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“I like my hair the way it is,” I said, shaking my head so my hair would fall back in place.

“But the other way, you have more volume.” Mom said annoyed that I wasn’t embracing her suggestion.

Same mother I was still not good enough for. I got my coat from the couch. “I need to get going,” I said, heading toward the door. This was the first time I’d been happy to go for my weekly dry cleaning.

“Will you come by again soon?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, but I knew it might be a while. I didn’t need a new hairstyle.

CHAPTER 5

As I poured myself some coffee, I noticed there wasn’t a dirty bowl of leftover cereal and milk on the counter. A clean kitchen meant either Gia hadn’t eaten breakfast, or leprechauns had come in and cleaned up when I was in the shower. I chose to believe the latter because if she skipped breakfast and was starving until lunch, it would mean I was a bad mother. I’d been trying to get her to make her own breakfast, because at seventeen my mom made me sew my own clothes. Well, not really, but she did refuse to make me breakfast, saying I’d never grow up if she kept catering to me. Was I hurting Gia by continuing to pour Frosted Flakes into a bowl? Jim came in from outside, a dusting of snow from his jacket scattering on the floor.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Warming up my car.”

I brushed the rest of the snow off his shoulder. “Are you going to warm me up next?” I asked flirtatiously. I was trying to be more understanding about his stress.

He was staring at his phone. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, I hope you have a good day.” My understanding nature was gone.

“Thanks. You too.” He picked up his briefcase and left. I was alone in my house again, not as if that was different from any other day. I grabbed Theo’s leash and took him for a walk. I was planning on going once around the block, but I ended up walking for forty-five minutes. Poor Theo, he looked as if he should be on life support after we got home. Basset hounds and long walks did not mix.

As Theo collapsed on the kitchen floor, I put my purple latex gloves on and washed last night’s dirty dishes. As I started on the iron skillet, the phone rang. Someone was calling me. Someone who would take me away from this drudgery. I’d even take a telemarketer right now. I took off my gloves and noticed the caller ID said “private caller.” I answered anyway. It was my brother, Jerry. Why couldn’t it have been a telemarketer?

I had barely said hello when he said, “I just got off the phone with Mom, and she said you were mad at her.”

Since I’d moved out of her house, every time my mother thought I was upset with her, she’d have my brother call me. “I’m not mad at Mom.” I turned the faucet on in the sink and put my gloves back on. I balanced the phone on my shoulder but secretly hoped it would fall into the hot running water.

“She said you were having a nice time together, and then you suddenly left.”

I picked up a scouring pad and scrubbed the skillet as if it needed to be rid of evil. “It wasn’t sudden. I’d been there a while.”

“Well, whatever happened, it upset her. Can you try to be more sensitive? Try to be like you are with Dad.” I hated when he treated me like a younger sibling. I had six years on this guy.

I had torn a hole in one of the gloves from all my scrubbing, and hot water was coming through and scalding my index finger. It hurt, but not as much as this conversation. “I’m very sensitive with her.”

“You’re not. Even Jim agrees with me.”

Jim? My Jim? Jim wouldn’t say that to my brother. At least, I didn’t think he would. Then again, lately I wasn’t sure I knew my husband. “When did you talk to Jim?”

“When we had lunch last week. Didn’t he tell you?”

“Of course he told me.” Why didn’t he tell me? Why would Jim go out with Jerry when he knew we didn’t get along? “I need to go,” I said and hung up before he had a chance to say anything else.

My anger made me want to clean more, so I picked up the sponge and was beginning to move it across the granite counter when my elbow knocked a bottle of cinnamon onto the floor. The top wasn’t screwed on, because why would anyone in my family think to screw the top back on? I pulled out a dustpan and brush, and as I kneeled on the floor and began sweeping the mess up, cinnamon dust invaded my nose and throat. I began to cough uncontrollably. Would someone find me if I collapsed on the floor from a spice-induced death? At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with my husband having secret meetings with my brother, or my daughter running off to marry a boy I didn’t like. That last one was an exaggeration, but I was possibly dying, so I was allowed to exaggerate.

I dialed Jim’s number. “Hey,” he said when he answered.

“Did you have lunch with Jerry last week?”

“Not exactly. I was at the deli, and he came in. He asked if he could sit with me.”

“And you said yes?”

“What was I supposed to say?”