Chapter 8 meet in the house

Our kitchen table is a round oak table.One afternoon when we were in elementary school, my sister and I used steak knives to carve our names on the dinner table.When we heard the door open, we hadn't realized that mother was off work, so we threw the steak knives into the drawer.My sister grabbed the largest thing she could find, a half-gallon bottle of apple juice, and slammed it down on the table.Mother came into the room, wearing a nurse's uniform and holding a stack of magazines.We must have said hi to her too soon, mom, and she got suspicious right away.You can also tell from the expression on your mother's face at a glance, what good things have you children done?expression.She was suspicious, or maybe it was because we were sitting at the table at five-thirty in the evening and there was nothing on the table except a large jug of apple juice between us.

Whatever the reason, she elbowed the cider away without putting down the magazine, and we'll stop here after seeing Cha and Robbe.She let out a loud and angry cry, something like woohoo or something.Then she said sharply: Very good, very good!In my childish mind, I thought the situation was not serious.Good is good, right? Those days my father was away from home.Mother threatened us that my father would curse us when he came back.We sat at the table that night eating meatloaves, each with a hard-boiled egg in it. The recipe my mother found somewhere, perhaps in some magazine she was holding, but my sister and From time to time, I sneak a glance at our works.

You guys totally ruined the table, you know what.mother said. sorry.We murmured. And you are likely to cut your fingers with a knife. We sit and listen, with our heads bowed, and that is the minimum of confession.But we brother and sister were thinking the same thing.Only my sister said it. Shouldn't we finish it so we get our name right anyway? For an instant, my breathing stopped.I am amazed by her courage.Her mother's sharp dagger-like eyes shot at her.Then, she burst out laughing.The younger sister laughed too.All the meat crumbs in my mouth were sprayed out. We never finished engraving those two names.They stayed there, Cha and Robbe.When my father came home, of course he lost his temper.But since we left Pipewell Beach, my mother has grown to feel glad we left something at home, even though the names are missing a few letters.

And now I'm sitting at this old dining table, and I see our engraved names, and then my mother or my mother's ghost, or whatever she is, walks in from the other room with sanitizer and a little towel in her hand.I watched her pour the antiseptic solution onto the towel, and she grabbed my arm and rolled up the sleeves like I was a little boy who had fallen off a swing.You may be thinking: Why not say out loud the absurdity of the situation, pointing to a few obvious facts to show the impossibility of it all, the first of which is: Mother, aren't you dead? I can only answer you this way: that is because now is the situation in retrospect, so I think what you said made sense, and you think it makes sense now: but at that moment, it was not like this.At that moment, I was dumbfounded at seeing my mother again, and there was no way I could correct it right away and say it couldn't happen.Like a dream, maybe a part of me thinks I'm dreaming.I have no idea.If you lost your mother, can you imagine your mother appearing in front of you again, so close, you can touch her body and smell her?I know we buried our mothers.I still remember the scene of the funeral.I remember shoveling down a small token pile of dirt and spreading it over her coffin.

However, when she sat down in front of me, wiped my face and arms with a towel, and murmured sadly: Look at you, I don't know what to say.My defenses suddenly collapsed.For a long time no one has been willing to be this close to me, showing the kind of tenderness that rolls up their sleeves for me.She cares about me.She cares about me.When I had no self-esteem to live, she gently wiped my wounds, making me feel like a son again.I fell into this feeling all at once, like you lie on your pillow at night.I don't want this time to end.That's the best explanation I can come up with.I know this can't happen, but I don't want it to end.

mom?I whispered. I haven't said that word for a long time.When death took your mother, it stole the word, never to give it back. mom? It was really just a word, just a soft hum with his lips parted.There are countless words on earth, and none of them come out of your mouth in this way like this one. mom? She wiped my arm gently with a towel. Charlie, she sighed, you're in trouble. ◇◇◇ When my mother stood up for me I am nine years old.I'm in the library in town.The lady behind the table wears glasses, and she looks over the top of the lenses.I chose "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea" by Jules Verne.I like the picture on the cover of this book, and I also like the imagination of living under the sea described in this book.I didn't look at the font size of the book, or pay attention to how many lines per page.The librarian watched me carefully.My shirt was not tucked into my trousers, and one of my shoes was untied.

This book is too difficult for you.she says. I watched her put the book on the shelf behind her.It could be thrown into the cellar, locked up.I went back to the children's book section and chose a picture book about monkeys.I went back to the librarian's desk, and she stamped the book without comment. My mother came by car.I climbed into the front seat of the car.She saw the book I had chosen. Haven't you read this book?she asked. The lady wouldn't let me borrow the book I wanted. What lady? Ms. Librarian. She turns off the engine. Why doesn't she let you borrow it?

She said it was too difficult. What is too difficult? that book. Mother pulled me out of the car.She led me stride into the library, to the desk. I'm Mrs Bernato.This is my son Charlie.Did you tell him that one book was too difficult for him? The librarian froze.She is older than my mother, and my mother usually speaks politely to the elderly. I was surprised that she spoke to the librarian in this tone. He wanted to borrow Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.The librarian pushed up his glasses: he's too small, just look at him. I bow my head.Just look at me.

where is this bookmy mother said. Please say that again? where are the books The lady picked up the book from behind and slammed it on the counter, as if to use the weight of the book to justify her opinion. Mother picked up the book and stuffed it into my arm. Never tell a child which thing is too difficult.She whispered: "And, absolutely, never say that to this child." All I know is that I was pulled out of the library door with Verne's book tightly in my arms.I feel like we just robbed a bank, mother and I, and I don't know if we're going to get in trouble. ◆◆◆

When I didn't stand up for my mother We sit at the table.Mother called everyone to dinner.Macaroni Bolognese. It still doesn't taste right.said father. here we go again.mother said. here we go again.My sister imitated it again.She put the fork in her mouth and turned it. Be careful, you will poke yourself.The mother pulled her sister's hand away. Either the cheese is wrong, or the oil used is wrong.Father looked at the food on his plate, as if the things made his stomach sick. I have tried ten ways.mother said. Don't exaggerate, Percy.Is it so hard to get something I can import?

You can't enter this?Is it something you can't eat? Jesus, he grumbled: I need to talk to you about this? My mother stopped looking at him. No, you don't need to.She ladles some food and puts it on my plate.is what I need to say, right?I need to fight with someone.Eat it, Charlie. Not so much.I said. Eat what I give you.She spoke quickly. Too much! Mommy!sister said. I mean, Percy, if I ask you to do something, you can do it.that is it.I've told you a million times why it doesn't taste right.What doesn't taste right is just not right.Do you want me to lie to make you happy? mommy.The sister waved the fork. Can't.The mother gasped and held down her sister's fork: Roberta, don't do this.Ryan, do it this way, next time you do it yourself.You and your Italian thing.Charlie, eat it! Father sneered a few times and shook his head.corny.he complained.I look at him and he looks at me.I immediately used a fork to fork a large amount of macaroni and put it in my mouth.He moved his chin up a bit. What do you think of your mother's macaroni? I chew.I swallow.I look at my father.I look to my mother.She slumped her shoulders, scowling.Now both of them are waiting. It doesn't taste right.I mumbled in a low voice, looking at my father. He exhaled through his nose and glanced at his mother. Even this kid knows.He said.