The Punchbowl--Part Three

The Punchbowl—Part Three

Born several miscarriages later, Tracey Leonora was named for her father when the doctor made it clear there should be no more babies. Months went by before Regina came to terms with her own disappointment and apologized to Trace for the break in family tradition. He’d gazed at her in complete bewilderment.

“Are you nuts? Tracey’s a feminine name, perfect for our little girl.”

The confounded look as much as the words cemented everything right between them. Despite many repetitions of this story to Tracey, others’ words tended to sting. The family compared her petite roundness, inherited from her mother, to Amy’s willowy build. She also inherited her father’s prominent nose but not his academic skills. Her sister, Tracey could dismiss in scoffing anger, but she adored her father and keenly felt every instance, real or imagined, of not measuring up.

Regina finished the carrots, picked up a pecan tart, Tracey’s favorite dessert, and took the back stairs up to the bedrooms. She knocked lightly at her daughter’s door and entered—empty, as was the bathroom next door. Regina continued to the master bedroom and heard small noises. Tracey sat before the vanity mirror, lavishly applying blush to her cheeks.

“Tracey! What are you doing?”

“Nothing! You scared me.” Tracey hastily retuned the blush to the table.

“You look like a clown,” Regina said, exasperated. “You should be downstairs.”

“Yeah, well maybe I don’t feel like playing hostess with the mostest.”

Regina ignored that, pulled out a tissue, and dabbed the cold cream. She lifted her daughter’s chin and wiped off her cheeks. Tracey remained still, though she glared at the floor.

“That’s better. Come on down and say hello to everyone. Here, I brought you a tart.”

Tracey’s eyes accused. “You know I’m on a diet.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Regina eyed this daughter too much like her. “You don’t need to diet. You have your mother’s curvy figure and round face. No diet’s going to change your natural shape.” She attempted humor. “You’ll wind up with sunken cheeks and look like a cratered moon.”

End of the story on Wednesday.