Page 27 of Living with Death

“You don't need any more of that.”

I ignore her and place it on the counter. She looks around my kitchen. “This place is a mess, Mabel.” She picks up a few glasses and drops them into the sink before grabbing my coffee pot and placing it into the sink, too. “Do I need to hire a cleaning lady to come here once a week? How can you get a man when you live and dress like that? You know they have nightgowns? A respectable man wants his house clean and his woman in the best shape she can be.”

It's not that dirty. The house just needs a good wipe-down.

“Honestly, how do you live here? We should have torn the place down as soon as your grandparents died.”

“Don't say things like that. I love this house.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn't love you back.” She grabs a napkin and wipes something sticky from her hand, scrunching her Botox-frozen face. “Men don't like messy women, Mabel,” she says, tossing the napkin into the trash. She puts the pizza box back in, too.

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don't want a man?”

She opens my fridge looking inside. “Are you a lesbian?”

“No.” I cross my arms and lean back against the counter. Maybe I should tell her I’m a lesbian, and then she'll leave me alone.

She shuts the door and opens the freezer. “Then what other reason would you have not to be interested in finding a man?” She grabs the pizza rolls, the potato skins, and the frozen chicken fingers.

“What are you doing with all this junk?” She walks over and drops the bags into the trash, putting her hand on her hip, looking at me intently, and then her eyes narrow.

She looks up at the ceiling.

Oh no.

Her hand falls from her hip, slanting her head before walking back toward the living room. She catches sight of the two cans on the table.

“Mabel, why is the shower running upstairs? And why do you have two cans of water here?”

“I was thirsty, and the hot water is running to help unclog the drain.” I give her my best false smile. “See, I do clean.”

She eyeballs me.

Please don't let the water cut off. Please keep showering, Azrael.

Sweat trickles down my back. Mother looks at the fireplace and then at the books on the floor beside the bookshelf.

“Something is going on here.”

“Just you being you. Barging into my home, being insulting.”

“I have not been insulting. I’ve told you the truth; that is my job as your mother.”

“And yet, you hate when anyone else tells you the truth.”

“What does that mean?”

I sigh. “Nothing, Mom. Can you please go so I can enjoy my day off?”

She huffs, “Your day off. No daughter of mine should be working at a grocery store. Honestly, Mabel, what will our friends think if they see you there? You have plenty of money. There's no need for you to do that.”

I start to push her toward the door. “What friends?”

“You need to get into charity. That'll give you something to do, and you won't feel the need to go to that little hole-in-the-wall place. It's grimy.”

“It isn't grimy.”

“You're above those people, Mabel.”

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