Free Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret by Vicki Grant Page B

to believe—or, at least, needed her running group or her book club or her business partners to believe —fine. I wouldn’t roll my eyes.
    â€œThis is good, Mom,” I said, and conspicuously loaded up my fork again.
    She dabbed at her lips, her face all charming and amused behind the napkin. “Oh, well, I know how you love your cream, sweetie—especially now that you don’t have to worry about fitting into …”
    You could see the alarm bells going off just behind her eyes as she realized, too late, that that whole sentence was careening full-speed into the dreaded words “ … your prom dress.” Panic broke out over her face like hives. She coughed and said, “ … your winter coat.”
    Hank looked up from his food and said, “Fit into your winter coat?”
    Dad said, “Hank.”
    Mom said, “Here’s to a long and glorious summer!” and raised her wineglass.
    It was probably the most pathetic I’d felt since this whole thing started, especially once Dad and—only because he had to—Hank raised their glasses too. (Toasting anything with a glass of milk is depressing at the best of times.)
    Never in the entire history of our family had either of them ever missed a chance to heap ridicule on someone’s stupid comment—but here they were toasting the fact that I didn’t need to worry about fitting into my winter coat in the middle of July.
    â€œSpeaking of coats,” Dad said, “I’m not pleased with the hospital laundry these days. My lab coats are coming back stiff as a board. You wouldn’t have any tips about how to soften them up, would you, Bets?”
    I looked up, figuring this was the start of one of his elaborate so-called jokes, and felt almost hopeful: someone needed to put this conversation out of its misery. But he was serious. This apparently was an honest inquiry from one professional to another. I could barely look at him.
    â€œUh … I don’t do laundry, Dad.”
    â€œOh. Right.” He touched his forehead with his index finger. “Of course. Don’t do laundry — or windows either, I guess!” He laughed. Mom said, “Oh, Mike!” and laughed too. I didn’t get it.
    â€œNo, I do do windows actually.” I turned my lips upinto a joyless little U and moved a slice of mushroom around my plate like a tiny mop.
    â€œReally?” Way too much interest. “You should help Hank with that! I bet he’d like to get those old Pokémon decals off his bedroom window. Wouldn’t you, Hank?”
    Hank looked up, all blank-eyed and chipmunk-cheeked with food. We all knew he didn’t care about his windows. We all remembered what happened the last time I went into his room uninvited. And we all, no doubt, were prepared to have him tell me what would happen to my ugly face if I ever tried to do it again.
    His chewing slowed. He looked at Mom, then at Dad. Then he looked at his plate and said, “Yeah, okay. ‘Bout time I got rid of them, I guess.” He said it as if he wasn’t quite sure if he’d got his lines right.
    Mom slapped the table and promised to get the cleaning supplies we needed. Dad made a joke about videotaping this momentous event for posterity’s sake. Hank and I went back to our eating. I loved him quite a bit then. Not for playing along with them—but for playing along with them as little as he did.
    When I figured I’d choked down enough pasta that Mom wouldn’t feel obliged to force dessert on me, I asked to be excused. Exhaustion, you know.
    â€œSure, sweetie, sure,” Mom said. “You relax. You had a big day.”
    Dad actually stood up when I left, as if the Queen were exiting the room or something. Hank gave a little snort at that but he managed to cover it up with a belch, which at least Mom knew how to respond to.
    I dragged myself up the stairs and saw that someone — i.e.,