Band-Aids

“What I’m saying is we don’t have the money.”

“I don’t care, I don’t care,” I was raising my hands now, holding them in front of my face like I was going to clap them together, raising them and dropping them with my voice, “I said I don’t care.”

“You don’t care that we have to pay more money? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, no, that’s not what I said,” I was shaking my head. “I’m saying I don’t care what you say. This is my body. I will do what I have to do.”

“I think you’re saying you will do what you want, and we will pay for it,” Dad’s voice was rising, he was leaning on the counter, his palms grasping the edge, knuckles white.

“There should be plenty of band-aids,” I said to my mom later. She was sitting on the toilet and blowing her nose. She had a cold for the first time in two years. “Anne Lamott says when she was little there were never enough band-aids.”

Mom shook her head.

“Well it’s just similar, that’s all. It’s like me.”

“Uh, huh,” Mom pulled off her pants and stepped into the tub.

“I’m getting my computer,” I said, leaving the room.

I came back and sat on the edge. Her breasts bobbed on the surface of the water.

“I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad,” I started.

“I don’t feel bad,” she laughed. “Trust me. I don’t feel bad.”

Just then the front door slammed. Dad was home. He came in the bathroom and I walked out of the room.

“I’ll tell you later.”