Chapter 1
Killing Bernadette
Sometimes I dream of killing my mother. I’ve read it’s a common thing for teens, but that doesn’t help me much. I know it’s my sub-something or other taking over while I sleep. I read that, too, in a school text. If you knew Bernadette, you’d understand. She’s not my real mother. Biological I mean. She and her late husband, Jim, adopted me as an infant. Sometimes I wonder why my mother gave me away, if Bernadette knows the reason. Was I unwanted, unloved?
I’m afraid to find out the answer.
It’s the summer before my senior year. I’m almost seventeen, practically an adult, but Bernadette still treats me like a child. Wants to know where I’m going, what I’m doing, who I’m doing it with—as if I had that many friends to choose from.
A few weeks back, I got a summer scholarship to a college program in Oregon. Something special for high school kids with decent SAT scores.
“Nope, you’re not going, honey. Too far away.” Bernadette came up with tons of excuses. What would she do if the bus had an accident? Then she recited a horror story she’d read online about a school bus full of kids coming home from a college visit; ten kids killed and twelve injured. Definitely something that wouldn’t happen again in a million years.
La-di-da—tra-la—la.
Bernadette went on and on, making up silly reasons why my trip couldn’t happen—more dumb stuff. Finally, I wrote the school a letter saying I couldn’t accept the summer scholarship and to give it to someone else. Then I went and found two part time jobs and had the stylist at Quick Clips cut my hair real short. Bernadette hated that.
“You have such beautiful hair, a shade of ebony most girls your age would die for. Why go and chop it all off?”
Why indeed.
I’m happier when I’m working at the café, bussing tables, setting out places, doing dishes in the kitchen, but at home, well, anyone can see my problem. Everywhere I look, she’s there.
I start my other part-time job this morning at St. Catherine’s Elder Care. God, I hope it’s not too religious. I’m already having a problem with the old people part. Bernadette says I should call them elderly since it’s more P.C.
Whatever.
I just need to make enough money to get out of here. Someday.
* * * *
This morning at breakfast was a good example of what I’m talking about. Bernadette shuffled over to me in her padded slippers. The pink ones with the white bows she had me buy her last Christmas. In addition to horrible taste in slippers, she was obviously having a bad hair day; gray and white spiky wisps shot out all over her face like that Greek woman with the snakes on her head.
Bernadette works five days a week at our library, cataloging and stamping books, and I’ll bet driving people crazy like she does at home. I keep telling her to take better care of her appearance. Run a comb through her hair before she comes down to breakfast, wear a bit more make-up to work, or buy a new dress. Those kinds of things. But will she listen?
“You need to eat something,” she said, as I pushed my cereal off to the side. “Who knows what they’ll have you doing today.”
“Nothing more than wheeling people up and down corridors. I’m supposed to help with the morning activities. Bingo anyone?”
She shook her head disapprovingly and sighed. “You should be more respectful of your elders.”
Meaning her
“I’ll do my best.” I started to get up but she pulled out a chair and sat down across from me. She took my hand in hers and held it.
Not my favorite thing
“You’re getting along well at the café. You’re used to that job now, right?”
“Mm. Hmm.”
“This will be different. You won’t be stuck in the kitchen and working behind the scenes. You’ll be interacting with patients, their families, nurses…”
“LVNs. I’m not sure they’re really nurses.”
“They are, I think, but you have to be professional. Courteous. Smile a lot and treat—”
“Treat them and the job with respect. Yes, I get it. You’ve said it a gazillion times.” I glanced at my watch, pulled my hand away from hers, and forced a smile. “I’ve gotta get going. Don’t want to be late my first day.”
Sound professional enough?
“Did you pack a lunch like I suggested?”
“What’s her face said it was only a four hour shift. I’ll grab a bite at the café later.”
“Who exactly is ‘what’s her face’?”
“Ms. Andrews, the administrator. She said I’d be dealing mostly with people in walkers and wheelchairs, the ones who can barely get up and move around but somehow manage. They probably won’t even know I’m there.”
“See,” she said.