Dying in Wine
III.
Fifteen minutes later, I was bouncing down the stairs in my school uniform and with my backpack into the kitchen. Gregory, our butler, was pouring a glass of orange juice when I snagged it just as he finished.
“Your parents are waiting,” he said, grabbing their breakfast plates. I groaned inwardly. I was hoping to grab a quick breakfast and leave instead of conversing with my parents, especially with my mother. Having a real conversation with my mother is like having a conversation with a hungry tiger: you barely get two words out before she pounces for the kill. Even greeting her in the morning ends up with her criticizing my outfit or my hair.
Gregory noticed the unpleasant expression I wore on my face and returned it with a sympathetic one. Since his hands were full with the plates, he nudged my elbow as an act of cheering me up.
“The chef bought some cheese and bread for tonight,” he said, hoping to bring my spirits up. I smiled, knowing that no amount of grilled cheese would ease the pain of dealing with my parents, but I appreciated the gesture. Sometimes screaming in my pillow helped.
I walked behind Gregory through the door that led to the dining room, seeing both my parents seated at the head of the table. The dining room was my parent’s favorite room. In the center was the dark cherry mahogany table adorned with expensive silverware and china. Providing the light was a Versailles Crystal chandelier with a silver finish. It was my parent’s most prized possession. They valued it more than me.
“Where’s that good for nothing daughter of ours,” I heard my mother say into her coffee. She was tapping her finger against the table. “Gregory, go call her.”
“I’m right here, Mother.” I took my seat opposite her at the table. Dad was immersed in the morning paper but he managed to grunt a “Good morning” to me just as I sat down.
“Ah, there you are,” mother said, taking a sip. She put the coffee down, but still held onto it as if her life depended on it. “It’s about time.”
Instead of muttering an apology, like I would normally do, I grabbed a piece of toast and smothered it in jam. Mother looked at my choice of breakfast with disgust; squinted eyes and one side of her lip turned up.
“I suggest closing your mouth before your expression stays like that,” I told her coldly, still focusing on my toast. Mother quickly composed herself and retorted.
“That’s saying a lot since you stole all my good looks when I carried you.” I rolled my eyes. She’s been claiming since my birth that I sucked all her beauty out and into me in the womb. “Now, shouldn’t you be eating a more healthy breakfast? I noticed you’ve been gaining a little weight.”
I put down the toast after taking a small bite. She was going this route again. Any more comments like that, and I’d end up with an eating disorder. I heard rustling to my side, but I realized dad only turned the page in his newspaper.
“You won’t be able to fit in your dress.”
I did a double-take. “Dress? What dress?”
“The wedding dress we’re going to go pick out this weekend.” Now I was completely lost. “Oh yes, I forgot to mention. You’re getting married.” She said it so casually like if she forgot to mention there was cocoa in chocolate.
“W-what? When did this happen?” Panic started to rise in my throat.
“Last night. You remember Arthur Churchill’s son from the Garden Party a few years back?”
“Uh, vaguely,” I said, remembering the Garden Party was when I was seven. And I definitely did not remember any Arthur Churchill or his son.
“Well, they moved into the house down the street and came over.” I sat there trying to figure out where was I at that time. Oh yea, I was watching Drew’s basketball game. “And they came up with the proposition to combine businesses.” She took another sip of her coffee.
“Well, then why don’t you marry them?” I wailed. I gripped the edge of the table.
“Valerie, don’t raise your voice to your mother,” dad said behind the paper. Then the doorbell rang.
“Ooh, that’s them!” Mother dabbed her napkin to her lips and almost ran to the door.
I looked to my dad, hoping, praying that this was some kind of joke. He put down his paper and took of sip of his own coffee. I was two seconds away from taking the cup from his hand and smashing it on his head.
“Your parents are waiting,” he said, grabbing their breakfast plates. I groaned inwardly. I was hoping to grab a quick breakfast and leave instead of conversing with my parents, especially with my mother. Having a real conversation with my mother is like having a conversation with a hungry tiger: you barely get two words out before she pounces for the kill. Even greeting her in the morning ends up with her criticizing my outfit or my hair.
Gregory noticed the unpleasant expression I wore on my face and returned it with a sympathetic one. Since his hands were full with the plates, he nudged my elbow as an act of cheering me up.
“The chef bought some cheese and bread for tonight,” he said, hoping to bring my spirits up. I smiled, knowing that no amount of grilled cheese would ease the pain of dealing with my parents, but I appreciated the gesture. Sometimes screaming in my pillow helped.
I walked behind Gregory through the door that led to the dining room, seeing both my parents seated at the head of the table. The dining room was my parent’s favorite room. In the center was the dark cherry mahogany table adorned with expensive silverware and china. Providing the light was a Versailles Crystal chandelier with a silver finish. It was my parent’s most prized possession. They valued it more than me.
“Where’s that good for nothing daughter of ours,” I heard my mother say into her coffee. She was tapping her finger against the table. “Gregory, go call her.”
“I’m right here, Mother.” I took my seat opposite her at the table. Dad was immersed in the morning paper but he managed to grunt a “Good morning” to me just as I sat down.
“Ah, there you are,” mother said, taking a sip. She put the coffee down, but still held onto it as if her life depended on it. “It’s about time.”
Instead of muttering an apology, like I would normally do, I grabbed a piece of toast and smothered it in jam. Mother looked at my choice of breakfast with disgust; squinted eyes and one side of her lip turned up.
“I suggest closing your mouth before your expression stays like that,” I told her coldly, still focusing on my toast. Mother quickly composed herself and retorted.
“That’s saying a lot since you stole all my good looks when I carried you.” I rolled my eyes. She’s been claiming since my birth that I sucked all her beauty out and into me in the womb. “Now, shouldn’t you be eating a more healthy breakfast? I noticed you’ve been gaining a little weight.”
I put down the toast after taking a small bite. She was going this route again. Any more comments like that, and I’d end up with an eating disorder. I heard rustling to my side, but I realized dad only turned the page in his newspaper.
“You won’t be able to fit in your dress.”
I did a double-take. “Dress? What dress?”
“The wedding dress we’re going to go pick out this weekend.” Now I was completely lost. “Oh yes, I forgot to mention. You’re getting married.” She said it so casually like if she forgot to mention there was cocoa in chocolate.
“W-what? When did this happen?” Panic started to rise in my throat.
“Last night. You remember Arthur Churchill’s son from the Garden Party a few years back?”
“Uh, vaguely,” I said, remembering the Garden Party was when I was seven. And I definitely did not remember any Arthur Churchill or his son.
“Well, they moved into the house down the street and came over.” I sat there trying to figure out where was I at that time. Oh yea, I was watching Drew’s basketball game. “And they came up with the proposition to combine businesses.” She took another sip of her coffee.
“Well, then why don’t you marry them?” I wailed. I gripped the edge of the table.
“Valerie, don’t raise your voice to your mother,” dad said behind the paper. Then the doorbell rang.
“Ooh, that’s them!” Mother dabbed her napkin to her lips and almost ran to the door.
I looked to my dad, hoping, praying that this was some kind of joke. He put down his paper and took of sip of his own coffee. I was two seconds away from taking the cup from his hand and smashing it on his head.