Terms of Endearment Read Free

God,” Aurora said, clutching her stomach with both hands.
    “What’s wrong, Momma?” Emma asked, for her mother looked genuinely stricken.
    “Oh, my iced tea jiggled when I fell,” Aurora said. “I don’t know.” Blood was rushing to her head, and she began to hyperventilate. She could only breathe in gasps.
    “Of course that’s wonderful for you, dear,” she said, feeling terrible. It was a shock, it wasn’t right—something was out of order, and she felt confusion closing in on her. Always she fought confusion, yet it seemed to lie in wait for her, no matter where she went.
    “Oh, God!” she said, wrenching herself into a sitting position. Her hair, which she had more or less caught in a bun, came completely loose, and she opened the neck of her robe to assure herself more air.
    “Momma, stop it, I’m just pregnant,” Emma yelled, angered that her mother would indulge herself in a fit after she had been so generous with the sassafras candy.
    “Just pregnant!” Aurora cried, confusion turning suddenly to rage. “You… negligent…” But words failed her, and to Emma’s intense annoyance she began to smite her forehead with the back of her hand. Aurora had been raised in an era of amateur theatricals and was not without her stock of tragic gestures. She continued to smite her forehead vigorously, as she always did when she was very upset, wincing each time at the pain it gave her hand.
    “Stop that,” Emma cried, standing up. “Stop smiting your goddamn forehead, Momma! You know I hate that!”
    “And I hate you,” Aurora cried, abandoning all reason. “You’re not a thoughtful daughter! You never have been a thoughtful daughter! You never will be a thoughtful daughter!”
    “What did I do?” Emma yelled, beginning to cry. “Why can’t I be pregnant? I’m married.”
    Aurora struggled to her feet and faced her daughter, meaning to show her such scorn as she had never seen before. “You may call this marriage but I don’t,” she yelled. “I call it squalor!”
    “We can’t help it!” Emma said. “It’s all we can afford.”
    Aurora’s lip began to tremble. Scorn got lost—everything was lost. “Emma, it’s not the point… you shouldn’t have… it’s not the point at all,” she said, suddenly on the verge of tears.
    “What’s the point then?” Emma said. “Just tell me. I don’t know.”
    “Mee!” Aurora cried, with the last of her fury. “Don’t you see? My life is not settled. Me!”
    Emma winced, as she always did when her mother cried “Mee!” at the world. The sound was as primitive as a blow. But as her mother’s chin began to shake and pure fury began its mutation into pure tearfulness, she understood a little and put out her arm.
    “Who will I ever… get now?” Aurora cried. “What man would want a grandmother? If you could… have waited… then I might have… got somebody.”
    “Oh, dear,” Emma said. “Aw, Momma, stop that.” She went on crying herself, but only because she had a sudden fear of laughing. Only her mother did that to her, and always at the most unlikely times. She knew she was the one who ought to feel outraged or hurt—probably she would when she thought about it. But her mother never had to think; she was just outraged or hurt, immediately, and with a total purity of feeling that Emma had never been able to command. It always happened.
    Emma gave up. She let herself be beaten once again. She dried her eyes just as her mother burst into tears. The whole fit was ridiculous, but it didn’t matter. The look on her mother’s face—an utter conviction of utter ruin—was too real. The look might not last five minutes—seldom did—but there it was, on a face that Emma felt sure must be the most helplessly human face that she or anyone she knew had ever had to confront. The sight of her mother looking blank with distress had always caused whoever was handy to come rushing up at once with whatever love they had available in