Little Black Lies by Sandra Block

Author:Sandra Block
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2015-02-17T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

That evening, Mom is waiting for us in her wheelchair by the large, rectangular French window in the lobby. The window frames a patch of dark sky, a few planets tentatively peeking out before the stars steal the show.

We’re shaking clomps of snow off our boots on the black rubber entryway rug when she spots us and points, a smile filling up her face. “My kiddos!” she sings out.

Scotty smiles back, and we exchange our weekly hugs. We wheel Mom back to her room through reams of red hearts and lacy doilies running up and down the hall. With the rose-pink walls, it looks like Valentine’s Day on steroids. Fat, half-naked angels are aiming their bows at us, though it’s not even February yet.

“How’s the Frenchman?” she asks as we cross the threshold to her room. Speaking of stupid and Cupid. Scotty smirks because he just can’t help it.

“That’s over, Mom,” I say. I have told her at least ten times already.

“Oh,” she says. “Okay, what about that other nice boy? The hockey fan.”

“No, Mom. Nothing happening there.”

Scotty double smirks. My mom takes her usual seat in her rocker, old lilac afghan hugging her shoulders. Scotty turns on the TV and puts his enormous, shiny, lime-green-sneakered feet up on the mahogany coffee table. Those sneakers probably cost him a week’s pay. We are watching the news on CNN, though none of us are really watching, just some noise to drown out the beeping and moaning in the other rooms.

“So how’s the Frenchman?” my mom asks again.

“What did you do this week?” I ask her, remembering the social worker’s advice: “Try not to challenge, just redirect.”

“I met a very nice man, actually,” she says, her face lighting up.

“Really?” I say. Even Scotty turns to look at her.

“Tom Burns is his name. Tom Burns.” She says the words like they are a delightful mantra. “‘If I weren’t a married woman, Tom Burns,’ I told him. ‘You’d be in some serious trouble.’”

“Yeah, but Mom, Dad’s—”

She shoots me a frightened look, all glow fading away. “Dad’s what?”

“Nothing,” I say. It’s just not worth it. “Just that Dad would like you to have friends.”

“Yes.” She nods thoughtfully. “I think so, too.”

Graphs zip up onto the TV screen with a loud, overdramatic announcer explaining them. Basically, red line for Republican, blue line for Democratic, and ne’er the twain shall meet.

“Oh, I made something,” Mom says, grabbing on the top of her dresser. She hands me a hot pink felt pillow. The white cotton stuffing is pouching out, with black Frankenstein stitching holding it together. It reads “I Love You” in glittery silver glue. “It’s for you,” she says.

“Wow,” I say. “It’s beautiful, Mom.”

“Not for Tom Burns?” Scotty asks, teasing.

“No, I made him a purple one.”

“Oh.” I laugh. “So I know where I stand.”

A commercial breaks into the show. A woman is looking forlornly at the residue on her just-washed dishes. I wish I had the time for such nonsense. The woman finally gets the right product and does a huge leap into the logo.

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