The Language of Sisters (34 page)

“Better, now,” he said with a wink, and my stomach clenched. I was pretty sure he was Carter’s dad, and the husband of the heavy, black-haired woman, whom I only knew as “Carter’s
mom.” I didn’t like the way he was looking at Mama. I didn’t like how hairy his knuckles were, either.

“Honey,” Carter’s mom called out now, noticing her husband talking to us. “Are you watching the game?”

“Carter’s not even on the field yet,” he said, sharply, giving her a hard look. Then he turned his gaze back to Mama, softening it. “Sorry to hear about you and Victor. You two always seemed so happy.”

Mama kept her smile bright, but I saw the flash of grief in her eyes. Even after all this time, she still seemed to miss him. Just a few weeks ago, she accidentally set a place for him at the dinner table. “I guess things aren’t always as they seem,” she said to Carter’s father, now.

“I guess not,” he said with a chuckle. He glanced toward the parking lot. “Is Victor coming today?”

Mama shook her head. “He wanted to, but he’s working. He’ll be here next week, for sure. It’s his weekend with the kids.”
He wanted to?
If that was true, it was news to me. I wondered if Mama made that up.

Carter’s dad leaned down, closer to Mama. “And what about you?” he almost whispered. “Will
you
be here?”

“Mike!” Carter’s mom said loudly. “Can you please get me another blanket from the car? It’s colder than I thought out here.”

Carter’s dad straightened, put both feet back on the ground, and winked at Mama before he looked up at his wife. “Sure thing,” he said, flatly. He let his fingers brush against Mama’s arm as he walked past her, and I saw Mama shrink back.

“He’s
gross
,” I whispered to Mama, and she turned her head, her lips pursed.

“You hush, now. That’s impolite.”

“So was he!” I said, maybe a little too loudly.

Mama drew her eyebrows together over the bridge of her nose. “Ava. Watch your mouth. You’re too young to be talking like that about a grown-up.” She straightened in her seat, and then cupped her hands around her mouth. “Go on, now, Max!” she hollered as
the team ran onto the field. “Push ’em back, push ’em back, waaay back!” She jumped up, shimmied her bent arms, and wiggled her tiny behind.

“Mama,”
I said, cringing a bit as the other women behind us stopped talking and stared. Acting like that would just make the other mothers make fun of her—didn’t she
know
that?

“I think that’s a
football
cheer, Kelli,” Carter’s mom said, and then I saw her roll her eyes. I gritted my teeth, wishing I had something to throw at her. Something sharp and hard that would hurt. I’d hate to see
her
get up and shake her rear end—it would probably affect the rotation of the earth.

Mama laughed and gave a little shrug. “Oh well,” she said, sitting back down. “I never could keep my sports straight. I guess it’s a good thing Max is playing and not me.”

“Oh yes,” another woman said. “What a relief.” She had brown hair and a tightly pinched mouth. “Did you remember to bring snacks?”

Mama turned to look at her and nodded. “Chocolate peanut butter cupcakes, fresh out of the oven this morning.” She grinned, awaiting approval. I held my breath.

The brown-haired woman frowned. “
Peanut butter?
We can’t serve that. Taylor is allergic.” She paused. “And Carter is gluten intolerant. Wheat flour is like poison for him. Didn’t you review the approved snack list we handed out at the beginning of the season?”

Mama’s smile melted away. “Oh,” she began, her voice faltering. “No. I didn’t realize … ”

Carter’s mom sighed and stood up. “I can run to the co-op and grab some rice crackers and fruit,” she said.

Mama stood, as well. “Please,” she said, “let me. It was my mistake.”

“It’s fine,” the woman said as she grabbed her purse. “I’ll just go catch
my husband
at the car. We’ll go together.”

Mama sank back down onto the bleacher, her shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry,” she said to the other women. “I can bring a better snack the next time.”

Again, no one responded, and Mama turned away and faced the field. Her eyes were shiny, and she held her chin high. I slipped my hand into hers and squeezed it. “I
love
your cupcakes,” I said. “They’re the best ones I’ve ever had.”

Now, it was a Friday in October, and I was thinking about that morning because we were running late again. Except this time it was my fault—I’d spent too much time in the shower, conditioning my hair and carefully shaving my legs. Mama said the hair wasn’t thick enough for me to
need
to shave yet, but all the other girls in eighth grade did it, so I begged her to let me do it, too. “They call me
Chewbacca
during gym!” I told her, and she’d relented.

“Ava, hurry up, please!” Mama called out from the kitchen.

“Be right there!” I said, glancing in the full-length mirror on my closet door one last time, making sure that the outfit I’d picked out looked okay. I liked my long, purple shirt and I knew I was luckier than a lot of girls in my class; I could wear skinny jeans and still cross my legs beneath my desk. My dark brown hair was held back from my face with a thin elastic headband, and thanks to the expensive salon conditioner I’d saved up my allowance to buy, it looked shiny and smooth. Still, I found myself wishing for the millionth time that my mom would let me wear makeup. The few times I’d tried to sneak it, using my friend Bree’s mascara and lipstick in the bathroom at school, Mama had caught me, even though I thought I’d washed it all off. “You’re a natural beauty, love,” she said, cupping my face in her hands. “Let’s save the makeup for when you actually need it.”

I didn’t know why she got to be the one who decided when I needed it. It was
my
face. Plus, almost all the other eighth-grade girls at Seattle Academy wore makeup; I was fairly certain that meant I should get to, too. But I’d had enough arguments with her about it to understand this wasn’t a fight I was going to win.

Sighing, I grabbed her black boots, the ones she said I could borrow, pulled them on over my jeans, then lugged my heavy backpack down the hall. Mama stood by the kitchen counter,
still in her pajamas, which consisted of gray yoga pants and a red T-shirt that looked tiny enough that it might have actually been my brother’s. From the back, she looked like a little girl. Her blond hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and she gripped a coffee mug with both hands, sipping from it as she stared out the window into the backyard. It was still dark, but at least it wasn’t raining. “I’m ready,” I announced.

She turned to look at me with a tired smile, and I noticed that her lips were the same pale hue as her skin, and the space beneath her eyes was tinged blue. For the fourth time that week, I’d woken up to the sound of the television in her bedroom in the middle of the night. She still wasn’t sleeping. “Hey there, sugar,” she said. “You’re as pretty as dew on a rose.”

I rolled my eyes a little and shook my head, but smiled back at her, anyway, accustomed to her flowery comparisons. She was prone to silly compliments about my looks. I didn’t really feel pretty; I was okay, I guessed, but nothing like my mom, who my friend Peter told me all the boys in my class thought was a MILF because she was blond and thin and had big boobs. I’d nodded, even though I hadn’t known what the term meant at that time, so it wasn’t until I got home and looked it up online that I wanted to barf. I knew my mom was better looking than some of my friends’ mothers, but the thought of the boys wanting to have sex with her made me cringe.

“Do you want breakfast?” Mama asked. “I made some toast. I could throw peanut butter on it so you’d get some protein.”

I shook my head. She knew I didn’t like to eat first thing in the morning, but that didn’t stop her from trying to feed me. “I can have a granola bar after homeroom.” I patted my backpack, to let her know I was all set. “Are you working today?” Her job was at a fancy restaurant downtown, the place my dad used to manage before he started his own restaurant. They had met there, and she had to go back to work after he moved out three years ago. She said she liked her job because it was flexible enough that she could drive us to school in the morning and pick us up. The few
nights she had to work, our neighbor and her best friend, Diane, came over until Max went to bed. I was old enough to stay alone, but Mama worried about me babysitting my brother while he was awake. We fought too much.

She shook her head. “Nope. But I took a double shift tomorrow, since you two will be with your dad. I’m working Sunday brunch, too.” She gave me an empty, halfhearted smile then, like she always did when she knew Max and I would be gone for the weekend.

“I’ll have her toast!” Max said, piping up from the table, where he was slurping down the last of the milk from his cereal bowl.

“Do you ever stop eating?” I asked, wrinkling my nose at him. “It’s gross.”

“
You’re
gross,” Max countered, lifting his pointy chin back at me.

“Ooo, burn,” I said, rolling my eyes again.
He is such a little dweeb
. I looked at the clock, and then my mom. “Can we go? I don’t want to be late for homeroom.”

“Yes, we should.” She shuffled over to me in her slippers and threw her slender arms around my neck. Wearing her boots, we were almost the same height. “I love you, baby girl,” she whispered. “So much.”

“Love you, too,” I said, hugging her back. She felt fragile in my embrace; her bones like brittle twigs that might snap if I held her too tightly. She was getting so skinny; I could circle her entire wrist with my index finger and thumb and still not touch her skin. She said she ate at the restaurant after her shifts, but her clothes had started looking looser the past few months, so I wasn’t sure she was telling me the truth. She’d done the same thing after my dad moved out—no sleep and no food—but Diane made her go to the doctor for some kind of pills and she started getting better after that. I wasn’t sure if she was taking those pills anymore.

I wondered if missing her parents had anything to do with how she was feeling now. She called them last night, but they
didn’t answer the phone. They lived in a small town outside of San Luis Obispo in California, where Mama grew up, and they’d never even once come to see us, which I honestly thought was kind of strange, considering they were Mama’s only family and Max and I were their grandchildren. I guess they didn’t even think they could
have
a baby, but Mama was born when Gramma was forty-two and Mama said they thanked God and called her their “miracle.” And even though they never visited, she still called their house a couple of times a year. When they actually answered the phone, the conversations were always short and her voice got tight and shaky as she spoke with them. Afterward, she’d usually go to her bedroom and cry. I tried not to worry about Mama too much, but she sure didn’t make it easy.

I looked over to Max, who was making fun of me hugging our mom with a goofy kissy face and pretending to hug himself. “Max,” I said sternly, “go brush your teeth. We’ll be in the car.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Max said as he dropped his bowl into the sink with a clatter. My mother startled at the noise, sucking in a sharp breath, and pulled away from me.

“Max!” she said loudly, then took another, slower breath. She put one hand against the wall, like she suddenly had to hold herself up, then spoke again in a quieter tone. “Brush your teeth, little man, right this instant. Don’t make me get the switch.” She winked at him then, and he giggled, knowing full well our mother would never hit us. It was a joke she used, to let us know she meant business. Our dad used to say it to us, too, as a joke, but after he moved out, he stopped.

Max raced down the hallway to the bathroom, and my mother stared off after him.

“Are you okay, Mama?” I asked, noticing she was breathing a little faster than usual. She kept her hand on the wall, her shoulders curled forward.

“I’m fine. Just a little dizzy, for some reason.” She turned her head and gave me a tiny smile, dropping her hand to her side and straightening her spine. “Probably too much caffeine.”

I nodded, then looked at the stack of paper on the entryway table—bills, I guessed. Ones she hadn’t paid yet. “Want me to help you write the checks tonight?” I asked as we headed out the door and toward the driveway.

“Hmm?” she murmured. “What was that?”

I felt a twinge of irritation. “The bills.” I knew my friends didn’t help their parents with this kind of thing, but it was something we did together. Mama said it was only because I had better handwriting than hers, but the last time I watched her try to do it alone, she started crying, so I offered to fill the checks out and she could just sign them. Max got to put the stamp on the envelopes. We sort of turned it into a game. But when I told my dad about it, the muscles around his lips got all twitchy, and I asked him if it was bad that we helped her.

“She’s a grown-up, honey,” he said, putting his long arm around my shoulders and squeezing me to him. “You’re a kid. You shouldn’t have that kind of responsibility.”

I shrugged, and threw both of my arms around his waist, breathing in the earthy fragrance of roasted meat off his shirt. Some fathers wore cologne; mine wore scents born in a kitchen. “I don’t mind,” I said. I didn’t like feeling that he was criticizing her; I didn’t want to get her in trouble.

“I’ll talk with her,” he said, but I don’t think he ever did. Now that they were divorced, they only talked to each other when they had to, and when they did, it was with short, hard sentences that seemed more like weapons than words.

“When are you bringing them back?” Mama asked him when he picked us up every other Saturday. She never did quite look directly at him, either. Her eyes drifted just over his right shoulder.

“Five o’clock tomorrow,” my dad told her, sometimes even shifting his feet a little, like he couldn’t wait for her to stop moving her mouth. “Like always.” He stood in the entryway, not coming all the way into the house while we got ready to go with him.