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Show Motherlunge a novel 80 "That's right." Dorothy spoke precisely, as if under oath, the coffee mug still pressed to her lower lip. Nobody said anything. Dorothy blew on her coffee. "Then what the hell, Mom?" I snapped the jewelry box closed. "Where has all your money been going? It's not like Pavia has money to bum," I swung my arm toward Pavia. "You may have noticed that she's pregnant? Jack is gone? The baby will cost money? And you know what else?"-I opened the jewelry box and let the hinges snap the lid down again, and then I did it again-"You know what else? We gave this jewelry box to you for a reason." I paused briefly; what was the reason? Anyway, I went on: "We got it for you when we were kids, Mom! Kids give stuff to their moms, right?" Time roared hot in my ears; I was sliding backwards, not to that specific, sentimental scene but something nearby it. "It's supposed to hold things. It's supposed to be where you keep things that are special. Things that are special to you." One, two, three seconds passed. "I know that, Thea," Dorothy said. She put the mug down at a tilt, spilling coffee on the table. "But we were trying to get to you. I missed you." She looked at me and her face-full and horribly open-was like a basin about to spill over; I felt I would drown if it did. Carefully, I reached for a napkin. I slid it forward so its comer soaked up the spilled coffee on the table. My mother and I watched it do its little job there, turning brown. Suddenly Pavia said, "Hey." She had both hands on the right side of her stomach and was looking down. |