My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) by Rene Gutteridge Read Free Book Online

sure.
    I sat back, threaded my fingers together behind my head, popped my knuckles with one swift crack, and smiled. I’d not only salvaged the scene, but I’d salvaged what had the potential to be a very, very rotten day.
    But then the phone rang.
    It was Mother.

Chapter 5
    [The conversation lulls, briefly.]
    T he dining table stretched from one end of the room to the other, with twelve expensively upholstered chairs lining either side and the two ends. Their tall, erect backs created the uninviting sense that even the slightest slump would not be tolerated.
    The upholstery had changed over the years, now to a lavish gold color, but the sentiment was still the same. I hated these chairs. We ate dinner at this table every evening that Dad was home, and as a child, all I could think about was how I wished all those empty chairs were filled with people, so that the conversation might revolve around something other than my father’s work.
    My mother knew guilt worked well with me, and even though I had plainly spelled out over the phone that I had a lot of work to do and that I’d not had a good day, I somehow found myself over at their house for dinner. It must’ve been that key phrase: you know I don’t ask much of you.
    With my napkin properly in my lap and my back straining in the awkward position called good posture, I watched Lola, my parents’ housekeeper and cook for the last twenty years, bring in a roasted chicken. Mother, across the table, busied herself by arranging trivets and candles. It was remarkable to me how important family dinners were to my parents, yet how little conversation took place. In fact, at the moment, Dad was in the other room on a phone call, which, in these postsenatorial days, consisted of heavy political conversations with other exsenators, usually ending with an important discussion about tee times.
    â€œLola, the chicken looks wonderful,” I said as Mother took her seat.
    â€œThank you, Leah.” Over the years, Lola had become less talkative, as if she was out of practice. She smiled at me and went back to the kitchen.
    â€œSo, how was your day?” I asked.
    Mother glanced up at me with a startled expression, as if I’d just asked her to detail her mammogram. I knew Mother wasn’t one for light chitchat, but she also wasn’t one for deep, substantive conversations. So I was never sure exactly where the middle could be found.
    â€œFine,” she said. Then she smiled. Just like Lola.
    â€œThat’s good.” And how was your day, Leah? Oh, fine. Thanks for asking.
    Dad walked into the room. His face lit up when he saw me.
    â€œHi there,” he said, his strong authoritative voice taking on that kind, warm tone that he used only for his daughter. I had vivid memories of watching my dad give speeches, hearing the certain inflections in his voice that caused thousands of people to sit silently and listen.
    Dad was never one for affection. His hugs were rare, and usually reserved for photo ops, but I knew that nobody else heard the voice I got to hear. As a child, it made me grin. And I still found myself grinning.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œI’m glad you’re here for dinner.” He sat at the head of the table. “Where’s your sister?”
    If I’d heard that once, I’d heard it a thousand times. Katherine Elaine, known as Kate, or even better known as “I can’t believe she did that,” was late as usual. If ever there was a prodigal daughter, Kate was it. My little sister made Patti Davis look like a saint. And had the tattoos to prove it. We were distinct in so many ways, including how we addressed our matriarch. I called her Mother, which is what she had always wanted to be called, because she thought it would sound nice if she somehow found herself in the White House. Kate always refused and just called her Mom or, if she wanted to be really sassy, Mommy.
    In more recent years,