Page 17 of Gilt

One overpriced cab ride later, and I’m no closer to processing Josie’s bombshell. Today is not a great day to meet with my mom, but I’ve been summoned, and apparently, I take my duty as her daughter far more seriously than she takes her maternal obligations to me. Mariano’s is packed with the usual late Saturday morning crowd of affluent 40-somethings. Perched atop one of Vegas’s stodgier five-star hotels, the restaurant offers panoramic views of the city. You don’t get to a standing reservation here by playing slots. My guess is Mariano’s clientele prefers to retain their view from the top.

Scanning the French twists and bad toupees, I search for the pair that belongs to me, and then I spot her: Vivian Von Essen sipping a mimosa.

She used to be Vivian Southerly, but there are very few traces of the woman who used to be my mother. My mom didn’t bother doing her hair every morning. Back then, she couldn’t afford the expensive dress suit she is wearing now. Mom didn’t just trade in her husband. She traded in her whole life. Me included. All that’s left of our relationship now is our resemblance. Someone once told me I’d be lucky to look like her when I’m older. Our green eyes are identical, and we share the same honey-blonde hair. I’m guessing if I want my skin to stay youthful and radiant, I’ll need more than good genes. Maybe I should get the name of her aesthetician and plastic surgeon now. I hear it’s never too early to start.

I square my shoulders and mutter to myself as I approach her table, “Close your eyes and think of England.”

She doesn’t bother to look up from her phone. I clear my throat. I don’t remember when I began feeling the need to wait for my mother’s attention. I’m sure if Sigmund Freud was alive, he’d be taking lots of notes. There’s probably no one else who could sort out how twisted our relationship has become.

When she doesn’t respond, I clutch the back of the chair. “Good morning.”

“Only for some, it seems.” Mom glances at me. “I’m just catching up on the news. What a nightmare!”

My smile is tight as I lean in to kiss her cheek. She doesn’t know the half of it. As I straighten up, I catch a whiff of Chanel No. 5. At least some things don’t change. That had been a luxury she always found money for. Becca and I would sit at her feet while she applied it. She would place the precious bottle back on the vanity and tell us, “A girl may not have money, but she can always have standards.”

A waiter appears, startling me out of the past and into the present.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I say, nodding to her champagne flute.

She sets her phone down to shoot me a disapproving look. “Emma.”

“An orange juice.” I feign innocence that neither of us buys. If it comes as a cocktail Vivian Von Essen takes it that way. After last night I could’ve used a drink, but now I’ll settle for shocking my mom into giving me attention. I think Freud had a term for that: desperation. “I didn’t expect you to be in town this weekend.”

Ice broken. Now to sit and endure the chill for an hour. I unfold my napkin, which makes a shitty blanket, and wait for her to respond. That’s how it is between us now: branches and cheek kisses and awkward small talk.

“You’re starting your senior year. I thought that deserved a celebration.”

At a place for lifestyle retirees. Gee thanks, Mom.

“There is something we could do if you’re interested.” Who knew an olive branch could feel so heavy? Extending it is exhausting, but thankfully she grabs for the metaphorical offering.

“Anything. This day is all about you, honey.” She presses her lips together, no doubt trying to hold in her excitement.

Here goes nothing. “Could go by Becca’s grave this afternoon? The headstone is up—”

“Let’s not discuss that right now.” She doesn’t just cut me off. She dismisses the idea entirely. The interest she’d shown a few moments ago evaporates instantly, replaced by a distant, frosty demeanor.

That’s all my sister—her daughter—is to her now: a subject that can be dismissed with one wave of a manicured hand. To my knowledge, Mom hasn’t visited Becca’s grave since we buried her. Then again, given how much Valium she was on at the funeral, she hadn’t really been present and accounted for then either. It hurts that I can’t share my grief with her. Dad drinks, Mom ignores, and I pretend that I’m not walking around with a gaping hole where my family used to be. No one is going to be asking us to write a book on coping with loss anytime soon.

Meanwhile, she doesn’t miss a beat. With a snap of the fingers, a new morning-appropriate cocktail is on the way. “I thought we could discuss your summer plans.”

“You know my summer plans already.” I force the words past the lump in my throat. “I’m going to help dad at the shop and visit you in a few weeks.”

“It’s not necessary for you to waste your entire summer babysitting your father.”

Actually, it is if I want to have a house to return to this fall.

“I don’t mind. I like an honest day’s work.” I can’t resist the dig. Since she remarried, my mother’s occupation can best be described as an economic developer. Show her a store, and she’ll help it stay in business.

But if she catches my none-too-subtle jab, she ignores it. “Filtering through other people’s junk is hardly an honest day’s work. You need to be focused on yourself right now, Em. With senior year coming up, you should be thinking about extracurriculars, not haggling with your father’s customers. Have you thought about what colleges you’ll be applying to this fall?”

“Maybe Las Vegas Community College. I don’t have a lot of options.” I shrug, hoping that we can just pretend this subject away. Obviously, Hans has been talking to her again. Until he came into the picture a few years ago, my mother’s idea of a major was finding a husband. It can’t be a coincidence that she’s making other plans now. Although, if I had to guess, those plans still included me finding a husband, just one that would help her indoctrinate me into her lifestyle instead of the one I’d chosen.

“You aren’t graduating from one of the premier prep schools in the country to go to community college. This is exactly what Hans and I are worried about.” Her voice takes on a blustery tone, the one she uses to dismiss maids and bad foie gras. That means I’ve landed somewhere between the help and duck liver on her priority list.

I grip my salad fork and butter knife because I need something to hold onto—something tangible and solid. Between dead bodies and college applications, this weekend is quickly becoming anything but relaxing. This is exactly what happens when you bypass Netflix in favor of living people. The only person who would understand isn’t here. Her memory isn’t even allowed.

“What are you worried about, Vivian? Having an embarrassment for a daughter? That would be a tragedy. Oh, wait. You actually lost a daughter.” I don’t stop when she sucks in a pained breath because I hope it hurt her. She needs to prove to me that she can feel something other than disdain and chemical dependency. “Did it even occur to you that Becca should be graduating this weekend?”