The Multitude, стр. 35

Carla paid the few invoices she could afford and stuffed the rest into a drawer. Browsing through her collection of merchandise often lifted her spirits, so she headed to the window display up front.

“Hello, sweeties.” She ruffled the curly heads of two oversized rag dolls. Raggedy Ann and Andy sat in little yellow chairs, ruling over a collection of toys scattered on the floor—soldiers for him and the Seven Dwarfs for her. She’d made the figurines out of wax and painted them with loving care.

The two dolls kept watch out the window, taking in the sidewalk, a row of meters hosting too few parked cars for a shopkeeper to survive, a street almost devoid of traffic, and three stores on the other side, the bakery, the fudge shop, and the ice cream parlor. Word had it those owners were in the same straits as she, barely hanging on, but they kept a stiff upper lip and always greeted her with a smile, offering a free cupcake or a piece of fudge or a scoop of vanilla-chocolate swirl whenever she stopped in. She’d given some of her miniature waxed toys to them for their kindnesses. And she’d taken delight when the shopkeepers put them on display, lining up the little figurines on table tops or counters and one time even in a window, gathered around a giant plastic ice-cream cone.

She turned away and wandered down the aisles of her store, first passing a display of eggshell ornaments—they conjured the memory of her tenth Christmas, when her mother surprised her with a tabletop fir tree to hang them on. Next, she walked alongside shelf upon shelf of handmade dolls and cuddly animals, followed by an aisle lined with candles and wax figurines, and finally the section reserved for consigned goods and herbs provided by others, mostly single moms hoping to scratch out a few extra dollars.

When she reached the back of the store, the little bell up front tinkled. She rushed over to greet a rare customer but ran out of steam when she identified her visitor. She tried smiling to hide her reflexive disappointment over a lost sale that never existed.

“You can’t fool me. I know that look.” Her mother breezed into the store wearing one of her trademark twentysomething outfits—in this case a floral skirt topped with a short, midriff-baring blouse tied closed at the bottom. Turquoise reigned supreme, coloring a winter coat left open despite the cold, her blouse, the bow twisted around her ponytail, and a pair of heels rising an inch higher than seemed reasonable.

She’d dressed the same way a week earlier when accompanying Carla to a local fundraiser dance. A man chatted them up in what had to be a misguided attempt to get laid, claiming mother and daughter might pass for identical twins, especially since one dressed somewhat older than her peers and the other much younger. He went on and on about various shared features unsullied by any generational differences, from their classically curved frames to the dimples when they smiled, their matching high cheekbones, the hint of green in their hazel eyes, and the auburn shadows in their raven hair. Her mother ate it up, but Carla couldn’t back out of the scene fast enough.

“I’ll smile wider if you buy a stuffed bunny,” Carla said.

Her mother shook her head. “We’ve talked about this before. Why not stop worrying over rent and move home with me for a while?”

“Mother, please.”

At thirty years of age, running home was so not an option. She’d as soon give up her apartment and sleep in the back of the store.

* * *

They chose the window booth of a corner restaurant for their lunch. A youngish hunk of a waiter brought menus. When he walked away, her mother stared after him a couple beats too long. Carla couldn’t let that pass. “Would I find your picture in the dictionary under midlife crisis?”

Her mother laughed, then fixed her with a stare, the sharp kind capable of piercing a daughter’s soul. “I think we’d find yours under brooding.”

“Wrong letter. Flip forward a few pages to the Cs and look under crazy.”

“Everyone feels that way at times.”

“Just once, I’d like to be part of the great everyone. But there’s good news! Lately I’ve been having doubts about my insanity.”

Her mother didn’t show the slightest amusement at the clever play on words. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Carla escaped out the window to watch the chill winds of autumn swirl dead leaves across the sidewalk, but the waiter soon pulled her back to the restaurant by setting an iced tea in front of her. She met her mother’s eyes again. The woman pursed her lips around a straw and sipped her drink, beating her down with an overly concerned stare.

“I’ve been seeing a counselor, Mother.”

“A shrink?”

“Not so loud.” She would have loved to flee out the window again, but a lifetime of mother-daughter exchanges foretold that an explanation would be extracted sooner or later. The longer she held out, the noisier the conversation might get. “I’ve been having nightmares about asking a man to kill me.”

She cringed, expecting an outburst, yet her confession was met by silence. Working up the courage to meet her mother’s eyes took awhile.

But her mother displayed neither shock nor scorn, only her trademark, head-tilted, half-smile expression of curiosity. “How are your waking thoughts?”

“I’m not suicidal.” As if a simple denial could prove such a thing, even to herself.

Her words hung in the air like the bloodied blade of a guillotine, until her mother leaned forward with the sharp stare of a coconspirator. “You’re merely having dark sexual fantasies!”

With impeccable timing, the comment filled a brief void in the restaurant’s general clatter. Heads turned in their direction.

“Mother, do you not have an inside voice?”

The waiter returned. He set their lunches down and caught Carla’s eye. She had to admit her mother had targeted a suitable subject for leering. Either