Chapter 10

10

The flowers' delicate purple petals shriveled and dropped one by one to the ground, then blew away. Now prickly green nettles sprouted in front of the window.

Her mother was still sick, pinballing from the bed to the bathroom, hand covering her mouth.

"You have to get her to eat and drink something," her father said one evening when he stopped by.

The girl would pull the chair over to the wooden shelf where they kept the food so she could reach the jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. The girl would try to make her mother eat, but she wouldn't. She would resolutely keep her mouth shut, and the girl would end up eating the sandwich all by herself and wash it down with a cup of water from the bathroom sink.

Her father started bringing thick shakes for her mother to drink. He would prop her mother up in the bed and cajole her into drinking. "Just a little bit more," he'd urge. "You have to stay strong for the baby."

Her mother would try and please her father. Would take a few sips and then vomit into the bucket she kept by the bed.

"Come on," her father would snap in frustration. "Keep trying." Her mother would push the drink away and curl up into a little ball as if trying to disappear.

One day, after her mother refused to drink what he had brought her, her father went into a rage. "You're worthless," he said, grabbing the girl's mother by the arm and wrenching her from the bed. "Don't you care about her?" he asked, flicking a hand toward the girl. "Don't you care about the baby?"

He dragged her mother to the table and forced her into a chair.

The girl pulled a book from the shelf, went to her spot beneath the window, and faced the wall.

Her father pulled a spoon from a drawer and dipped it into the cup. "Eat," he ordered. Her mother tried to turn her head, but he held her chin and poked the spoon into her mouth. She gagged wetly and her breath came in hitches.

The girl turned the page of her book and recited the story to herself. It was the one about the princess and the pea. Though she knew how to sound out some of the words, she had the story memorized.

After a while, the retching stopped, the crying faded. Her father spoke in low, soothing tones. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it? You ate almost all of it."

The girl looked up from the pages of her book and watched as he gently wiped her mother's mouth with a washcloth and led her back to the bed. Soon she heard her mother's soft, rhythmic breathing. She had fallen asleep.

Her father tugged on the girl's ponytail before he opened the door to leave. "She's okay. Just let her rest."

Once the girl heard the click of the door and the rasp of the lock falling into place, she returned the book to its spot on the shelf and walked over to the kitchen table. She lifted the cup that held the ice cream. She could smell the chocolate and her stomach rumbled. There were still a few spoonfuls left. Her mother wouldn't mind.

The girl brought the cup to her lips and drank. The sweet creaminess filled her mouth and slid down her throat. She scraped out the last drops with a spoon and licked it clean.

The girl turned on the television but set the volume to low. Hours passed. Her mother slept. The pain in her stomach came fast and hard. The girl doubled over and barely made it to the bathroom before getting sick. Her intestines twisted and her stomach heaved.

She lay on the bathroom floor—the cracked tile was cool against her skin. Night eased into the room until there was only the soft blue light from the television. The cramps eased, her muscles relaxed. The girl felt wrung out and empty. She fell into an uneasy sleep until her mother gently shook her awake and led her back to the bed.