The Rohlmans had two junk drawers in the kitchen. One with the typical array of mismatched screws, rubber bands and instructions to an appliance long discarded, the other for junk food, snacks and high fructose parades of diabetes and tooth decay that they were only supposed to touch during special occasions.
Patrick Rohlman was gaining weight, but hadn’t touched the edible junk, was always supposed to be at the gym, according to texts.
Cascading deceit, tiny lies inside tsunamis of untruths that crashed on a beach of brightly colored parasols whose cheerful hues were a lie themselves.
Nancy Rohlman pulled open a junk drawer and put a screw in her mouth and bit down so hard she cracked a crown, immediately dialing Dr.Wedowen, who would give her pain meds and might, just might, want to fuck her.
She made an appointment with the receptionist, yanked the other drawer and pulled open some gummy grape rope crap, her fingers turning purple at the touch.
Mollie Ann would be home from cheerleading practice in ten minutes.
What did you say?
What did you tell a sixteen year old girl?
You have a little sister?
The response to that truth would be “That’s impossible, mom, what are you talking about?”
Strong truths, Nancy, Nancy Rohlman told herself, truths not cloaked in soft language or euphemism, truths built like a fortress.
Nancy looked at both drawers hanging open, the junk and the edible junk.
Your father was leading a double life. He lied to a woman not ten years older than you, and they have a child together. He was using an alias, being deceitful to us and to another young woman, whom he impregnated.
I’m shocked and I’m devastated but we’re going to get through this though I am divorcing your father for sure.
Mollie Ann Rohlman took the three steps she could usually bounce over one at a time, as though she was scaling a pyramid.
She had come out to the cheerleading team officially, before coming out to her own mother, though she felt that it was a formality, that her mother sensed it. But still the guilt was fire and she was tissue paper.
Then she abruptly quit the squad, a move that would enrage her mother far more than her sexuality could.
Mollie Ann was going to promise to spend more time on robotics, earn herself a scholarship through that somehow, she would promise her mom, she thought, through a tearless face.
At the top step she looked in the window.
Her mother had two feet up on the dinette-weird.
Her white shirt had purple stains splattered across it-weirder still.
Mollie Ann half jogged into the house and cut into the kitchen.
Nancy Rohlman was spinning a gummy bear impaled on a paper clip.
“Mom?”
Nancy looked up.
Mollie Ann erased every thought she had for the previous two hours.
“Can I take the car to Courtney’s?”
Nancy Rohlman said “Sure, kiddo,” and stuck another gummy bear on the paper clip.
***
Messy family. Real family.
“Cascading deceit, tiny lies inside tsunamis of untruths that crashed on a beach of brightly colored parasols whose cheerful hues were a lie themselves.” I got whiplash from this line being followed by Nancy breaking her tooth just so she could see a doctor who might want to sleep with her. Good story, as always.