Problems by Jade Sharma Page B

have become part of the shit they’ll have to carry with them. Just like my mother, haunting me. If only she was kind enough to become a memory. Memories didn’t call. Memories didn’t nag. Memories stayed golden and young, and you kept the ones you wanted. Memories didn’t have lesions on their brains and chairs in their showers. She used to be young and pretty. Did she know, when she opened the oven to check on dinner, that taking care of kids was how she was wasting the best years of her life? That was what I was aspiring to do, but at least I knew it. At least I experienced college and watched enough television with female leads to know exactly what I would regret. She wasn’t stupid. Having afamily was a popular way to waste your life, so maybe it wasn’t the worst way. You had to do something or do nothing. She knew she would have finite time to be in her physical prime, so why did I feel bad? Why did I have to be implicated? Why did I feel guilty that she had wasted it on me? She lived the life she wanted. It was her choice not to finish school, not to have a career, to marry an old man she didn’t love. She had her eyes wide open.
    All the pain went back to my mother. Freud didn’t seem that deep. It was natural to contemplate the very beginning and the first person you ever met, whose job was to keep you alive when everything was brand-new, and you were perfect with all kinds of perfect futures. I popped another Xanax. Things were going to be absolutely fine.
    Peter’s father, at the head of the table, said, “Okay, I guess we’ll start.” I nodded, but something was wrong because I was the only one still standing up. Then I realized Darren had my hand, and I looked around. Oh, right, the praying .
    â€œThank you, Lord, for the food we are about to receive . . .”
    It was just like the movies! “And for the animals who gave their lives for us to have this meal and . . .” This struck me as hysterical. The animals? Like they agreed to be sacrificed? Then that feeling hit me, the one where you knew you weren’t supposed to laugh, so all you wanted to do was laugh. I bit down on my lip, hard.
    After the prayer, I shot straight up to the buffet and filled my plate with green beans and a heap of mashed potatoes, and put the plate down to slice some meat. “Maya, don’t forget about the onions, they’re over there,” Peter’s father pointed across the room.
    â€œDid you make them?” I asked.
    â€œI grew ’em,” he smiled.
    I couldn’t tell if he was being serious. “Wow, that’s, um, I didn’t know you could do that,” I said, meaning growing food when theground was so cold, but it sounded like I didn’t know anyone could grow anything.
    â€œSo, Sue, how’s medical school going? Tackling cadavers?” Darren asked. I burst into laughter. Everyone looked at me.
    â€œNo, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know it was a phrase, ‘tackling cadavers.’” There was a general laugh. Darren cracked up, putting his hand on my shoulder like we were old friends. Was that mean to say? Was I making fun of him?
    When my food was gone, I got more.
    Later I crouched in front of the toilet and put my fingers down my throat and dry-heaved and did it again and again and finally it all came up. I sat on the floor, exhausted. Then I ate vanilla ice cream because when you threw it up it didn’t burn. I wasn’t just throwing up because of the calories; I was trying to take care of the future me who was going to wake up dope sick with a stomach full of food. I stared at the mirror. My eyes were watery, and my face flushed. The Xanax had faded. I would have to keep taking more, and then it would knock me out. I couldn’t go on like this. I would sleep forever, be high forever, and be broke forever.
    After dinner I thought about helping clear the table, but Sue and Grace beat me to