By Angélica Pina Lèbre
I was scared of opening something expensive. So, I poured a glass of what I thought was the cheapest red wine in the cellar. Not that you would say anything. You never said anything. The glass was intricate. Crystal. The one we inherited from your side of the family. I wasn’t scared of breaking it. I took the glass to the bathroom. Washed my hair. When I thought I heard a cry, I opened the bathroom door and stuck a wet ear out. No sound. I brought the glass to the kitchen and refilled it. Took out some cheese. French. Blue. Goat. A duck pâté. Crackers. I heard a cough. I left the kitchen, thermometer in hand. Stood at her bedroom door. Waited. Cough. I stepped onto the first creaky floorboard, and before I saw it, I smelled it. Fresh vomit. All over the bed. She remained asleep, unaware of what had come out of her. I took her in my arms and laid her on the floor. She was warm like a fresh pain au chocolat. I changed the sheets. In changing her clothes, she woke up. Groggy eyes. Hoarse voice. What happened? Her hands twisted on her eyes. You threw up. No, I didn’t. Yes, you did. No, I didn’t throw up. Okay, you didn’t. Let me change your clothes now. Arms up. This will make you feel better. Open wide. Swallow. Good girl. Let me get your toothbrush. But I’ve already brushed my teeth. I know, but you vomited. I didn’t. Okay, you see this? It’s full of sugar. You don’t want to be full of fillings like Mummy, do you? She sucked her lips in and shook her head. Why didn’t your adults brush your teeth when you were little? My adults? Well, the adults in my life didn’t brush my teeth because they didn’t know. I really wanted to say they didn’t care. Now kiss. Cuddle. Good night, honey. I love you. Stay. Stay with me, Mummy. Please. Just a little bit. And she showed me how much time she wanted me to stay by the distance between her thumb and index finger parallel to each other. Okay, just a little bit then. We cuddled with her stuffed platypus between us. Pas Rose. That was the name you gave him. Stating the obvious. He was brown and gray like a real platypus. The only egg-laying mammal, a fact I once announced. A fact our daughter was quick to correct. Apparently since I finished high school, another mammal had graduated to laying eggs. Probably Australian too. Anyway, he is not pink. And he doesn’t lay eggs because he is a he. And stuffed. My lips swiped against her cheek. Right. Left. Velvety like the inside of a rose petal. I went back to my glass in the kitchen. Finished my cheese and pâté. I had planned to go to sleep early. Now I had to wait for the sheets to wash. Nine p.m. You hadn’t texted me all night. You used to. Before our daughter was born. And even after. Right after we had her. I could read the guilt between the lines. You’ll arrive stinking of alcohol. Not that I’ll say anything. I never say anything. Yes, I’ve considered it. I have imagined all the details of it. But you wouldn’t do that. I know you wouldn’t. No. You would not sleep with someone else. Not because you don’t want to. You just don’t have the courage. And even if you did sleep with someone else, I would never leave you. No. I would simply open a more expensive bottle of wine. We could still share the bed. Besides, I don’t think I would blame you. I would love to do the same. But, like you, I don’t have the courage. Our daughter. She’s with me everywhere. All the time. Even when I’m alone in the shower. She’s with me. She would know. Even if she didn’t know. She would know. I took the glass to bed and opened a thin book. I read poetry now. Not that you care. Fifteen minutes and I can hang the sheets and go to sleep. I usually don’t wash clothes so late, but it’s not like I had a choice today. Anyway, I read poetry now. I like it when it rhymes. Even though most poems don’t rhyme these days. I did send a picture of a poem I was reading to you at lunch time. While our daughter napped. You laughed through a watery emoji. I bet your lips didn’t move. You said it didn’t look like poetry. What do you know? Beep. Beep. Beep. Goody. There were sheets hanging everywhere. Every door and chair. From other vomiting incidents during the day. I heard the key enter the door. I shouldn’t be awake. I said I was going to bed early. I hid the glass behind the bedside cabinet, pulled the duvet over my shoulders, and closed my eyes. You closed the door slowly so it wouldn’t wake our daughter. Too bad you almost fell in the kitchen. Your drunkenness must have gotten entangled in the sheets. I cringed waiting for the cry. It didn’t come. You came into the bedroom and threw yourself on your side of the bed trapping the duvet under your weight. I heard the instant snore. Opened one eye. The other. Kitchen light and jeans still on. Well done for managing the shoes off, love. The smell wasn’t that strong. I reached a hand over the wall of pillows that separated my side of the bed from yours. I touched the knob of your elbow. You hadn’t brushed your teeth.
I really love this. A raw depiction of motherhood and life, not living up to the fairytale ending we all think it’ll be.
Brilliant story!!
A Day In The Life, as the Beatles would sing.
The real life in so much detail.
I think you do read poetry. In fact, I’d wager you’ve studied it.
Other comments have delved into the realism of your story, so I won’t repeat them.
What struck me was your use of words.
In your narrative you show that you know what your readers expect. You know that so clearly that you don’t need punctuation or explanations. We get that the narrator is a mother. We get when there is a dialog happening. We get who is saying what in that dialog. You set your readers up so perfectly that we don’t need things spelled out to us.
But in doing so, there’s also the disappointment at the story not “finishing”. The narrator stops, of course. But we know the story doesn’t end there. You’ve catered to our curiosity throughout the tale, except at the end. There is no end. Our curiosity – like your characters’ life –endures. Bitter for the us to read as it seems to be for the narrator to live it, you’ve achieved the goal of any writer: to make the reader actually feel.
Será que ela vai continuar nessa vida para sempre?
Texto incrível, prende nossa atenção até o final e ainda nos deixa curiosos para saber como será o futuro deles….
The short sentences and single paragraph style worked so well to create a feeling of something piling up, like getting buried under the piling. A tangled feeling, those sheets. A sense of still plodding through despite all of it. Nicely, concisely done!
Vivid and sad. Why is the child throwing up so much? A passing bug, or her growing awareness of the tension between her mismatched parents? I vote for the latter.
Love how the style really catches the reader‘s attention and gives a fast flow to the reading!