Page 14 of Bitter Poetry
My heart thumps discordantly as I address our unwelcome house guest who is rifling through my mother’s dressing room.
Helena’s long red nails look like claws against the blue Joseph Duclos handbag.
“That is my mother’s bag,” I say unnecessarily. “Please put it back.”
She smiles, slips the purse back into the cloth protector, and returns it to the drawer before turning to face me. “Not anymore, darling.”
I want to slap her face as much for her careless use of my mother’s endearment for me as for her disrespect in daring to come in here. And I’m not even a violent person; at least, I never thought I was.
My mother is gone.
My father can’t walk, maybe never will, and we have no idea when he will be coming home.
Ettore, as my father’s underboss, is looking after things in his stead. He has always been just a figure on the periphery—someone who came by on occasion. I’ve met him at functions and events, but I don’t claim to know him well. His sister, Helena, reminds me of a shark. She’s been staying over since the attack because we need a responsible adult watching over us, apparently.
I don’t need to be watched over. Soon, I’ll be eighteen. If my father isn’t home by then, it will be my pleasure to kick this woman out of our house.
Her smile is utterly fake. “You’re grieving, child.”
Now I want to slap her for sure.
“But you will need to go through her things soon.” Her eyes peruse the racks with predatory intent. “Seems a shame to waste them. And really, the bags are far too old for you to carry off.”
“When I’m ready,” I say, forcing the words out with a calm I don’t feel.
She sashays past me, the scent of too much perfume filling my nose.
Familiar.
My mother’s scent, I realize, as my eyes slide to the dresser where the perfume bottle has been moved out of place.
Late mother, I correct myself.
I don’t want to be here, in the after she’s gone time.
I don’t want Ettore’s sister in my home.
Nor do I want my father to be in hospital recovering from his second surgery.
But what I want and what I can have are two wildly disparate things.
I walk over to the perfume bottle and move it back into place.
“What was the witch doing here?”
I turn around to find Jessica in the dressing room doorway. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her eyes are red-rimmed.
“Sizing up our mother’s things.”
Her jaw takes on a mutinous set.
With hindsight, I should have lied.
“I’m telling Papa.”
“Please don’t. He’s just undergone major surgery. Don’t stress him out. We can manage this. I told her to leave Mom’s stuff alone.”
She huffs out a breath, her sad gaze roaming over the clothes racks. “Her late husband was like ninety or something. Now she’s penniless and stuck living with Cosmo. No one would want to stay with that stalker longer than they must. Remember when I caught him licking your used spoon? Gross! Helena’s kid is weird, too. I’d put bets on Cosmo being the father. At the very least, there’s been some inbreeding in their recent family history. Every one of them has eyes that are too close together.”
