Tag Archives: Liz

Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter three, part three

“Nice costume,” she said admiringly, looking me up and down.  “Where’s Rafe?”

“He’s coming,” I said, grinning to myself.  If she liked my getup, wait until she saw Rafe.  I yanked off my wig and fluffed out my hair.  I tossed the wig onto a coffee table, knowing my mother would pick it up later.  I slipped out of my shoes as well as was the custom in an Asian household.  I never understood the reason for wearing shoes in a house, but I did it when I visited an American friend’s place if she or he insisted.  In my home, however, they were asked to remove their shoes.  My house, my rules.

“Your father is worried sick about you,” my mother scolded, leading me into the living room.  Of course, the television was on, and she was looking for more news on Lydia’s murder.  “Bob, say hello to your daughter.”  Dad looked up from the television and silently gave me the once-over.

“You all right?”  He asked, not commenting on my costume.  When I nodded, he returned to the television.  He wasn’t much of a talker unless you got him drunk and talking about the Vietnam war, but he always managed to convey that he cared without saying it in actual words.

“Ramona, Howie, and Henry called,” my mother reported, sinking into the couch next to dad.  “They wanted to know that you were ok.  I told them to call later so they could talk to you themselves.”

I sighed, trying not to feel put upon.  I loved my siblings, but I always felt more like their mother than their sister.  My mom is great, but she’s short on practicality.  I was the one who made sure my siblings were clothed and fed on a daily basis.  They were probably rattled about this murder thing which meant that I would have to spend a great deal of time placating them—the last thing I wanted to do.  I was tempted to tell my mother that she could talk to them, damn it, but I knew that that wouldn’t go over well with her.  Family was family.  Just as Beezus always had to take care of Ramona, I was responsible for my younger siblings.  I usually didn’t resent it, but I did tonight.  I excused myself for a minute and went to the bathroom so I could unbind my breasts.  I heaved a relieved sigh before returning to the living room.

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Parental Deception: chapter eight, part two

I am still thinking about it as I drive home. I list all the reasons it’s a bad idea, but there’s a small voice in the back of my head saying, “I don’t care. Fuck his brains out.” I try to shut it up, but it refuses to be quiet. Should I even mention it to Rembrandt? I mean, if it’s just going to be one night, why bother? I know I’m rationalizing, however, because I don’t want to deal with the drama of discussing it with Rembrandt. The fact that I want to fuck someone else only a month after starting to date Rembrandt suggests that maybe I need to cool things down with Rembrandt. I’ve already started to feel restless after spending three nights with him, so maybe this is a sign.

“Meow!” Onyx launches herself into my arms, and I catch her effortlessly. I snuggle her to my chest as I slip off my shoes. Jet bumps his head against my shin, and I reach down to ruffle the fur on his head. I’m having dinner with Liz at Sen Yai Sen Lek at six, which means I have to about fifteen minutes before I have to leave again. I’m excited to see Liz because I haven’t seen her since she left for Philly a year and a half ago. I give my babies their treats and lots of fuss before taking off again. I arrive at Sen Yai Sen Lek at ten minutes to six, which means I have to wait for at least ten minutes, and probably twenty. Liz is perennially late for social events, and it’s something I tease her about to this day. Fifteen minutes later, she walks in. Her red curls are swept up on top of her head, and her emerald eyes are sparkling behind her glasses. She’s wearing a deep green dress that brushes her knees, and she looks fantastic.

“Megan!” Liz calls out, a wide grin crossing her face.

“Liz!” I jump up, run over to her, and hug her hard. We both start babbling at each other as we make our way to the table I had already snagged.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Liz asks as she studies the menu.

“Surprisingly good,” I reply. I’ve already decided on my order, so I don’t pick up my menu. “I met Rembrandt’s mother and brothers plus partners and children for lunch, and then I brought him to Jasmine’s for dinner. Which was fine except that man was there. How about you?”

“Thanksgiving was fantastic! It was my family and Frankie’s family, which was about fifty people. Hey, he’s Italian, and so is my mom.” Liz sets her menu aside, and the server rushes over to take our order. Once she’s gone, Liz continues. “Day after Thanksgiving with my father wasn’t as fun because we flew out at the crack of dawn to LA, and he was stinking drunk. I think he was nervous being around Rosa for the first time in a few years.”

“Sorry. That must have sucked.” I sip at my Diet Coke, then at my water.

“I was glad to leave, I can tell you that much.” Liz drinks her Thai iced tea and sighs. She’s had a rocky relationship with her father since he left her mother for another woman when Liz was ten years old. It’s one of the things we bonded over—our fathers leaving our families.

“I bet.” The server comes with our appetizers, fried tofu and chicken skewers. We both take a few minutes to heap our plates with both.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter two, part two

Chapter Two; Part Two

“Mrrrrrreow!” Onyx weaves her way through my legs as I stand up, almost tripping me in the process.

“Onyx!” I scold her, but my heart isn’t in it. How can I be mad at her when all she wants to do is love me? She butts her head against my shin several times before I scoop her up in my arm. I grab the mug and the bowl with my other hand as best possible to take them into the kitchen. I set Onyx on the counter before washing the dishes. I go to the living room and flop on the couch. I should write my post on NE Minneapolis eateries, but I’m suddenly tired. Sleep is spotty for me. Sometimes, I get seven solid hours a night, and other times, I wake up every other hour and give up after four. Last night was one of the latter, in part because I was waiting for Julianna to text me—which she finally did at five in the morning. She didn’t give me many details because she’s not the type to kiss and tell, but she did let slip that she had a date with Ramona tomorrow, now today. Julianna is a slam poet with plenty of family money to back her up, so she doesn’t have to work a nine-to-five like us plebes. To be totally fair, I don’t really have to work, either, but I like having a schedule that gets me out of the house five days a week.

I drift off on the couch, my dreams filled with malevolent fairies. For some reason, they want to bite all my flesh off, which is agonizingly painful, believe you me. I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart racing. Jet growls in protest from his seat on my lap as I jostle him out of his nap. Onyx doesn’t move from her spot mashed into my right thigh, so I poke her to make sure she’s breathing. She remains inert, so I poke her again. This time, she hisses sleepily before coiling tightly into a ball. I lift Jet from my lap and set him next to Onyx. He wraps himself around her and falls asleep again. I ease myself away from her and tiptoe into the bathroom. I feel grimy, so I take a shower, leaving the bathroom door open. By the time I’m done, both cats are sitting on the counter, staring at me in concern. It cracks me up that this is their reaction to me taking a shower. I can only imagine that they’re thinking, “Why does she take off her fur and allow water to splash all over her?” I could swear they’re shaking their heads minutely as I towel off, which cracks me up. I stick my tongue out at them before pulling on a fresh pair of gray sweats and a red Obama t-shirt. I turn the faucet on a crack so Onyx can lap at the water. Jet turns his attention to her and is now looking at her as if she’s crazy. He cannot stand water touching his fur at all, so it fascinates him that Onyx will stick her  paw in the stream and lick the drops off it.

“Treats?” I quirk my eyebrows at my cats, and they hop off the counter with alacrity. It’s one of the words that they know, and it’s guaranteed to spur them into action. They race towards the kitchen, and I follow at a more sedate pace, wrapping a scrunchie around my hair. I open the fridge and pull out some salmon. I give them each a healthy chunk, and they gobble them down. I toast a bagel, smear some cream cheese on it, then add some salmon on top of it. It’s a decadent treat that I don’t eat very often, but I enjoy every bite when I do.

I hear a ping on my Nexus 5X, and it’s an email from Rembrandt. He says he’s thinking of me and hoping I’m doing OK. I reply that I am and ask how he’s doing. I enable my chat on Google so we can message, and I spend the next hour finding out more information about him. He’s the oldest of three boys, whereas I am the middle sister, also of three. My older sister, Jasmine, lives in Minnesota as well, whereas my younger sister, Vivian, fled the state the minute she turned eighteen to attend art school in Boston and never came back. Rembrandt’s thirty-two, which is thirteen years my junior. That makes me a little uneasy, but the fact that he knows his Toni Morrison from his Maxine Hong Kingston assuages my doubts a little. He’s a huge Vikings fan, which is fine with me. I can watch a ball game and comment on it knowledgably, even if it’s not something I’d choose to watch myself. I’m always happy for Minnesotan fans when the home teams do well, but I’m not devastated when they lose. I remember the season in which the Vikes went 15-1. They made it the NFC championship against Atlanta and was widely expected to take it easily. They lost in the last seconds, which was especially heartbreaking for local fans. At the beginning of the next season, the news interviewed a guy dressed in Vikings gear, who talked about how crushed he still felt about the loss. I wanted to shout at him to get a life, but who am I to judge someone else’s emotions? I’m still mourning the death of Alan Rickman, and I never even knew him in real life. I’m sure there are plenty of people who would scorn my grief and say it isn’t real. I don’t pretend to think what I feel for the loss of Alan is anything close to how his loved ones must feel, but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

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Dogged Ma; chapter twelve, part one

  Chapter Twelve; Part One

“Liz!  What are you doing here?”  It was Friday night, and my sister had shown up unexpectedly.  Again, she got into the building without me buzzing her up.  This was happening more frequently than I liked; I reluctantly decided to call the landlord first thing Monday morning during my prep hour at school to take care of it.

“Are you going to let me in?”  Liz asked waspishly, taking me by surprise.  She was the easygoing one in the family, the sister quick to jump in when others were fighting.  I’d never heard an edge to her voice.  Until tonight.  “I took the bus to see you, so the least you could is let me into your apartment.”

“Come in.”  I stood aside, watching Liz as she entered.  She had cut her waist-length hair so that it fell just slightly past her shoulders in a shag cut.  It looked cute with her pixie face and pointed chin, but my mother must have had a fit when she saw it.  She thought girls under thirty should have long hair.  Liz was taking her time removing her shoes, so I was able to study her more carefully.  Always the thinnest of the sisters, she was almost gaunt now.  She was wearing jeans which hung on her slight hips and a fitted top that was loose as well.  She’d never had big boobs to begin with, but now they were nonexistent.  There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked exhausted.  I vowed not to get into it with her, even though I knew why she was there.  She dumped her bag by the door, waiting for me to make my overtures.

“Would you like some tea, Liz?  How about some chocolate chip cookies?  They’re your favorite—triple chocolate chunk cookies.  I made them a few nights ago.”  I observed her closely as I made my offer as I was beginning to form a suspicious thought.

“Ew, no,” Liz said, wrinkling her nose.  “Do you know how many calories are in one of your special cookies?  A zillion.”  She straightened up and flashed me a wan grin before hugging me.  It was like hugging a skeleton, and it creeped me out.

“Are you dieting?”  I asked sharply, pulling away from Liz and holding her at an arm’s length.  Her cheeks had hollowed out, and there was a pinched look about her face that hadn’t been there before.

“Just a little,” Liz admitted, not meeting my eyes.  “After Scott dumped me, I felt I needed to get into shape.  You know how it is.”

“You were already in shape,” I pointed out, steering my sister to the living room.  I waited for her to sit before continuing my interrogation.  “What did Scott say to make you feel you needed to lose weight?”  Inside, I was seething.  Scott Jorgenson was a football player with a raging ego.  He was known to blow through the girls like they were nothing.  I had met him once and had been less than impressed.  He and Liz had dated two months before he dumped her.  Since I hadn’t heard her complain, I’d assumed she’d been fine with it.  Big mistake.  Liz didn’t talk about her problems to anyone, which was why she’d struggled with an eating disorder for the last ten years.

“He just said, you know, that I didn’t look as good as I had when we started dating.”  Liz tried to say it casually, but her tone was brittle.  I wanted to hunt down Jorgenson and slice his nuts off.  He was also known to be extremely nasty when he broke up with a girl, probably because of his guilty conscience.  I would bet the fact that Liz wanted to remain a virgin until marriage had more to do with his dumping her than her looks.  “He’s right, you know.  I gained a pound while I was dating him.”  Scott was six-four and almost two-fifty—not all of it muscle.  He was not one to talk about gaining weight, let me tell you.

“Liz, that’s nuts, and you know it.”  I was blunt because nothing else worked with my sister.  Our family had learned through long, hard, painful experience that the only way to even hope to get through her obsession was to be honest to the point of rudeness.  It jolted her out of her trance.  “You look like you should be in a concentration camp.  I bet you’re blacking out again, aren’t you?”  Liz hung her head but didn’t answer.  “Wait right here.”

I left the room before she could respond.  I went into the kitchen and rummaged through my fridge.  Fortunately, I had some leftover noodles and soup from Bona.  Pho, with beef.  My favorite, and one of hers as well.  I heated it in the microwave while pouring a glass of skim milk.  I knew it would be better if Liz had whole, but all I had was skim.  She wouldn’t put up as big a fight if it was skim, anyway.  I grabbed a banana, too.  I put everything on a tray, including utensils.  I grabbed two cookies and placed them on the tray as well.  I’d be lucky if she ate one, but I’d eat the leftover cookie if she didn’t.  Now, I just had to wait for the soup to heat up.  When it was ready, I poured it in a bowl and carried everything back into the living room.  Liz was slumped over on the couch, her eyes closed.  I set the tray on the coffee table and sat next to Liz.

“Liz, wake up.”  I nudged her gently in the ribs, not wanting to bruise her.

“Huh, what?”  Liz opened her eyes, blinking in confusion.  “Where am I?  What happened?”

“You must have blacked out for a minute,” I said, concealing my sadness from her.  I’d been doing this song and dance with her for the last ten years, on and off.  I couldn’t understand how such a beautiful, intelligent girl could be so stupid.  “Here.  Eat this soup.”  I placed the spoon in her hand and closed her fingers over it.  “Now.”  My tone let her know there was no choice but to obey.  She knew I’d force-feed her if I had to, though that was definitely the last resort.  Reluctantly, she spooned a tiny amount of the broth into her mouth and swished it around five times before swallowing.  I knew every bite would take as long if not longer, but I didn’t care.  I’d take all night if I had to.

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