The father came home with a woman. She was slim and beautiful, and she wore tasteful clothes. Christine looked at her suspiciously. Her father introduced the woman as his friend. Then they retired to the living room while Christine was sent upstairs to play with Miss Rose.
She was the first. All the women were nice to Christine. They smiled a lot, they brought her candies and toys and books. They stayed for dinner, and had coffee afterwards. Some smoked, some did not. They did not talk to Christine a lot, but they pecked her on the cheek before they left. They all smelled nice. They all said she was a pretty girl.
One woman came for dinner more often than the rest, and after a while she was almost always at the house. When Christine and her father went out to the park, or to the zoo, or watched a movie, she sometimes came. Her name was Laura.
One afternoon Christine came in from play, and Laura was in the kitchen, wearing Christine’s mom’s old apron, making cookies, with flour up to her elbows. Her father was sitting on a stool, and when Christine entered the kitchen he had been laughing, his head thrown back.
One afternoon Christine came in from play, and Laura was in the kitchen, wearing Christine’s mom’s old apron, making cookies, with flour up to her elbows. Her father was sitting on a stool, and when Christine entered the kitchen he had been laughing, his head thrown back.
For some reason Christine had not liked it. She had not liked the way her father laughed, and she did not like Laura wearing her mother’s apron. She fled to her room and refused to come down for dinner.
Miss Rose sat her down for a talk. She talked about loneliness, about how a man needs a woman to look after him, about how a five-year-old child needs a mother to take care of her.
Christine insisted that she already had a mother, and she did not need Laura. She did not love Laura. In fact, Laura could go to hell.
Miss Rose said that it did not matter if Christine did not love Laura. Christine’s father loved Laura, and he might marry her. And she reminded Christine, gently, that her mother had been dead—been gone—for almost a year now.
Christine cried herself to sleep, rocking Marshmallow back and forth. Marshmallow listened to every word, to all her hurt and confusion and nameless fear.
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