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

loved the South.
    I was trying my best to smile again. Feign a smile. Just like Mother. But inside I was becoming distressed. The thing that had been so reliable about Kate all these years was the fact that she was a continuous disappointment to my parents. It made my life so much easier. Impressing my parents took little work. All I had to do was wear proper clothing and keep my hair a basic color.
    I looked across the table at my father, who’d set his fork down and was now giving his full attention to Kate. Mother’s mouth had spread into an eager grin coaxing for more information. On the tip of my tongue sat many less-than-appropriate questions, but they all drowned waiting in the saliva. I managed to choke out a few basics.
    â€œHow old is he?”
    â€œThirty-four, never married.”
    â€œHow’d you meet?” Surely Kate’s answer would hint to my parents that there was something dysfunctional going on here.
    â€œAt church,” she said innocently, as though the statement held no surprise.
    I snorted. That triggered a cough, then a sneeze. Everyone was looking at me. “Excuse me,” I said through another cough. “Something went down the windpipe.” Like reality. My sister hadn’t been to church in ages. The last time I’d invited her, about four years ago, she laughed at me and told me that if I was ever going to meet a man, I would have to look elsewhere. “The men there remind me of white bread, Leah. There’s nothing exciting. Reliable, sure. But where is the focaccia?”
    I had wanted to point out that the invitation to come to church was for spiritual purposes, but I realized it would do no good. Kate wasn’t interested and viewed my life as boring and pathetic. So I’d not mentioned it again.
    â€œSo is this the focaccia you’ve been waiting for your whole life?” I asked. Only after I said these words out loud did I realize that apart from the context of my head, they formed a very weird statement. Mother cast a sharp look in my direction, a warning that any further word from me could completely destroy any chances for her second daughter to turn out halfway normal.
    â€œWhat does this have to do with bread?” my dad asked.
    â€œI want you to meet him,” Kate said, unfazed by my comment. “I’d like to have you all over for dinner, maybe next week.”
    â€œThat would be lovely,” Mother said, like it was typical for Kate to invite us for dinner. Nobody had been to her apartment in more than two years.
    â€œI’ll have to check with Dillan on the date. He has a very busy schedule.”
    â€œThat’s fine, dear; we can work around his schedule. And I know Leah can come anytime. Right, Leah?” Mother asked.
    Of course I can come anytime. I have no life. I have no schedule. Nothing I do is important; therefore, I can be at your beck and call. “Sure.” I had to admit, I was curious to meet the new focaccia named Dillan. There had to be something abnormal going on with him, like a third eye or webbed feet.
    Kate detailed Dillan’s life for another ten minutes, including his Harvard education, his wealthy parents, his twin brother, his weekly visits to his elderly grandmother, and his fondness for children. He sounded perfectly preppy, and I had to wonder what impression Kate would make on his parents.
    Finally she seemed to run out of good things to say about Dillan, and as I pushed my plate away she asked, “So, Leah, how’s Edward?”
    Ordinarily, this would be an easy question to answer. But my gut didn’t want to say nice things about Edward right now. For crying out loud, he’d signed us up for therapy. He’d embarrassed me for embarrassing him, all over a color choice. And I was starting to see him as a fortified piece of wheat bread.
    â€œHe’s fine; thanks for asking.” I smiled, and all three of my family members smiled back.
    Then Mother