Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
I know that what she’s saying makes sense, and I have made my decision. Now I just need to learn to be happy about it.
35
The truth
“Have more peas, Jade. I left the butter off today, so you can have as much as you want.” Mom’s watching me as I put food on my plate. I purposely chose the smallest piece of chicken, and I only took a small spoonful of mashed potatoes, but apparently, I should fill up on the peas.
Mom and Dad are both lean, but for some reason, I’ve always struggled with my weight. I don’t diet anymore, though, nor do I eat poorly. Dieting never worked in the long term, and yoyoing back and forth on the scale seemed like a bad idea, so aside from an occasional treat from the bakery, I eat sensibly and generally stay the same size. I’m larger than society may find acceptable, but I’m where my body seems to want to be, and I’m okay with that. But Mom isn’t.
“How was your week, Jade?” Dad asks when we’ve finished passing the serving platters. I’m at their house for Sunday dinner, as is my typical routine twice a month.
“It was fine.” It’s a complete lie, but it’s the answer I’m going with. In truth, I’ve been sad every day and second guessing myself at every opportunity. I haven’t seen the men since that lunch break at the bakery last week, and I don’t expect to. Ever since the picnic, I’ve felt like the most important piece of me has been missing.
“Your dad had to file a complaint with the homeowners’ association again,” Mom says as she cuts into her chicken.
“Oh?”
“The neighbors left their trash cans out for an extra day again.” Mom says this in a way that would suggest it was a huge personal inconvenience to her, as if the cans were blocking the end of her own driveway.
“The Jacobs?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm.” Mom frowns before taking the bite of meat from her fork.
“Does Mr. Jacobs still travel for work?” I ask. “Maybe his wife has her hands full with their three kids and she just forgot.”
“That’s no excuse,” Dad says. “How hard is it to bring a can in once a week? You know, I’m thinking of running for office in the association next year. Might make it easier to get things in the neighborhood running right.”
“You should definitely do that, dear,” Mom says.
Their conversation continues, detailing a laundry list of things that are wrong in the neighborhood and on the entire island. I brace myself for mention of Club Red, but surprisingly and thankfully, they don’t bring it up. I eat my food slowly, cutting my chicken into small pieces, wishing it had more flavor. My mom never has been big on using spices in her cooking.
As their complaints continue, I find myself wondering if my parents have always had such a negative outlook. I used to think it was good that they were so involved in the community, but now I’m not so sure.
When they’ve exhausted their list of grievances, Mom says, “I’m planning to go to the Hayden County Mall for some Christmas shopping next Saturday, Jade. Would you like to come?”
“I can’t. I’m working at the shelter on Saturday.”
Mom’s face turns down in a pouty frown. “You spend too much time there, Jade. I used to think it was a good place for you to volunteer, but the date auction has really turned me off of it. Plus, I heard that the shelter’s manager is dating a much younger man … and he’s African-American.”
“Mom! Why are you even mentioning that? Why in the world would that matter?”
She stumbles over her words for a moment before finding her footing. “Well … I mean … maybe it doesn’t, but it’s not … I don’t know if it’s the most suitable choice for the head of an organization.”
“Maybe you should find another place to volunteer, honey,” Dad says.
I stare at both of them, seeing them with brand new eyes, and the sight isn’t pretty. Have they always been this way? So horribly judgmental, so wrongheaded?
“You know what,” I say, laying my napkin on the table and getting up, “I’m suddenly not feeling well. I’m going to go.”
“Do you have a stomachache? Did you eat a big breakfast, Jade?” Mom calls into the kitchen where I dump my plate into the sink.
“I have a headache,” I call back. “Thanks for dinner. Bye.” And I’m out the door.
Not a headache. More like a heartache.
My parents — and especially my mother — have subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, criticized me my whole life. And since it’s been going on for as long as I can remember, it seemed normal to me. I never questioned it, and always assumed that I needed to do better, to look better, and to make better choices.