Page 16 of The Unraveling

“Oh, hi, honey,” said Mimi, “close the door, will you? The air-conditioning.”

My mom shut the front door. “Mom, we need to talk.”

“Come on in, I was just making an Arnold Palmer. Would you like one?”

I strained my ears. I was always eavesdropping, even though I almost never heard anything interesting. The number of stairwells I’d perched at the top of and corners I’d hidden behind. I think I was always hoping that I’d overhear some kind of secret about myself. Some when do we tell her she’s a princess–type thing.

“Thanks,” said my mom, presumably accepting the cold drink. “Listen, I got your message. I appreciate you offering, but it’s not going to happen.”

There was a thick pause.

“Brandy, the schools are better here. I’m up early every day, I can make her breakfast, I can make sure she gets there on time. Your schedule is so inconsistent, you deserve to sleep in, all those late nights you work at the bar.”

“But she’s my daughter, Mom. You think I’m just going to miss her childhood so I can sleep in?”

“Is it worth her education going down the pipes? Those schools near you, honey, they just don’t have the—”

“Mom, please. Just respect what I’m saying! Jesus.”

My mom always started off calm, but her fuse was short. Especially with Mimi, which I could never understand, because to me, Mimi was perfect.

Were they arguing about whether or not I’d get to live with Mimi?

My mind went wild with imagination. I was already mentally decorating the bedroom I always slept in—which had a canopy bed and a desk with tons of secret drawers. There was a table with a skirt around it where I could hide or read. The sheets were always cool and soft. And mornings at Mimi’s, I was always given real food—no Toaster Scrambles or Eggo waffles. I was given fresh scrambled eggs and pancakes topped with butter and thick, amber maple syrup.

“Sometimes you have to do what is best for your child. I’m not saying you can’t come see her—”

“Of course you’re fucking not, are you joking? She’s my daughter, you don’t get to tell me whether or not I can see her!”

“That’s what I just said, honey. Will you please just consider it?”

“Absolutely not. And by the way, I am doing what’s best for her. I’m giving her as many opportunities as possible.”

“What, dragging her all over the country to those auditions? Brandy, that’s not opportunity. You’re trotting her out like some dog, trying to win best in show.”

“Wow. I mean, really, Mom? You say that like we didn’t almost get the Gerber commercial. And just last week, the people at the audition said she’d be perfect if she could just calm down a little and gain a bit more poise.”

“And now you’re going to start taking her to these ballet classes, I know. But is that healthy for her? My god, those girls work themselves to death and for what, to retire by twenty-five?”

“It’s not a career, Mom, it’s just to help her gain some more, you know, grace. To make her a little more elegant.”

“You’ll take her to classes where they’ll whip her into elegance instead of just providing her with a better education. Your priorities are—”

“Okay, you know what? We have to go. She has a ballet class today at two, and I nearly killed myself to get her in with Mrs.O’Hara.”

“Mrs.O’Hara? The one who runs that fancy place in town here? How are you affording that?”

There’s another heavy pause. “I know her husband.”

Yet another pause, and the sound of a heavy-bottomed glass being set down on the wood of the kitchen table.

“Don’t even start—”

“Brandy, this is no life for that little girl.”

“Just butt out! Fucking hell.” The last part came bellowing down the hallway as my mom approached the den.

The popsicle, which I’d stopped paying attention to, was now melting all the way down my hand and arm.

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