Death by Chocolate

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about something so awful.... just dismissing the horrors of our upbringing that
way?”
    “I’m not dismissing
anything, Cordele. I know there were some bad times with Dad on the road,
driving his rig, and Mom leaving us alone while she hung out at the bars. Her
coming home drunk and getting sick on the living room floor. Us cleaning her up
and putting her to bed. It wasn’t fun. But most of that was before you were
even born. Before Gran took us in.”
    Cordele tossed her journal
onto the ottoman and crossed her arms over her chest. “So, what are you saying?
That you had it worse than I did, because you’re older?”
    “This isn’t some kind of
sick contest, Cordele. For heaven’s sake, who gives a rat’s ass? So, you and I
both had it rough. Big deal. There’s always somebody out there who had it
better than you and somebody who had it worse. What does that have to do with
the present, and us sitting here in my living room in California, or whether
we’re going to eat pizza or broiled tofu for dinner?” ‘That’s so-o-o like you,
Savannah.... to live in denial.” Savannah felt it snap—her last string that
connected her to sanity. She jumped up from the sofa and grabbed her lemonade.
“That tears it, Cordele. If you want to call it denial, go right ahead. Label
me or my attitudes any damned way you want. But I’m not going to rehash ancient
history with you. I’m not going to sit around and feel sorry for myself. I
already did that. But sooner or later, I decided that if I was going to get
anything else accomplished in my life, I had to move on. And I’m not going back
there for you or anybody. If you want to interpret that as a rejection of you
as a human being... that’s your choice.”
    She headed for the
staircase, her own bedroom, some privacy and sanctity. But she hesitated on the
bottom step and turned back to Cordele, who had stopped crying and was sitting
there with her mouth hanging open, eyes lightly bugged.
    “By the way. It’s not you I’m rejecting. I love you to pieces. It’s just the bitterness and the friggin’
whining I can’t stand.”
    Oh, yeah.... that little
addition helped a lot, she thought as she continued up the stairs. So glad I
tagged that on the end there.
    It was when she reached the
top of the stairs that heard Cordele’s final diagnosis floating up to her:
“Denial. Denial is such a destructive force. No doubt it’s the root of that
food issue...”
     
     
    Savannah lay In her bed,
reading Eleanor Maxwell’s journal, as she had almost every night since her
death. And while Savannah had spent most of the evening being peeved and out of
sorts, thanks to her heart-to-heart with Cordele, she felt a little better
having read the diary. It proved exactly what she had told Cordele in the heat
of their argument: somebody, somewhere, always had it worse.
    “Hindsight don’t need
spectacles,” Gran had always said. And it seemed, as Savannah read the pages of
the journal, that Eleanor should have seen it coming. Louise hated her mother
with an intensity that could have motivated her to do anything, including
commit murder.
    This journal would prove to
be a powerful piece of evidence in prosecuting her. Savannah could hardly wait
to show Dirk the passage she was reading now. It had been written only three
months ago.
     
    Lou hit me with a wine
bottle today. Cut my head open. Had to get five stitches. They didn’t recognize
me at the hospital. Wouldn’t that be great if the news got hold of that?
Kaitlin would throw a fit. The cops wanted me to file charges on her, but she’s
my kid. I know she thinks I’d do anything to her, but I wouldn’t have her
arrested. How‘s that for a mother’s love? I can’t be all bad, right?
     
    Less than a week later was
an even more disturbing entry:
     
    I told Lou today that I
should have pressed charges on her. She told me that if I ever did anything
like that, she’d break the bottle next time and cut my throat with it. She’s
always saying what a terrible mother I was, but what kind of daughter says
something like that to her mom? Now that my daughter’s all grown up, she hates
me. My twin sister and I have always hated each other. I guess hate just runs
in the family.
     
    Savannah closed the diary,
laid it on her nightstand, and turned out the lamp. She had enjoyed as much
family politics—her own and Eleanor’s—as she could stand for one day.
    But as she drifted off to
sleep, she thought of little