“AREN’T YOU GLAMOROUS?And I’m delighted that you brought Stella with you today!” A woman wearing a shriekingly loud red dress air-kisses my mother while a crowd of gowned women swirl around us.
It’s hard to pay attention to keeping a smile on my face and maintaining perfect posture when the smell of the buffet wafts my way. I am starving. The sweet scent of mimosas is unmistakable, and I inhale with the hope that I might get a secondhand buzz.
Surviving another insufferable charity gathering during which my mother will be honored for her dedication to various sorts of downtrodden is not how I’d choose to spend my Saturday morning. The bright blue dress that she had someone make for me itches like all hell, and I suspect that my body is rejecting the high-quality fabric. I coyly scratch my hip and wonder whether I love or hate my mother for buying me this dress. It might be both.
The red-dress lady leaves us, and my mother entwines her arm with mine as we make our way to our table at the front of the room. My mother’s hair is pinned up in intricate curls, showing off her ageless face. She might be BOTOXed within an inch of her life, but in the expert hands of her dermatologist, her face looks surprisingly natural. Obviously, she tells everyone that she has been decidedly blessed with such incredible genes. She also lies about her age, but that’s to be expected. Everyone at this event shaves off eight or ten years.
My ankle twists under me as I stumble in my heels, and my mother grabs on to me before I totally wipe out.
“Goodness! Are you all right, sweetheart?” She proceeds to make a spectacle of caring for me and helps me to my chair.
Our table is already full with other guests, so her fussing over me is not surprising.
“I’m so sorry. I’m not sure what happened,” I apologize.
My mother laughs. “It happens to all of us.”
The other women at the table engage us in enough small talk to make my ears bleed, but I manage to answer questions about my schoolwork while my mother chimes in with effusively supportive comments about how hard I study and what perfect grades I have.
She smiles at me with admiration. “Did you know that Stella was accepted at Pomona but wanted to stay near her family? It’s such a testament to how close we are! I’m very fortunate to havetwosuccessful daughters.”
Yes, I think,one is a drug addict and the other spends half her time in a dissociative state. We are fucking role models.
“Where is Amy today?” The woman who is running the event sits on my mother’s other side. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”
My mother waves a hand. “She is rather late, isn’t she? But I do believe that she was stopping by the children’s center, where she volunteers, before coming here.”
My stomach growls, and I excuse myself to load up at the buffet. My diet of homemade sandwiches has not been cutting it. I return to my seat with a plateful of cheese frittata, fruit, smoked breakfast sausage, and three éclairs. I’m going to make this meal count. Most of the time when I’m at these kinds of events, I don’t get a chance to eat, or Lucinda nearly snarls if I eye lobster or another upscale dish.
I’ve barely made my way through a few bites before my mother whispers to me, “Go call your sister, and find out where the hell she is. She is supposed to introduce me when the ceremony begins in less than an hour. I bet you told her the wrong time. You always get things mixed up. Now, go! And when will you stop wearing that ridiculous bracelet? You look like a lesbian.”
I tug down the sleeve of my dress to hide the bracelet that my father gave me. Calling peoplelesbiansis one of her high insults. As far as I know, she’s never been attacked by a mob of violent lesbians. In fact, I don’t think she even knows any lesbians. It briefly occurs to me that I would delight in becoming a lesbian just to irritate her, but so far, I haven’t found myself attracted to other women. One can hold out hope though.
In the privacy of the ladies’ room, I try Amy’s cell phone four times, and then I text her. There is no response, but she doesn’t often reply when I try to contact her.
“Bitch,” I mutter to myself.
Given the way our mother practically salivates over her—not to mention how she covers up Amy’s narcotics habit to save face—my sister could at least pull her shit together long enough to be here today.
When I get back to the table, I can see how hard it is for my mother not to appear rattled.
She finishes her mimosa. “Drive to Amy’s condo, and get her. Immediately.” Her voice is quiet but unmistakably filled with venom. “And you’ve got chocolate all over your mouth. Clean up, for Christ’s sake.”
It must be frosting from the éclairs. I grab my napkin and blot my mouth. No chocolate appears on the fabric, so I dab again. Still nothing. Wait, I didn’t eat yet, did I? But I look at my plate, and the éclairs are gone, so I must have eaten them before I called Amy. I’m still starving, but I can tell that my mother will lose her mind if I don’t drag Amy back here in the next twenty minutes.
It’s a quick drive to her place, and I leave the car out front, explaining to the doorman that I’m just running in to pick up my sister. He holds open the heavy brass door leading into the marble lobby. The elevator buttons glow as I ride up to the tenth floor, and I pray that I will get stuck in this metal box and be stranded here for hours, for days, for eternity.
Anytime that I have to go to Amy’s condo, I find myself full of resentment and jealousy. My sister has had everything handed to her and lives in a pricey two-bedroom on Lake Shore Drive. She contributes nothing to this world, except for fueling the economy by spending our mother’s money. I’m sure she drained the account my father left her years ago.
After I’ve pounded on Amy’s door for longer than a reasonable amount of time, I locate the key buried in my wallet. She gave it to me before heading out on a five-day ski trip in Aspen last year, so I could let in the interior decorator. I unlock the door and immediately cringe at the smell. Her place is in its usual state of filth. Only, this time, it’s worse.
“Amy?”
No answer. The kitchen is covered in empty liquor bottles, and I count thirteen discarded pizza boxes.The diet of champions.
“Amy?” I call again.
I walk through the living room, noticing that the couch cushions and throw pillows are all messed up. The giant oil painting above the armchair is crooked, and the wood floors look as though they haven’t been cleaned in months. Apparently, Amy is not taking advantage of the housecleaning service her building offers.
