“Ow, dammit!”
Jasper jumped and whined at her from his corner as Sherry Ford popped her thumb into her mouth and sucked it. That made four times she’d poked herself with the needle — maybe making popcorn chains wasn’t such a great idea after all.
Well, to hell with it, she thought, letting her shoulders slump. What in God’s name was she thinking anyway — trying to manufacture an actual living, breathing Christmas out of a house full of doom. She’d put the wreaths up the first week of the month, by herself; that same day she and Neal had a ferocious fight about her having to do it by herself. She had erected a sort of tree, an old fake one she found in the attic (by myself, she thought). Later they had a knock-down-drag-out about not getting a real tree together, like they used to — Neal had told her, laughing, that the fake tree looked “a porcupine on steroids.” It was she who insisted they put up the lights outside along the trim, even though their house was far out on the edge of town, and probably no one but stray dogs and meandering cows would see them. That job she had refused to do by herself, and when Neal shocked the shit out of himself at the fuse box and she laughed — well, that hadn’t produced a happy holiday mood either.
She had bought gifts, she thought, reaching for a cigarette. Yes, and she shopped for those alone as well, though Vanessa had gone along once. At the time, her daughter’s sniggering suggestion that they get a blow-up doll for Neal was not appreciated by Sherry; now it did seem kind of funny.
That was the thing — if Vanessa was in here with her, working alongside her like she promised, then she might not feel so bad. For all her wildness and unpredictability, Vanessa had a sense of humor andjoie de vivre that could enliven any situation. Sherry glanced over at the single half-completed popcorn chain her daughter was supposed to be doing. Now where the hell was she anyway? Sherry had a suspicion.
She stubbed out the cigarette and made her way into the den. Yes, as she thought. Vanessa was in front of the tall mirror, admiring herself again.
“Oh not again, Vanessa,” she said. “I need help in here, you know.”
“I know,” her daughter said, never removing her eyes from the mirror. “I haven’t abandoned you.”
She was standing in profile before the old mahogany floor mirror, turning this way and that to study her changing shape. It was unreal, watching her. In her shorts and tanktop, her shiny hair still retaining some of its baby blonde, she still looked very much the little girl — by rights she should be devouring the tree with gleaming eyes, and trying to guess the contents of her gifts. But there she was, her belly swelling with a child of her own. No longer an innocent.
Brad Carlson, she thought, her lips tightening. Brad. She had always hated Brad’s. The stuck up, spoiled brat punks in the movies, the ones who always mistreat the girls until the heroes arrive — it seemed like they were always named Brad. And this Brad wasn’t even spoiled, or stuck up, or particularly good-looking. Brad Carlson was the son of the man who owned the gas station up the road. He wasn’t good enough to change Vanessa’s tires, much less father her child.
She would never admit it aloud, but the two of them made the most appalling couple Sherry had ever seen. As pretty and clever and infectious as her daughter was, Vanessa plus Brad equaled an ugly combination. Yes, her daughter was given to tattoos and piercings, and dying her hair the most shocking colors imaginable, and wearing clothes that would make a hooker blush. But despite all of that strangeness, Vanessa’s own beauty shown through. While Brad — tall, skinny, gangly even, pimply, with spiky yellow hair and a face like a dog — Brad Carlson was so far beneath her it was scary. For him to worship her from afar, okay. But to marry her? Definitely not.
Hell, they weren’t even married yet! They’d been just living together, just playing house in a low rent mobile home near the gas station. Brad hadn’t even stayed in town for the holidays — he’d gone with his parents to visit relatives up north. Her beautiful daughter, who could be or do anything she wanted, paired with some pimply, gangly creep who couldn’t even stay with his pregnant girlfriend at Christmas — oh, the mind boggled.
Well, she thought bitterly, at least I don’t have to feed him.
“Mom,” said Vanessa, interrupting her thoughts, “what did you look like when you were pregnant?”
“Oh God,” said Sherry, “I’m not sure. That’s ancient history now.”
“Oh bullshit. You have to remember. Did you look like me?”
She pulled up the hem of the tanktop as she asked, securing it beneath her breasts. Sherry laughed softly and studied her daughter’s long tanned legs, her narrow hips, the smooth, gentle outward curve of her belly. The soft glow of the hair around her forehead.
She smiled in spite of herself.
“I think you look prettier.”
Vanessa smiled delightedly. “Really?”
“Really, you’re looking . . . very beautiful. You have a glow.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh . . . ” Sherry moved behind her daughter, looking into the mirror with her. “Just an extra healthiness, I guess. Your cheeks fill out, your eyes brighten. You’re really starting to show now, you know that?”
“I know.”
Her daughter ran her palm slowly along the slope of her belly. The motion looked so pleasing, so enlivening to the touch, that Sherry had to try it herself. Standing close behind her, she ran her own hand over the warm, glassy skin — she watched her hand in the mirror. Vanessa only smiled, dreamily.
In truth, she did look a lot like Sherry had when she was young. It was a surreal moment: standing before the mirror, stroking a young, pregnant belly, studying a face that might have been a younger version of her own.
“I’m gonna get bigger, aren’t I?” said Vanessa.
“Yes, you are.”
“I seem huge as it is!”
“No, it looks good on you, hon. You were too skinny before.”
“It’s funny, I don’t mind it. I useta spend hours at the gym trying to keep a flat tummy — now I’ve got a fucking beer belly and I don’t even care!”
She laughed at herself. Sherry, on automatic pilot, told her not to use the “F word.”
“Oh Mom — what’s the point?” her daughter replied.
The remark startled her out of her reverie. She stepped away, mechanically straightening the Christmas knick-knacks on the mantle.
What indeed was the point? Her daughter not only said “fuck” on a regular basis — her daughter had been fucked! She wouldn’t tell Sherry how many times, or with how many different guys, or how young she was when she started. The whole prospect made her head swim. What’s the point was right — what did she think she was protecting anymore?
“Do I still look sexy, you think?” was Vanessa’s next question.
Sherry rolled her eyes, planted Baby Jesus firmly in his manger.
“Yes, you still look ‘sexy,’ Vanessa. Honestly, who have you got to look so sexy for?”
“Oh come on, really! Do I look sexy? I don’t want to be one of those porker mamas — I wanna be slim and trim and sleek, but still kindavoluptuous. Were you like that when you were preggers?”
“Oh Vanessa, I don’t know. I didn’t think about it, it was a different world.”
“Oh, boo hoo, life is horrible, woe is me, everything sucks!”
Baby Jesus was staying put, but now Joseph kept slumping over to one side, against Mary. He looked like he was sneaking a peek down her shirt.
Typical male, she thought. She jammed him between two sheep to keep him straight.
“I’ll tell you one thing –” her daughter continued, unmindful of her struggle. “My tits are bursting. No one told me I’d go from a B cup to a D in just a few weeks!”
“Well, I hope you didn’t get pregnant just to make your boobs bigger,” Sherry snapped.
“No, really — I mean, look at this!”
Sherry looked. Her daughter had pulled the tanktop all the way up to her collarbone. Her breasts, which had been pert little mounds a few months ago, could now fill the seemingly enormous bra she was wearing with no trouble, and still wanted to pour out the top. Really, the girl did look like she’d just had a top-knotch Hollywood boob job. Vanessa giggled and shook her jutting chest from side to side.
“God, I look like a damn porn star!” she cackled. “Is this how your tits got so big?”
Sherry balked at the matter-of-fact compliment.
“It helped, yes,” she said. “So does eating now and then.”
“Well, I’m digging this!”
She suddenly yanked up the edge of the bra, letting her two swollen globes fall out; she cupped them and struck a pose.
“Whoa — check it out!”
“Vanessa, go put something on. It’s cold outside, there’s a draft in here –”
“Oh, I’m fine!” she chirped. “Anyway, they’re not hard cause it’s cold — they’re sooo sensitive now. I’ve been horny as hell lately, is that normal?”
“Vanessa!”
Sherry squirmed uneasily. Her daughter’s frank attitude about sex always made her uncomfortable, but it wasn’t just that. It was true that discussion of enlarged breasts or increased nipple sensitivity was perfectly appropriate between mothers: one of the prerogatives of the job. But she usually thought of it as a discourse between equals — not a conversation that a married, middle-aged woman has with her knocked-up, unmarried daughter. She was embarrassed to find herself in this context, and even more embarrassed that she was so obviously embarrassed.
And her daughter — her half-naked, horny-as-hell little girl — so at ease was she with the situation that she was now actually running her fingers over her dark, distended nipples. Right there, in front of her.
“Ohhh, God –” she said, giggling.
“Vanessa!”
“What? Look at ’em, they’re fantastic.”
“Cover yourself up! — you don’t know who could be looking . . . ” Sherry glanced around at the frosty windows uneasily.
“Oh, get real, we live in the middle of nowhere, Ma.”
Of course, Neal would pick that moment to walk in, of all moments. And through the back porch door, straight into the den — not through the front where they would have heard him.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed in the doorway, immediately turning his head, cupping a hand over his eyes. “Jesus, Nessa, put them away! What the hell is going on in here?”
“See?” Vanessa said, pulling the bra down again. “It’s only Dad.”