In Sickness and in Death - By Lisa Bork Page 0,5
“You’re very graphic today and not in a good way.”
“Nobody wants me anymore. I’m fat and used up.”
“You don’t look so bad to me.” Her hair could use styling. She could button up her blouse a couple more buttons. Okay, maybe she had a slight roll at the waistline, but nothing crisis-mode. On a good day, she could still give Kate Hudson a run for her money with her sparkling blue eyes and natural blonde ringlets.
“My thighs rub together.” She yanked on the blouse. “This is size eight. I’m an elephant.” Her eyes raked over my body. “You stole my figure and gave me yours in return.”
I resumed slicing so I wouldn’t be tempted to turn the knife on her.
“Can I have a beer?” Erica slid off the stool and helped herself to a Corona.
“You shouldn’t drink with your medication.”
She took a long swing. “I’m not taking it anymore. Mom said I’m cured.”
I nicked my finger with the knife. Thankfully, no blood oozed out to ruin the bread.
Erica claimed our dead mother gave her advice all the time. I didn’t know exactly how these exchanges occurred since Erica never even visited Mom’s grave, but I did know from experience that their supposed conversations tended to precede disaster. “When did you take your last pill?”
Her shoulders hunched. “I don’t remember.”
“What does Dr. Albert say about it?”
“I haven’t seen him lately.” She headed toward the living room. “I’m going to watch the news.”
Erica had stopped taking her medicine before, claiming to be cured. Her bipolar disorder would never be cured, just tempered to a dull roar. Tomorrow morning I would drag her to Dr. Albert’s office and force her to start taking her medication again. She’d come so far in the last year. I didn’t want to see her backslide. I rolled my shoulders and my neck. I’d need to go to bed early tonight to have enough energy to win that battle.
When I set the breadbasket on the table, Erica was watching a talk show. Two women were attacking each other on a stage, pulling hair and screaming while a man held a microphone up to their faces.
Erica pointed her beer at the television. “Women are animals. No wonder men think we’re just a receptacle. And when the receptacle shows too much sign of use, they move on.”
My lips parted, but no words came to mind. Tomorrow. I’d tackle her tomorrow.
I heard Ray come through the kitchen door and turned to greet him. A mop-headed boy stood next to him, barely waist-high compared to Ray but chin-high compared to me. The sleeves on his red ski jacket were an inch above his wrist bones and his baggy jeans had a hole in each knee. He had on some pretty expensive high-tops, though.
“Darlin’, this is Danny.” Ray looked at him, reached over and swept the dark hair off the kid’s face. I got a glimpse of angry brown eyes before the hair flopped back into place. “Danny, this is Jolene.”
“Hi, Danny. Nice to meet you.”
The kid muttered an unintelligible reply.
Erica bumped into my back. “Who’s the kid, Ray?”
“This is Danny. He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
“No shit.”
My elbow slammed into her belly roll.
“I mean, that’s great.”
While Ray hung up their coats in the living room closet, Erica trailed me to the stove. “What’s up with the kid? Does Ray want to adopt him? He looks like the Shaggy Dog.”
“He’s our new foster child. It’s only temporary, until his father gets out of jail.”
“His dad’s in jail?”
I had no doubt that both Danny and Ray had heard her shriek. “We’ll talk about it later, when we’re alone, okay?”
“Okay, but you better count the silver.”
When we sat down to dinner, Ray’s glower confirmed that he’d heard everything, and Erica was in trouble. Or maybe I was.
I tried to make amends. “I hope you like lasagna, Danny.”
“It’s okay.”
It must have been more than okay, because he shoveled it into his mouth in seconds flat. Ray smiled at me and served the kid a second helping.
Danny didn’t touch the salad I put on his plate. I decided not to press the issue.
Ray made most of the dinner conversation, explaining that he’d delivered Danny’s school transcripts and made an appointment with the principal of Wachobe Middle School to register Danny the next morning. Danny would start school the Monday following Thanksgiving.
After dinner, while Erica and Danny watched SpongeBob on the television in the living room, I whispered to Ray in the kitchen.
“Where are