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Show Moon - 55 Her mother lifted up a tomato and began to peel it. The knife went in too far, and the pulp of the tomato oozed out over her hands, little white seeds and juice like watered-down blood. "His name was David. He was an artist, a good one. He drank too much and he ran away. He was not a nice man like your Daddy now." So that was what Ruth had meant when she'd said, "You're just like your father." She must have meant that Joy wasn't a very nice person. Perhaps her grandmother was right. Sometimes Joy wanted Ruth and Esther to be dead. And sometimes she didn't like her mother either. Once she stuck a hatpin into her favorite doll, and a jolt of feeling came through her, right down to the bottom of her stomach like a train coming into the station, and she'd gasped at the pleasure of it. The feeling reminded her, oddly, of Esther and her funny yellow eyes. No, she was sure of this, that she was not very nice. Anne rinsed the red goo off her hands under the tap, wiped them on her apron and held out her arms to her daughter as if she thought Joy could fall into them the way she used to. This baby was for James. "You aren't getting pregnant because you don't enjoy it enough," he'd said. No, she said, it was the tearing, the infections from having Joy, and, well, she supposed, just nature. Now cider jugs had to be filled with urine to take to the doctor; she didn't know why. The doctor made easy conversation as he examined her, and the nurse's face was carefully expressionless. There was too much shame in this pregnancy business. |