Live a Little by Kim Green Read Free Book Online Page A

with the baked garlic and chives. And green beans with those little bacon bits. See?” The pot lid comes off, enveloping us in a pork sauna. I wink at Tay. “I got
green tea ice cream
!” I hear myself singsong, vaguely aware that there is something frightening about my behavior but powerless to stop it.
    “Mom, shouldn’t you be resting?” Micah seals the pot. Bye-bye, bacon.
    I shrug. “I just felt like making dinner. I have something to tell you guys. Something great.”
    “It’s just . . . We didn’t expect you to be, uh, cooking and stuff,” Taylor says.
    “Why don’t you all sit down and get comfortable?” Before they can argue, I strip Phil of his papers, briefcase, and jacket and give him a wifely peck on the cheek. He leans over. I swear I hear him sniff my breath.
    “Are you all right?” he whispers.
    “Hon, I couldn’t be better.”
    I steer the three of them into their seats and proffer the platters I created. Between the giant sunflowers, their faces peek at me, creased with worry. Oh well, that’ll change when I drop my bombshell.
    Back to biz as usual.
    “Isn’t this nice?” A droplet of sweat tickles the trough between my breasts, itching against the synthetic fabric of my minimizer bra.
    Raquel, don’t be a freak. Just get on with it.
    “Guys, you’re not going to believe this, but . . .” Why is Micah looking at Phil like that, like there’s a feral bobcat loose in the house and nobody else has spotted it yet? “I don’t have, you know, um, cancer.”
    Silence.
    “They mixed up the test results. It was all a big mistake.”
    I smile, expecting glad cheers, backslaps, relieved tears.
    Something . . . considerable.
    Nothing.
    “They mixed them up with somebody else’s. I know, I know. . . it’s hard to imagine, but I guess even computer networks aren’t perfect. Dr. Meissner told me today. Isn’t it terrific?” I stab my fork into a pile of green beans with a satisfying crunch. A weird giggle escapes me, as disconcerting as a public fart.
    Taylor gets up, crosses the room, and kneels beside me. She grabs my hand and stares into my eyes. “Stop it, Mom. Just stop it!” Her whole body issues a rolling but subtle spasm, as if it’s coming from so deep inside her, it’s emerging diminished.
    Huh?
    “Dad, I think Mom needs to go to bed,” Micah says. He says it almost leisurely, as if he needs time in between words to locate the stun gun.
    Phil stands up. The logo on his white T-shirt, advertising some off-Strip hotel in Vegas, filters through his gray dress shirt. What does he do with the dozens—hundreds—of plain white undershirts I buy him? Why does he think it’s okay for the world to know he’s too cheap to spring for the Bellagio or Mandalay Bay?
    “I don’t need to go to bed! Why aren’t you listening to me?” I don’t mean to cry out, but nonetheless, green-bean paste dribbles from my lips. Embarrassed, I wipe it away, which only results in the formation of a big veggie mouth booger that I am forced to deposit on the tablecloth because I have forgotten the napkins. “I’m trying to tell you something important! Something important to me! You never listen! You just. Never. Listen.” I realize I am whining.
    “Quel, come on. You’re tired. You’ve worked so hard on all this. And it’s great, it really is. But you just want to go to bed, right?”
    I feel myself nodding. They’re right, of course. I do want to go to bed. Who doesn’t? Who doesn’t want to go to bed after slaving over a hot stove and, like, arranging flowers for four fucking hours? That doesn’t mean I have cancer. Or that I’m crazy.
    Does it?
    I let them lead me to my fluffy cell of a room because, truth be told, a goodly part of me does not believe what Meissner said or what I’m saying, either. Who ever heard of someone getting cancer—then ungetting it? Perhaps I imagined the conversation, or maybe this is all another dream, my version of
Dallas
and the Sue Ellen yearlong