“Truth be told, I had a difficult day,” Mom says. “The rhythm gets lost when the lab director goes on sabbatical. Grievances take root among the more difficult personalities. And obviously I feel guilty about being late for dinner again. Perhaps it’s not the best night to strategize. I’m not thinking clearly.”
“It’s not like I’m going to call her back,” I say.
The knife hangs in the air. “Her?” she says.
“Him. I meant him.”
Mom smiles tightly at the board and starts a vigorous hand-over-hand chop. “The Berkshires are looking better every minute.” She catches my alarm at my slip and misinterprets it. “Don’t worry, we’re not going anywhere.”
I manage a fake laugh. “Speaking of difficult personalities, I saw Mrs. Lapin today. She hasn’t changed.”
“Still hard on Liv?”
“You could say that. Actually, she’s worried the reporters are going to start up again, too. Because, you know, they might catch her off guard, when her hair isn’t perfect. Or Liv’s hair isn’t perfect. That would be worse, I think.”
Mom grimaces, slipping on quilted mitts and pulling the chicken from the oven. Its taut skin crackles. The smell fills the kitchen, and I know it’s heavenly, and that I should feel hunger, but there’s nothing.
“We all have different coping mechanisms,” Mom says.
“Deborah is a narcissist so obsessed with her daughter’s shiny image that Liv isn’t allowed to cope.” I rinse the cutting board and wash the knife. “She barely gives Liv room to breathe. Now Liv’s seeing Shane Cuthbert, which is wrong on so many levels.”
“Liv was always a bit fickle. Maybe her tastes have changed.”
“Shane tastes like rancid meat, trust me. Or like pot. A pot-burger,” I say.
“I remember him as a handsome kid. Friendships evolve, Julia. Maybe you’re reacting to the fact that the Liv you’ve returned to junior year isn’t the same Liv.”
“Friendships evolve?”
“What Liv went through was horrific, but it wasn’t half of what you experienced. Maybe she truly is okay. And you’ve just outgrown each other. I know that’s hard to accept.”
I throw the knife into the sink with a clatter. “We’ve outgrown each other?”
Mom’s shoulders freeze. She searches for a spot to rest the pan, but the counter is cluttered with paper bags, and the table is ten steps away. She’s trapped, and she has to listen to me. Because the black thing is here in the kitchen with us.
“I mean, you have an inquisitive mind. A really, really good mind. And sometimes we look for answers that aren’t actually there because we don’t want to face the reality that things have changed,” Mom says.
“That’s a load of bullshit.”
“Don’t be crude.” Her mitts tighten on the sides of the pan, and the fat underneath the chicken lists. “This is getting heavy.”
“Something’s off with Liv,” I insist. “You don’t refuse to talk about an experience, however awful, with the only other person in the world who understands what it was like to go through it. Nor do you start dating a half Orc. Suggesting that Liv has outgrown her friendship with me is your not-so-subtle way of implanting the idea in my head because you don’t want me to hang around with her.”
Mom grips the edges of the pan. “That’s untrue.”
“You probably feel like what happened to that girl Ana shows how dangerous it was to save Liv. Like it proves some lesson,” I say.
“How could you ever say such a thing? I’m not a monster!” she says.
“You never liked Liv. I did the right thing by saving her, but you hate her so much you couldn’t even be proud of me.”
“You think you did the right thing.”
“I know I did!” I step forward and Mom jumps. The pan tips and fat splashes across her left arm. She cries out. I cover my hands with a kitchen rag and grab the pan, and she bolts to the sink, wrenching on the cold-water valve. The smell of burned flesh and butter fills the kitchen.
“Mom?”
Pain twists her mouth. She looks away.
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.
She shuts off the water and inspects the mark, blazing pink. I set the pan on the table and spread paper towels on a spray of fat congealing on the tile. She blows at the burn while digging one-handedly in the junk drawer for wound salve. When she finally climbs onto the leather counter stool, arm slathered in goo, I hold my breath, waiting for her to say something bouncy, like “At least I’m a righty!” or “If you didn’t want chicken, you should have said so!”
She blows on her arm. This time, her eyes are closed. Outside, wind chimes tinkle helplessly in the bluster.
“Mom?”
“I’m always proud of you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t hate Liv. But sometimes I do think there are better friends for you. Remember Alice next door? Whatever happened to Alice Mincus?”
“Mom,” I whisper. “I haven’t hung around with Alice since fifth grade.”