Rose

Do you know what the secret to success was for the Red Indians’ rain dance? They do it until it rains. Much like I am doing right now, only I am not dancing, I am chanting a silent prayer.

“Please don’t decline, please don’t decline, please don’t decline,” I say over and over again while I wait nervously for what seems like eternity at the tills as my purchase is being processed.

I have lost count of the number of times I have swiped my credit card this week alone, all of them quite expensive purchases, all of them unnecessary, all of them very necessary.

“I am sorry ma’am,” the till operator says hesitantly, interrupting my thoughts, “your card has been declined, do you have another one we can use?”

I could be wrong but I swear everyone is staring at me, the other cashiers, the shoppers, the shelf packers. All of them, looking at me, probably thinking that “shame, she’s broke”. I cannot let them think that about me.

“You know, every time I shop at Woolworths this happens!”

I shout this loud enough so that everyone who’s staring knows that my problems are just technical and have nothing to do with finance. It’s a trick I use so I can leave the shop without looking like a dog whose tail is between its legs.

“Just give me back my card!” I continue, grabbing it out of the till operators hands which such fury, she just about ducks for cover in case I smack her, “I will just have to go draw money now”.

I say this sounding as inconvenienced as possible and storm out leaving the till operator, obviously shaken, with what was supposed to be my day’s shopping. After that act, she had better think twice about embarrassing me like that in front people.

It has always been about what people think, my excessive shopping. I am not like other shopaholics; I don’t do it to numb pain or fill a void or anything like that. I have always been concerned with people’s thought about me. I leave the shopping mall defeated, wondering what my friends, whom I have invited over to show off my new kitchen, will think about being served sandwiches.

*****

I get home to find my daughter looking like she’s volcano that is just about to erupt. She’s at that age where she thinks she’s an adult and is completely oblivious of the “honour thou mother and father “ commandment, even though the “thou mother” part is all she’s expected to do because her dad has never been in the picture, another source of my shame.

“My gosh Liv, after the day I have had I am really not in the mood for one of your episodes.”

I express to this her, hoping she can hear the exhaustion in my voice, hoping she will give me a break as unlikely as it is. She has never really bothered to consider my feelings, this child. She is a brat.

“You should have thought about that before you used MY INHERITANCE to pay for your stupid kitchen!”

She said this with such savageness. I remember thanking God that although she’s too big to get a whooping, she’s fortunately too little to give one. And considering the way she’s been carrying on these days, I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself with a black eye because of her doing.

I look at her, dumbfounded at how she could have possibly found out. I am usually very good at concealing evidence of my wrongdoings and I have definitely not disclosed my selfish ways to anyone. How dare she though, call my custom kitchen “stupid”?

It is a work of art, a masterpiece, the kind that should be on an episode of “Top Billing”. And I was going to return the money, eventually. I just had to have the kitchen. I couldn’t let my sister, Anna, upstage me AGAIN. Liv doesn’t understand my dilemma.

Should I not spend the money and have people talk about how Anna has always been the golden child or should I spend the money and have people talk about how golden I have turned out to be, even though I started out as the ugly duckling. The sibling rivalry has always been apparent, even as little girls one could tell that something was not quite right between us.

She was always the favourite, could never do wrong in my mom’s eyes and as a result, she was a tiny terror towards me. This obviously fuelled the rivalry, tore us apart and the fact that my parents had divorced, leaving me with no one on my side except on every other weekend, didn’t help me much.

“You didn’t think that I would find out, did you?” Liv retorts, looking at me like she was the mouse that got the cheese after my unfortunate death in the mouse trap. “Well I did,” she claims victoriously, still angry, “and this is the last time I will ever be stolen from by you”.

I am quiet the whole time, my mind blank, I can’t think of a way to retaliate. She storms off to her room, door slamming behind her so hard, I jump from being startled. After a few seconds, I take a deep sigh of relief, happy that this ended quickly and without struggle, unlike most of our altercations. I can’t stop thinking about her words though, “this is the last time I will ever be stolen from by you.”

She said it like she had a plan of vengeance. She’s only sixteen though, what could she possibly do about this, or anything of that matter? Liv is powerless, only a little girl, isn’t she? Maybe I am underestimating her and her abilities. Wouldn’t be surprised if she turned out to be just like those scorned women we all often hear about.

***

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