The Lucienne Twins

Part 3: The Mother

The most disturbing thing about Abigail wasn't her queer tendencies or her morbid past. It was her innocence. It was that she didn't know that anything was wrong with her life.

The end of the year was near, the children grew antsy in their seats as old snow turned to spring blossoms, and final parent teacher conferences were approaching.

I moved Natalie and Jane to the other side of the classroom, but it didn't seem to matter. They avoided Abigail now. Everyone did.

She was quieter than she used to be, though she still held half conversations with the wall during social time. And the way she dressed had changed- sometimes her clothes were too small, and sometimes they matched in ways that just seemed odd, though the pen in her pocket stayed constant. Her hair was different too. She began to wear it in braids and other more complicated styles. I couldn't help but notice that the streak of brown in her blonde hair had grown.

"Abigail, honey, I don't think those clothes fit you just right." I said one day. She wore a yellow button up shirt, but it was so tight that the buttons looked as if they were about to pop off.

"See? I told you she wouldn't like it. I wanted to wear the blue one." She said, twitching her right ear.

"It looks fine honey, I just think you might want to wear one that is bigger."

"But Bridget said this is her favorite shirt and I should wear it today because it makes me look pretty."

My skin began to crawl. That was when I first realized that she still wore Bridget's clothes, which had not changed since kindergarten. I would have to bring this up at the parent teacher conference along with many, many other things.

On Wednesdays, it was my turn to patrol the lunchroom while the students ate. Abigail sat alone on the corner of one of the long tables, her lunchbox zipped open in front of her and its innards strewn around the table. She had set the seat beside her as well, placing portions of food on the table in front of it.

She took a bite of a sandwich, and something multicolored fell out onto the floor. It was a gummy worm, half green and half orange.
"What's that you're eating, Abigail?" I asked, poking around the rest of her lunchbox, finding a few candy bars, a baggie of sugary cereal that my own parents wouldn't let me eat, and a bottle of chocolate milk.

"Lunch, Miss Mary. We made our own recipe."

"Your own? Do you pack your own lunch Abigail? What does your mother say about gummy worm sandwiches?"

"We pack it every day." She said proudly, "And mommy doesn't like it. But I don't really listen to mommy anymore."

"Abigail, you need to listen to your mother. I'll buy you hot lunch today."

"What about Bridget?"

"She can have extra of your special lunch."

I clenched my teeth as I watched her eat. What type of parent lets their child eat junk every day? And dress in clothes that obviously didn't fit? Especially since it was her only daughter still left alive. On parent teacher day, Abigail's mother and I would be having a long talk.

Next Wednesday, I caught Abigail eating gummy worms again. Now I bought her lunch every day, and every day she packed lunch for Bridget.

Abigail's mother had the 7:30 PM time slot on parent teacher day. It was my last conference, and I had scheduled it late so that I could spend some extra time with her.

I watched the analog clock in the corner. Right now it was 7:29, but parents often showed up late to meetings.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then thirty.