Cara
glances at the spoon her mother holds towards her, a spot of lime
Jell-o at the tip. She sees herself upside down, a long drawn-out
face, a wall of books behind her.
"Cara."
Her mother shakes the spoon. The Jell-o moves in response, little
reverberations spreading out like an accusation. Cara opens her
mouth. A baby bird.
"I'm
too thin," she says after swallowing.
"You're
beautiful."
"I
can still see, Mom." She sighs. "You know what I just
realized?"
Her
mother dabs at Cara's face with a napkin. "What's that?"
"I
see the world through reflection."
"How
so?"
"This
morning, I watched trees in your windshield. I saw a cloud
pass by."
Her
mother brightens. "It's good to see nature."
"I
see emotion reflected in the eyes of people. Fear. Helplessness.
Pity."
"I
see it too," her mother whispers.
"And
in store mirrors, I see you. Always behind me. My constant companion,
putting your life on hold."
"I'm
glad to do it, Cara." Her mother had been a successful trial
lawyer, all suits and pearls and perfectly coiffed hair. Now...
"What
do you see when you look in the mirror?"
Her
mother laughs. "Wrinkles. Grey hair."
Cara
laughs too.
"Do
you wish Dad were here to help?" Cara's father had filed for
divorce three days after the accident. Occasionally he would visit,
sitting stiffly upon his easy chair, a guest in his own home.
Finally, Cara'd told him not to come back.
"It's
easier without your father moping about, always asking why."
"We'll
never know why," Cara says, echoing the words of the quiet
minister who'd tucked himself into the corner of the hospital room
that first day.
"Sometimes
life just gives you this stuff," her mother says. "And
you just have to get through it, one damn day at a time."
Cara
imagines nodding, but of course she cannot. "Dad pays you to
take care of me."
Her
mother dips the spoon into the Jell-o and lifts it to Cara's mouth.
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+Labels: Fiction, Trifecta Writing Challenge