A Thousand Miles

Ch. 2

Chapter 2:

    "Kylie, get your butt down here this instant!" my mother yelled from the ktichen. Her voice was so loud it traveled up the staircase, down the hallways, and under the crevices of my closed bedroom door. I wonder what it is this time? Is she going to blame me for the broken faucet again? The spoiled milk? Her menopause? Lately I didn't think there was anything she didn't blame me for.

   With a groan, I pulled myself out of my safe coccoon of blankets and pillows, and stepped into reality again, just like every day since the accident. And just like every day, I briefly wish to crawl back under the covers and hide from the world. Like always, I decide against it. I don't need another reason for my mom to get mad at me.

   I slide my fuzzy bunny slippers onto my bare feet, quickly glancing in the mirror at my sunken blue-gray eyes. My messy dark blonde hair. The plaid pajama bottoms that hug my thighs a bit too tight. The purple tank that outlines my not-so-flat stomach. I sigh at my reflection, then head downstairs.

   In the kitchen, I see my mom and my sister, Ella, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Ella is a mirror image of my mom, with light brown hair and vibrant green eyes. She's even sitting the same: ramrod straight, knees crossed, hands folded on the table in front of her. When I walk in, neither of them look at me. They never do. If my mom talks to me, she stares behind me, at the wall, a painting, air. My sister looks at her feet, when she speaks to me, which is rare. 

   I know why they can't look at me. I look just like my father. If they look to close at me, they see his eyes, his nose, the dimple in his left cheek. They see what could have been. I know they wish it was me, the disappointing, worthless daughter, instead of my dad, hooked up to wires and tubes in a deep coma.

   "Kylie," my mom said. "As you know, my company dinner party going to be here tomorrow night." I nodded. "Well," she continued. "I need you to clean up the dining room, the kitchen, the living room-everywhere that the guests will see-and that includes dusting, sweeping, mopping, spraying, everything. Then, I need you to call the caterer and order everything for the party; I have the list on the table over there. Once you do that, find something nice to wear, and maybe look alive for once, not like a zombie." She still didn't look me in the eyes. 

"Yes, mother," I nodded at my feet. 

"That is all," she said in dismissal.

I almost broke down at the cold distance in her voice. I felt a tidal wave of despair reaching towards the edges of my thoughts, and blocked it before it could engulf me. She was my mother, for crying out loud! Now she talked to me as if I was a stranger who had bumped into her while she was in a hurry to go somewhere.

It was breaking my heart.