The Sweater

The Sweater

“That sweater looks terrible on you,” Sara said.

“No, it doesn’t. It brings out the blue in my eyes,” Erica replied.

“It’s too tight on you.”

“It fits me fine.”

“You need a bigger size. Your stomach is too big for it.”

Erica paused before answering the slight. “It’s not my stomach that’s too big. It’s my chest. And you have been jealous of that for years.”

“Oh, please. Just because you inherited Mom’s boobs doesn’t mean I’m jealous. Mine are just right. They’re never going to sag like yours will. Just look at Mom’s. They hang.”

“Don’t talk about Mom that way!”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“Shut up!”

“Erica, just face the facts, will you?”

“Your facts and my facts are not the same,” Erica challenged her.

“Facts are facts.”

“Not always. Your ‘facts’ are really just opinions wrapped in misplaced certainty.”

Sara frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You blame Mom based on an opinion that she has done something to deserve it.”

“She provokes him and you know it.”

Erica shook her head. “I don’t care what she does. No one deserves that.”

“Your opinions of Dad are no different than my opinions of Mom. Neither of us is operating on facts.”

“That’s bullshit.” Erica turned away, her eyes filling with tears. Sara noted them, and her face relaxed.

“The sweater isn’t that tight on you. And it does bring out your eyes.”

“Really? Thanks. Then you don’t mind if I borrow it?”

“No, I suppose not. Just don’t spill anything on it, okay?”

“I’ll be careful.”

“I know you will.”

“Sort of like how you’re careful around Dad,” Erica said, turning her face away from Sara.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sara replied.

“Well, I have noticed that you really tread lightly around him. Maybe you’re afraid of provoking him like Mom does, according to you, because you don’t want to receive the same response from Dad.”

“That’s stupid. I don’t ‘tread lightly’ around Dad,” Sara argued.

“Yes, you do. As soon as he gets the slightest bit upset, you back down. You placate him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” Erica stated matter-of-factly.

“You’re full of crap!”

“Sara, just face the facts, will you?” Erica smiled, waiting for Sara to catch what she had done.

“Oh, ha, ha. So funny,” Sara said bitterly. “Are we going to have the same conversation again?”

“No,” Erica sighed. “I don’t think we’re going to see things the same way no matter how many times we rehash the same discussion.”

“You’re right about that. I just can’t see why you let Mom off the hook.”

“And I just can’t see why you let Dad off the hook.”

Sara looked at Erica in the sweater. Erica looked alright in the sweater, but Sara decided that Erica didn’t look as good in it as she herself did. “Are we just going to agree to disagree, then?”

“I suppose, for now. As long as it never gets physical. But you do realize that it is emotional and verbal abuse, right?”

“Yeah, but who’s the abuser and who’s the abused?”

Erica shook her head. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Okay, I get that Dad speaks to Mom in truly horrible ways. But Mom knows what his buttons are, and she pushes them. Sometimes I think she likes the way he talks to her.”

“That is ridiculous. Have you never seen her cry? Have you never seen how she just shrinks when he starts in on her?”

“Yes, I have. I think it’s hypocrisy. Haven’t you seen her provoke him?”

“No. I have seen her stand up to him. I have seen her speak up for herself.”

“We are just never going to see eye to eye on this,” Sara said. “I’m going out. Let’s not talk about this again, okay?”

“Whatever,” Erica answered.

Sara left the room. Erica picked at a fuzz on the sweater and pulled a strand of yarn out with it.