a light on all the time behind the irises. “I’ve changed my mind. Throw out those pink letters I sent you. I’ve decided that we don’t need your help.”
Ah. So it would be this way. We grew up with her demands, her retractions, the guilt trips, righteous self-anger. I know what she is, and isn’t, but when I’m with her I can get things all screwed up, as if my head is in a blender and the blender is turned on to “grind.” “Momma, you’re going in for open-heart surgery. We got your letters, we came, we want to help you.”
“I can handle it myself. Your presence here is no longer needed.” Her green eyes shot tiny emerald-tipped daggers at us. We were bad larvae, she told us without saying a word. Bad larvae.
“1…2…3…4…” Janie whimpered.
“You can’t do it all, Momma. You can’t take care of Grandma and Henry and the bakery and yourself.”
“Cecilia can do it. Cecilia can help with Henry. She can move into this house and watch him and she can keep an eye on Grandma.” She adjusted the starched white collar of her shirt. She wore a light pink sweater over it, pearl earrings, and beige slacks. Understated elegance. Prim and proper. “Cecilia has always been here for me.”
I glanced at Cecilia and felt my chest get all tight and emotional, if a chest can get emotional. The emotional toll for being “there” for Momma had about puréed poor Cecilia.
“Cecilia works as a kindergarten teacher, Momma. She has two kids. She has other problems, you know that.” For example, she has to figure out a way to fillet Parker.
“Cecilia is always the daughter who has come through for me and she will again. She can do anything. Anything.”
I felt my throat tighten, like it was shrinking. Cecilia is always the daughter who has come through for me. I told myself to buck up. Tears never helped a situation. Never. What were they worth? Nothing.
“I’ve taught her everything she knows about the bakery and she’ll carry on. It won’t be the River Way, but Cecilia will do her best.”
I closed my eyes to smother my temper. Momma always did this, played one daughter against the other. You probably think that I hate Cecilia for this favoritism. That would be entirely wrong. I feel sorry for Cecilia. Momma might declare that Cecilia is her favorite, but it’s kind of like being the favorite of the devil’s assistant.
“You are a separate person. You can control how you react to her,” muttered Janie. “Breathe deeply.”
I heard her breathe deeply, then make a humming sound as she exhaled. “Set a boundary. Believe in the boundary.”
“You and Janie came to help?” Momma arched a perfectly plucked brow. “Perhaps Janie will teach all of us to count?”
“Momma, stop it, that is not nice,” Cecilia interrupted. “Janie is here, isn’t she?”
I could tell she was petrified at the thought of me and Janie bolting out the door. She knew she couldn’t handle teaching and her kids and Grandma and Henry and the bakery. Who could?
No one.
“Janie’s here, yes,” Momma mused, cupping the bottom of her perfect hair. “But I don’t understand how someone who can write best-selling novels from a houseboat in Portland can’t make time for her momma.”
Janie took a gaspy breath. “I do make time for you, Momma.”
“No, you don’t, young lady. You. Do. Not. Too busy being famous for your momma.”
I heard Janie mutter to herself, “Janie, you can’t change her, you can only change your reaction to her.”
“Must you mutter to yourself?” Momma snapped. “I told you not to do that eons ago. Stand up straight, and what on earth are you wearing? Do you want to be frumpy and old? Why are you wearing flat brown shoes? And where did you get that dress? From a farmer’s wife? Why do you have gray in your hair? I’m your mother and I don’t let any gray show in my hair.”
She crossed her hands in front of her. “Gray is for old women. It’s for women who don’t care about their appearance anymore. You girls are only in your thirties, but…you’re getting old, Janie, I can tell. You should be working to retain your youth, not diving into middle age.”
“Momma!” Cecilia and I protested.
Janie muttered beside me, her voice teary. “She’s a hurt, deranged woman. You need to be strong. Rise above her pettiness.”
“Stop that muttering this instant!” Momma lashed out.
“Okay, Momma, okay,” I said, putting my hand out toward her and stepping in front of Janie.
Janie whimpered and said to herself, “You are separate from her. She cannot hurt you if you don’t let her. Breathhhheee…”
How many times had I done this? How many times had Cecilia? Physically stepped in front of Janie to shield her from Momma? We were all her personal dartboards, but Momma’s remarks always aimed especially sharp at Janie. Probably because Janie wouldn’t fight back. I would. Sometimes Cecilia did. But not Janie. She crumpled.
“Humph.” Momma’s attention, diverted from Janie, turned on me. “I see you’re still wearing your hair in hundreds of little braids, Isabelle. Why is that? You’re not a black person, are you?”
Cecilia murmured, “And the witch speaks…”
“I don’t believe I’m an African-American, Momma, unless there’s something you want to tell me?”
“Black people braid their hair. Are you black? No, you’re not. It is unbecoming on you. It is tacky. It is classless.”
“Actually, my braids are cool.” I met her gaze, shoulders back. In my work, I had faced down murderous warlords, scary men with mirrored glasses and guns; escaped from rioting, delirious mobs; and hidden behind tanks to avoid grenades. I could handle my momma.
Probably.
“Cool?” She rapped her perfectly polished red nails on the table. “Cool? You remind me of a hippie who might have camped out at Woodstock in the 1960s. Do you never wear a bra?”
“Not today. I needed to feel loose today, like I wasn’t suffocating.”
“Loose? A lady never should feel loose. Breasts should be in bras, close to the body, with no jiggle. So what is your excuse for flopping about in such a completely unladylike fashion?”
I resisted the urge to laugh at the hypocrisy behind that statement. “Well, I burned a couple of bras this past week on my balcony and didn’t feel like putting another one on. Plus, I knew, Momma, that I would have the pleasure of your company.”
She simmered. “Pray tell, what does that have to do with bras?”
“I needed to feel a bit freer, not constricted, because I know you’ll make me feel like I should commit myself and beg for a straitjacket.”
She drew in a deep breath, stuck her bosom out. “You will not speak to me like that. I’ll not have it! It’s disrespectful.”
“And you will not bully Janie, Momma.” I put my hands on my hips, but my whole body hurt. Why couldn’t she love us like a normal mother? Why couldn’t she hug us and hold us and thank us for coming?
“I sacrificed for the three of you for years—”
“Don’t start in, Momma. Don’t start.”
“I gave you everything I had when you were children—”
“Yes, you did. You also were often as mean as a cornered rattlesnake and went to bed for weeks on end,” I said.
“How dare you. How dare you!” She hit the table with her palms.
“I dare because I’m not going to allow you to