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“She died?”
“Not right then, but she might as well have.She was allergic to everything after that, perfume, the outdoors, even Daddy.EspeciallyDaddy.”
I started to tell her about my father’s death in hopes that we might find common ground.How else was I going to get her to help me get out of here?But I didn’t get that far, because she wouldn’t let me.She wanted to get some sort of point across.
“One Sunday, Mama made a roast, even though standing up too long made her really sick.Daddy said he was bringing a guest to Sunday supper.Neither of us knew it would be Sandy.Mama hated her straightaway, but me, I was intrigued.She had the longest hair I’d ever seen.It was as black as black could get.Her eyes were catlike, but then so was the way she moved.You never knew with Sandy when she might pounce.But that wasn’t even the worst of it.”
“No?”
“She always waited for the most perfect—by that I mean the most inopportune—time.Daddy said we needed Sandy to help around the house now that Mama was sick, but I never saw Sandy do much of anything except brush that long, black hair of hers.Mama hated her with a passion and rarely came out of her room.The feeling, I guess you could say, was mutual.Sandy always said to Mama, ‘Die already.’And then one day she did.”
“Jesus.”
“Sandy didn’t care for me much, either.But that was probably just because I knew something she didn’t know.”
