Pretty Delicate by Allie McFarland

Author:Allie McFarland [McFarland, Allie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Day Eight:

Mom gave me a break last week, but now she’s determined to have regular Sunday dinners. As a family. The whole family. I haven’t seen Leah since Banff. When I moved home, I stashed the journal she gave me in my underwear drawer without looking at it. I told Mom to tell her not to ask what I think of the gift, but who knows if she passed along the message or if Leah will listen. Mom disregarded my concerns about resuming family dinners so soon—said, “If you’re healthy enough to come home, then you’re healthy enough to see your family.”

I dab foundation onto my face so at least I’ll look healthy enough, even if I don’t feel it.

“Cate! Hello, Cate, are you coming to help?” Mom shouts from the kitchen and through the bathroom wall so I barely hear her.

I open the door, “Gimme two more minutes! Almost ready!”

I colour in my eyebrows a plain brown that fills in some thin spots. I skip the eye shadow—no time—and move straight to mascara. No point in doing full contour for a family dinner, but I do apply blush for colour. No real point in doing makeup at all, but it’s my war paint and armour all in one. I was surprised when they let me wear makeup in hospital. I thought they would want me to focus on finding inner beauty or some bullshit, but my therapist was cool. She said it’s okay to need help to feel pretty, as long as that help doesn’t cause harm. So, no restricting food, but layering colours and wearing designer clothes is okay. And putting on my face gives me a few moments to myself. A kind of meditation. I apply a highlighter called ‘money-balls’ over my blush for extra sparkle. I would’ve named it something richer-sounding, like ‘glamour’ or ‘city lights.’ A swipe of purple lipstick and I’m done.

I saunter into the kitchen, deliberately keeping my movements slow to maintain my calm.

“Took you long enough. Help me chop veggies for the salad.” Mom gestures at the mound of cucumbers, tomatoes, and red onions arranged on the cutting board.

Mom whisks a glaze to pour over the salmon sitting on a baking sheet as I cube the veggies for the Greek salad. I try not to watch. To think about the sugar and fat in the glaze. I know she uses honey and butter and Dijon mustard, but maybe if I don’t dwell on them, I can forget about the ingredients when I have to eat them.

The orzo’s already on the stove. She didn’t really need my help, but the steady rhythm of the knife on the board lulls me. Oven preheated, Mom slides the salmon inside and sets the timer. Twelve minutes. The onions worm into my tear ducts. I finish chopping and wash my hands, blinking furiously.

“Don’t run away on me—you aren’t done with the salad.”

“What’s next?” I dry my hands on a tea towel.

Mom pours olive oil over the veggies, twice around the bowl.

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