Woman No. 17 by Edan Lepucki

Woman No. 17 by Edan Lepucki

Author:Edan Lepucki
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2017-05-08T16:00:00+00:00


27.

The next morning my mind was going SETH SETH SETH like a strip club goes GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and I needed something to distract me. I was cradling my phone in bed, picking the sleep muck from my tear ducts, when I decided to check the new email account, just in case. Art rescues the brain from stupidity.

There was a new email waiting. I didn’t recognize the address, but my heart beat fast as I read the subject: “My mother, Molly Elizabeth Murtagh, 1985.” There was nothing written in the body of the email, just a photo attachment, which loaded slowly: first, a white popcorn ceiling and one of those three-tiered baskets for onions and vegetables; then, a tangle of dark brown curls against a dark window. Big brown eyes that seemed to say either I’m a bad girl or This is my Halloween party face.

The complete photo showed a woman in a blue Spandex leotard and a belt made of wide magenta-colored elastic. She held a dumbbell in her hand like a microphone. Her breasts, buoyed by the Spandex, were as big as grapefruits, and perky. Behind her on the windowsill was a framed needlepoint that read BLESS THIS MESS. It would make a good title for the shot, I thought. Unless I wanted to call her Mother No. 2. Happy Kathy would be the first.

I’d need to get my hands on an identical needlepoint. A curly haired wig that didn’t look clownish. The wardrobe was easy, but I’d have to place upside-down bowls on my chest if I really wanted to complete the look. I’d photograph myself. I’d been into photography in high school and taken one course at Cal. Not my best medium, but the project demanded it.

And would I then paint a self-portrait, based on my photo? My heart did a little skip, imagining painting a face, my own face, but also not. (Is this the Cindy Sherman thing, my mom had said. The answer was yes.) I wanted to brainstorm all the possibilities, just sprawl across the floor and start taking notes in my notebook, but I had to report to the Manse in fifteen minutes for Devin duty.

Out of bed, I dressed without looking, my mind spinning away like a flicked marble. Was this how my mom had ended up wearing the talking marshmallow T-shirt, her thoughts a zillion miles away? I was more like her than I thought.

The email had come from someone named Steve Perkins. He was either one of Seth’s followers or a lonely Craigslist lurker who switched from Missed Connections to free couches to the random Community section where my post lay waiting. Whoever he was, his mother was cute and silly and I wanted to depict her so bad.

I laughed out of surprise. It was something my mom said. I want French fries so bad. I want Hillary Clinton to come over for dinner so bad.

“Mom,” I said aloud. I hoped she’d gotten home safe.

I want Seth so bad, I thought, and then I shook my head like he was water in my ears.



Download



Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.