, IN GENERAL, is not a good month for me. Here in northern New Jersey, April can either be awash with daffodils or buried under a foot of snow, and waiting to see which way it will go kills me. MI hate the April version of winter –some days, that nip of spring teases the air and gets you thinking about warm sunshine, but mostly it’s just cold enough to be miserable. The snow turns black and ugly in about six minutes, and the salt used on the roads gets in between the pads of my dog’s feet. Ever try washing the feet of a 60-pound lump of wet fur? Whimpering, quivering wet fur? No fun at all.
On the flip side, what if it does get warm and sunny right away? That whole process of morphing out of winter woolies and sweaters and scarves that successfully hid my entire body for four months and getting into clothes that not only show skin, but also rolls, pouches, wrinkled knees – it’s excruciating.
Then, of course, there’s the whole tax thing.
Let’s not even discuss my allergies.
So it stands to reason that any given April day will not be a particularly good one. But the day my husband Brian told me that he was leaving me for somebody 15 years younger and 30 pounds lighter was the worst.
That morning, Daughter the First, the 16-year-old, bitchy, bossy one, screamed from her upstairs bedroom that she had no clean clothes to wear, so she was not going to school. Since she, like her two younger sisters, is responsible for her own laundry, I screamed back that it was not my problem and she could go to school in her pajamas for all I cared, but she’d better be out of the house in fifteen minutes. She then came down stairs in full make-up and her pajamas.
“Miranda. Go upstairs. Put on real clothes.”
“These are real clothes.” She was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a camisole.
“No. Those are pajamas.”
“You just told me I could wear them.”
The space right behind my eyeballs started to heat up. “What?”
“Just ten minutes ago, you said I could go to school in my pajamas for all you cared, as long as I got out of the house on time. You just said it, Mom.” Her face was full of sudden concern. “You’re not starting to forget things, are you?”
“No. Of course not. I remember what I said. I just didn’t mean it. I was being facetious.”
She walked over to the cupboard, pulled out a bowl, walked to another cupboard and found the cereal. The look on her face was one of fierce concentration. “What does that word mean again?”
“You know damn well what it means. It means I won’t let you out of the house in pajamas.”
“Just the bottoms,” she pointed out.
“That still counts.”
“All the girls wear them. Not just to school, either.” She went to the refrigerator and pulled out the milk. “Remember the girls we saw in Kings?”
Yes, I remember. I remember thinking, at the time, that I’d die of embarrassment if my daughter walked around in public looking like she had just rolled out of bed. I also remember telling my daughters that I would lock them in a closet before I would let them walk around looking like that. Did Miranda remember that?
“Don’t you remember what I said about that? About locking you in a closet?”
She shrugged. “You didn’t mean it.”
“Yes. I did.”
She defiantly poured Cocoa Puffs into a bowl. “I thought you were being facetious. Besides, I have nothing else that’s clean.” She poured some milk as I counted to ten.
“What about that outfit we just bought last weekend? The one with the camouflage skirt?”
Daughter the First, also known as Miranda Claire Berman, shrugged expressively. “I won’t wear that. It’s ugly.”
“Then why did I spend all that money buying it for you?” I asked, although I should have known better.
“Well, I liked it in the store. But when I tried it on at home, it was really awful.”
“And what,” I continued, simply because I had to hear her answer, “is the difference between here and the store?”
She chewed, then swallowed. I could see that she was actually giving this some thought. “Maybe the light?” she suggested at last. “Yeah, I think the lights that they have in dressing rooms are trick lights so that everything you try on looks really cool, but when you put the same clothes