“You wan’ go wit’ you sister in de closet?” threatened my mother.

I hoped she would say yes, but hearing no answer after a while meant she preferred the comfort of her bed. I shifted the potatoes more comfortably under my bottom and tried to sleep.

Suddenly, I heard something rustle, probably my own foot, scratching a stem of bay leaves. Cockroaches darted into my mind. I imagined them by the dozens, feasting on the mounds of organic reserves. If I hadn’t had sandals on, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but my mother was convinced that our feet should “breathe”.

“Mom! I’ve got to urinate!” I shouted.

In our household, we were allowed to use the noun but not the verb “pee”.

“Mom!” I yelled louder, slapping my arms and feet anywhere I felt the scrunchy little legs were likely to creep.

My mother opened the door, allowing a ration of the kitchen light to peer in. To my surprise, the pantry looked exactly like I had found it.

“Jus’ be quick,” she warned, as her top lip curled in enough so that one could see her gums above her teeth.

On my way to the bathroom, I had noticed a red suitcase. The metal clip “Samsonite” confirmed my hunch, my mother would never pay extra for a famous brand name and even I had seen an ape jump on one of these on TV. Was Ursula going to live with us? Would she have some influence on my mother, who didn’t know American justice? Someone turned off the kitchen light and the last rays that had comforted me through the gap under the door were gone. I blinked into the darkness.

I pretended I was Anne Frank to make the time go by. I imagined sharing the space with Ursula, Harry, Tommy, and Timmy Tatta, having to live on small portions of bread, sleep together on the floor and drink broth out of the same thermos. I was still young and naive enough to think it sounded fun. But the dark tampered with my imagination and I grew unspeakably bored. My sweat trickled down my chest in small rivulets. I wished I were allowed to at least flip through the pages of a cookbook, but my mother would not invest in unnecessary wattage after the doctor’s bill. When I had meekly asked her when I could come back out, she only replied, “Whe’ I feel like. You deserve all night.”

My fingers throbbed after I broke through the net to procure an Idaho potato. I held it in my palm. The outside felt dusty and cold. With my fingernail, I scratched off the eyes and clumps of dirt. Mrs. Wella, my fifth grade teacher, said that a raw potato turned to starch then to sugar in your mouth after awhile. She had told us to experiment with this at home, but my mother had refused to spare a potato for “such stupidity”. I bit through until I came upon a skinless bite. I churned it in my mouth, expecting to discover the taste of candy. Waiting for the potato to transform seemed longer than for my mother to show up, and less likely.