Page 102 of Fade into You
The girl is a parasite.
I think I actually know what hate means, ’cause I hate her now.
The knife slips and I barely nick my forefinger, slicing off some of the fingernail, but not drawing blood. “Fuck,” I murmur, and pick up the nail bit and flick it to the floor, where a waiting and disgusting Falstaff inspects it, hoping it’s potato peel. I chuck him a bit of sweet potato peel. Someone in this house should be happy.
“All good?” Dad comes by and slaps my back, startling me a bit. “Looks like a navy scullery over here.”
Yay, the same stupid Dad joke he makes every year.
“Yep, Dad, peeling potatoes, it’s all I’m good at.”
“Now, your mom has offered a number of times to teach you how to cook.”
“I think I’m gonna grow into a takeout kind of person.”
He shakes his head, the weak move to get Mom and me closer failing. Since talking with Mack, I’ve become even more distant from them both. That conversation was like cutting the anchor to a boat, and I’m drifting out, unable to find any connection to these two people who are supposed to keep Mack safe—even from herself.
I haven’t confronted them, because that isn’t the way of our family. That would be wayyyy too honest.
“I gotta focus, Dad, or I’m gonna cut myself.” I look to the knife, like it’s some sinister thing, dangerous in so many ways. He nods, knowing I can talk and peel at the same time, but unhappy with my new distance. It’s his fault, so why do I feel so guilty?
Thanksgiving dinner is the three of us this year. Mom and Dad both attempt to get Mack out of her room, but it ends up with Mack screaming, Mom crying, and Dad getting all red in the face. I sit in the dining room, watching all the food cool down and keeping Falstaff from grabbing the twenty-pound bird in all its crispy roasted glory. Nobody in our house actually even likes turkey. All this food, and no one will have an appetite. The sound of Falstaff’s eager panting turns to static in my head.
I need a break.
Stupid phrase. EvenFriendsshowed how dumb it was. This amorphous statement that has no limits, no parameters. Here I am in my break, waiting for the transition, waiting for something to change and my feelings to align into a decision. I’ve become liminal.
I poke at the aspic Mom makes every year, the clear and red gelatin artfully dappled with parsley, topped with lemon wedges and olives, the horrific display of something Dad eats with gusto and Mack and I used to gag about when forced totake just one bite. It wobbles, alien and horrific in its culinary sin. A door slams. Mack’s probably locking it this time. Mom and Dad arrive, thin grim lips, sad eyes.They could be doing something about this.
“Well,” Mom says as she sits in her chair, then places the embroidered cloth napkin in her lap like old-school Emily Post etiquette will somehow get us through this. Dad drains the red wine in his glass and pours himself another. Mom gives him the stink eye and initiates grace.
“Lord, bless us and thank you for this bounty and the foodwhich you place upon our table. Thank you for the health of our family and the—”
I can’t help it. I audibly scoff at that one.
“Jessamine…” Dad warns.
“Really, Dad?” I look at him directly, a challenge. He lowers his eyes, always avoiding. “And it’s fuckingJess-A.”
“What are you on about?” Mom looks to me, her blessing falling away as she stares at me, knowing why I can’t stomach it this year.
“Mack can’t even get out of bed. Last week she was manic as hell again, and we’rehealthy? Looks to me like one family member is pretty fucking sick.”
“Delphine!” Mom only pulls that name out when she’s pissed. At least she can express one emotion.
“I’m not kidding, there’s something really wrong this time, and she needs better help! She needs to go into a program! Can’t you see she’s suffering?”
They look to each other knowingly, realizing I’m aware of the clinic in Kansas. Then Dad firms up into the steel visage he takes when Mack is out of line.
“Jessamine,” he says this time, “you are out of line.”
“Am I? ’Cause I feel like I’m the only one who’s worried about Mack.”
“Honey, this is an adult matter, not something you need to worry about.”
“No, I definitely shouldn’t worry that I’m gonna find her hurt or losing her mind and about to get her ass kicked in a club, or worse—oh wait, that already happened.” My mind goes to thebathroom last year. The blood. “I definitely shouldn’t worry that you’re too busy covering up that she’s sick to get her some actual treatment. God forbid I worry, ’cause then what would the stupid neighbors say? What will the neighbors say when she finally manages to cut deep enough?”
A terrible silence fills the room.What will happen if she kills herself?It’s the fear we all have. They can just ignore it, but it’s always waiting there and I can’t wait anymore.
