The next morning when I get home, I find my mom upstairs in Lucy’s room. Neither of us has really been in here much since she started the craft room transformation. She’s been caught up in pageant stuff, and I’ve been too wrapped up in myself, so Lucy’s room has sort of been sitting here. Briefly, I wonder if, like me, she’s snuck in here for moments at a time. Just to see Lucy. To be near her.
But today my mom’s got her ridiculous Juicy Couture tracksuit on and has boxes labeled DONATE. She’s not here to visit Lucy. She’s here to get rid of her.
When my mother is frustrated, she cleans. Her cleaning out Lucy’s room frustrates me. These two negatives do not equal a positive. She and I are still on eggshells over the dress, and honestly, if she doesn’t let me wear it, I’m done for. I have no other options. A fat girl can’t just walk into a thrift shop and—POOF—find a decent dress that actually fits.
And that’s what really pisses me off about the dress thing. She’s the head honcho. The lady calling the shots. All she has to say is yes. I have a hard enough time finding jeans to wiggle over my ass, you think she’d be shooting confetti cannons over me being able to find a not hideous/not stretchy dress that zips. IT ZIPS.
But the room. There she is digging—pawing—through Lucy’s things and every little movement feels like I’ve accidentally touched the coils of a hot stove.
“What are you even doing in here?” My voice is already too loud and too sharp.
She glances back at me. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She turns back. “This stuff can’t sit here forever. You know, I hope that when I die, you don’t let my belongings gather dust for months like this.”
“These are Lucy’s things, Mom. This stuff belongs to her.”
“Baby,” she says. “Belonged. These things belonged to her. We’re coming up on a year in December. I’m not lettin’ all this sit here like some kind of shrine.”
I shake my head. Tears spill out onto my cheeks. A year. A whole year. “Stop,” I say. “Please stop.”
She turns to me now. Panic flashes across her face. I think that maybe I will forever judge her based on what she does and says at this very moment. We don’t have this kind of relationship. I don’t cry on my mother’s shoulder. We dance around each other, but never intersect.
Her house shoes slap against the floor as she takes the few steps toward me.
I lean forward, expecting her to hug me. And I don’t mean her wrapping her arms around my waist, and commenting on how her fingers nearly touch. I mean a real hug. One I can sink into. “I’m taking all this stuff to the shelter this weekend. If there’s anything you want, now’s the time to pull it out.” She pats my shoulder. “I’m going to go put together some lunch before you have to go to work.”
The door closes behind her, and I sink down onto Lucy’s bed. The memory of the last few weeks wash over me.
I have no dress. A not-really-maybe boyfriend who I can’t bear to be seen with in public, because I feel that repulsive when I think of us standing side by side. Mitch, who I’ve been horrible to. My mom. Ellen. And no Lucy.
I need Lucy. She should be here to tell me what to do. Some solution that would never even occur to me without her.
I consider the things I can change.
The dress.
I could eat lettuce until the pageant and maybe then it will fit like how my mom had imagined. But then what? It’s that vicious dieting cycle, like when I was younger. I would lose the weight to wear the dress, and then what? I start eating food that’s not lettuce and gain it all back. Maybe even some extra.