Blue Glass

Spiteful Spit

September, 1917

...I'm coming home on convalescent leave. If you're still in the homeland, I would love it if we could see each other again...

My heart was beating so hard and fast I thought it would burst out of my chest. Without even reading the rest, I ran downstairs, taking the stairs two by two.
Manfred wants to see me again..!
This was all so surreal to me, especially since this was happening to me during one of the worst periods of time of my life.
Things hadn't really gotten any better since my father had come home. I had bided my time doing extra hours at work, drinking coffee at the local cafe until caffeine ran through my veins instead of blood, and chain smoking cigarettes in the park. I hadn't had to see his face yet, and I wanted it to stay like that. My mother would constantly badger me to greet him and play the part of the subservient daughter. I, however, wanted nothing to do with the saccharine charade she was orchestrating. My father had destroyed our family beyond recognition. To lick his boots would only stoke his ego.
To my surprise—and disappointment—my mother was sitting at the table filing her nails and reading the newspaper when I trundled downstairs, Manfred's letter in hand. She looked up and threw a look of hatred over her shoulder.
"What are you doing downstairs?" She shoved the emery board she was using to file her nails to one side and stood up, her eyes on me as I reached for my hat on its hook.
"I'm going out," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "And I'm going to be going to Germany in a few days, just so you know."
Her face turned bright red. "Germany?!?"
"Yes, Germany. It's for work."
Her eyes narrowed into infinitesimal slits as she approached me menacingly, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
"You haven't spoken to your father since he came."
"I don't want to speak to him."
I could have sworn I saw smoke plume from her ears. 
"You. Are. Embarrassing me!"she snarled. "Do you know that?"
My indifferent nod only seemed to enrage her further. "Does it bring you joy to know that you make me look like a failure as a mother to your father? As a wife?"
"Because that's what you are," I said. "You never were fit to be a mother, and a wife's role doesn't just consist of spreading her legs for her—"
The spray of spit caught me in the face before I even saw her purse her lips to do it. I stood frozen stiff, the blood roaring in my ears as I looked into the face of the woman who was supposed to be my mother, her features twisted with rage. Numb with rage, I could only register my hands moving with horrifying slowness to my handbag. I felt my fingers lock around a wad of fabric that was my handkerchief. The material was soft against my cheek as my hands swiped it over the offending droplets of saliva.
I was surprised I hadn't unconsciously lunged for her throat. Maybe I already had.
"He'll never love you," I heard myself saying. "You try and try to win his favor, but you're nothing to him. You're nothing but the prostitute he sees on the side—"
"Shut your mouth, you insolent bitch!"
It was she who  lurched forward, her fingers digging into my biceps like sharp talons. I made a move to  free myself, and she pitched to one side and threw her entire weight on me.
Time seemed to slow for a moment as I could no longer support her weight standing up, and my frame slackened and began to tip backward. For a moment, I was weightless, the air bearing me gently down against whatever was behind me—
Agony exploded through my arm as I landed hard on it in a botched attempt to break my fall. The crash of countless plates and bowls shattering all around us brought Svetlana running. Her eyes widened in shock when she saw us—we must have looked quite the sight, me sprawled on my back with my arm pinned awkwardly beneath me, my mother kneeling over me, either too shocked or too cowed by the mess she had made to strike me any more.
Svetlana marched over to where I was and grabbed both my arms with a strength I didn't even know she had. She  hauled me away from my mother, who began to scream  curses as she rose from her kneeling position on the floor and picked her way through the array of glass shards.
"Miss Klothilde, I'll take care of it," Svetlana said. "Don't worry."
She snorted. "Make yourself useful, Russian."
She threw me a hateful glare as she headed up the stairs. "You keep your mouth shut next time, you little bastard, or a few broken plates aren't going to be the only thing she'll have to clean up."
Svetlana waited until she was gone to turn to me.
"Lea..." she began.
"Leave me alone." Shaking with fury, i shoved my hat on top of my head and lowered the brim so she wouldn't be able to see the ribbons of tears streaming down my cheeks and dripping off my chin. 
Svetlana stared at me with a mix of sorrow and confusion. "Lea, I'm so sorry—"
"I don't care how sorry you are." For a moment I was almost disgusted with the tone I was taking with her. "Do what that old hag told you to do before she spits in your face, too."
I was out the door before I could hear her reply. The midday sun beat down over my head as I sailed along on the sidewalk, my brisk walk efficiently hiding the fact that I was crying.