Perfect Pie by Judith Thompson
8 min @ the kitchen table, TO
There isn’t much circulation in her legs. The knee highs are cutting into the soft flesh and her dress pants are tight across her hips. Stacey wants to get up and stretch but her mother’s grasp is surprisingly tight despite being asleep. Her shoulders are thin and pointy, dwarfed by the width of the hospital bed. The sheets, more poly than cotton, are stiff but white. Her mother’s hand looks like a paper mâché replica of the hand that used to soothe her brow and tie her shoes. A purple mottled replica with needles and tape and tubes. Stacey wonders at the new scars and bruises her mother will carry. She has never asked to see the scar she gave, so carefully hidden by full briefs and one piece swim suits. She wonders how it compares to the sudden array of new violence to her mother’s body – a macabre lottery jackpot.
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