By the time I make it to the kitchen, I can’t feel the tips of two fingers. I drop the bags on the countertop and look at my hand, squeezing the numb tips.
“Can you cut up the potatoes?”
My shoulders droop. “I can’t stay, Ma, I told you.”
“It’ll take you two minutes,” she says, rolling her eyes and turning her back to me.
Which is like four hours here, but arguing will only take longer. I grab a knife and a cutting board and start slicing potatoes in half.
“Don’t forget to wash them,” she tells me, stopping what she’s doing to watch me. Pretty sure it defeats the time-saving purpose of me cutting them in the first place, but what do I know?
I say nothing, plopping the halved potato under some water.
Satisfied, she rifles through the bags, making the odd comment that I ignore completely.
I ignore people a lot. It’s just easier. They annoy me and I don’t want to deal with it, so I act like I don’t hear them. Paul actually tells his associates (friends?) that I’m deaf in one ear, to explain why sometimes I blatantly ignore him even in front of them. If anyone notices that it doesn’t matter which side he’s on, no one mentions it.
“How’s your depression?” pierces my veil of ignoring.
I roll my eyes, because fucking fuck.
“I’m not fucking depressed.”
“Watch your language!” she says, eyes widening as if a pew of churchgoers are watching us prepare dinner.
It’s Pietro. My goddamn stepfather told my mom I’m depressed. I’m not depressed. I’m miserable. There’s a huge difference. My problem is not in my brain, it’s my actual life.
“You should spend more time with your family,” she tells me.
Now that would depress me.
“You were $2 short, by the way,” I tell her. I had no problem going to the store and getting her groceries, but I couldn’t afford to pay for any myself.
“I’ll give it to you before you leave.”
I really wanted that to be like 30 seconds ago, but I just slice another potato.
“Why didn’t you get the baby carrots?” she asks, pulling out the bag of full-size carrots and holding them up by the corner like a bag of soggy waffles.
“They were out of the ones on sale. Those were cheaper.”
“Well, you’ll have to chop them up,” she tells me, tossing the disappointing carrots on the counter next to me.
I chop the next potato a little more enthusiastically and hold it under the water. “When does he get home?”
I never mention his name if I can help it, like he’s Voldemort.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, hand fluttering. She takes a seat at the table and begins leafing through a magazine. “Cut the carrots up the size of baby carrots. Petey doesn’t like his carrots to be that thick. If you get a really thick one, slice it in half.”
My eyes narrow and I bite back some lewd remarks. I just wanna get out of here, so I cut the last potato and set to work on the carrots.
By the time all is said and done, I’ve completely prepped the vegetables for her roast and chopped the tops off her bell peppers for the appetizer. Before she can find enough for me to do so I’ll be there to put everything in—and maybe serve it for them, if I can find a nice maid’s costume—I tell her I have to go, that Paul’s expecting me.
“Tell him I say hi, and you’re welcome to come for dinner. Your brother and sister have been asking to see you.”
“I already have dinner on,” I lie. Because it’s an old habit that she never let me break even after my desire to do it had long died, I go over and kiss her on the cheek before I make my break for the door.
Only after I get to the car do I realize I forgot to get the money she owed me for her groceries.