I hear a door open but I can’t see it. The puppet strings of this body are cut and I can’t feel these hands.
A towel slips itself around my wrist. I blot the blood and toss the stained towel into the laundry.
As I walk downstairs (hurrying because Mom is coming inside), I plaster a picture-perfect smile onto my face.
“Hi, Sweetie.” She greets me and stares at her hands. The pager that’s enclosed in her fingers is beeping crazily.
“Hi.” I mumble.
“How was school?” She holds the pager in the air and uses her free hand to cut some vegetables.
“Fine.” I answer.
“Are you hungry yet? I’m making some soup.” She sets the pager on the tabletop and continues to slice the vegetables.
“Okay.” I say. I inhale deeply and head for my room.
A mother who ignores her own flesh-and-blood will not have a very orderly daughter.
I hope she realizes that.
