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Show Motherlunge a novel 175 ) all the wives of King Henry VIII and how they died. Girls who liked secrets, promises, exclusive laws and creeds; girls who suggested you be their blood sister and had actually brought to school the knife to cut you with, and it was not a pocket knife. I had three friends in this last category. The first one moved away, and the second got pregnant and was sent to live with her father in Seattle. The last one, a college friend from Spokane whom we'll call Vivian, gradually became before my eyes the person huddled over coffee in the dining hall, her hair unwashed and her hands shaking badly. / told you so, I was always tempted to say under my breath as I passed her table and failed to greet her. These were, of course, the friends I loved the most, the weird girls. I felt a sickening relief to lose each one. That afternoon at Eli's, listening to her muffled voice urging Fuck me! from the next room, I poured myself some coffee and considered Cassandra. Odd, smart, and sometimes pitiable, perhaps she was the living synthesis of the types of girls I had hung out with growing up. Perhaps this meant that at age 26,1, too, in spite of recent challenges, was achieving some kind of personality integration? That thought cheered me. I stirred milk in my coffee with a spoon, enjoying the quaintness of the gesture. It was something one might do in a cottage, whilst visiting one's friend. I thought to start making toast for both of us. I would put it on a plate, with a tidy pat of butter! And later, I would go home and provide appropriate support to my older sister! Who had a temporary case of the blues! I was standing at the counter, holding down the toaster handle when Cassandra hung up the phone and came in the kitchen. |