Chapter 63
“Are you feeling okay?” Cherry’s mom was frowning at her.
“I’m feeling fine. Are you gonna let me in?”
Her mom stepped out of the way and let Cherry into the house. “I thought this was Hope’s Friday.”
“I had the day off,” Cherry said, “so I seized it. Are you disappointed? You want me to call Hope?”
“Oh, you.” She pinched Cherry’s arm.
Cherry and her sisters took turns running errands with their mom on Fridays. Faith made the schedule. Cherry got the fewest
shifts because her hours were the least flexible, but she tried to make up for that when she could.
Their mom could drive herself around, but their dad always had the car. And it was always better if one of the girls went along on her doctors’
appointments; their mom was a selective listener, in every scenario.
Cherry flopped down on the couch. Her parents still lived in the same three-bedroom house she’d grown up in. It had always
been run-down, but it was getting truly dilapidated now. Her dad didn’t even pretend to work on it.
The house was still comfortable. Cherry’s mom had a way of making things comfortable. She sewed and crocheted. The couch was
draped in a homemade quilt. The throw pillows had needlepoint covers with yarn tassels. Cherry had made a few of these pillows
when she was eleven or twelve. She’d loved a yarn tassel in middle school.
Her mom was frowning down at her, with both hands on her hips. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Mom, I’m fine. I’m just not wearing makeup.” Cherry wasn’t wearing makeup, and she hadn’t run a flat iron through her bangs
to make them lie just so, and she was wearing old yoga pants that she’d had since college.
Her mom tutted and headed for the kitchen. “You girls are so beautiful, you don’t need makeup.”
“Apparently I do.”
“Are you hungry, Cherry?”
“Not really.”
Her mom was back in the kitchen, leaning over the stove. “I’ve got some fried rice, with beans, and I made homemade tortillas.”
“Why’d you make tortillas?”
“Your dad felt like them last night.”
Cherry’s mom was a great cook. She could replicate any recipe once she’d watched someone else make it. She liked to stand
behind people in their kitchens while they cooked. YouTube had been a game changer for her.
“I’ll have some,” Cherry said. “I can get it.”
“No, I’ll get it. You relax. You look tired.”
“I swear to god, Mom—I’m just not wearing mascara.”
“Oh, you don’t need mascara.”
Cherry pulled a throw pillow into her lap and sank back into the sofa. “Where do you need to go today?”
“Just to Hy-Vee.” That was the grocery store. “And Kohll’s.” The drugstore. “And I need to pick up a zipper at Walmart—I’m
making Ella a dress for the dance. Honny can’t find anything cute in her size.”
It was a real shame that her mom hadn’t found someone to marry other than Cherry’s dad.
She had so much to offer. She cooked. She sewed.
She cranked out babies and didn’t seem to suffer for it.
(Though she’d never cranked out a son.) She was fat, but she was still pretty.
Cherry wouldn’t mind if she ended up looking like her mom at sixty-five.
Her mom had never had a chance with other guys; she’d met Cherry’s dad right out of high school. Had he known then that she’d
make the perfect wife for a philandering alcoholic? Cherry’s mom ignored everything that she possibly could, and forgave everything
that she couldn’t.
Cherry wouldn’t be surprised to hear that her mom had never once talked to her dad about his drinking, or asked him to change
a single thing about his behavior. Her job was to accommodate him and make him comfortable.
Cherry could see those behaviors in herself, and she hated them. (Even though she did want to accommodate Tom. And she didn’t want him to be uncomfortable.)
Her mom brought out a dinner plate heaped with fried rice and beans, chicken with peppers, and two flour tortillas yellow
with butter. It’s no wonder I’m fat, Cherry thought for the ten-thousandth time. (Though she hadn’t gotten any less fat since she’d moved out of her parents’ house and started eating salads every day for lunch.)
Her mom made a plate for herself, too. She was just sitting down in her easy chair when the front door opened. Cherry braced
herself for whatever energy her dad was about to bring into the house.
But it wasn’t her dad—it was Hope.
Hope looked confused when she saw Cherry. “Hey, Cherry . . . no work today?”
“I’ve got the day off, so I’m chauffeuring Mom.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I sent a note on the group thread.” As soon as she said it, Cherry realized that she’d sent the note on the wrong group thread.
Hope realized it, too. She clenched her jaw.
“I must have forgotten,” Cherry said. “Sorry. You can go home—”
“No, you cannot!” their mom objected. “I get two of my girls this Friday. What a treat! Hopey, do you want some fried rice? I made tortillas . . .”
Hope stood by the couch. “No, thank you.”
“You take my plate.” Their mom got up and pushed the food at her. “I know you’re watching your carbs, but . . .”
Hope took the plate. She didn’t have a choice.
Cherry set her fork down. There was no way she could sit next to Hope and eat a plate full of actual food.
Hope was wearing jeans today. With a cropped sweater. Everything she wore lately seemed to show off her waist.
Cherry had always loved Hope’s clothes.
Hope was the first of them to get a job and start buying her own things. The first to move out. She got married young, then
went to community college and went to work as a bookkeeper.
She’d always dressed way more conservatively than Cherry would—but she always looked cool. And beautiful. She wore tops that
showed off her breasts and pretty round shoulders. And skirts that showed off her shapely ankles and calves. Hope liked to
wear jackets. She liked to wear boots. She liked a puffed sleeve and a Peter Pan collar. She was thirty percent more Laura
Ashley than Cherry, and thirty percent less Betsey Johnson.
Cherry used to borrow Hope’s clothes in high school. She used to mimic the way Hope wore her hair—long with long bangs.
They both still wore their hair that way.
Since Hope had lost weight, she was wearing all the clothes that Cherry had never been able to wear. Crisp button-down blouses
without any stretch. Neatly tailored trousers and pencil skirts. Everything waisted. Everything belted. Everything tucked
in. Hope dressed herself without any camouflage, drawing attention to all the parts of her body she used to obscure.
Hope had worn sailor pants to Faith’s Labor Day picnic—wide-legged white pants with a flat panel and two rows of buttons—and her belly didn’t bulge or pouch.
Cherry had felt physically ill when she saw those pants.
Sick with something worse than jealousy.
Something that was anger, plus longing, plus disbelief.
“Cherry, eat,” their mom said. “Both of you, eat. We’ve got to get to the store.”
Cherry ate one of the tortillas and half of everything else. She tried not to look at Hope’s plate.
Hope was going to drive because she had a bigger car. All of Cherry’s sisters had huge SUVs. All of Cherry’s sisters had kids.
“Mom, let Cherry go home,” Hope said, helping their mom into the front seat. “She has the day off.”
“You’re both here, and you’re both coming,” their mom said. “Do you know how rare it is for me to see my girls at once?”
“You just saw us,” Hope said.
“Oh, great, I get to see my family on Christmas and Easter. Twice a year.”
“And Thanksgiving,” Cherry said. She was already in the car. She knew she wasn’t getting off the hook. “And Labor Day.”
Her mom turned back to smile at Cherry. “Do you remember how we’d all go grocery shopping together? You two girls were my
helpers.”
Honny and Joy were awful at the grocery store. (And at church. And at school.) They’d run around. They’d try to ride on the
end of the cart. “Worse than boys,” their mom would say.
And Faith was no help; she was forever the baby.
But Hope was always responsible, and always in charge. And Cherry had liked everything about grocery shopping. The lists.
The bright packaging. The registers. She also liked being a good girl, like Hope. Not a scoundrel like Honny.
When they got to Hy-Vee, their mom insisted that they both come into the store. “You might see something you need.”
They found themselves trailing behind her with the cart. Just like when they were kids.
“Can I push?” Cherry asked. “My back is killing me. I need a walker.”
Hope relinquished the cart without acknowledging her. Their mom was wandering around the produce section, picking up fruit
and putting it down, feeling every grapefruit in the display.
Cherry set one foot on the bottom of the cart and leaned over the handle, stretching her back.
Hope was standing at the other end of the cart with her arms folded, looking away. “I know you have a group thread without
me,” she said.
Cherry exhaled heavily and set both feet on the floor. “You’re not missing anything.”
Hope turned around. Her face was blank. “I wonder if you’d say that if you were the one who got taken off the group thread. I went from getting thirty text notifications a day to two a week.” She
shook her head. “And they’re always about Mom.”
Cherry wasn’t sure how to reply. She’d never expected Hope to bring this up. Hope never diverted from the high road.
Cherry shrugged. “Honny—”
Hope cut her off with a huff. “Don’t blame Honny.”
Their mom dropped a bag of grapefruit into the cart. “When you girls were little, everyone was always eating grapefruit on diets. And cottage cheese. Why those two foods? Nobody eats grapefruit on diets now. Grapefruit isn’t keto, is it? Hope,
can you eat grapefruit?”
“I’ve never really eaten grapefruit.”
“You did when you were a kid! I used to br?lée the sugar for you. When I was a kid, everyone owned grapefruit spoons. Can you imagine? Going to Target to buy grapefruit spoons . . .”