31
Parenting
By Susan Sinclair Edele
This time, my voice is strong.
The table is cluttered with empty bottles, empty chip bags, and cellophane wrappers from the no-name brand of Twinkies strewn against her beat up tennis shoe. Only the left one is on the table.
“Get this table cleaned off before Dad gets home. You are old enough to know better, Phyllis Lattinger. You broke your promise again.” I hear my voice, stern and angry.
Her mouth moves, but no words come out. Peals of her laughter fill the kitchen. She slumps against the counter, pulling her right shoe out of the sink, staring at her left shoe on the table. She thinks this is so funny. It’s not.
Shut the refrigerator door and shut your mouth! my brain shouts.
She lunges forward, shoe still in her hand, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Stop trying to hug me – it means nothing to me when you’re like this,” I tell her, my voice loud, my body rigid.
Phyllis’ laughter turns to wails then to sobs. Her whole body shudders against mine as I pull her arms off me.
Enough with the crying. Blow your dripping nose and dry your swollen eyes. You are a smelly mess.
I hand her the box of tissues. She hands me her shoe.
You WILL be sorry tomorrow, Phyllis Lattinger. But for today, be sick in your own bathroom, not mine. And hit the toilet, not the floor, because I’m not your maid.
I put three Tylenols into her shaking hands and shove a cup of water at her, avoiding her pitiful expression. She rolls her bloodshot eyes as she swallows the pills then speaks.
Stop screaming at me – I am right here. You were so happy this morning when I left you. What changed, Phyllis? Did I cause this? I think I may be to blame, but I never ask you.
Her anger continues as if she hears my thoughts. She slams the cup onto the table, and moves toward me, her fists balled and punching the air I try to breathe.
“Go to your room. Sleep it off before you get into more trouble,” I whisper, backing away from her.
You missed. Unclench your fist. Remember what happened last time, Phyllis? Tomorrow afternoon with a pounding headache, you’ll patch that hole,