Page 113 of Why Cheese?
“That’s all you wanted. A breathing baby doll you could dress up, get to coo on command, smile, and dance. But I wasn’t good enough. I’m defective, right? She’s too short, too fat, too plain, too broken. All my life you’ve wanted to return me for a fucking refund.”
The trucks stop. People are trying to listen to this fight while refusing to make eye contact. Instead of everyone gazing in wonder at my poor mother who has to suffer from raising a daughter with OCD, they’re horrified at her. She can’t stand it. “Violette, you are having an episode. Look at your arm.”
I don’t even stop scratching, vaguely aware of the blood dripping from my nails. “Yeah, I am, Mom. Have you figured out why?”
“Because you don’t do your exercises. If you would avoid being in crowds…”
“It’s not people, mother. All that quack told you were lies to keep you happy. You know why I do it. What Doctor Nevarie told you.”
She shakes her head rapidly. “No.”
“It’s you, mom. It’s always been you.”
“He lied!” she screams. “He said that to—to turn you against me.”
“I didn’t need him to turn me against you. You did that on your own. What about the medication?”
Her nostrils flare, her eyes threatening to drag me out by my arm, but she touches up her hair and turns away from me. “I flushed those before they did any more damage to your already fragile mind. You’re welcome.”
“I got better on them. I could control it, and you…you took it all away.” I can’t stop the mess of angry tears gushing down my cheeks. For a few glorious months, the gremlin was quiet. I didn’t get strange looks or have to wear long sleeves in July. I was happy.
She hated that I was happy.
“Vi-o-lette,” my mother tries her tone, but I won’t hear it.
“You like me broken, don’t you? It makes you feel important. Better.”
My mom shakes her head and gives a laugh like we’re all having a goof. “You’re being silly. Everyone, get back to work.”
“No.” I whirl on the men who haven’t moved an inch. “Put it back. Put all of it back.”
“Don’t listen to her. She’s mentally ill,” my mother shouts with a little wave.
Don’t listen to Violette. Ignore her. She lies.
My whole life I’ve been screaming underwater and everyone would look to the woman holding me under instead.
“This is my store, and if you throw one more piece of it in the trash, I will sue you!” I shout and hold up the keys like they’re the deed.
Everyone finally freezes, the line of trash ending. The men sway on their feet and stare at the boards they’ve ripped up and nails they bent. “Put it back,” I order, “and we’ll call it even.”
With an angry grumble, they finally start to march the shelves back inside.
“Stop,” my mother cries out.
“Lady,”—a man in a jumpsuit holding a clipboard walks up to my mom—“unless you can prove you’re the owner, we ain’t doing shit.”
“I…I…bah!” My mother hurls her hands up and spins away.
“We’re gonna need a crane or something to get those vats out of the basement.”
A man walks through the door. In his hand, he holds a charcuterie board decked out in crackers, grapes, and four cheeses. My heart plummets.
“What?” I swallow hard, my brain screaming as I notice how broken the cheeses are. How little remains. “What are you eating?”
He dips the cracker into the melted brie, and I’m paralyzed. “There was so much cheese. She said we could eat it.” Without a thought, he lifts the cracker to his gnashing teeth.
“No!” I scream, dive-bombing for him. It’s not pretty, but I manage to wrench the board and the cracker away. Through a mess of tears, I try to mash the bit of brie back onto the melted whole.It’ll be okay. Maybe they only took small bites.
