A Different Kind of Normal by Cathy Lamb

Author:Cathy Lamb [Lamb, Cathy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington publishing Corp.
Published: 2012-07-05T14:00:00+00:00

Brooke appeared to be completely sober, but she looked half-dead, a tired skeleton with skin and dried, dead-looking auburn hair.

“It has not been a pleasant time,” Brooke said, a wry understatement. “It’s a shipwreck time of life.”

I put my teacup down on my mother’s kitchen table. The table had been a gift from one of her co-stars, Blake Montorio. She had chosen him out of three other hopefuls to be on Foster’s Village. He’d made his mark on the show before the manipulative Elsie had him locked away in an insane asylum for five years. In real life he’d gone on to a successful career in movies. He’d been grateful ever since.

Brooke traced one of the carvings in the table with her finger. The table, long enough for ten, had been made by a Santa Fe artist especially for my mother. We called it The Table of Witches. It was a blend of oranges, yellows, reds, blues, and greens.

My mother had told Blake of our witchly past, and the artist had painted pictures of women with auburn-colored hair in bold dresses with stars and hearts high up in the branches of trees, a half moon shining in one corner, a group of white stars in another. The trees looked alive, their branches twisting and turning, entwined with one another, the witches dancing across the bridges and arcs. It was magnificent.

“It’s a shipwreck time of life and Brooke’s having a bad hair day,” my mother drawled. “Look at her locks.”

I shook my head at my mother. “We’re getting into that now? She’s had a shipwreck time. I’m not worried about her tangles.” I was horrified, sickened by Brooke’s appearance, though I’d seen her in this state before. You don’t get “used to” seeing your sister beat up. I reached for Brooke’s hand, chilly cold to the touch, and squeezed it.

“Um . . .” Brooke said, her voice hoarse as she pushed a trembling hand through her lank hair. “I left my . . . uh . . . my ex-boyfriend before rehab and he disagreed with my leaving, so when I was released from rehab, and he was later paroled out of jail, he came and found me and rearranged part of my face. I then went to the women’s shelter.”

“I took her to the doctor.” My mother’s face was ashen, but she was trying hard to regain her sassiness. “We went to see a handsome doctor and all Brooke wanted to do was talk about the bruises on her face, the cracked ribs, the stitches she needed in two places, and the red line she had growing up the side of her leg toward her heart that could have killed her.”

“Brooke—” I felt faint. I gripped my teacup. We were all having orange herbal tea and spinach mushroom omelets, but no one was eating.

“Brooke’s conversation wasn’t engaging, it wasn’t . . . inviting, if you know what I mean,” my mother reprimanded, her coiffed bob swinging. “It was a poor choice of topic.

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