You gotta love New Englanders. We can take anything we don’t want to face, whitewash it resiliently into a faint echo of itself, then simply lock it away.
I finally managed to get out two slices of bread and slide them into the toaster. While they browned, I found the carton of egg whites and set to scrambling. Working on the stove kept my back to my aunt and my landlady. They seemed content to chat, but from time to time, I could feel my aunt’s gaze upon me, assessing.
When the toast popped up, I split the pieces between two plates, topped them both with scrambled egg whites, and carried my concoction to the table.
My aunt looked up from talking with Frances, and her voice immediately trailed off. She stared at my exposed throat, and so did Frances. Belatedly I fingered the bruises from yesterday’s session with J.T.
“Good Lord,” my aunt whispered.
“Sparring,” I said defensively.
“Your neck…your hands.”
Several of my knuckles were bright purple, my left hand abraded, my wrist slightly swollen. I set my aunt’s plate down, tucked my hand behind my back. “Hey, you should see the other guy.”
My aunt and landlady continued to regard me with equal levels of horror.
“It’s okay,” I said at last, voice firmer. “I’ve taken up boxing, that’s all. And I like it. Now, eat.”
I pulled out a chair, sat down next to my aunt, picked up my toast. After another moment, my aunt nodded, maybe to me, maybe to herself, then regarded her own breakfast. She eyed the egg white–topped bread curiously, then gamely took a bite.
“Very nice,” she declared after swallowing. “Never been a huge fan of egg whites, but with the toast, it works.”
“She’s a healthy eater, that one,” Fran said.
I looked at my landlady in surprise. I hadn’t realized she’d noticed what I ate, one way or another.
“Hard worker,” Fran continued, apparently taking it upon herself to vouch for my character to my own aunt. “Tends her night job, comes home to sleep, then is always ready to report to work the next evening. No nonsense, this one.”
“Charlene’s got a good head on her shoulders,” my aunt agreed. “She was always a huge help to me in the B&B. This past year, I’ve missed her.”
I ate another bite of toast, starting to feel like an outsider in my own life.
“Lease is almost up,” Fran commented. She faced me, instead of my aunt. “You coming or going?”
“Sunday,” I said.
“You’ll give me the answer?”
“Sure.”
My aunt, who understood the relevance of Saturday, frowned at me.
“Gonna include the dog that’s not your dog?” my landlady continued. “You know, the one that’s supposed to be outside but is in your room instead?”
I flushed. My aunt arched a brow.
“Yeah…um…Gonna talk to my aunt about that. See about finding a home for Tulip.”
“Hmmm,” my landlady said. “By Sunday?”
“Yeah, by Sunday.”
“Dog pees, dog chews, it’s out of your pocket.”
“Agreed.”
“I like her,” my aunt said, referring to Frances.
I finally smiled. “Figured you would.”
BY THE TIME I led my aunt down the hall to my little room, I felt nervous again. Like a teenager, anxious to impress her parent with her first dorm room. Look at me, look at the life I created all on my own. Clean sheets, made bed, hung-up clothes, the whole works.
Tulip met us at the door. Judging by the look on her face, she hadn’t appreciated being shut up for the morning adventures. Maybe you can take the dog off the street but not the street out of the dog. I thought I knew how she felt.
She refused to greet me, but worked her charm on my aunt instead. My aunt had the typical questions. What was Tulip’s name, breed, what a sweet face, what a nice disposition.