Frannie in Pieces by Delia Ephron

Author:Delia Ephron
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-12-07T05:00:00+00:00

20

Gagging and sputtering, I’m on my back, rolling side to side on the floor of my room.

“Frannie, are you all right?”

I flip over, shove the puzzle board under the bed, and with my comforter I blanket what remains—my box, piles of sorted pieces. Mom whacks the door wide; it slams into one of the big cardboard boxes and comes right back at her.

“I’m…” I can’t stop coughing. I have to bend over while she pats my back and I have a complete coughing fit, spitting up water.

“Good grief, what happened? You’re all wet.”

My clothes are stuck to me, my hair plastered to my head. She’s right. I am all wet.

“Why?”

Why?

“Why did you take a shower in your clothes? What’s wrong with your foot?” Mom kneels down. “Give me a tissue, would you?” Mel hands one over, and she wipes my foot and examines some yellow goop. Am I excreting strange pus? She smells it. “Cheese?”

“Maybe. Velveeta.”

“You’re eating in the shower? For God’s sake, Frannie, you’re shivering, where’s your towel? Why did you take a shower in your clothes?” Her voice spikes shrill. She sprints into the bathroom, revealing, behind her, all of Mel in boxer shorts. Not a sight I ever wanted to see. “What are you doing up so late?” He cranks his head from side to side. Loud cracks are heard. Perhaps his knuckles are in his neck. “What time is it?”

My mom sweeps back in, wraps me in a giant towel, and keeps on ranting, “Taking a shower in her clothes. Eating cheese. What is she thinking?”

She. That’s me.

“Take off your clothes.”

“I can’t take them off with him here.”

I notice my hand. The Band-Aid hangs. Mom grabs my wrist and we both look closely. “What’s wrong here?” she asks.

“Nothing. I had a splinter; it’s gone.” It is gone. It must have been washed out by the water. “Mom, stop fussing.”

“What smells?” says Mel.

“I’m fine, I’m really fine.” I back them out. “I was painting at camp today, and showering seemed like an easy way to get the paint off my clothes and me at the same time.”

“I didn’t notice paint on your clothes.”

“Why?”

Recognize my trick: Derail them with something nonresponsive. Mel gets a cloudy look, as if he can’t read the writing on the medieval walls, but Mom blasts on, “Why is your comforter on the floor?” That one last question remains as I shut the door, almost excising Mom’s nose.

Why am I wet?

I drop the towel and peel off my clothes. Why am I wet? How could I be wet?

After wrapping myself up again, I sit on the bed.

Could I be having blackouts?

I heard about them in second grade from Maria. “He drank a fifth,” she said, swinging upside down on the jungle gym. “Dad had a blackout.” She raised her desktop and stashed her lunch inside. I came home and asked my mom. “What’s a fifth? What’s a blackout? Maria’s dad has them.” Mom put it all together and told me what happens if you drink too much liquor.

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