She’s all excited about school, having joined the Equestrian Guard and is now after only three weeks jumping hurdles. I am thoroughly convinced she will break her neck and end up a mega-quadriplegic and tell her she must reconsider this dangerous sport immediately.
“You will not have any fun in a wheelchair,” I say.
“Don’t be silly. We have experts teaching us.”
I want to tell her I am getting married probably sooner than I ever imagined and would very much like her to remain in one piece for the wedding as she will be my maid of honor. I don’t get a word in. But it’s okay. I haven’t heard Bridget this happy in a very long time. And who’s to say. Maybe she was born to jump horses over perfectly manicured hedges. I decide to say extra Hail Marys in her honor in case that is not the case and let it go.
“I’m bringing a new friend home for the weekend,” she adds.
“But I thought you and I were going to the mall.”
“We can still do that,” she says. “She’ll come too. You’ll like her. Her name is Madeline. She’s from Savannah.”
“Great,” I say, thoroughly convinced I’ll hate her.
“Well, we’ll see you this weekend,” Bridget chirps.
“Right,” I answer and hang up the phone.
Madeline—she sounds like a spoiled rich girl. Then I realize, she’ll probably think the same thing of me. This is all Donna’s fault. If she wasn’t screwing my father, Bridget would never have been sent to this school and no one named Madeline would be moving in on a perfectly wonderful friendship. I have to get Donna and my father to stop seeing each other. Not just for me—for everyone, my mother, Bridget’s father, not to mention Donna and my father’s eternal souls. It’s a matter of life and purgatory, plain and simple. What won’t be is finding a way to do it.
Chapter Fifteen
There’s a small problem concerning Anthony Morelli. It seems the fact that we are meant to be man and wife—by divine order I might add—has not occurred to him. He is playing up to Rachel Martin. It’s almost like a mortal sin, going against holy orders. Normally, I would turn to Bridget and talk things over before determining what I am to do about all of this, but Bridget is totally preoccupied with her new school, horses—who would have thought it, she used to get hives just watching them on TV—and Madeline, who she says is just so cool. And granted, that’s not an exaggeration. I was prepared to totally hate her, but she is a very interesting person to be around. She knows everything about makeup and skin care and she can look in your closet for about three minutes and put together an awesome outfit right under your nose from what was already in there to begin with and you never even noticed before. It’s like magic.
So now, I have four perfect Madeline-inspired ensembles to tantalize Anthony with, but do you think he notices that I have just the right fashionable clothes thrown on in just the right order? Oh no, his eyes are glued to Rachel Martin. They have sparks flying back and forth between them and all I can wonder is how did this happen? I was standing at the altar doing perfect altar girl duties, experiencing a complete hallowed moment regarding Anthony. How could he not have felt it, too?
I decide to talk it over with Bridget and Madeline next weekend. They have been alternating weekends at each other’s houses, which thoroughly annoys me, yes, but now I have more important matters to concern myself with—like a future husband who is already cheating on me.
Chapter Sixteen
My mother is really losing it. Now she has decided that I am to be an Angel. Not the heavenly kind, mind you. An Angel is a teenager who volunteers their time at Sunny Meadows Nursing home—the very one my grandmother Nana Louise resides at, which is how my mother found out about it. Mostly, the Angels go to the rooms they are assigned to and read stories to whoever they find there, which is sometimes not the person who belongs there. These elderly people, even those in wheelchairs, wander all over the place. Which makes me wonder immediately: is anyone watching them?
This Angel business started when a local girl volunteered to read to a person at Sunny Meadows that she was no relationship to, and she just happened by chance—at least that’s what she told the newspaper reporter who wrote the article for the local paper—to select a room that had a resident that was a former school teacher and loved books, but her eyesight was failing her, and when the girl was reading to her she said, “Oh, you are an angel,” and it just so happened that a nursing assistant overheard this and mentioned to another visitor that wouldn’t it be wonderful if there were more “angels” around here, and wouldn’t you know, that particular person that this nursing assistant mentioned it to was none other than the Woman Volunteer of the Year and so, of course, she organized a squad of volunteer “angels,” and now my mother has volunteered me to be one.
Do I object? Before I answer that, let me explain that my mother always announces what she has in mind for me in the presence of my father. This time, it was not at breakfast, like when she gave me the news that I was to be an altar server. This time it was at dinner, which is even worse. When my father manages to be home for dinner he is so wrung out he could wipe the table down. So, no, I do not object. It would be pointless. My father would simply lose it, and my mother would ask Rosa to open another bottle of Chardonnay.
“Andi,” my mother says, naturally over a glass of wine, “I forgot to mention; you are now officially an Angel at Sunny Meadows.”
How does one forget to mention she is ruining her child’s life?
The details of my assignment are not complicated. I am to show up each day for an hour after school and read. One hour. How can I possibly get out of this? Let me tell you: I can’t.
I am here now for my first day. Reading to Nana Louise is not a problem. I was doing that already, just not on a regular basis. Being an official Angel—I have a little gold badge with those letters spelled out that I must wear while I’m here—I have been assigned to an additional room that I go to after I finish with Nana Louise. They’ve given me Room 225 which is home to a married couple, Howard and Mavis Sterling.
The Sterlings are close to ninety; they have to be. They have so many lines on their faces they could both be road maps. I’m not trying to be unkind here, just honest.
This is how my first day with them goes:
“Hi! I’m Andi and I’m—ah—an Angel,” I say, feeling very stupid. I point to my badge. “And I’m going to read to you for a while. How will that be?”
“Say what?” Mr. Sterling shouts.
“She’s going to read to us,” Mrs. Sterling shouts back.
“Well, tell her to speak up. I can’t hear her.”
I’ll have laryngitis after two days, guaranteed.
Now I know I stated that I would never question my mother’s judgment again—after meeting Anthony—but I am thoroughly convinced that I lied.
Chapter Seventeen
Madeline and Bridget are spending the night. We are camped out on my bedroom floor and I’m the entertainment. I’m doing my best imitation of Mr. Sterling and they are laughing so hard one of them may wet her pants.
“What’d you say, girlie?” I shriek and cup my ear like Mr. Sterling does. “I said the man was never seen again!” I’m telling about the time I read him and Mavis a mystery story.
“Well, check with Gabby,” Mr. Sterling says. He’s referring to Mrs. Sharp, the nurse in charge who never shuts up. “She knows where everybody is.” I wag my finger in the air high over my head, like Mr. Sterling.
I shouldn’t be making fun of that poor old man. He can’t help it that he can no longer hear, even with both hearing aids in place and at high volume. When I remember this fiasco will get me ten Hail Marys, I change the subject.
“Let’s make some popcorn,” I say.
“Let’s sneak out of the house instead,” Madeline suggests. “Don’t you have a hang-out where there are lots of boys?”
Bridget shrugs her shoulders. I give Madeline a blank stare. Bridget and I are not much into sneaking
out, unless it’s to watch my father and Donna in the pool house. But it’s Saturday night. They won’t be there. Besides Bridget and I haven’t shared this secret with anyone, so even if they were, we probably wouldn’t invite Madeline to join us.
“Come on. It’ll be fun,” Madeline says and starts to put her shoes on.
“We have some guard dogs in our neighborhood,” I point out. “They’re bound to give us away.” Part of this is true. There are some dogs, but I have no idea whether they’d make a fuss.
Madeline tosses her shoes aside and opens her overnight bag. She dumps the contents on the floor.
“Check it out,” she says, the suggested foray into the night forgotten.
“Where did all this stuff come from?” Bridget asks, sifting through an assortment of enamel bracelets. She pops one on her arm, then wraps a silk scarf around her neck. There’s stretchy tops loaded with rhinestones, some leather belts, a red leather Coach wallet, scads of makeup, and a dozen bottles of perfume. I pick up a bottle of Arpège, my mother’s favorite. Sample is stamped on the bottle.
“I can get as much of this stuff as I want,” Madeline explains. “It’s fun!”
There are bottles of Dior Eau Noire, Narciso Rodriquez, Tabu, Obsession, Poison, Chloé and Oscar de la Renta. I’m not sure where this is going, but I have a pretty good idea. The Coach wallet alone costs at least a hundred dollars. I realize Madeline’s parents are wealthy, but still, there are limits to a parent’s generosity.
“These are just samples, but they smell the same,” Madeline explains. “But I can get you the real thing if you want.”
My eyes are bulging out of my head.
“Trust me,” she adds, “It’s no big thing. I’m very good at it.”
Madeline turns to Bridget who is eyeballing the loot.
“Cool, huh?” Madeline says, perfectly convinced.
Stealing is definitely not cool. Suddenly I am fearful for Bridget, who has grown very close to Madeline. She idolizes her. Bridget could get into a lot of trouble. I don’t know what to say or what to do. I do know I would like all this stuff to disappear. What if the cops have some type of sting operation going on and we are surrounded? It’s giving me the creeps. I peek out my bedroom window. No one is out there that I can see. Even so, I have a feeling in my chest like something very heavy is resting on it. I take a deep breath.
“What’s wrong?” Madeline says.
I don’t answer. Bridget picks up a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and dabs her wrist. “Is it me?” she says, and holds out her arm. “What do you think?”
I think I’m going to be sick. And I think it was a big mistake for Bridget to end up at Westwood Academy. And for sure I think it was a major mistake the day she met Madeline.
Chapter Eighteen
It’s seven o’clock on Sunday night and I have a book report to turn in tomorrow. Once again I’ve waited ’til time is no longer on my side. We are to pose questions regarding the purpose of the narrative and then give answers. I’ve chosen The Great Gatsby. It was on the list and I liked the character Daisy, even though I don’t think we’re supposed to. So far my list of questions includes:
1. Why did Jay Gatsby have this obsession with Daisy to begin with?
2. Why didn’t Daisy love him back?
3. Why did Nick just watch and never do anything?
My answers are a blank sheet of paper. Consider question number one. Why do any of us feel attracted to someone? It’s very complicated to explain. If we could figure that out then when we find we really like some jerk, we could stop liking him, and that’s not how it works. And as for Daisy not loving Jay Gatsby in return, that sort of follows question number one. And Nick was the narrator, so maybe his sole purpose in the book was just to relay the facts, but if that’s the case, why didn’t F. Scott Fitzgerald remain the narrator himself like many other books that have been written? So there has to be some reason Nick was there observing and not really doing anything. Maybe my questions are not very good ones. I’m thinking of starting over when Beth taps on the door and comes into my room. I never can figure why people knock if they are going to just barge in without waiting for a reply. Beth is home from school and she couldn’t have chosen a worse weekend to do so.
“Andi, what is this doing here?”
She has an Arpège perfume bottle in her hand. I have a feeling it’s the one stamped sample and I can’t understand what she’s doing with it. Madeline shoved all that stuff back in her bag before she left. I watched. She said, “It’s no big deal, Andi. They have insurance for stuff like this when it’s lost.”
Lost was not exactly the word I had in mind and it is a big deal. To begin with somehow she left one behind and now I’m the one having to explain it. If I tell the truth, I’ll be grounded. If I lie, I’ll feel bad about myself. This is not a win-win situation. All because of Madeline’s thievery—and we’re not even talking the big picture here, yet. Bridget. She’ll be next.
“Andi? I’m talking to you,” Beth says. Her lips are twisted to the side like she is really enjoying this. Like she knows her question is rhetorical—another word Alex taught me—and her face has the answer. I stole it. That’s what it’s saying and saying it with pleasure.
“Ah,” I say. “I—I—”
“Thought so,” she says and leaves as quickly as she entered, the bottle still firmly clutched in her hand.
It is hard for me to understand why a flesh-and-blood relation can take so much pleasure in another’s discomfort. It makes me think we’re not related. That there’s something my mother’s not telling me and I was really fathered by someone else, say a long-lost love that came back into her life for one brief night. I know that’s far-fetched, but still at times like this I can’t help but think it. Right now I don’t need to be thinking on it. I need to get to my mother before Beth does. She’ll have her convinced I should be in reform school. And she’ll enjoy convincing her.
***
There’s another reason why parents should never have a drinking problem while their children are growing up. Say you want to talk to them about something very important, something that is near eating your insides up, and they are just lying on their bed at seven o’clock on a Sunday night and they look like they’re sleeping, but they’re not. They’re so far under the influence they don’t answer no matter how many times you call their name or shake their shoulder.
Chapter Nineteen
Just when you think you have all your priorities straight and know what’s important—and what’s not—life steps in and says: Nothing doing. You are way off-track, buster. Take this morning for example. Beth has left to go back to school and the day is nearly perfect. I’m trying to find a way to approach my mother about Madeline, and the perfume bottle, and the entire mess I’m sitting in, through no fault of my own, and the phone rings and everything is turned upside down.
“Oh, good Lord!” my mother says. “When?” A slight pause follows. “How bad?” My mother’s face is the color of cement. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, oh no!” On and on she goes, shaking her head side to side as if to deny whatever it is she’s hearing. I hate it when people on the phone don’t repeat what’s transpiring on the other end of the line and you’re left picturing the worst. My mother lays the phone down and yells for Rosa.
“What? What?” I chase after my mother who is still trying to find Rosa. Finally, my mother stops and explains. We have to go to the hospital immediately. Amy has gone into labor. It’s way too soon. My mother’s hands are shaking so hard she can barely hang on to the car keys. Rosa runs to get Mr. Porter. He’s poking around in the garden as usual, but gets behind the wheel and pulls the car around while we wait at the front door.
“Andi, you best go to school,” my mother says. “There’s nothing you can do—”
“No!” I say.
This baby is all we have left of Alex. How am I supposed to go to school like it’s an ordinary Monday? Sometimes my mother doesn’t think clearly.
“Well,
alright then,” she says. “Get in.” She turns to Mr. Porter and says, “Mercy Hospital. And hurry!”—like he’s a taxi driver.
Mr. Porter nods his head. He’s a small man who might have had a nice physique had he been born a woman. His shoulders are narrow and pointed and his hands are almost delicate. His fingers remind me of tulips, but I’m not sure why. Maybe because he spends so much time in the garden and everything grows green and lush within days after his hands sift about in the soil. He caresses the folds around the plants, like the small piles of dirt gathered in his hands are little blankets and he’s tucking in his babies.
“I can’t understand this. I just can’t understand this,” my mother murmurs and squeezes my hand. I feel very important when she does this, like we are in on this together and of course we are, but still, it’s nice that she is letting me get close to her anguish. I really do love my mother even when she oftentimes isn’t there for me. She’s here right now and she’s very distressed and she’s sober. If this was going to happen, at least it happened in the morning before her oatmeal. She never drinks before her oatmeal.
Mr. Porter drops us at the emergency room door and leaves to park the car. He’ll be in the coffee shop, he says. In case we need him. My mother rushes to the nurses’ station where we find that Amy has been admitted and taken to a private room on the third floor.
“I forgot to call your father!” My mother rests her hand on my arm. “Stay here,” she says and turns and rushes back to the nurses’ station. I watch as her heels click on the poured-concrete floor. She’s like a thoroughbred. She glides easily across the surface.
I enter Amy’s room, careful not to make a sound. A nurse is by her side. Amy’s resting comfortably, she says, but someone needs to tell Amy that. Her eyes look like an animal’s that have made contact with the headlights of a car. She’s on the phone with her mother who lives in New York. She’s divorced from Amy’s father who is some sort of diplomat. He is currently out of the country.
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