Chapter 6
SIX
KYRA
“How was work today?” My father cuts into his tender slice of beef with fastidious precision at the head of the table.
I glance at my mother, who gives nothing away as she gently pushes pieces of salad onto her fork.
“It was fine.”
Dinner in the Green house is a formal affair, no matter what night it is.
A flawless china dinner set and meticulously polished silverware adorn the table, set against forest-green linen, with a bright, uplifting bouquet arranged in a wide vase as the centerpiece.
Even on the rare occasion that she orders takeout, my mother serves it in decorative dishes as though Ming’s Chinese were a banquet fit for the President.
I never knew people ate dinner off their lap while they watched TV until I vacationed with a friend.
“And how is Lucy?”
I push the seasoned potato wedge across my plate and try to ignore the pang of disappointment that always rears its ugly head when my father can’t be assed looking at me when he speaks. “She’s well. We worked on a quilt she’s making for the Easter raffle today.”
“Oh?” We all wait with practiced patience while he chews his mouthful of steak. “And how did you go?”
“I could use improvement, but I’m sure she’ll be a great teacher.”
He makes a grunt of approval and resumes the methodical takedown of his dinner.
Silence falls in the dining room, save for the occasional clink of silver against a plate, or the glug of water as my mother refills her glass. Because how else does one keep shape other than to bloat oneself with water before one eats too much food?
Wonder where I got my eating disorder from.
“Wonderful as always,” my father praises, wiping his mouth with the embroidered napkin.
“Thank you.” It’s the first words my mother’s spoken since we sat down.
I finish off my steak, chewing the last mouthful as my father rises from his seat and exits the room to move on to the next stage of his nightly routine.
My mother abandons what’s left of her meal and reaches for the dishes.
“Stop it.”
She stalls, half out of her chair, and leans over the table to retrieve the gravy boat. “Stop what?”
“Following his schedule like it’s yours too.”
Mom’s brow pinches. She’s not stupid—far from it. Summa cum laude at her college, she’s one of the brightest people I know. And yet, put a ring on her finger and give her my father’s last name, and she abandons it all to serve him as though he’s a god.
He’s a mere mortal. The same as my grandfather was a mere mortal.
It took me leaving home to realize that.
“I’ve had enough to eat,” she says simply, gathering his used plate to stack it beneath hers. “You really need to stop looking for trouble where there is none.”
“And how was your day, Mom?” I tilt my head and narrow my gaze.
Her lips thin at the implication. “It was nothing unusual, which is why I didn’t feel it pertinent to bring up at dinner.”
“I’d like to know.” I nod toward her chair. “Sit down and tell me.”
She stares at me—stuck between a rock and a hard place. Does she humor me and risk annoying my father by keeping his after-dinner coffee late? Or does she walk away and prove my point?
She chooses a mash-up of both, continuing to clean the table as she talks. “I took a walk this morning. Did the laundry and the housework. Saw Doctor Jay, and then picked up the groceries from the supermarket on my way home so I could prepare dinner.”
“Nothing unusual, huh?” Like having a follow-up appointment for your chronic illness. “What did he have to say?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
I set my fork down with a clang and ease back in the chair. “Mom, I came home because I’m worried about you.” Because Lord knows, if my mother ever needed help with her day-to-day tasks, my father would be the last one to sacrifice anything to do it.
Not that she’d want to bother anyone by asking.
“I’m managing fine,” she snaps under her breath. “The anti-inflammatories help, and the pain is tolerable.”
“Because any level of pain should be tolerable when you’re a woman, right?”
She spears me with a withering look. “Your father goes to work every day with a sore back and stiffness in his knee from the accident. If he can manage, so can I.”
Except that the reason for my father’s pain is obvious. When a car sideswipes you in a pursuit, it’s no great revelation why you have joint pain afterward.
But my mother… “You don’t even know what you’re managing.” Years of tests and years of her being told it’s in her head. And yet, my mother is a shell of her former self. What more proof do they need?
If my father walked into a doctor’s office with the same symptoms, all hell would break loose. Yet because Mom is female—one of ‘that age’ as well—she gets told it’s just how it is.
That it’s natural.
“I want to go with you next time you see him.”
She sighs, hesitating halfway out of the room with the stack of dishes. “So you can say what, exactly? What are you going to tell him that I haven’t already?”
I hate that she gives up. That she lets them tell her what’s acceptable and what’s not.
“Then we find another doctor, Mom. Someone who actually cares enough to figure it out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out, Kyra. It’s age. That’s all.”
Her words wobble, and Mom is quick to give me her back as she leaves the room. I never wanted to upset her, but I get angry because, since everyone else has given up on her, she has, too.
She’s worth more than modifying her day to suit her pain levels. More than quitting the sports club she felt so passionate about in favor of a more ‘gentle’ pastime.
My father reclines on the couch before the TV when I enter the living room, eyes already half-closed.
His alarm goes off at four every morning, and the hours take their toll.
But does that give him license to ignore the way his wife deteriorates?
To pretend that everything will be fine if they face it with a stiff upper lip and make room for it under the rug with all the other shameful things that happened to this family?
He’s the protector of this town, the image of bravery and justice. And yet, when it comes to the woman he vowed to spend the rest of his life with, he won’t even try to stand up for her. To be the voice she needs.
My fists clench at my sides, relaxing when he glances across at where I stand frozen midway into the room.
“Do you need to talk about something?”
I wet my lips and swallow down the budding rage. “Nope.”
“Take a seat then.” He nods toward the TV. “Help your old man win the show.” A re-run of Jeopardy flickers in low resolution.
The quiet clang of Mom doing the dishes filters through from the kitchen.
“I think I’ll go help her clean up.”
“Whatever you like, Princess.”
The man’s eyes are almost shut again by the time I turn for the door.
I left this house swearing I’d never be my parents—strict and controlling. And yet, I’ve returned with a whole different view on what happens within these walls. Why they’re the way they are.
And to be honest, it’s even more sad.