Sunshine in a Glass. a short story.

My mother was doing that thing that she did. That thing with the rag in the sink.

“Who drank the orange juice and didn’t rinse out their glass?”

 I hear my mom yell this question from the kitchen just about every other day.

 I decided to humor her, and I went into the kitchen. My mom’s back was to me, and her poofy hair swished with her vigorous washing and scrubbing.

“Sorry Mom.” I mumbled, but of course my apology was drowned out by her flow of annoyed threats.

“I pay good money for that orange juice for you girls! Maybe I’ll buy the pulp less kind because APPARENTLY you girls are not MATURE enough to handle it!” and on and on and on.

I rolled my eyes and opened the refrigerator. I stared at the glowing leftovers and beverages, willing a food to appear for me, and tuned out my mom’s incessant nagging. Until I turned to see her standing inches from me.

“Nobody listens to me! I might as well be a nameless person on the street the way you people-what are you looking for? How many times do I have to tell you to not stand there with the refrigerator door open? You’re wasting electricity!”

She took a breath to let her slew of assaults sink in, and

to make sure that I felt the full effect of her words.

 “Whatever.” I said, as I slammed the refrigerator door shut and walked away.

I smirked to myself as I walked up the stairs, the image of my mom’s shocked and thoroughly pissed face still fresh in my mind, and I felt so powerful, so superior to my idiotic mother. At the top of the stairs, I saw Eloise dancing around in her room like a 7 yr old monkey.

“You’re so lame.” I told her.

She stopped mid-swirl and looked at me with her big green eyes as if I had just kicked a puppy.

“No I’m not...” she said hesitantly.

“Whatever. You’re just stupid.” I replied, and then made my dramatic exit from her room to mine, slamming my door for emphasis.

Through the door I could hear her clambering down the stairs, whining and ready, to go tell on me to our mom. You see, we have different dads, but the resemblance is still there... unfortunately. Eloise is my half-sister, but everyone thinks she’s my cousin.

 I knew it would only be a matter of time before she beckoned me, so I grabbed a book and flung myself onto my bed. Three minutes later my mom called up the stairs in a strained voice, “Quinn! Can I talk to you for a second?”

 I checked my watch and thought to myself, huh, she’s ahead of herself today.

I sighed, memorized the page that I was on, slid off my bed, and trudged downstairs. They were in the kitchen; my mom’s arms were folded, Eloise was next to her with a huffy expression on her face, and I could not have cared less.

I cared more about the fly buzzing around the kitchen light. I cared more about Ken, Eloise’s lazy-ass father, lying on the couch in the TV room, ruining the couch cover that I had just made that morning. I even cared more about the lemon sherbet that melted over the counter because Eloise forgot to put it back in the freezer. As my mom opened her mouth to reprimand and wag her finger at me, I told her to shut up. Miraculously, she did. In addition to my amazement, she started to cry. Her face crumpled, her shoulders slumped, and she turned around so I wouldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Eloise looked scared out of her freaking mind. Now I don’t know why, because I’ve made my mother cry before, but I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Maybe I had one of those super-enlightening epiphany things…who knows? All I know is that before I could figure out what the hee-haw hell I was doing, I found myself walking towards my mother, putting my arms around her, and horrifyingly enough, giving her a hug! And a real hug at that. Not like when she enthusiastically squeezes me, and I roll my eyes to someone over her shoulder. This time I was hugging her!

 I heard myself say, “I’m sorry, Mom. Really.”

When I eventually recovered from the shock of hearing my self apologize to my mother, I started to notice things. Like how her poofy hair felt against the side of my face, the smell of her perfume, how her sobs had noticeably subsided; and I really did feel sorry. It struck me then that this was the closest we had been since before she married Ken.

 Eloise had vanished; probably off in her room or trying unsuccessfully to wake up Ken, but I was grateful for the privacy. I guess I never realized how much I really missed moments like this.

 “I love you,” my mom said into my shoulder.

 From underneath the ice and harsh words deep within me, I felt the truth peek out. I really do love my mother, despite when her voice makes me want to scratch my eyes out, or when we’re in public I feel as though I’m wearing a shirt saying “I’m with stupid”.

 So I told her, “I love you too, Mom.”

My mom sniffled, pulled back, gave me a smile, and said, “I know you do. Now how bout some orange juice?”

This woman knows my very soul.

“Thank you, that would lovely.” I replied, and I smiled back.