Page 1 of Living with Death
Chapter One
“You’re as round as you are tall, Mabel,” my mama said as we stood in the JCPenney fitting room. She struggled to pull the dress over my hips, up my arms, and past my shoulders. I hated my arms, and I hated my hips, too. But I didn’t think I was too round. I knew I wasn’t skinny, though, unlike the other girls in my school.
“We need to put you on a diet.”
I was thirteen, and that was the first time I heard the worddietfrom my mother’s lips. I begged her not to even come into the damn room. I was too old for Mom to be trying to dress me, and I was too old to go to an Easter egg hunt.
I looked at my mom and saw what everyone else did.Perfection.Because on the outside, she was the true definition. She worked out, had needles poked in her face every few months or so, ate small portions, and wore the nicest clothes with matching shoes and handbags. My father did well for himself in real estate and gave her things constantly.
It was his way of sayingsorryand hewon’t do it again.
And her way of sayingI wish you were different,was to buy me things I never said I wanted and to try to make me the best version she thought I should be.
So I could fit into her world. Of course. I wasn’t like her in any way. I wore glasses, and I had some meat on my bones. I also had freckles and red hair, and I didn’t think any of that was a bad thing. But she drilled it into my brain that it was.
Everything about me was.
She made me wear contacts and put makeup on my face to cover my freckles. She even dyed my hair blonde. She tried to change every single part of me until I didn’t even recognize myself.
“Honestly, what will the Berkleys think when we go to their house for Easter?” she said.
Who gives a shit about the Berkleys?I’d thought.
“Doesn’t Mrs. Berkley sleep with her son’s piano teacher?” Who are they to judge thirteen-year-old me? Every Easter, they had a lavish party. They said it was for the kids and to celebrate Jesus, but anyone with two eyes could see it was to show off.
Look what we got.
Last year I went inside to use the restroom and heard moaning from a closet. I peeked in and saw Mrs. Berkely’s vintage Dolce and Gabbana blue skirt hitched around her thighs with her legs spread. Matt, the piano guy, had his face between them, and her manicured hand was gripping hard on the back of his head.
At the time, I didn’t know what they were doing, but from the sound of her voice, I could tell it was a fine line between feeling good and pain.
“Hush, we don’t talk about other people’s private business.” Mom sighed at me. “I suppose I’ll go get a bigger size.”
And with that, she walked out of the dressing room, leaving her heavy perfume scent behind and leaving me with myself and the mirror, and as I stood there and looked, I guessed I could lose a few pounds.
I get off my knees, wiping my mouth as I unlock the bathroom stall door, bringing the memory to an end. I walk to the mirror and remove my eyeglasses. I rub the tears from my eyes and put my glasses back on, spitting into the sink.
My face is flushed, and my chest, too, freckles standing out against my heated skin. I roll my sleeves to my elbows and cup some water, rinsing my mouth. I watch the water swirl down the drain.
The thing about perfection?
It doesn’t exist.
Sam comes into the bathroom. She looks at me. “You all right?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah, sour mayo or something.” I lie because, truthfully, now and again, my mother’s words whisper against my mind, and the things I witnessed growing up make me sick if I think about them too much.
“Yuck.” She scrunches her face as she walks into the stall. “So, there’s a band playing tomorrow night at The Garden. Patty and I are going. Wanna come with?”
Sam is all the time asking me to go out. Honestly, it’s become a tiresome conversation because I have no desire to do so. I enjoy solitude. A good book or TV show with a glass of wine are the only things I desire for company.
I don’t want to go out.
“No, thanks. I’ve got some work to do on the house, and I have a new…”
“Book to read,” she finishes for me. “You know, you spend more time reading than you do living.” She flushes the toilet and comes out.
Books are a perfect escape from reality.
