Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [55]
She shoved the pillow off her face, and it dropped on the floor. “I’ll make that deal. Whatcha got over there so important I gotta wake up?”
“Carl's going to be here with my dad for our first family session. I don’t want to look fat. Carl hates it when I look fat.”
“Then he won’t so much like me, huh?” She laughed and sat up on the side of her bed.
“I didn’t mean it that way. He won’t care how you look. He just cares how I look.”
“Well, thanks again, girlie. Now, why I want to help you after you loud capping me and all?”
Clearly, sobriety was counterproductive to my diplomacy. I plopped on the bed next to Theresa and reached over for one of those one-arm hugs. “I’m an idiot.”
She tilted her body away from me. “Yeah, you really right if you think we going to be huggy and all that.” She pulled the red dress from my bed and handed it to me. “Wear this. You ain’t got no business wearing a dress the same color you are. Besides, you still got a waist. No use wastin’ it.” She slapped her knee. “Funny. Wastin’ it. Got it?”
I actually did laugh. For Theresa, a pun was bonus points on her humor grade. But if she noticed I was the shade of school glue, that couldn’t be good. Then again, if I wanted a tan I should’ve found a seaside rehab facility.
“Who are you going to see today?” I unzipped the dress and pulled it over my head.
Theresa slid her back against the headboard and reached for her latest People magazine on the dresser. “That hoochie should be taking better care of her babies.” She pointed to a recently crazed young singer on the cover and flipped through the pages. “Ain’t nobody coming today.”
Her voice dropped so low it could have met me under the bed from where I grabbed my white sandals.
I wiggled my feet into the sandals, then checked to make sure I’d shaved under my arms. Hair like that was only sexy on Brad Pitt's chin. “Nobody? Why not?”
“Noneya.”
“What?”
“Noneya business.”
Wolf words in sheep clothing. The universal “nothing” reply from a wife whose husband asked, “What's wrong?” Nothing meant everything. Nothing meant you should already know. Nothing meant ask me until I tell you.
A part of me wanted to agree with Theresa that it wasn’t my business. I guess much like Carl wanted to believe “nothing” could really mean nothing. Those nights in bed when he scanned my face and asked what was wrong, did he know his actions always answered his question?
“You win. It's not my business. But I just asked because, well, I just didn’t think it was that personal a question. But, apparently, it was because you’re so defensive. So, if you don’t want to tell me—” I tugged the dress over my hips. My hips tugged back.
“I don’t wanna tell you. Know why?” Her voice was as tight as the magazine she’d rolled into a thick baton. Hoochie Mama's leering cover smile curled in on itself.
“Obviously not. If I knew the answer I wouldn’t have asked the question.” Weary sarcasm.
“Why you’re here and not that husband of yours, I don’t know. I could see him wanting to drink having to live with you and all. You think just because we’re stuck in this room together we’re gonna be sista-friends? You the kind of chick wouldn’t pay no mind to me outside this place. I’m the woman who cleans your friends’ houses or waits on you at one of them lady lunch places. You walk around here with your fancy clothes and get visits from your fancy friends and your Rolex husband—”
I opened my mouth to tell her it was his father's watch, but her words moved in before mine could move out.
“And, yeah, I know people like you wear ’em and I know a Rolex when I see one. In pawn shops when I bring my rings and bracelets there so I can feed my kids ’cuz I used the grocery money to feed my habit.” She sighed and lowered her head.
I’m so stupid and so sorry. Shame smeared itself on my face like it did the afternoon Carl's mother whined about her half-completed pool cabana