Are You My Mother Part II
“What a troll,” Ally says. She escorts me back to the car, but it is as if we are both lost. I do not ask my aunt how she liked the hard couch or his ridiculous question, “Why is she here?” And an answer I don’t have yet, but one that almost always begins with some version of “Emily’s problem” or “Emily’s challenge.” Ally said, “Our problem.” And I follow her back to the parking lot without much fuss, but I don’t ask her where she learned about trolls or why she decided to call Steeple Hands a troll even if I agree with her.
My clothes stink of the cigarette smoke in Steeple Hands’ office, those bitter smells make me remember other smells, better ones like the cinnamon rolls Grizzly used to make on Saturdays with a pound of butter and real cream.
“I could have talked to Steeple Hands for hours about those rolls of Grizzly’s and their power to turn you into a fatso,” I say. “Didn’t she used to make them for you?”
“But Grizzly isn’t here,” Ally says. “Is she ever?”
“Boys who come over for sit down dinner, pop in the oven biscuits. Can’t I just have that?”
“I’m sorry it's been so bad,” Ally says.
And I almost reach out towards her then - but my arms stay still and limp. They feel as if they might break off, as if they will disintegrate into crumbs, like the collection I always see underneath Thom’s chair. And when I disappear inside her car, I’d swear everything from the traffic to the big and little thighs swarming around us becomes like one giant whirling bath that moves along in glossy ripples.
I am burning candles, buffing my sorry nails, and eating hard candy in a dream inside my mind. I close my eyes and let the sunshine bake my arms real.
“I don’t have to be a Bozo all the time,” I say. I lean over and squeeze her hand.
My aunt doesn’t say anything. She stares down at her fingers and nods her head as if she gets it. (In that moment, it doesn’t matter if she really understands. We’re good.)
But Big Sister isn’t.
I’ll hide that fake hair and keep it hidden. No more Bozo. Ever.
My clothes stink of the cigarette smoke in Steeple Hands’ office, those bitter smells make me remember other smells, better ones like the cinnamon rolls Grizzly used to make on Saturdays with a pound of butter and real cream.
“I could have talked to Steeple Hands for hours about those rolls of Grizzly’s and their power to turn you into a fatso,” I say. “Didn’t she used to make them for you?”
“But Grizzly isn’t here,” Ally says. “Is she ever?”
“Boys who come over for sit down dinner, pop in the oven biscuits. Can’t I just have that?”
“I’m sorry it's been so bad,” Ally says.
And I almost reach out towards her then - but my arms stay still and limp. They feel as if they might break off, as if they will disintegrate into crumbs, like the collection I always see underneath Thom’s chair. And when I disappear inside her car, I’d swear everything from the traffic to the big and little thighs swarming around us becomes like one giant whirling bath that moves along in glossy ripples.
I am burning candles, buffing my sorry nails, and eating hard candy in a dream inside my mind. I close my eyes and let the sunshine bake my arms real.
“I don’t have to be a Bozo all the time,” I say. I lean over and squeeze her hand.
My aunt doesn’t say anything. She stares down at her fingers and nods her head as if she gets it. (In that moment, it doesn’t matter if she really understands. We’re good.)
But Big Sister isn’t.
I’ll hide that fake hair and keep it hidden. No more Bozo. Ever.
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