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“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”
“Depressed again,” my mother says with another eye-roll, pouring herself a large glass of wine.
“Rhonda, drop it,” he says, and my shoulders relax just a bit with relief. I can feel her eyes boring holes into my father and me, but I ignore her, grateful for the reprieve.
Now, I just have to make it through a few more hours.
An hour later, I’m sitting at my childhood dinner table, my eyes locked on the meal in front of me: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, and baby carrots. It’s been in the five-meal rotation since I was a kid, even though I’ve hated both carrots and meatloaf with a vengeance since I was five and realized I could dislike foods rather than dutifully eating them just because my mother served them.
Everyone is at the assigned seats we’ve always had: my sister across from me, dad at the head of the too-long table, and mom at the other end.
Everest, or Evie as everyone but my mother calls her, is my fraternal twin. We look nothing alike, except for small, almost unexplainable similarities which make it clear we’re sisters, but not necessarily that we’re twins.
She sits, moving around the mashed potatoes. While I was served and expected to eat every bite on my plate out of spite, Evie was always expected to eat just enough to sustain a small toddler. Our mother had her different ways to pick at us, to keep us on our toes and in line. Mine was her disapproval of my friends, of my life choices, and, of course, of Riggins, but for Evie it was her undying disapproval of her body.
While she loves to fuck with me, to torment and remind me of all of the things I’ll never be strong or smart or capable enough to do, sometimes I’m grateful I got this end of the stick. Evie stays in line and still gets torn down repeatedly.
Of course, she lets her because if there’s one thing that is ingrained in my sister’s DNA, it’s striving for our mother’s approval. I only come to these dinners because Evie will never be able to cut our mother out, and I think if she disowns me, there’s a chance she’ll push Evie to cut ties, too. And if I’m here, it’s an extra person for my mother to focus her anger and sorrow on.
But it seems Evie is safe tonight since she seems intent on picking on me.
“Stella, next Friday, you’re going on a date with Francesca’s son, Parker.”This again.
I blink at my plate a few times before looking up at my mother. Her hair is the same dark brown as mine but without the lowlights breaking up the color. She has it cut into a severe bob ending at her chin, and it barely moves as she looks up at me. There’s a pair of pearls at her ears and a strand around her neck. Her black dress is perfectly tailored. She’s dressed to the nines, despite the fact that I know today is her grocery shopping and clean-the-house day.
I also know she put this outfit on at 6 am before getting coffee and breakfast ready for my father before he left for work.
My father, who’s nearly seventy, does not need to work. My parents could easily live off of retirement savings and the income from the diner, but I’m convinced that man refuses to retire because that would mean spending every waking hour with my mother, and what kind of torture would that be?
“What?” I ask.
“Next Friday, you’re going on a date with Parker Johnson, Francesca’s son,” she repeats. I roll my lips into my mouth and fight back the version of me who argues with my mother. She’s been missing for seven years, and I’m not letting her out now.
“I appreciate it, mother, but I’m not interested in dating.” Her chin goes firm, her eyes going steely with her irritation at the fact that I’d deign to argue with something she’s saying.
You don’t do that in this household. I learned that lesson young, forgot it, and regretted it ever since.
“It wasn’t an option, Stella. The date is made. He’ll pick you up at your house and take you out for dinner and dancing.”
Dinner and dancing. My god.
“Mom, that’s really not my style; I’d much rather?—”
“You’re going,” my mother repeats before taking a deep sip of her wine.
“Rhonda,” my father starts, his voice low. “Maybe we let Stella decide who and when she wants to date.” My father piping up means that this is going to be an issue, something he knows she’s going to dig her heels in on.
I knew the moment I argued I should’ve said yes and gone on the date to avoid the drama, but something made me feel like I needed to argue, to not be the perfect daughter I’ve forced myself to become.
Riggins.
Of course, it’s Riggins. I can’t even pretend I don’t know that, that him just being in town isn’t impacting me, fucking with my new life, cracking the shell I had to craft after we broke up all those years ago.
Broke up,I think.Such a funny choice of words, Stella.
“If we do that, she’s going to die alone,” my mother insists.
Evie rolls her eyes and sighs loudly. “Stella is not going to die alone, mother.”
