Such a Pretty Face

by Gabrielle Goldsby

  “Hola, Mia, I’m Þ ne, thank you. Mi Helena said that you should give her a call.”

  “I will,” I said, though I wouldn’t. His Helena had broken my heart at sixteen. Once I’m hurt, phone calls and lunch dates are out the window. Besides, she was married to a lawyer named Rudy who had less hair than Pepito. I couldn’t imagine what we would have to talk about.

  With another wave to Hector, I walked into my parents’ home. The three-bedroom house that Christina and I grew up in was smaller than the master bedroom of this house. My father had had the dumb luck to buy land in the Pearl District before it was trendy.

  I found my dad and, to my disappointment, Christina’s husband Ned, sitting in matching recliners in the family room. Shoes off, black-stockinged feet up on dual footrests, both men clutched cans of beer, and in each of their laps was a large bowl Þ lled with peanuts. Shells littered the ß oor around a small trash can. The room smelled of ß oral deodorizer, peanuts, ß atulence, and feet. The same woman who could not stand the scent of cheap laundry detergent would eventually step into this room and, with nary a blink, announce that dinner was ready.

  I, on the other hand, was about ready to gag.

  “Hi, Daddy. Ned.” Peanut shells crunched beneath my feet as I bent to kiss my father’s temple. Bending over was never a good move around Ned, I remembered, and straightened quickly, but not before

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  SUCH A PRETTY FACE

  his eyes had zeroed in on what little cleavage the dress didn’t hide.

  “Where’re Mom and Christina?”

  “We’re in the kitchen, Mia,” Christina called out.

  Of course you’re in the kitchen. Where else would you be? The thought was both petty and the truth.

  My father still hadn’t bothered to remove his eyes from the TV

  screen and Ned was alternating between popping peanuts into his mouth, shell and all, and staring at my chest. If I were brave, I would have asked him what he was doing looking at his sister-in-law’s chest.

  I contented myself with glaring at him. He grunted and turned back to the TV as if I were a commercial that, although interesting at Þ rst, had already lost its appeal.

  I had never acknowledged Ned’s ogling before, but Brenda’s exit this morning had me on edge. I was angry and I had no place to direct it. I crunched over the peanut shells toward the kitchen, grateful that he wasn’t an ass man.

  Both my sister and mother were wearing aprons over their dresses and pearl necklaces. It looked as if I had just walked into an episode of Leave it to Beaver—the stuck-up Mexican American version. “What’s for lunch? It smelled like Frito pie when I walked through the living room, but I’m pretty sure that was one of your husband’s feet.”

  My mother’s lips tightened into tight little buds of disproval.

  “Don’t talk like that, Mia. As long as they are out of our hair, we should be grateful.” She held out her hands, which was her signal for me to walk toward her so that she could look at what I was wearing. “Looks like you’ve put on more weight since I saw you last.”

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if she wasn’t about Þ ve pounds heavier and two inches shorter than I, but I had learned a long time ago that arguing with her only made the conversation last longer, so I just shrugged. “It’s probably the dress.”

  “No.” She studied me carefully. “The dress I like. You pick that out, Christina?”

  My younger sister, Christina, looked up from her mixing bowl and squinted at my outÞ t. If the house was my mother’s dream house, Christina was her dream daughter. Always dressed to the nines, she managed to weigh less than me when she was nine months pregnant with her son, Justin. She’d lost all of her baby weight within a few months of giving birth.

  “I helped pick it out,” she said demurely. The truth was she had

  • 25 •

  GABRIELLE GOLDSBY

  picked it out while telling me that the top would help de-emphasize my breasts. Apparently she didn’t notice that her balding lump of a husband salivated over them like a dog waiting for a dropped morsel.

  “I thought so.” My mother gave Christina an approving smile.

  “It’s a wonderful dress, but, darling, you know it’s never a good idea to call attention to Mia’s bust.”

  Christina picked up a towel and walked toward me, her eyes riveted to my chest. She stopped and had the nerve to duck her head and crease her brow as she took a closer look. “It’s a little tighter than I remember,” she said and walked away. The bitch.

  My mother tweaked the second button on the dress and I looked down to see that the seam was gaping. “Are you sure you haven’t gained some weight? Did it Þ t like this when you bought it?”

  “No, I’m probably bloated. I need to cut back on the salt.”

  “Try cutting back on the food. Look at Christina. She lost all that weight after she had Justin.”

  “Speaking of, is Justin taking a nap?” I was hopeful that I could escape my mother’s eye under the guise of spending quality time with my favorite family member.

  Christina scowled as if slicing cucumber required all of her attention. “He had a play date with Bryan Kemp’s son.”

  “Who’s Bryan Kemp?” I picked up a knife and looked for something to cut.

  My mother took the knife from my hand and answered before Christina could. “You know who Bryan Kemp is, Mia. He ran for mayor a few years back.”

  “Oh, that Bryan Kemp.” A headache throbbed right between my eyes.

  “I’m sure Christina would be happy to tell you her weight-loss tricks, wouldn’t you, Christina?” We had had this same conversation off and on for years, but each time it came up I felt like a dozen new little daggers were being shoved into my back.

  “Oh, sweetheart, don’t look so sad.” My mother put the knife down and cupped my face between her hands. “You have such a pretty face. I just hate to see you at such an unhealthy weight.”

  “I am not so large that my health is in danger, Mom. When I’m ready to lose weight, I will.”

  I could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t believe me. She released my cheeks. “Well, you’re an adult. You’ll do as you want. I

  • 26 •

  SUCH A PRETTY FACE

  won’t say another word about it.” This was a lie. I’d be lucky if we got through dinner without the subject of my weight coming up again.

  “What’s Hector doing here, and on a Sunday?” I asked in order to change the subject.

  “We had some of those ratty weed things coming up in the lawn.

  That high school boy he hired must have missed them. Your father called him this morning and he hurried right over.”

  “I’m surprised he would do that himself. He must have something like forty people working for him now,” I said.

  “I hear he’s doing really well for himself. Have you tried getting his accounts, Mia?” Christina asked.

  I shrugged and didn’t answer. I liked Hector a lot, and Christina was right, it was obvious that his business was ß ourishing, probably because he still did things like go to his customers’ homes on Sunday afternoon. But the fact that he was the father of the Þ rst girl I ever kissed would always ensure that I kept my distance.

  “Where’s Brenda?” my mother asked. “I wanted to show her this gorgeous photo I saw in a magazine to see if she took it.”

  “She doesn’t take every photo in every magazine, Mom.”

  “I know that, Mia. You don’t have to take that tone with me. But I think I recognize Brenda’s style after all these years.”

  “Then you know her better than I do,” I muttered.

  “So, is she coming later? Should we hold dinner?” Holding dinner was something my mother only offered to do for the menfolk and apparently Brenda. Any other female who’d ever had the audacity to be late got a cold shoulder and an even colder dinner.

  “She’s not coming. She took a last-minute assignment in Fiji. She left earl
ier today. She told me to apologize to you.” The lie came too easily.

  “Oh, really?” My mother looked at me with wide eyes. I realized too late that I had made a mistake by mentioning Fiji.

  Brenda had a theory that my mother secretly wanted to be a model when she was younger. I found the notion hard to believe, despite the fact that my mother was still a beautiful woman, but her incessant interest in Brenda’s work forced me to concede that she was right.

  I had been given the honor of sitting in on one of Brenda’s photo shoots. The Þ rst few hours had been mildly interesting; I was shocked and pleased to Þ nd out that the shoots were catered. But what I didn’t like was the fact that Brenda turned into a raving bitch around hour

  • 27 •

  GABRIELLE GOLDSBY

  number three. I felt protective of the emaciated models that she bullied into poses. I kept expecting her to walk up and pop one of their little heads off. None of them acted as if they minded, but I had had enough and never asked to be invited again. In retrospect, that was probably a mistake.

  “The salad’s done, Mama,” Christina said. Had I imagined an “I helped and you didn’t” tone in her voice? I tried to scowl at her, but she wasn’t looking my way.

  “Good. Why don’t you take it on out to the table. Since Brenda and Justin aren’t here, you can sit next to your father and Ned will sit next to you. Mia, you can sit across from Ned, and since you didn’t get here early enough to make anything, why don’t you take this pitcher of water out with you.”

  I followed my sister into the dining room. The table had been handed down from my grandparents. It was one of the few pieces of furniture that made the transition from our last little house to this huge monstrosity. A leaf had to be added to comfortably seat my parents, Christina, Ned, two-year-old Justin, Brenda, and me.

  “Mama, is this where you want this?” Christina asked as she placed the salad in the center of the table.

  “Mama, is this where you want this?” I mimicked and set the water pitcher down with more force than was necessary.

  My mother glanced at it, pronounced it Þ ne, and began cooing over my sister’s lasagna. I have to admit here that I did the same. Lasagna, bread, salad, and pie; in any other household such a heavy meal would have been dinner, but in mine it was lunch. And they wonder how my ass got this big.

  For as long as I can remember, my dad has sat at the head of the table, although my mom ruled over our meals. Ned, Christina, and Justin would sit on one side, while my mother would sit closest to my father, which left me next to her and Brenda next to me. Today was a little different in that Justin and Brenda were missing, which meant that Ned was sitting directly across from me, giving him the bird’s-eye view of my breasts.

  I served myself a large square of lasagna and tried to ignore my mom’s quick, furtive glances at my plate. It made me angry, but I still found myself dishing up more salad than I was likely to eat in a month.

  To my relief, Mom busied herself with Þ lling a plate for my father. I waited patiently, even though my mouth watered and my stomach was

  • 28 •

  SUCH A PRETTY FACE

  growling, until we all bowed our heads for the quick prayer before our meal.

  “Mia, would you lead the prayer?” It’s hard to describe how my mother’s voice changes at family gatherings. She pronounces her words carefully and gives more orders than necessary. It’s as if she doesn’t realize it’s just brunch and nobody else gives a shit.

  It may sound sacrilegious, but I really hate this part of Sunday brunch. It isn’t that I particularly mind saying grace, or even being the one who leads it sometimes. It’s the fact that I feel like such a fake because I haven’t set foot in a church since my grandfather died.

  I bowed my head and said grace, and based on my mother’s pleased expression, I must have done so with the right amount of piety in my voice. She inclined her head as she thanked me, then picked up her fork, signaling that we were all allowed to eat.

  A fork full of cheese and meat was on its way to my mouth when my father asked, “So, where’s Brenda? She too busy for a meal?”

  “She had to go out of town,” I said and shoved the fork into my mouth so that I wouldn’t be expected to go into detail. For once the food tasted bland and uninteresting.

  “She went to Fiji for a photo shoot,” my mother supplied, and I tried to ignore the pang in my chest.

  “Oh? How long will she be gone?” I could tell by the way he didn’t look up from his plate that he was asking out of politeness and had no real interest.

  Speaking with your mouth full at Ardis Sanchez’s table was grounds for banishment, so I was given a brief reprieve. The problem was, we had all been trained well. They would wait until I had Þ nished chewing.

  “Five months,” I Þ nally announced.

  Christina stopped chewing. My parents glanced at each other, my father’s knife and fork suspended in midair. I made the mistake of looking at Ned. He had totally ignored the conversation and his eyes were planted Þ rmly on my chest, just as I had expected. He chewed slowly, his eyes Þ xated on my breasts. The dress seemed to constrict my stomach. I felt like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed in the middle.

  The silence around the table was excruciating.

  I hadn’t told them about the argument, or the fact that I’d accused Brenda of cheating on me, but it felt like they all knew. Hell, even before the argument I had known, right? I concentrated on my plate,

  • 29 •

  GABRIELLE GOLDSBY

  grateful that I was being left alone. My lasagna disappeared too fast and I actually considered eating my salad to keep from having to talk.

  “Here, dear, why don’t you have another piece,” my mother said and passed me the pan of lasagna.

  I accepted gratefully, and without looking at anyone for too long, I cut off another smaller piece and began to eat. My mother can be quite nurturing when she wants to. I remember when I came home crying because I didn’t make cheerleading; she put me and Christina in the car and took us to an ice cream parlor, where we all ate sundaes until we were too sick to sit up straight. I remember when I was seventeen and my Þ rst real girlfriend dumped me. Mom and I sat in the kitchen late at night while she made chocolate chip cookies. I came out to her then, and though she was shocked, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

  It got hard twenty-four hours later, when she’d had time to think on it, but on that night she was a mother. She even polished off half of the dozen or so cookies and drank some of the milk. She hadn’t been able to resist mentioning she would have to diet it off the following day, but I had appreciated her sacriÞ ce on my behalf.

  “I’ve been to Fiji once,” Dad intoned.

  “Really? I didn’t know that.” Mom sounded very interested, which was amazing, since I’m sure she knew he was about to tell a whopper.

  My father had been everywhere. Europe, Asia, South America, the Bahamas, and now, of course, Fiji. If a country was bombed, elected a new female president, legalized gay marriage, or was mentioned in the news for whatever reason, my dad had spent time there while in the Army. Now, as far as I could tell, the Army part was true, but his world-traveler status was not supported by pictures or any other form of proof. I’m not calling him a liar; he just likes to tell stories, and he has a captive audience in my mother.

  “Do you believe anything Daddy says?” my sister once asked me when we were young and still forced to share a bedroom.

  “No, but I think Mama does.”

  “You think we should ask her?”

  “Ask her what?”

  “If Daddy is telling the truth.”

  I thought about it for a long time before I answered. “No, because what if she asks him and he has to tell the truth? She might get upset and they might get a divorce like Mary’s parents.”

  “Mia, would you like some pie, sweetheart?” My mother’s voice,

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  SUCH A
PRETTY FACE

  and the fact that I was “sweetheart” for the time being, yanked me back to the present. Although my stomach protested, I said yes, because the pie she held out looked good. Plus as long as I kept my mouth full, I wouldn’t have to talk about Brenda and the fact that I would have to sleep in that big house alone, or the fact that she had not kissed me good-bye.

  The conversation moved to other things, and I felt like an outsider in my parents’ home. My heart ached when I thought about how Brenda and I had left things that morning, and my stomach hurt from the effort of holding it in when I thought someone might be looking. All I wanted to do was go home, climb into bed, and have a good cry. Instead, I would have to sit for at least another hour, listen to my father tell his umpteenth fucking lie about something no one cared about, and be ogled by my sister’s husband.

  I put another bite of pie in my mouth. I had been wrong. It tasted like sawdust. I looked around to see if anyone would notice if I spat the pie into my napkin. The only one paying me any attention was Ned.

  He had given up all pretence of chewing and was blatantly staring at my chest, his face ß ushed. He was still holding his fork, and I had this vision of him reaching across the table to prod my chest with it. Heat rose up my neck and settled around my ears.

  Mom’s head was bobbing parrotlike in response to a story my father was telling about the native Fijians, while Christina was concentrating on pushing her lettuce leaves around on her plate rather than eating them. Anger caused me to sit straighter. Ned gave one automatic chew before stopping once more to feast his eyes. That was it; the minute he broke from his tit-induced trance I was going to mouth a warning to him, let him know I didn’t appreciate being stared at like a piece of meat.

  “The women in Fiji are all very slim and exotic,” my father said.

  “It’s so hot there that everyone walks around naked.”

  I don’t remember eating all of my pie, but I must have because my fork landed on my empty plate with a loud clatter. I took a deep breath so that I could keep my words calm. My plan was to quietly ask him to stop looking at my chest, but what came out was, “Stop looking at my tits, you balding little bitchhead bastard.”