Something Wicked - By Lesley Anne Cowan Page 0,45
man to do it for her. But she can’t keep a boyfriend. Can’t even cook. I do everything for her. Ev-er-ything. I do laundry, make dinner. You know what? She doesn’t even know how to clean an oven. You know what she did? She pushed the automatic cleaning button. She thought it would just clean itself. She’s such an idiot.”
“How’s she gonna clean her baby’s ass? Is she gonna push a button for that too?” Jessica starts laughing hysterically, like it’s the funniest thing humankind has ever said. She can be nerdy when she’s high. I roll my eyes and wait till she stops, because I know when she’s laughing like that there’s nothing you can do.
“Sometimes you’re an idiot,” I say.
Jess scowls. “What’s your problem? What’s the big deal, anyway? It’s not like she’s told you she’s dying or something.”
“’Cause I’m not taking care of a stupid baby.” I move over to stand behind her, push her head to the side, and check out my own hair in the mirror. “I’m not changing one fuckin’ diaper. I’m not picking it up from daycare. I’m not staying home every night shaking little jingly toys in front of its face. If I wanted to fuck up my own life, I would have had my own baby. Shit. Look. My hair looks terrible.”
Jessica raises her eyes as if she’s finally listening to me and carefully assesses my appearance in the mirror.“No it doesn’t.” She reaches for the hairspray. “Here. Close your eyes.”
She doesn’t just dab a little here and there, she lets it all go. I pull back. “Jesus Christ, Jessica! Spray my hair, not my face. Fuck!”
She starts laughing hysterically again. “Stay still, then.”
“I wasn’t even fucking moving,” I snap, heading toward the washroom to rinse the sticky crap off my face. Afterward, instead of going back to her room, I just head out the front door. I don’t say goodbye. Not because I’m angry about the hairspray, but because I’m just generally feeling pissed off. Even the ganja buzz doesn’t soften my mood.
Thirty-Five
My anger is like a festering cancer that just grows and grows. Unfortunately for my mother, she’s on the receiving end of it all. I don’t know why I hate her so much. I can’t really pinpoint any one thing, but for some reason she’s the incarnation of all that makes me furious. Even little things will set me off, like when I’m sitting on the couch watching TV and I lift the converter to switch the channel and nothing happens. I smack the thing a few times, but still nothing happens.
“Fuck!” I yell, and whack the converter against the coffee table to shock it back to life. I try again. Nothing. “Fucking shit!” I yell, stomping my foot hard on the floor. I turn it over, open the back, and roll the batteries around a little, which sometimes helps. I try again. Still nothing. “Bitch!” I shout, and throw the converter across the room, where it hits the wall then rebounds and smacks one of Bradley’s framed photos off the corner table.
My mother tears out of her room, her face all panicked. “What happened?”
“There are no fucking batteries in the converter!” I snap.
“For God’s sake … then change them.” Her face changes from alarm to annoyance. She storms over to the table, sees the frame on the floor, and bends over to pick it up. “You broke it.”
“Change them with what? With the batteries that are under my ass?”
“You watch your mouth,” she warns sternly.
“There are no fucking batteries in this house. There never are. Just like there’s no toilet paper. Or milk. Or laundry detergent.”
“What are you so angry about?” my mom shouts, holding the pieces of the frame in her hand. I don’t answer because I hate her standing there with that stupid picture of perfect dead Bradley with his immortal sweet smile. “Seriously, Melissa. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Are you kidding me? You have no idea? Haven’t you taken a look at our lives? I’m so stunned at how clueless she is that I don’t know what to say. And I can’t believe she swore. Can’t believe she’s angry at me.
“What? Tell me,” she persists.
“I don’t know.” I back off, unable to tell her the truth: that I’m pissed she’s having a baby. “Everything.”
“Like what? Say something. Say one exact thing. One exact thing that you’re so goddamn angry about. Come on, I’m waiting