Free Such a Pretty Face by Cathy Lamb Page B

patted her on the shoulder.
    “Poor Mom,” Lance said. “Oh, oh, oh. Poor Mom.”
    “Poor Mom? Yes, poor Mom, but I’ve got ticked off issues, too,” Polly said, wriggling, agitated. “I’m mad that I spent my whole childhood trying to protect her from Dad, watching Dad attack her, belittle her, mock her, and she didn’t do anything. That wasn’t exactly a healthy environment for us to grow up in. He wouldn’t let her drive, wouldn’t let the mail be delivered to the house, buttoned her up tight with those staid blouses, and she put up with it because she’s weak. Weak! For our sakes, she should have left him so we would be protected, but she couldn’t summon up the strength to do it.” She threw her napkin in the air. “She was weak! ”
    “Polly,” Lance said, broken. “Mom’s an alcoholic. I know she doesn’t drink now, but she did then, and it rattled her poor mind to mush. Dad’s abuse controlled her. She was like a bunny in the jaws of a tiger. In everything he said to her, in every action, he showed her that he thought she was stupid, incapable, incompetent, uneducated, beneath him. She listened to that for years and years, poor Mom. Decades. She was freakin’ brainwashed and she didn’t have anyone to turn to, no parents, no sister—” His voice cracked and he picked up Fiona Butterfly and put her on his lap. For good comfort.
    “I know, I know,” Polly moaned. “She’s a wreck.” She twisted her hands. “I’m a wreck.”
    “I’m a wreck, too,” I said. “I’ve got visions, nightmares, flashbacks, and they keep getting worse.”
    “And I can’t talk to women,” Lance said. “I can’t even open my mouth around them because Dad told me so many times I’d be a terrible husband, that I was weak, ineffectual, unmanly, dumb, and wouldn’t amount to anything but a stupid jock. I’ve only had two girlfriends in my life and they both broke up with me because I couldn’t speak around them. I’m a disgrace to myself.”
    The waiters came with our salads. The lettuce was artfully arranged, like a 3D painting, dressing drizzled on the lettuce and then curlicued on the plate. The croutons formed a straight line. The blow-up girls did not get salads.
    Polly fanned her face to get more air. She had been complaining about heart palpitations lately.
    We were silent for a minute, then Lance reached out his huge hand and covered both of hers, Fiona Butterfly leaning with him.
    “You do know that you’re coming close to totally crashing, don’t you, honey?” Lance asked.
    “No, I’m not.” Polly shifted in her seat.
    “Polly, you are.” I reached my hand out and put it over Lance’s. Polly not being well made me feel so sick. “You can’t live like this. You can’t continue to carry a bag tucked under your bra, you hyperventilate, you can’t breathe, you never sleep, you’re not eating. You’re so stickly thin.”
    “I’m fine, Stevie, back off. You, too, Lance,” she snapped. “But I love you.”
    “You’re way too thin,” Lance said, his voice hoarse. Fiona Butterfly wobbled in his lap. “I worry about you all the time, and sometimes I get so worried I have to go and lie down and knit. I knit for two hours straight on Sunday from the worry. I made you a hat, Stevie.”
    “Thank you, Lance.” Yes, Lance knits. Learned it from some other guy named Timor on his pro football team. Timor actually owns a giant knitting store now with an order catalog and everything. Lance is “in love” with his designs. Every year he makes me and Polly at least two matching hats and scarves. He’s quite talented. We wear them all the time in winter.
    “Well, quit worrying, you overgrown wimp. I’m fine. I’m fine.”
    The waiter came with three types of bread and two types of butter. The blow-up girls did not seem hungry.
    “Now, this lady.” He picked Fiona Butterfly up. “This lady’s got curves. You need ’em. You need ’em here”—he pointed to the doll’s