All of These Things Read Free Page A

chip of late, and I want more than anything to reprimand her for being so uncouth. Tidying up after her mess has always made me feel like a mother collecting an errant child from school, but in session I must resign from the process I know too well. Here, the circumstances are different. It’s Jed’s job to guide and intervene, and once the ninety minutes conclude… well, then it’s back to me picking up the pieces left behind.
    “Amalia,” Jed utters in a way that tells me he’s about to express displeasure followed by a benevolent reminder, “we vetoed the word “crazy”. You helped Amy with the approved wordlist, but you still used it in the message to your daughter. Our wordlist is an esteemed accomplishment for the group. Do you no longer think so?”
    “Yes, yes. We’re very esteemed,” she says dismissively. “Nora, Raina, I can help you. Trust me. I know colour more than Christie Brinkley knows Cover Girl. Just ask my daughter. Isn’t that right, Princess? Tell them.”
    I shrug. “Yes, actually. That is true.”
    “See.” Mom grins, the heavy side-part of her shiny, blond hair covers an eye, shielding half her face and red-orange lips. The pin curl waves would make Veronica Lake jealous; I’ve only known my mother to be particularly fixed on neat, chic, retro styles. I glance over to Jed, surveying him.
    To be honest, I’m growing increasingly annoyed by his incompetence to steer discussions back to topic—not that I’m eager to hear more of my mother’s note. It irks me that she’s being given any momentum to openly criticize these people. Unlike Jed, who is an amateur compared to the others I’ve met at Catherine’s House, Amy Walsh would definitely have a handle on this situation. The others in the group are obviously inept or uncomfortable to defend themselves at this point in their lives. Foregoing all I have to do today before leaving on holiday with Sofie tomorrow suddenly seems like a bad idea. Actually, it’s the first time I’m not referring to the trip itself as a bad idea. I look intently at Jed Rosenberg and communicate a pleading thought to move on.
    “Right,” Jed jumps in. “So, Amalia, may I read the rest of your letter?”
    “It’s not a letter. I don’t want a response.”
    “Alright but don’t you want Caroline to hear—”
    “Jed?” Lianne calls from the yellow sofa. “Jed, why doesn’t Amalia write in a journal like the rest of us?”
    “I’m hardly twelve, Lianne. I don’t keep diaries,” my mother rebukes, barely keeping her impatience at bay.
    Generally, the group annoys her. She refuses to recognize they may walk on common ground—that they could be an alliance rather than a provocation. Mom will refute the notion she shares a bond with any participant and resents them as much as she does Jed or even Amy and Dr. Toussaint. Frankly, she despises anyone who has anything to do with the place. She’ll criticize its orderlies, cooks, ground keepers, and every last person of the rancid bunch, and is absolutely convinced they’re conspiring to make her life miserable.
    “It’s all the same,” Jed explains, “on paper or in a book. That’s not a big detail for us, folks. Besides I’m sure Amalia spoke to Amy about her choice. What counts here is that we’re doing the homework.”
    “But why don’t you want to write in a book? They sell real pretty ones in the gift shop.”
    I narrow my gaze in Lianne’s direction. The mousy slip-of-a-thing manages to potentially be a major source of an explosion. Her incessant observations and commentary necessitate frequent mediation, and from what I can see radiating from my mother, I think Jed may have to defuse another ticking bomb.
    “Because, Lee- anne ,” the top of Mom’s cheeks flush, “I don’t want a damn book! If you ask me, those journals are positively annoying. My daughter gave me a journal once, and it was absolutely the worst gift.”
    Promptly, my shoulders sink with the rest of my