The One Without Words

❀ chapter three | mommy issues ❀

"How was it with the new employee today?" Greta asked, surrounded by colorful flower arrangements. As cyclical as a menstrual cycle, every month, flowers overtook our house for a week as Greta, Talia, me, and sometimes Dad sorted out our monthly subscription orders.

"If it were up to me, I'd fire him immediately," I replied.

"Maybe you shouldn't be so quick to judge people, Romy."

I plopped myself onto the couch. The smell of floral juices wafted into my nose—along with some other deliciousness coming from the kitchen. "He refused to clean or learn about flowers, broke Talia's radio, and ditched the shop in the middle of his shift." 

Greta looked up from her laptop and adjusted her glasses over her large nose. "Oh... That's a problem."

"I texted Talia. She said we'll talk later, but she's giving him another chance no matter what I say."

"Jack is his name, yes? I know his mother." Greta closed her laptop. A stray hydrangea petal lay tucked between a curl in her hair. "He's a sweet boy. Just troubled, is all."

My eyes bulged out their sockets. "Three things. One, you know his mother? Is that why you hired him? Two, sweet boy? He's a total brat. And three—according to just about everyone, I'm troubled, too, but no one's making excuses for me. Or calling me a sweet girl."

Greta sighed, far too used to my mini rants, far too used to tuning them out. "Because you're not a sweet girl, Romy."

"Right. I'm suddenly a cold-blooded killer just because some sad, underpaid psychologist said I'm a sociopath."

"That doesn't have anything to do with—"

"It has everything to do with it. It's all about learning empathy until it's time to have empathy for me."

Wow. Good line. I needed to write it down somewhere for the next time I needed to argue my case. I should be a lawyer so someone could start paying me for it.

"Anyway, what's for dinner?" I asked. "I'm starving. Is Dad actually cooking? What's the occasion?"

Greta pursed her lips. "We invited Jack and his mom over for dinner."

Great. Excellent. Just wonderful.

"Can't wait to see him explain his job abandonment," I laughed. 

Dad came out of the kitchen, wearing his pink cooking apron. I always teased him for it—the fabric had little cartoon flowers printed all over—but he claimed it was an essential for "special occasions". 

"Did you tell her?" he asked Greta. 

"I told her Jack is coming," she said.

He refused to meet my eye when he clarified, "I meant... about Romy's mother."

I reached across a clump of hydrangeas to pat Greta's arm. "What are you talking about? She's right here."

"Not Greta," he said. "Grace."

It'd been so long since I heard her name. "What about her?"

"She moved to Seattle last week."

I winced. "Good for her."

"And we invited her to have dinner with us tonight."

White fog clouded my vision. "You told me I'd never have to see her again."

"Things changed," Dad said. "It's time to learn how to forgive."

I stood. I reached for the nearest vase and threw it at the wall. The ceramic shattered, and the pieces clattered to the floor along with a clump of dirt and flowers.