Everyone thinks they're twins, but of course, they're eleven months apart.
At four, Nicola is still fragile; she lisps. Melanie is already filling
out, catching up to her sister.
Today, I am calling to them to stop bickering before I am even out of the
shower. They are both tugging on a piece of pink ribbon.
"No hair ribbons today, princesses," I pronounce on my way to the kitchen.
We are in a rush; I realize by the clock it is already close to eight.
Today the girls are supposed to bring extra food to pre-school for the
Valentine's Day party. I signed up for sandwiches thinking of peanut butter
but I forgot to thaw out a loaf of bread last night. As I spread the slices
all over the counter to warm up, I feel a spasm of anxious discouragement.
My husband is away at camp all week.
"Breakfast time," I call.
"Pancakes!" Nicola shouts.
"Waffles!" Melanie says.
"Toast. We're in a rush."
While they're eating, I spread peanut butter over the half-thawed bread. I
drop the sticky knife onto my clean shirt front and almost swear out loud.
Melanie slops grape juice over the table. I rush to wipe it up.
"More toast, toast, to-o-o-o-ast" sings Nicola.
"Magic word?" I ask.
"More toast, pweese."
"Eat that crust first, " I tell her.
"No crust!"
This is an old struggle. "Nicola, eat your crust."
Nicola stands up on her chair and shouts "No!" She sticks out her tongue
at me.
"EAT YOUR CRUST!" I yell.
"No, no."
It's wrong to go on from here. Why should she eat the crust? Why shouldn't
she?
Nicola grabs the loaf of bread and throws it towards me on the table.
"More toast, more toast."
A black fist comes out of the sky and punches me in the face.
I grab Nicola by the scruff of her pajamas, pry open her mouth and drop a
piece of crust onto her tongue. "Eat your crust, Nicola, just eat it!"
I am watching myself. I am holding onto my helpless daughter and choking
her. Another part of me becomes a swollen, blind bruise trying to stop its
own throbbing. This can't be happening again.
Melanie is yelling, "Stop it, Mommy."
Nicola is panting and whimpering. I let go of her. She spits out the bread
crust and it lands in the drops of grape juice that I missed on the table.
With one arm I push Nicola away from me, to protect her. I am already hot
with remorse. But, at the same time, with the other hand, I grab her
plate--I have to!--and hurl it to the floor. The plate shards clatter as
they rock back and forth. A silence rises around us like a deep, inky lake.
The black hand will push me under. I can't swim.
|