I'll Love You When You're More Like Me by M.E. Kerr Read Free Book Online Page A

sleepless nights.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” Mama said, “but when exactly were you trying to tell me all this?”
    â€œAt the same time you were carrying on about some sort of bracelet.”
    â€œSome sort of five-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bracelet!” Mama said. “And I paid wholesale at that, and that’s minus the expense of the engraving.”
    I always had the idea when we were out that everyone was staring at us, Mama always talked so loud, and always about money.
    Fedora sighed.
    Mama heard the sigh and sat forward like an obedient child. “Please continue, Fedora.”
    â€œI’ll do the best I can,” said Fedora, patting her short black hair to comfort herself, letting her fingers touch her own cheeks affectionately.
    Fedora lived alone and liked to say in interviews that the cast of Hometown was her family. Fedora’s face was very pale; she wore dark eyeliner and mascara, a touch of blue eye shadow and no lipstick. Mama said it was her style. I would tell Mama it was also most mimes’ style, and Mama, who knew very little about anything to do with theater before the 1940’s, would say Lord, Fedora had been around before mimes even thought of not talking.
    Fedora was getting along, though nobody knew her true age. She had worked on radio soaps as a young girl, writing for some of the most famous.
    She seldom wrote scripts anymore, but she rewrote them after finding the right writers, and she blocked out all the action.
    â€œFirst of all,” said Fedora, “Sabra, dear, how are you?”
    â€œDoesn’t she look well?” Mama asked.
    â€œI’m fine, thank you,” I said.
    â€œNo, no, no, no, no!” Fedora said. “I want to know really and truly how you are.”
    â€œI sent you Dr. Baird’s report,” Mama said. “It was all in there.”
    Fedora picked up my long, thin hand with her short, stubby one, the fingers of which sported great long, thick nails which curled over slightly like a parrot’s claws, only they were painted luminescent white. She leaned across toward me and said in a hushed tone, “Now. How . . . are . . . you ?”
    â€œFine,” I said. “Just fine.”
    â€œShe was on the beach for an hour today,” Mama said. “She took a little hike all by herself for over an hour.”
    â€œYou see, Sabra, I really want to know and really must know, what your thoughts are, your fears and hopes, and all there is to know about you.” She paused. Mama was opening and shutting her purse, looking for a More, then deciding not to have one.
    Fedora continued. “Did you hear me say that I not only want to know, I must know?”
    Fedora was talking to me, but Mama answered, “Yeah, I heard that.”
    â€œAren’t you curious as to why I must know?”
    â€œIs the Pope Catholic?” Mama said.
    â€œSabra?” Fedora said.
    â€œOf course I’m curious,” I said.
    Fedora touched my sleeve. “I know news of this internal trouble has taught you not to get your hopes up, or your curiosity riled, or your wishes focused, because you are suddenly aware of your own fallibility.” Fedora always sounded like the synopses of future episodes she often put together for the writers.
    Mama said, “I wish you’d pee or get off the pot, becausethe suspense is killing yours truly.”
    Fedora flinched slightly at Mama’s vulgarity, then recovered and said, “Peg, in order to keep Sabra with us, we’re going to forget about extending the show a half hour.”
    â€œ Really ?” I said.
    â€œNow hold your horses,” said Mama, “an hour, a half hour—she’s still got an ulcer, and we made our decision.”
    â€œPeg, Hometown needs Sabra, and Sabra needs us.”
    â€œAnd I need to know my kid’s healthy,” Mama said.
    â€œShe’ll get every attention, Peg. There will be a nurse on