Peachy: Chapter 1 Excerpt

The cabinet was ugly, the color of a lost cigarette or a neglected toilet. When I was a kid, it was white. Obscenely so. The box had glared, almost hummed, in the sun like an alien spaceship. Now it was rotting, fading to a hideous yellow as I aged. The matching twin bed frame had done the same. The furniture so bland and ubiquitous that I could hardly even call it “girl.” Just storage enough for any breathing human being, or maybe a spoiled dog. The walls still held the band and zodiac posters from my teen years. My mattress still boasted the unnatural orange stain near the center. But the cabinet didn’t look the same at all.

My alarm blared, vibrating my phone against the yellowing nightstand. I turned it off within seconds but continued to lie there like a frayed sweater. Simply existing in my bed for long stretches of time had become routine to me. I didn’t like my grandmother knowing I was awake.

After I did nothing for as long as I could excuse, I sat up and whispered a curse into the surrounding silence. This old mattress would kill me one of these nights. I opened and closed my mouth, smacking my dry tongue against the foul morning residue. Frowning at the rotten cabinet, I swung my feet off the side of the bed and crossed the hall to the only bathroom in the house. I locked the door behind me. It smelled like bleach.

I couldn’t remember the exact day I had last washed my hair, but knew I was due. Having no time for a wash today, I settled for raking my fingers through the curls of my amber blonde hair a bit more violently than was comfortable. Loose spiraling strands fell into the basin of the sink, fell lighter than feathers across my toes. They itched.

I washed the hairs down the drain of the sink while I brushed my teeth. I spat blue froth mixed with stringy pink blood, which bubbled over the newly formed hairball. I swallowed some mouthwash—fresh breath would even out my greasy hair—and I sat on the edge of the tub, enjoying the cool porcelain.

After putting on my grungy white polo shirt and a pair of jeans, I shuffled out my doorway as if lost. The exit was down the hall, past the other bedroom and the big open space that amounted to a kitchen and living room. In one of these rooms waited that looming, sickly vulture of a woman. I was full of trepidation and simmering resentment. So early in the morning.

The door to her bedroom was closed. She only closed the door when she wasn’t in it, ruling that I was not welcome inside without a chaperone. Past the blockade, the kitchen was shabby and sparse, but notoriously spotless. To the north of the kitchen were the archaic blue couch and bulbous-backed television set, the only furniture that made up the living room.

And there she perched: a tall, angular, ash-gray brunette. This woman and I looked nothing alike. My being small, curved, and pink compared to her boney towering frame. My grandmother’s name was Pamela. Her friends called her Pams.

Pamela was ramrod straight on the blue fabric couch, the bottom of which sagged lower than her ruined, wrinkly chest. The TV was too loud. My mom used to start each day of her adult life with the news fed to her from her favorite local newscaster, Timothy Peters. That a grown man would be called “Timothy” was incredibly repugnant to me. Pamela unabashedly played the station every morning.

Timothy looked striking in a navy suit and a “fun” tie, which was tipped in threaded orange and yellow flames. “It is hot, hot, hot out there, folks!” What a charming spin on the terrible drought that had plagued Utah annually.

I didn’t want to look at her. But.

Her eyes met mine as I turned my head. She held her trusty flyswatter tightly in her spindle fingers, swinging crazily at the flies who seemed to constantly hover around her person, regardless of the season or her pristine surroundings.

“Good morning, Francesca,” she said irritably, alluding to my late awakening. I had always been “Francesca” to my grandmother. Being called that had bothered me to no end throughout my life, and I knew this was the exact reason Pamela had never conformed to Frankie like everyone else.

“Morning, Pamela.” She hated my use of her name just as much as I hated Francesca. Her mouth turned down in a gargoyle grimace and she took another swat at her ever-present pests. I could hear them buzzing from across the room. Even at night, I heard them.

  There was no time left to be berated and my lateness had never stopped her from throwing a good bitchfit. When Mom was here, we used to tolerate one another, with strenuous effort, but the effort was there. After she died, and I had planned on selling anything that would catch a good price, Pamela moved into her house with me. Pamela announced to anyone within shouting distance that she was worried about my ability to cope, but we both knew she was worried about all the old shit that cluttered this house. After her arrival, there was nothing to sell. All the valuables vanished during my work hours.

I hated her here. We were two prickly weeds who had lost their spring flower, just growing useless and petulant around nothing worthwhile. I stood behind the couch and stared at Tim’s fun tie for a respectable amount of time before turning to the door.

“Are you leaving? You haven’t eaten anything.” Pamela adjusted her avian weight but didn’t move to get off the couch. She glared at me until I met her eyes. Her disdain was worthless if I didn’t acknowledge it.  

            “I’m not hungry.” In truth, I had only eaten half a bag of Cheezy Poofs the night before and I was starving. But if I ate, she’d criticize whatever I made or would insist on making me something herself. She would stalk around the kitchen complaining about her wrists and ankles. She would only make enough for me and would prattle about some hap dash snack she would settle for later—crackers, an apple. Pamela, the Martyr. I despised when my grandmother prepared food for me, especially when I was forced to stand in the kitchen and watch her do it. I’d rather go hungry, and often did.

            “Remember what we talked about last night, eat something healthy. For once, you will eat something healthy. If you’re just going to rot in your room every day, then you need fewer calories. I don’t want to find any slimy chip bags under your bed again,” Pamela snapped, waiting, begging me to argue.

Over the last few months, I lost the drive to fight her. I merely considered her face and gave a tight smile. She raised her flyswatter above her sharp shoulder and followed the bugs fiendishly.

             I stepped again towards the front door, giving my grandmother a sparing glance. Pointy, too skinny, as if she were a bag of tent poles. Her white collared blouse surrounded her limbs like a blanket. She loved how she looked; I regularly caught her admiring her bones in anything reflective. I wondered how long we’d have to haunt this house together.