Bad Habits

The first thing I notice when I open the door to 3920 Cherrywood Drive is the smell. Pumpkin spice Bath and Body Works candle; vanilla scented shampoo, my mom’s favourite; and cranberry sauce, simmering on the stove. 

I recoil.

She’s here already, then.

“Laura!” My mom greets me with a mile-wide smile stretching across her wrinkled face. “You’re back!”

I open my arms to hug her, and get a whiff of cheap perfume. My mom only wears Chanel, and only on special occasions. More proof that Maurice is here.

“So, how’s college? How are you doing in your classes? Have you made any friends? Do you have a boyfriend yet?” Mom bombards me with questions.

“Slow down, Mom!” I laugh. “Let me see the others, too.”

My cousin, Maryll, pokes her head around the staircase. “You’re home!” she screams. 

I flinch. I forgot just how loud my cousins are.

Jaycee and Lyndy tear down the stairs, shoving each other in their haste to tackle me. My Aunt Laylee is passionate about only two things: having children, and giving them horribly misspelled names. It’s an issue.

“Sugar! Spice! Nice!” I greet them with my old nicknames. Jaycee (or Spice) nearly rips my hair off as he grabs my beanie and jams it onto his head.

“I wannit!” he howls, racing off again.

“Hi to you, too,” I mutter, sweeping Maryll into my arms. “You’ve grown like three feet, Sugar! How’s school?”

She gives me a grin, proudly displaying her missing front teeth. “I puncht a guy an’ he nokt mah teef out!” 

Ah, how I missed the unmistakable twang of Cherrywood Trailer Park English.

“And Lyndy, you’ve been good? Making straight As?” I ask, poking her chin.

She giggles. “I gotta EFFF in Ma-yaf!” 

“An F? In math?” I pretend to be horrified. “How will you go to college like me?”

Lyndy blows a raspberry. “Not goinna college. I’mma work atta Walmart, Mommy saidda me.”

Ah. That’s my aunt Laylee: so encouraging.

“And who else is here?” I ask Lyndy. She shrugs.

“Rylee broughtta cigs. One for you, too.” She wrinkles her nose. 

“Oh, yeah? He’s not supposed to be smoking in the house. I’m gonna go an-” I slip into the Cherrywood accent so easily, I almost don’t realize it. 

“I mean, I’m going to go take them away from him,” I correct myself. I jog up the stairs, still wondering at the ease with which I reverted back to my old ways. When I left for college, I tried to shake the old me, wanting to be different. Better.

“Laura!” Aunt Laylee exclaims, dragging me back down the stairs. “Come see Maurice. She wants to see you!”

An army of ants begins to march under my skin. I raise an eyebrow. “Aunt Laylee, I don’t talk to Maurice anymore. For… reasons.”

She waves her hand in the air, as if saying “perish the thought!” As if. The closest Aunt Laylee will ever get to sophistication is five-dollar discount wine from Walmart. But only when it’s on sale, and she has a coupon. My Aunt Laylee: also a cheapskate.

“That’s all in the past, Laura. Maurice wants to see you, and you’re all grown up now.”

“But I-” I argue. She responds by grabbing my ear (yes, she’s one of maybe three people in the world who still do that) and dragging me down the stairs.

“Laura!” Maurice says, plastering on a fake smile. She grips the large fork in her hand as if trying not to stab me with it.

“Hey, Maurice,” I reply with an equally plastic grin. “How’re you doing?”

“Oh, just so glad to see my cousin again!” she says through gritted teeth. “So, so, glad.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” I respond. She shoots a piercing glare at me.

“Now, as your cousin-”

“Second cousin, once removed-” I interject.

“As your cousin, I just have to know. How are you doing in college?” 

I should have known Maurice would bring this up. She’s so jealous that I went to Stony Brook University in New York, while she was trapped in Cherrywood Trailer Park, giving birth. Sure, it was in one of the houses (which are only a slight upgrade from a metal shed), but she still blames me for everything.

Yeah.

SO jealous.

“It’s so great!” I say, a malicious grin spreading across my face. I should lie and say it’s just okay, and maybe Maurice won’t be so angry at me, but she brings out a side of me I’ve tried to pack away for good.

“Let me help you with that turkey,” I say, jabbing the knife into it's breast. “Here, let’s pour the stuffing in.”

“I haven’t made stuffing yet,” Maurice sniffs. “And besides, we have cranberry sauce. We can pour that in.”

“Of course, but I think you’ve forgotten that I’m allergic to cranberries,” I snarl, ready to stab her with the serrated knife clutched in my hand.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Maurice preens. “Ah should have remembered. But doggone it, Ah put cranberries in just about everything. Mah sister used ta looove cranberries in everything, so this is to honor her. Don’t you think that’s so sweet?” Her accent thickens on the last few sentences, and she pretends to choke up with emotion.

“Sure.” I snarl, getting ready to storm out. 

“You’re not fighting, are you, girls?” Mom asks, stepping into the kitchen. “Ahh, it smells so good in here! Great job, Maurice. I’m sure Mauve would have loved it.”

“What is this, a memorial to Mauve?” I snap. “I thought this was Thanksgiving, our first in three years. Maybe I shouldn't have come. There’s nothing for me to eat anyway, unless I want to die.”

“Laura. Please. Don’t leave. Maurice is just missing her sister, and having you around-” Mom takes in a deep breath, as if saying the words is painful- “brings back a lot of memories.”

“You’ve changed, obviously,” she adds quickly when I level a glare at her. “Of course you’ve changed, sweetie. It’s just hard for Maurice. You understand, don’t you? With your… bad habit?”

I grimace. I don’t like being reminded of my old habit. It’s a sore spot that I do my best to avoid.

“I stopped doing that, Mom. And anyway, Maurice doesn’t bother me.”

I fold my arms over my chest, watching Maurice out of the corner of my eyes. She’s bustling around the kitchen, pretending not to hear our conversation.

“If you say so,” Mom says, heaving a sigh. “When’s dinner?” she asks, changing the subject.

I shrug. “I’ll go pick up a salad or wraps or something. I can’t eat anything here.” 

“Wait-” 

I cut Maurice off with a glare. “What?”

“I wanted to ask if you would pick up another turkey while you’re out. Uncle Dan and Aunt Nikole are coming.” 

Great. Uncle Dan the perv and Aunt Nikole the kleptomaniac.

My mom casts a worried glance at the fancy spoons Maurice has set out on the table. “Maybe get some plastic utensils and plates while you’re out,” she mutters to me. “And a lighter. We’ve got a birthday cake for Mauve.”

I raise my eyebrows in dismay. “A what ?!”

Mauve grins. “Yeah, we’ll need a big serving spoon as well. Make sure you get those!”

I stomp out and wrestle my old Jeep into reverse, zooming out of the rocky driveway. “A birthday cake for Mauve,” I mock. “They don’t even care that it’s my birthday tomorrow, no! It’s just my dead cousin.”

Everything was always about Mauve and Maurice when we were younger. They were always prettier, more successful in everything they did. 

Well, now the tables have turned, I think with grim satisfaction. My hands tremble on the steering wheel as I park at the Walmart Universal.

I’m still shaking with fury as I make my selection (including an extra special something for Maurice) and pay. I have to swipe my credit card three times because I keep pulling it out too quickly, and my car refuses to start for nearly ten minutes. By the time I pull into the driveway at Cherrywood, I’m nearly ready to break something.

“Well, well, well. It’s the college girl,” Uncle Dan (or Creepy Dan, as the kids have named him) looks me up and down, licking his lips like I’m a McDonalds cheeseburger, ready to be devoured. Then his gaze shifts to the turkey I’m conveniently holding in front of my chest, and a different hunger enters his eyes.

“How’s college, dear?” Aunt Nikole asks, shifty eyes already focused on my hoop earrings. “And how much were your earrings? Are they real gold?”

I roll my eyes. “College is fine, Creepy Dan. And Nikole, please don’t take my earrings. They’re a gift from my best friend.”

They both look startled that I called them out. I never used to be so bold, but taking those public speaking classes turned out to be the best thing I ever did: I can tell adults off, no problem.

“I-erm, do you want help with the turkey?” Creepy Dan asks. 

“No.” I elbow my way past him and into the tiny kitchen. 

I’m hit with the overwhelming odor of cranberry sauce. There are several pans of it bubbling on the stove, and I cough and cover my face. “Can you maybe not? I don’t feel like dying tonight,” I say. 

Maurice shrugs. “Put the turkey here,” she says, patting the counter. 

I plop it down, then turn to her. “Can you follow me outside? I brought you something.” I smile earnestly. 

“Can’t you just give it to me here?” Maurice asks skeptically. “And why are you being so nice all of a sudden?”

I shake my head. “I thought about it, and I realized we’re just fighting because of Mauve. I’m really sorry about your loss.”

She seems to buy it, although I think I see a flicker of doubt in her dull eyes.

“Alright. Let’s go then.” She rubs her hands together in anticipation. “Is it a car? Or something else?”

“Ooh, definitely something else,” I say, guiding her out into the backyard. Like the rest of the neighborhood, 3920 Cherrywood’s backyard is littered with heaping piles of garbage. But in the midst of it all- the wishing well.

Looking at the dilapidated well now, I feel transported back to my childhood- I used to lay next to it for hours, tossing in crickets, leaves, and blades of grass to ‘feed’ my imaginary friend, Blade.

Unusual name for an imaginary friend, right? But I was never one of those kids who named their stuffed animals ‘Pinky’ or ‘Lulu’. I named them ‘Killer’ and ‘Slayer’.

I suppose I was quite a macabre kid, thinking about it now.

I steer Maurice towards the well. “Let’s talk here.” I hold one of my hands behind my back, groping for her present.

“Okay.” Maurice sighs. “I really miss Mauve. I’m sorry that I’ve been mean to you, but you know… Your bad habit. You kinda-”

“I know, Maurice. And I’m sorry.” 

I wasn’t sorry at all, but I put a convincing wobble into my voice. “And I really don’t want us to be mad at each other anymore. I don’t think Mauve would have wanted that.”

She nodded. “Agreed.” Then she sighed. “I want to be with her again.”

“So I thought I should give you this.”

I whip my hand out from behind my back, revealing the large knife I had tucked into the back of my jeans.

She reels backward, eyes widening in alarm. “What- what are you doing, Laura? You’re not going to-” 

She clutches at my hand as I close in. “You’re not going to do this!” she cries. Fear chokes her throat and she lets out a whimper. 

“Don’t do this.”

I cock my head to the side, a Cheshire Cat grin splitting my face in two. “Don’t you want to be with Mauve, Maurice?”

“I-I-I didn't mean you should-!”

“Maurice, you’ve been taunting me my entire life. Especially about my habit. Did you think this wouldn't happen again? You know what happens when we’re together.”

Maurice whimpers. “But I- Please don’t kill me!”

I smile at her. “We all have bad habits, Maurice.”

I grab her wrist and she flinches away, tumbling to the ground. She cries out in pain as her head strikes a rock.

For a second, I think clearly. I should stop, the rational part of me reasons. I’m doing it again.

But then Maurice presses her hand to the back of her head, and when she pulls it away, blood streaks her fingertips.

Yes, Blade whispers.

My vision goes red.

The knife plunges down.

There’s one tiny shriek of pain.

Then a splash from the well.

Red all over my hands.

Thank you, Blade whispers. 

I was hungry.

I drop the knife in, too.

I sit with my feet dangling into the well, inhaling the smell of fresh blood. It’s on my hands, staining my clothes, and clotting in my hair.

My mom’s hand grabs my shoulder. “Laura,” she whispers. “What happened? Did you-”

I turn to face her. She starts, like she’s seen a ghost. “You didn't,” she murmurs. Then, louder: “No. No! Laura! You swore you stopped! We made your bad habit go away!”

“Laura! What is on your hands! What is on your hands!” she shrieks.

I smile at her, putting my index finger in my mouth and sucking it clean. “Don’t worry,” I say. I meet her eyes.

“It’s just cranberry sauce.”