Page 16 of Life, Love, and Other Messes

I was ready to bring up the TV show for lack of a better topic when Charlotte Sandridge turned straight toward me. “So your mother mentioned that you’re a pediatrician. Are you in private practice?”

There was a silence at the table. My father cringed and stared pointedly across the room, as if he might get an invitation to relocate to a table devoid of enormous festering lies. My mother smiled with teeth and stepped on my toe under the table.

I probably should have just gone with the story, but I knew there was no way I could pull it off. I generally avoided both doctors and kids. Beyond that, it pissed me off mightily that once again, I was just not good enough for my mother. “Actually, you must have misunderstood. I’m a writer.”

There was a small snapping noise somewhere to my left. I wondered if my mother had cracked a filling or broken her fork. Gerald sort of cocked his head as if I’d finally said something interesting, but Mrs. Sandridge looked confused. “Medical articles?”

“No, mostly—”

“She also teaches college.” My mother’s voice was unnaturally loud, certainly in hopes of covering any G- or L-words that might have been ready to leave my mouth. “Literature, journalism.”

Mrs. Sandridge looked between my mother and me, her brow furrowed. “So you’re a professor, not a doctor?”

I nodded and finished my wine in one swallow. “Sure.”

My father snatched his glass and reached for mine. “Would you like another drink? I’ll get you another drink.”

“That’s odd,” Mrs. Sandridge said. “I was sure she said you were a pediatrician.”

“Perhaps she was talking about my brother, who is an electrician,” I suggested. “It can be understandably confusing.”

Gerald giggled and turned quickly to his meal. My mother had become a furious shade of red and looked like she wanted to slaughter me with her butter knife.

Mrs. Sandridge forged on mercilessly. “But you said you wrote?”

“She’s been published, yes,” Mom said. “Oh, look, I think they’re going to cut the cake.”

Mrs. Sandridge was still looking at me for an answer, so I gave it to her. “I’ve had thirty-two books published, mostly thrillers with queer main characters, but also a handful of lesbian romances.”

Nobody said a word. My mother was wound so tightly next to me that I was sure she was about to implode, but all at once, it was as if the entire topic had never existed. Everyone mushed food around on their plates and looked hopefully toward the head table.

“Here you go, honey.” My father set an ample glass of wine in front of me. “I think they’re about to cut the cake.”

I abandoned sipping and began swallowing wine with a great fervor, knowing that if I climbed atop our table, ripped off my dress, and danced in circles until I passed out, I’d be less of an embarrassment to my mother. I’d downed at least three quarters of the glass when Gerald leaned forward to get my attention. “My friend Lila is gay. I should tell her to look for your books.”

“Thank you so much. That would be great,” I said. He did not ask my last name, which told me that he was either going to do nothing of the sort, or for some ridiculous reason, he actually did remember my family from swimming lessons. “Excuse me. I’m going to find a ladies’ room.”

Even though I really had to pee, I passed two restrooms before ducking into a third, as far away from the ballroom as I dared stray for fear of getting lost. I didn’t want to chance running into anyone at all, let alone someone I knew.

This one was completely deserted, which was a good thing. I could lock myself safely in a stall and hold my head in my hands for as long as I wanted without causing a traffic jam or suspicion. I could also spend as long as I needed to standing alone at the mirror, touching up the makeup that had run conspicuously while I was locked in that stall. I was still far too indignant to admit to crying over my mother’s games, so I blamed it on the alcohol, made sure I was presentable, and finally headed back toward the festivities. Not quite ready to face my mother’s wrath, I found a waiter with another glass of wine, stepped out onto the patio overlooking the duck pond, and sat at a high-top table. As unladylike as it was, I kicked off my shoes and pulled my aching feet up onto the next chair. I wondered whether I would die if I walked all the way home in heels.

I’d been out on the patio less than five minutes when a sharply dressed man with a long ponytail set his drink on my table. “I’m Ben,” he said. “I work as an acupuncturist at the clinic with Cami.”

I was about to attempt a facade of politeness and at least move my feet off the chair, but he held up his hand to stop me.

“No, no, let me.”

“Let you what?” Before I could react, this man picked up my feet and slid into the chair underneath them. I scrambled to reclaim my appendages, but he held them fast, though not in a particularly uncomfortable way.

“Just give me a second.” He moved his hands around my left foot, pressing gently on the sole here, then there.

I was not ticklish, but I’d had a lot to drink. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ben stuck up one finger to shush me and leaned in as if my feet were telling him something. “You’re left-handed.”

“So?”

“You’re fastidious when you’re feeling good, but a bit messy when you’re depressed. You love reading, dogs, and you have several tattoos, most of which you’ve gotten when you’ve been angry.”