17. The Merciful Queen
Chapter 17
The Merciful Queen
T his macaroni and cheese might be what finally overworks my heart, sending me to an early grave. What if the salt doesn’t get stirred in right and someone gets a clump of it in one bite? What if someone finds a hair or piece of fuzz in it? What if I drop it on the way there?
Because they prefer different types, I’m making a creamy macaroni and cheese for Mom and baked for Dad. I’m currently on my third attempt at the baked, and it’s looking a little too brown on the top. The creamy macaroni and cheese is too creamy, so I added more cheese. But then it was too stiff, so I added more milk, and no matter how little I add, it takes it too far. I don’t have enough ingredients to remake the dishes, so these will have to do. I just hope that everyone will leave the food alone and not point out everything I did wrong, like usual.
I quickly move around Sam’s kitchen, cleaning up the droplets of milk and stray shreds of cheese on every counter. His kitchen is like a dream compared to my old one. I’m so used to the dark and the ancient appliances that I had to learn how to cook with an oven that heats to the temperature I set it to, and a microwave that doesn’t randomly start itself. Unfortunately, ‘easy’ doesn’t equal ‘quality,’ and my stomach twists at the thought of presenting my culinary disasters to my parents.
I’ve left myself with just enough time to get dressed, and I head to Sam’s bedroom to plan my outfit as if I’m strategizing for battle. If I show up in my usual jeans next to Sam’s slacks and buttoned shirt, Mom will ask why I have no respect for her showing up in an outfit I’d wear to a concert. If I wear the blue dress that flares past my hips and hits just below my knees, Mom will comment on the stretch marks on my calves again. But if I wear my black pants—Sam’s favorite pair because of how they hug my ass— and the most expensive blouse I own, I just might make it out alive tonight.
I leave Sam’s bedroom but dart back inside to stick a few pieces of sour candy in my pocket. Just in case.
* * *
W hen we arrive at Mom and Dad’s after an hour of uncomfortable silence, Nick takes the food from my hands, insisting on carrying everything himself. Mom greets us in the kitchen, beaming up at Sam before hugging him tightly.
“Stunning as always, Sarah,” he says. Kiss ass.
He introduces Nick, whom Mom also hugs and thanks for coming before pointing to a spot on the counter for the dishes. Then, she directs him and Sam upstairs to join my dad and brothers.
Once they’re gone, she turns to me. “I hope it’s okay that I asked him to come. Solomon wants the wooden desk upstairs moved to his room and it’s too heavy for your brother and Dad. You know how bad his back is.”
“Yeah, it’s fine.” I hug Stephanie, who sits on a stool picking at a veggie tray before kissing her ninth-month-old, Georgie, on his soft head.
Mom examines my outfit, and I squirm, unsure of where to put my arms. Squinting her eyes, she says, “You look like you’re going to a job interview. And those pants are much too tight. I keep telling you to cut out bread and sugar.”
I rub my fingers through the hair at my temples, accidentally pulling a few strands loose. “Yeah. I know.”
“Why did you bring two different kinds of macaroni?” Stephanie asks, lifting the cover on each dish.
“Well, Mom and Dad don’t like the same kind, so I brought one for each of them.”
Mom looks at me with her brows furrowed. “That was sweet of you.” I don’t know why because I’ve always been the most thoughtful of my siblings, but her tone suggests surprise. Yet, it’s that simple comment, that small declaration, that has me feeling more noticed than I’ve felt in a long time. But she ruins the moment by adding, “Hopefully it tastes better than the spaghetti you made for dinner that time a few years ago.”
When Sage arrives, she passes right by me making a beeline for Georgie and giving his head a sniff. She takes him in the other room and doesn’t reappear until Mom calls everyone to eat after the guys are done moving the furniture around upstairs.
When we form a line to fill our plates, I avoid most of the carbs, taking small spoonfuls of vegetables and the smallest piece of chicken. I’ll sneak a roll later. I still don’t know why our presence has been requested other than needing furniture moved, but Mom decorated the table with a burgundy tablecloth and a bouquet of tulips in the center. I’m praying they’re not about to announce a divorce. Or that they’re selling the house and buying an RV to travel the country. On second thought, that might not be so terrible.
We’re barely in our seats before Sage asks Mom and Dad, “So, is someone dying or something?”
“We can’t just invite everyone for a nice family dinner?” Mom asks. “None of you come to visit unless we demand you to.”
Ignoring her, Dad says, “Stephanie is the one who requested a family dinner first, and then Spencer also has news of his own.”
All eyes find Stephanie, who smiles and bounces in her seat, holding Adam’s hand. “We’re having another baby!”
Shouts of congratulations erupt from everyone all at once, along with exclamations about how Georgie will be the best big brother. And relief that everyone is healthy.
“Your turn, Spencer,” Dad says.
“Oh, okay. Well,” Spencer says, timidly, as he pulls an envelope from his lap. “I was a–”
“MY BABY WAS ACCEPTED TO NHU!” Mom shouts impatiently, stealing the spotlight from Spencer.
A chorus of various cheers is sung from the table with perfectly timed squeals from Georgie, who’s still on Sage’s lap.
“Does this mean you got the baseball scholarship?” I ask. NHU is a tough school to get into unless you have a sports scholarship, and I doubt very much Spencer got in on his grades alone. Not that he’s unintelligent, he just doesn’t care.
He nods. “Late acceptance. Someone dropped out.”
I return his grin and say, “Congrats, little bro. I’m proud of you.”
“You’ll be closer to us, then. If you ever need a designated driver, call Cori. Since I’ll probably be drunk somewhere, too.” Sage laughs at her own joke and Mom shakes her head.
As the excitement dies down, Dad steers the conversation to his favorite topic. “So, Nick, what do you do for work?”
“I’m working at a machine shop for now.”
“Supervisor?”
“Uhh, no.” Nick glances over at me from across the table.
“Not yet, anyway?” Dad asks.
“Sure. Maybe,” Nick says, taking my advice to keep his answers simple and boring so that Dad gets tired of having to draw answers out of you.
Dad goes around the table asking everyone how their jobs are going.
“I actually sort of have my own news,” Sage announces. “I’m opening an online store and am already set to attend a festival as a vendor in a couple of months.”
Dad narrows his eyes as he chews. “And what exactly are you selling?”
“Cute t-shirts, hand towels, mugs, pretty much anything I can make with my new sublimation printer. I figured I’d turn my drawing skills into something I can make money with.”
“Okay, I have more news. I wasn’t going to say anything until I had an author copy to show you, but I’m publishing a novel,” Stephanie squeals. There’s another round of cheers and squeals, but my mouth drops open in shock.
“You wrote a book?” I ask dumbfounded. Stephanie doesn’t read, and I’ve never known her to enjoy writing.
“Yep. It’s really not that hard. Pretty much anyone can do it.” Not that hard. Nothing has been hard for Ms. Perfection. Her entire life has been a breeze.
“I guess the pressure is on me now to publish something,” Sage starts. “Mom will put your novel by the book with Cori’s poem in it, and I can’t be the only daughter without something on Mom’s shelf. I guess I could make a book of artwork or something. Oh! Can I design your book cover or do character art?”
Nick looks up at me. “Poem?”
“She wrote a poem. It was published in a book a few years ago,” Sam answers for me.
“That’s amazing. Can I read it?”
But I can’t find my voice among all the commotion to give him an answer.
Sage jumps out of her seat, tugging an unsuspecting Georgie along. “I’ll go grab it.” But the book is at Sam’s.
The only noise in the room, while we wait for Sage to return, is the clink of forks against knives and the nauseating sound of chewing.
Sage finally comes back into the room. “I can’t find it, Mom. Where is it?”
“Oh. Umm…” She looks at my dad, who keeps his eyes on his plate while he eats. “Well, it should be on the bookshelf. It’s not there?” But her voice is high-pitched, and she wrings her hands like I do when I’m nervous.
Sam jumps to her rescue. “Don’t worry about it, I have a copy, you can read it when we get home.” I push my plate away, the food sinking like bricks in my stomach.
Nick leans over the table to ask, “Am I still able to purchase one?”
His support is thoughtful, but it doesn’t ease my nausea. “There’s no need. It’s not like I get the royalties.”
Chatter resumes, most of it going to Stephanie to ask about her novel. It’s a heartwarming tale about an older woman searching for her blood relatives after learning she was adopted. I’m so happy for her, and everyone for all the success they’ve had recently. But as I hear the plotline, what little I’ve eaten starts working its way up my esophagus. Is this jealousy? Am I really feeling jealous right now? God, I am pathetic.
“So, did any of you know about Cori’s blog?” Sam asks. Every single eye falls on me, and mine shoot to Sam. Except he’s slicing into his chicken as if nothing is amiss.
“What blog?” Stephanie asks.
When I don’t answer, Sam explains, “She shares recipes for making coffee drinks at home. Lattes, macchiatos, affogatos, homemade syrup and creamers. I didn’t know about it either until last night.” He shoots an irritated look at Nick. “But it’s a nice website. It’s a little too feminine, but it looks professional.” But. As if something can’t be feminine and professional.
I’m only just finding out that he looked it up. It’s nice to hear he’s impressed, but his icy tone has me wondering if he’s doing this to hurt me.
“She also told me about her conversation with Mike,” Sam tattles. Then emphasizes for maximum punch, “About becoming assistant manager and adding more coffee to the menu.”
Dad lays his silverware down. “You discussed it with Mike? But I already told you no.”
“We need an assistant manager, Dad. It makes sense for it to be me. I’ve been there the longest, I grew up going to this diner, and Grandma and I always discussed me taking over one day.”
“Maybe so, but I own the diner now. And I said no.”
“Fine. As for the coffee part, I was just trying to use what strengths I have to help you and me both. And my strengths lie in coffee.”
“It’s not a coffee house, Cori,” Dad says with a piercing stare. I am so sick of hearing that.
While he drones on and on, my eyes move to a painting on the wall depicting the face of a woman with her eyes closed, something Sage painted in high school. It’s unique because, despite the change in colors, the paint strokes all blend perfectly as if she only used one downward stroke and a face just appeared.
If I don’t focus so hard on her face, I may succumb to the flames licking up my own, triggering the tears like a sprinkler system that floods when the alarms start screaming. I’m just so tired of not being enough for them.
I’m brought back to myself when Mom asks, “Why didn’t you tell us about the blog?” Hurt resonates throughout her tone.
“Why would I tell y’all anything? I only ever get criticism in return.” My hand inadvertently raises on its own to point at Dad. But I instantly will the words back inside, and cower waiting for the metaphorical backhand. It comes as a glare that could burn my skin from my face if only Mom had the power.
“So, what else aren’t you telling us?” Mom asks, her expression hard and determined.
Because I’d learned from the best, I turn the tables. “Do you remember the book Sam asked to take home after Grandma’s funeral?”
Her eyes lose focus while she thinks back to that day.
“It was the book with my poem in it. You threw it in a donation box. Sam held it up, and you told him to take it if he wanted it, because you had no idea where it came from.”
She swallows hard, caught with nowhere to run. “Well, aren’t I just the worst mother ever.” She keeps her eyes on mine, daring me to agree, challenging me in the emotional warfare that is our relationship. She always wins and she knows she’ll do so again.
Several voices ring out at once to bring her comfort, but I stay silent. What should I say? I’m not sorry, but I also don’t want to be the cause of any pain. With five kids, my parents lived in chaos exactly like this dinner. There was always someone grounded, dishes everywhere, dirty clothes hanging from the picture frames. Mom and Dad were overwhelmed, but I was the peace. The one they could depend on to behave and follow the rules. I helped with cooking and housework, I stepped quietly so I wouldn’t overstimulate Dad while the others stomped through the house like elephants. I always cleaned up after myself, and got ready to leave quickly, and never made them repeat themselves.
So I say it. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” It was wrong of me to ask non-readers to hold onto a poetry book, anyway. They’ll keep Stephanie’s though. But hers is a novel. It’s different. That’s what they’ll tell me.
Mom is quick to forgive as long as you take the blame and apologize, so she flashes a victorious grin. “It’s okay, sweetie. I forgive you.” The merciful queen ruling over her dutiful and terrified subject.
I turn to Sage to keep myself from vomiting. I need something to hold to keep my hands from shaking. I reach my arms out to take Georgie, but she swings him to the other side.
“Quit hogging the baby. My stomach hurts anyway. Give him.” Still, she ignores me.
Mom’s eyes find my uneaten plate with hardly anything on it to begin with, and her face brightens. “Oh, you’re finally taking my advice, I see.”
Then, Dad says, “Who the hell made this?” I glance over to see him inspecting the baked macaroni and cheese on his fork with his nose scrunched up.
And the walls start closing in and I struggle to find breath. I really am just a waste of space. A black stain upon the white carpet, usually ignored, but occasionally looked at with consternation.
I look at the painting again, but it’s too late—there’s nothing there to save me.
I take a piece of sour candy from my pocket. I knew I’d need it. Knew I’d let all the comments get to me. Knew I’d have to battle an oncoming panic attack because if I escape to be by myself, someone will say something about my dramatics. Discreetly, I stick it in my mouth. Everyone’s too preoccupied with their own voices to notice.
The sour shock on my tongue and the tingling under my jaw pull every thought and feeling to where the candy sits on my taste buds. Like when you touch the glass of a plasma ball globe and all the lightning-like tendrils go to your finger.
Except someone does notice—Nick. His eyes, like a cup of coffee, filled to the brim with concern, watch me diligently. With enough of a grip on myself to do so, I tighten my lips into what I intend as a grin. To let him know I’m fine. But he sees right through me.