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“Thank you, Brother,” I smile. “That was just what I needed.”
“It was just what we needed, too,” Brother Owen agrees. “You should be getting back to your mother now. Don’t forget to be ready on Friday night.”
I shrug my agreement. It doesn't seem so bad now. Somehow, I'm sure I will find the strength.
Angel
The next few days go by about as slowly as possible. Mama seems even more absent than usual, and I take an extra shift in the reclamation shed just to keep my mind occupied.
Tulip must feel bad about what she said to me because she seems sort of stiff and tense. And I suppose her ceremony is this week too. It’s a big deal for her but I do not want to ask about it. I’d rather just let that information flow past me without thinking about it, like a leaf on the river.
When Friday comes, I'm careful to groom myself the way that Brother Owen suggested. I bathe again in the afternoon after work, tying my hair back with a little bit of fabric fashioned into a ribbon. I made myself a dress out of a shower curtain with tiny blue flowers all over it. Hydrangeas, I think they are, little puffs of color like cotton candy.
It looks all right, I suppose. I watch myself in the mirror, turning from side to side, trying to see what I'll look like to strangers. What are they expecting? Fancy clothes? Makeup? We are not allowed to wear makeup. My freckles are about the only adornment I've got.
My last chore for today is preparing dinner. I fry up some pork chops in the cast-iron skillet, dropping some green beans to lightly cook in the fat. It's a nice, simple, homey meal. The sort of thing I will be preparing for my family, when I have one.
Looks like I might be having one sooner rather than later.
“You all right?” Mama asks me from the kitchen doorway. She leans against the framing with one shoulder, her arms folded, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
I turn around in surprise, biting my lips together and trying to rearrange my face into a neutral expression.
“All right? Of course I am all right.”
“What's that you're wearing?”
I glance down. How am I supposed to explain this?
“Angel? Are you planning on answering me?”
“Just have a seat. I’ve got your dinner right here,” I say, trying to change the subject.
But it doesn't work. Though she pulls out a wooden chair, scraping it along the floor before she sits, she keeps her eyes on me. She’s scrutinizing everything I do now, trying to figure out exactly what's going on before I tell her. She considers herself quite shrewd and is a large fan of mystery novels that we sometimes get in the donations. I found that out now. Mary likes the romances. Agatha likes the thrillers and horror stories, my mother prefers mysteries. No wonder she thinks she's so smart.
Her plate clunks against the table as I push it toward her. She picks up her fork and leans back in her chair while I sit.
“So?” she persists.
I shrug. Something tells me if I start to talk about this, I’ll cry. I don't want to do that. I want to be brief.
“Have you been drinking?” I ask her suddenly. She opens her mouth in shock.
“How dare you? I am your mother!”
I nod, taking a knife to cut neat little triangles out of my pork chop. The meat glistens with a sheen of oil and little flecks of black pepper.
“I know you are,” I say evenly, careful to control my voice. I've been taking my new role seriously, testing the boundaries of what I can and can't say. This might be farther than is really wise.
“What I do is really none of your business,” she mutters testily. “Honestly. I can’t believe you.”
She stuffs some pork chop into her mouth, chewing noisily. I detect a faint whiff of alcohol, certain that she's exhaling it through her nose right now.
“Where would you even get it?”
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“Honestly,” she says again.
