Page 22 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)
Adrian
Mom stormed in as we had an early breakfast, with her pink, fluffy slippers padded across the tiles, her hands clasped altogether as she announced—and giddied—to her upcoming announcement.
“What is it this time, Linda? Did you get a new Chanel purse after getting a lightest, non-existent scratch for the fifth time?” Dad articulated in a profound distant tone as he channeled his eyes roaming over the new articles, bold letters flashed and plastered on a fresh cut paper and flicked the page.
Bjorn drank a batch of hot black coffee on his white china mug, not wanting any noises in his peaceful routine. Today was Bjorn’s day off, and it was a personal hassle for mental peace.
“I’m not going to be cleaning the house anymore,” she erupted.
She was bouncing in joy with her ridiculously pointed heels—sorry her new Jordan’s.
Safe to assume we’ll be accepting her word. Based on how she won’t be cleaning the entire household anymore, it irked to the two men on the dining table. To Dad’s view, it’s lazy and stupid. For Bjorn, he was…typically careless for Mom’s words and antics.
Not acquired to bring words upfront, not wishing to waste their breaths.
Moments later, Dad begrudgingly slammed the newspapers down on a dining table, made from a rare woodwork of mahogany.
Mom’s shoulders flinched.
“What?” Dad uttered in disbelief.
“I’m not going to be cleaning the house anymore,” she parroted.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dad vented, hands slammed the newspaper on his lap.
“I’m not going to waste my time on cleaning tedious tasks,” her voice chirped.
“Shit, you can’t be serious, Linda. Cleaning is the simplest thing anyone could do. Even toddlers can do it. Why the fuck would you announce that? Are you too proud to call yourself lazy, or you planning to become lazier as time goes by?”
Bjorn hummed in taciturn amusement, scrolling on his phone screen.
“Well, this is where I save the best news for last. Father Divine contacted me yesterday and offered me to have the house clean. He’s sending someone in—Ah, Praise the Lord!”
Bjorn snorted, ludicrous at her fake gospel.
“By what, spill more Holy Water and give his blessings and prayers to our goddamn house?” Dad said lowly, hatred evident in his eyes. “Linda, I don’t want any of this bullshit in my quiet early breakfast.”
Dad usually dislikes any unwanted or unwarranted visitors at his private time, considering how his responsibilities were annoying and increasingly overwhelming from previous travels and social protocols to meetings, presentations and rewards ceremonies, etc.
“Perhaps we could hire some of the staff from Dad’s previous job,” Bjorn simply recommended with disinterest. “Dad trusts them. They don’t steal or cheat their way to cleaning.”
“Don’t you mean a nanny?” Mom concluded, her blue eyes broadened in displeasure. “Hendrix doesn’t need to hire a nanny to clean up the estate. Anyone can do better.”
Occasionally, Dad has thrown a word or two regarding to Mom’s dislike, other times it was Bjorn’s own will. Mom’s jaw was tight shut and gritted with every scratched sound muffled in her shut lips, rattling on the inside.
“A nanny or a housekeeper does a better job than what Father Divine’s offering,” he challenged.
Mom disliked his dismissal. “A holy offering from him has been great for us, for me! Nannies often steal shit and manipulate others to get into her worn out legs for quick cash and a bonus. Nannies are incompetent; they’re looking for a shortcut!
We need someone who behaves well, someone who takes anyone’s crap and doesn’t say shit about it. ”
Secretaries and nannies were the last thing she wants to hear. Whenever Dad spoke of his work, Mom had to coil herself like a cat, to brace herself for the worst.
She’d often thought the worst of Dad.
Whenever he’s diligent on his computer and his paperwork and making phone calls, he’s either with a secretary, or a nanny to do the dirty work in the estate.
Mom hated both to overstay their welcome at her place. In fact, she despised them. Anyone who comes an inch closer to touch his sleeve, Mom was ready for a brutal kill.
My mom liked to pull anything that’s long, not in a sense of filthy fashion on taking Dad to bed or by his grey-colored tie, which he doesn’t wish for the tie to crumple by her freakishly long acrylic fingers, but I referred to anything she could grab with her hands on, either a door handle, a five pound bell bars at her yoga setting downstairs, or somebody’s hair.
When she was a child, she loved to pull to anything that makes noise, including the sharp slap on a leathered belt; the silver metal dangled and rang, like a dog’s collar roped on a dog’s neck.
“Want someone to behave well? Get a fucking dog, Linda,” Dad retorted.
She stomped her heel. “No!” Then she stomped twice as she said, “Fuck no!”
“Why the fuck would you ask Father Divine about housekeeping services?” Dad intruded, chest heaving at her revelation.
“Him being involved in our personal lives isn’t what I had in mind.
Why can’t you call the Curtis family and ask them if they know any maids and housekeeping services? They know someone.”
Mom’s shoulders bopped. “Why the fuck not? I decide who gets hired and cleans this house, hubby.”
A bunch of newspapers crumpled. Bjorn leaned his spine back onto the couch cushion.
I watched Bjorn’s face contorted, groaning. “No, Mom, don’t do that.”
She had her hands on her hips. “Do what, honey?”
“That shit you’re pulling. Younger women said that shit.
I didn’t expect the word ‘hubby’ come out from my own mother,” Bjorn grunted, grimaced.
Bjorn’s not the type of guy who endlessly watching and scrolling viral videos on his phone.
He used his phone for serious business with a grumpy face to a point he reminded me of a dwarf with a collared-stripe suit.
But his office friends had a spare time making meme references and watched several jokes to get a fuller context.
“That shit is not owned or invented by younger women. Anyone could say it,” she protested, voice shrilled like a child who hasn’t gotten a brand new toy.
“Only influences on the internet say that,” Bjorn shot back, leaning forward. “You should be a mother, not some stripper-wannabe.”
Her anger fueled.
She banged the table down with a hand smacked, leaving their coffee mugs fell and shattered on the floor and coffee stains smothered on their expensive collared shirts, then she ripped the other newspapers apart, and some were thrown at the heated fireplace.
Dad whined, calling her ‘honey’ in his best formulate performance on gaining her affection through his affectionate-like voice, and Bjorn’s eyes hardened, clenching his fists, desiring to flip the glass table.
“The maid will be here soon, and you are all going to accept it! So help me God I’m going to fucking tear this place down if you guys don’t cooperate with Father Divine! This is my last warning! I fucking mean it, you fucktards!”
While my brother and father were shirking to Mom’s last straw, I was lounging on the cornered sofa, gagged and stifled my random guffaw at her temper tantrum.
Ah, watching all these idiots was fucking hilarious to my memory core, like I was watching an exotic tiger eating the circus performers at the circus, clapping my way like I was fucking six-year-old kid. Or a cursed witch shoving the needless and wedged it down on a voodoo doll.
Alas, she flounced her way to her private yoga studio she renovated and decorated, doing girly things despite at her processed age.
This has become regular; she comes down every morning, in her tight-looking yoga leggings and sports bar, displaying her wrinkled arms and flat belly, a dab of moisturizing skincare on her visage, overlaying it with a Korean makeup she got cheap online, but look greasier than a food-chain at a fast food restaurant.
Mugs are shattered, almost a cost a fortune to $200 each, but Bjorn’s was twice as expensive.
His $500 mug splat to tiny bits as the imported coffee drops dribbled and trailed onto the high-end coffee table by the farthest corner, as the newspapers slipped onto the pooled surface with a wet thud, the inked articles shrived, soaked the chemical aroma and softened the hard paper’s texture.
The mess has been made, and I’m not cleaning this shit up anytime soon.
I blew a low, whimsical whistle.
“That was a good show! Mom should win an Oscar award and have her picture taken right next to Leonardo DiCaprio and Meryl Streep,” I politely joked, having my arm splayed across the hard couch frame behind me, grinning ear-to-ear.
It has settled on her final straw weighing on us.
Mom’s anger went sky high, and both veered at me with petty disdain, wondering if they’ll spare their money for an equivalent exchange for newer mugs.
They hated to spend money on stupid or useless shit now that Mom’s word is final.
Mom will rain cash on some fake, nosy maid I can’t stand, despite not meeting the employee yet.
Dad left at the kitchen, and Bjorn—once again—slammed his bedroom door after he fled upstairs.
Poor mugs, poor furniture, poor door—all were under mercy at their colossal hands wreaked havoc.
At this rate, there’s no going back. We’re seriously going to have our own personal maid soon, and God knows what this new maid might do, either this maid might be as a disgrace as a pathetic whore, or she does her job diligently.
Either way, Mom’s God was testing our patience and money to spare tomorrow.
Tomorrow is another challenge.
Tomorrow, there’s no going back.