The Better to Hold You - By Alisa Sheckley Page 0,26
It was my mother, coming down the long staircase with one hand on the heavy wood banister, her purple velvet caftan flowing behind her and her long blond hair three shades brighter than the girl's. On the carved bottom of the banister was a great, rheumy-eyed Persian, one of several cats I could see sprawled around the foyer now that I was paying attention.
“Hi, Mom.” She kissed me three times, once near the left cheek, twice near the right, like some sort of Russian noblewoman.
“You look bottom-heavy in that. Why do you keep wearing khaki pants? You need something dark below.”
“These are comfortable.”
My mother pulled back, looking me over more carefully. “You've started plucking your eyebrows. I like that, but you need to get someone to show you how to do the arch better. Your left side is thinner than your right.”
“You look good,” I said pointedly, to remind her what good manners were. Actually, she had gained at least ten pounds and her hair was too bright.
“I'm fat. But as the French say, there comes an age where one must choose between one's face and one's derriere.”
“She thought that Pimpernell might be leaking some kind of brain fluid,” said Grania.
“Oh, please, you were always a hypochondriac, and now you have a license to practice it.” My mother took the Chihuahua in her sturdy arms and cradled it. “Have you met Grania? Abra, this is Grania.”
“We've met.”
“Grania has her BA, but she's taking science courses and applying to vet school. So smart, this girl. Barely even has to study—not like you, holed up with your books for weeks on end. She's a natural student.”
Grania snorted and gave me a complicit sort of smile, as if she already knew how my mother's mind worked, and why.
“When you're not around,” Grania said, “she tells me about how fantastic you are with the animals, and how you either have practical intelligence or you don't.”
“And I do?”
“According to your mother.”
My mother huffed, her giant purple velvet breasts expanding. “Well, it's true. Abra has practical intelligence. Grania has a better head for facts.”
“Mom, just stop.”
The lavender-shadowed eyes widened in surprise. “Stop what? I'm just stating what I observe.”
“You don't have to state anything. You weren't injected with Sodium Pentothal.” Grania took Pimpernell back to her room, promising to get me a sterile sample of his nasal fluid.
I followed my mother to the kitchen, down the elegant Spanish-tiled hallways with their dark wood accents, accompanied by the piercingly strong smell of tomcat piss, a sour and musky smell that no detergent or perfume can conceal.
In the corners, cats stretched and yawned, gathered themselves and watched. The dogs were kept outside in the kennel, so long as the weather remained mild.
“So,” my mother said, “what can I get you?” The kitchen was the one room that didn't look like an old Spanish grandee's house. It was just your typical unrenovated 1970s kitchen—yellow walls, brown linoleum, avocado stove, about fifty animal-shaped magnets holding up photos, vets' bills, schedules and shopping lists.
The only thing it had in common with the rest of the house was the tang of feline urine. “Anything. A sandwich.”
“I can make a little curry? Something with tomatoes?”
My mother was a terrible, highly experimental cook. “Just peanut butter would be fine.” I watched my mother's plump, be-ringed hands preparing my food. “Grania seems nice. Does she work here often?”
“She's my lover,” my mother said, in that par tic u lar blend of matter-of-fact and dramatic that soap opera actors tend to employ.
“Ah.”
“Does that mean you disapprove?”
“It's just an expression of surprise.”
“You're surprised I have a woman lover? A young lover?” My mother handed me my sandwich. I looked down at it in surprise.
“You forgot the jam.”
“There isn't any. Look, Abra, if you have something to say, get it off your chest.”
I took a bite of the sandwich, too used to my mother's dramatics to take this seriously. “Do you have any juice?”
The refrigerator door slammed open. “I suppose you won't deign to tell me what you're really thinking. Here's your juice.”
“Thanks.” I drank and wondered: What was I really thinking? That it always had to be about Piper LeFever, I suppose. Even on my birthday. Even when I was having a bit of a crisis at home. My mother never really noticed what was going on with me.
“God, you really have a talent for making things unpleasant, Abra.”
I raised my right eyebrow. “I don't think it's me doing it, Mom.”