That Nice Girl with the Dogs
She clasps her hands under her bosom and gives me a cheery, crinkly-eyed smile. “You’re awake. Good morning.” In her too-large men’s pajamas and bare feet she is a caricature of the little girl trying her best to win and charm, but I am not charmed.
Clenching my teeth, I get out of bed. The effort to control my irritation makes my voice flat. “Better get on your robe and slippers. It’s cold this morning and we have to keep your feet warm.”
“Okay, honey.” As she shuffles toward her bedroom, I am angered by her claim on me, by her helplessness. No matter I tell myself to have patience, that she can’t help her illness, the rancor is surprising in its strength and feels old—a thorny bush of tangled bitterness pushing up from some dark place in the past.
As she mumbles to herself and moves about in her room, I figure to have five minutes free, so go downstairs to the basement to check laundry left from the night before. It’s warm here at the core of my house with the furnace at my back. I start a new load in the washer, pull clothes from the dryer, and begin to fold them exactly the way Mom taught me, first shaking out the wrinkles with a quick snap, then creasing and smoothing in a traditional pattern for each item, like family origami. I remember we’d then carry the laundry to the ironing board, where she taught me the secrets of turning out clothes that looked crisp and well-cared for. While we worked, she’d ask about school and friends. Under the naked light bulb of the laundry room, I am humbled by these memories and ashamed of my resentment toward her. I try to smooth out my anger, brushing the linens with my palms, remembering the circumstances that shaped her.
