All of These Things Read Free

aloud to me.
    “Princess,” Jed reads, “One day, you will be like me.”
    Jed’s glare leaps off the elegant paper, and his awkward pause is just enough time to send his group on a brusque hunt for me. They find me on one of two charcoal armchairs, my gaze bouncing frantically from face to interrogating face. The rest of me is limp and rigid at once. My legs are coiled stiffly around each other like a climbing vine of white denim, and my fisted hands press at the center of my belly. I shift, moving deeper into the rounded-back chair, writhing under a grey t-shirt while my mother, in the chair beside me, is perched at the edge of her seat.
    Jed continues to assess me. I reckon he’s checking in for the odd chance I’ve keeled over in the snazzy, new meeting room. When my mother was a resident, over two decades ago, the main building was the only construction on the property. Undoubtedly, after all these years, the administration and staff have figured out that becoming like her scares the life out of me.
    Jed’s gaze returns to the paper in his hand, and I swallow before he picks up again. “You won’t be absurdly fond of things, or wild and fanciful, because you don’t have one of my crazy bones in your body…”
    His gaze rises again—this time landing on Mom.
    “Oh, I know what you’re going to say,” she replies with unequivocal poise. All that’s missing from her comportment and impeccable posture is a slim cigarette squeezed between her black-cherry polished fingers—not that she smokes, but it would positively match her air.
    “Honestly, Jed, I wrote that note to my daughter, and it is about me , so I don’t see why I can’t be judgemental if I want to. Besides,” Mom carries on, draping one leg over the other, “I didn’t pin-point to anyone in the group, did I? I didn’t say ‘Nora is twenty years too late changing her hair colour for a cheating, callous, husband,’ or ‘Raina’s insistence on a lack of make-up is what’s keeping her dreadfully run-down ’. I didn’t say that, did I?” Her elevated foot draws a continuous loop of elegant circles in the air.
    A shudder resonates around the room, and I blanch. My mother’s words are often a kick to my teeth, so why is it everyone turns to stare me down at times like these, as though I have any control over the woman?
    Mom glances in my direction.
    “Oh, Caroline, stop that,” she pesters. “We’re fair-skinned you and I, and people like us can’t go into shock. It doesn’t suit us. And don’t frown, Princess. I don’t understand why you want to age before your time. You risk expression lines every time you do that.”
    A muted snarl escapes me.
    Seven are partaking in today’s circle, not including Jed or two other family members unrelated to Mom and me, and each drop-in has come to know Mom well. On any given week, she’s either detached and aloof or perturbingly loquacious. Her mood swings—my mother’s awkward preoccupations and spectacularly ill-timed contributions to a conversation—are more than tricky for me. More often than not, they require some level of damage control which I admit can exhaust and embarrass me in equal measure. To be honest, it’s the main reason I waver to set a date with Ryan for our parents to meet.
    Mom’s red pumps sneak out from her black, flared pants. I notice Hugo’s eyes rolling in unison from across the room. He’s in a trance following the rotation of her foot. I clasp a hand on Mom’s knee to arrest the movement, but maybe too abruptly because Lianne jolts in her seat. Realizing what I’ve done, I immediately revoke the gesture. My hand lands harshly against my own chest, and again, Lianne flinches.
    “Oh, God. I’m sorry. “Hands on me”, I know. I’m so sorry, Lianne. Sorry, Jed,” I say. “Mother,” I whisper sternly, “be nice or else… no Sephora for you today.”
    Mom’s mouth falls open, but no words come out. The beauty emporium has become a valuable bargaining