The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus by Sonya Sones Read Free Book Online Page A

things into my cart—
    no Hershey’s Syrup, no extra-crunchy Skippy,
    no Honey Bunches of Oats.
    I round a corner
    and nearly collide with Jane.
    She’s taking a break from shopping
    to tickle Madison,
    whose plump feet
    dangle like happy bells
    from the seat at the front
    of her overstuffed cart.
    â€œOh!” I say. “Hello, you two.”
    â€œHi, Howwy!” Madison cries, in that adorable
    I-can’t-pronounce-my-Ls way of hers.
    Jane greets me with a radiant smile.
    I glance down at her belly
    and suddenly realize she’s pregnant.
    Very pregnant.
    How could I not have noticed this before…?
    I look down into my own cart—
    my crater, my chasm.
    Nothing in it
    but one lonely onion,
    the only onion
    that was ever able
    to make me cry
    before I cut into it.

SO I’M FEELING A LITTLE SAD TODAY
    I spent half the morning
    reading every word
    of Samantha’s college newspaper online,
    and the other half bouncing around
    her school’s website, reading
    the “Advice for Freshman Parents” pages,
    and compulsively Googling
    the weather back east in a bizarre attempt
    to feel connected to my child.
    Now it’s three o’clock in the afternoon
    and I’m still wearing
    my ratty old nightgown.
    I haven’t brushed my teeth or showered
    or combed what’s left of my hair
    or eaten my breakfast or my lunch.
    Or written
    one single
    word.
    I’m as hollow as an empty womb,
    as flattened as a mammogrammed breast,
    as dark as a house that’s blown every fuse.
    I’ve got a mean case
    of the post-daughter-um
    depart-um blues.

THE PHONE RINGS
    I suck in a breath.
    Could it be Samantha?
    My fingers itch to answer it.
    But what if it’s Roxie calling
    to ask me to give her back
    my advance money?
    Or maybe it’s my mother calling
    to spew her roid rage at me
    like pepper spray…
    Or Dr. Hack calling
    to chuckle in my ear
    and tell me more bad news…
    So I let Michael answer it.
    And when he tells me it’s Samantha,
    I dash down the hall to pick up the extension.
    Then both of us listen breathlessly as she
    tells us about the midnight walk by the river
    that she took with her new friends.
    She tells us
    they sat together on the bridge
    and couldn’t believe how beautiful it was—
    how the full moon
    winked at them
    like the moon in an old cartoon.
    She tells us
    they all felt so jolly
    that they started singing Christmas songs…
    Christmas songs in September…
    in the moonlight…
    by the river…
    Something like relief floods through me—
    something like relief mixed with joy
    mixed with heartache.

WE SAY GOOD-BYE TO SAMANTHA AND HANG UP
    Michael leaves the room,
    and a few minutes later
    he strolls back in
    whistling “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,”
    holding a leafy little branch
    over his head.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I ask.
    â€œMistletoe…?” he says.
    I cross the room
    and kiss him on the cheek.
    Then I rest my forehead against his
    and heave a sigh.
    Wouldn’t you just know it?
    Now that we have the house all to ourselves,
    I’m too miserable
    to take advantage of it.

THE MOTHERS OF DAUGHTERS WHO HAVE GONE OFF TO COLLEGE
    I can’t seem to step out my front door
    without running smack into
    another one of them,
    as though all of us
    are cruising around
    in bereaved bumper cars.
    Wendy’s mother,
    wandering through the mall,
    looking oddly lost.
    Laura’s mother,
    lurking in the stacks
    at the library,
    sneaking stricken glances
    at the mothers
    reading to their toddlers.
    Brandy,
    sitting alone at Ben & Jerry’s,
    staring down into her untouched banana split.
    Each time I encounter another one of these
    kindred crumpled spirits,
    I force a smile and stop to chat,
    thinking to myself,
    â€œIf her eyes don’t tear up,
    then mine won’t.”
    But,
    of course,
    hers do tear up.
    And we fall into each others’ arms,
    like a couple of old rag