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Cicely stood trembling, staring down at the spilled milk and broken glass, her breath caught in her throat. She began counting down in her mind. Waiting for the all-too-familiar words to ooze from her mother’s mouth.
3…2…1…
“Why can’t you be more like Jane?” Ellen stressed.
The words came right on cue, as Cicely expected. Her mother never missed a chance to use them, and every time she did, Cicely felt a nervous sharpness in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed hard, and exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “Sorry, mom.” She apologized, absently, grabbed paper towels, then began cleaning up the most recent mess she’d managed to make.
Ellen let out a perturbed sigh as she stood over her youngest daughter.
Given the way her mother hovered with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed, and a frown wrinkling her forehead, Cicely suspected the woman only remained so she could complain more and ask her yet again why she couldn’t be more like her older, teenaged sister.
Picking up shattered pieces of glass, Cicely remembered how she’d recently spied Jane dragging one of the spare razor blades for her pink razor she shaved her legs with, across her arms. She wondered if Jane would’ve stashed a piece of the glass to maybe use later to cut her arms. But, of course, Jane wouldn’t because Jane was too perfect. Too perfect to ever spill milk. Jane would never be so clumsy.
“Not done, yet?”
Ellen’s snide voice ripped Cicely from her thoughts.
“Jane would’ve been done by now, and had that spot sparkling cleaner than the rest of the floor.”
Still bending, with her back to her mother, Cicely rolled her eyes, and forced herself not to groan. “You’re such a liar,” she wanted to scream, “Jane wouldn’t leave the spot sparkling because precious Jane wouldn’t ‘ve dropped her glass of milk!”
Instead, Cicely bit her tongue. She kept quiet, and stood tall again. But walking to the small trash bin to throw away the soiled paper towels, she couldn’t help mumbling, “I’ll do it.”
“What’s that?”
The hint of a threatening tone in her mother’s words didn’t escape Cicely’s notice. “I said I’m almost done,” she lied, her voice flat and steady, masking her anger.
She’d never mouthed off at her mother, before, at least not to the woman’s face. She wasn’t sure about whether or not her outburst would earn her a slap across her face, or worse. So she kept her mouth shut, and decided she’d just do it. She’d try harder to be more like Jane.
Maybe in five years, when she was sixteen like Jane, she’ll sneak out of the house as mom and dad slept. Maybe she’ll sneak her boyfriend into her room to have sex while mom and dad slept, too, or while they were out to diner and a movie. Maybe she’ll steal money from mom’s purse and dad’s wallet…
A soft meow filled the air in the kitchen.
Cicely watched her mother’s face grow calm and light up at the sight of the cat.
Ellen scooped Midnight from the floor, and into her arms. She cradled the cat as she caressed his black fur, and doted over him.
Cicely turned away, sadness weighing in the pit of her stomach, now. Her mother’s first cat, Tiger, had died a few months ago, and Midnight was a surprise gift from none other than Jane. Cicely didn’t particularly hate the cat – just the way her mother baby-talked to the creature, and how she cared for it so much more. She grabbed the broom from the small utility closet, and began sweeping up the nearly invisible pieces of glass that remained on the floor. Her mother finally turned to leave.
Ellen paused in the doorway. “When you’re done, fix Midnight a fancy dish like Jane does for him. We’ll be waiting in the living room. Don’t take long.”
“Yes, mom,” Cicely obeyed, as her mother continued on her way out.
After replacing the broom, and emptying glass from the dustpan into the trash, she dumped cat food into Midnight’s bowl. Then reached into the cabinet under the sink.
Cicely shook tiny green pellets from the box she’d retrieved until satisfied that she’d added the right amount. She dragged a fork through the meaty food, mixing the rat poison until the pellets were completely hidden.
She carried Midnight’s bowl, clenching it with both hands, careful not to drop it after preparing the cat food the same way Jane began making it for Tiger soon after the cat had suddenly scratched her.
When Midnight dies, it won’t be a secret that he died from poisoning. The cat’ll get sick, and Ellen will rush to the veterinarian. But Cicely knows her mother will blame the neighbors, and accuse them of laying poison around their homes, again.
Placing the bowl at Ellen’s feet, and then watching her settle Midnight before the food, Cicely found it easy to be more like Jane, after all.
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