by Abbi Cook
That’s wrong. I shouldn’t feel that way when another man touches me. I know that, and yet still, I can’t escape the truth of how much I wanted to see him when I walked into the antique store.
The image of the black and grey tattoo covering the back of his right hand flashes through my mind, and I wonder what kind of bird it is. Does he have tattoos on other parts of his body?
But all this is just another fanciful thing my mind has conjured up, like the things I see that aren’t really there. A man like Alexei would never be interested in someone like me. Why would he? The only man in the world who’s ever looked at me twice is my husband. Unlike with Pilar and other women, men don’t notice me. Not that I give them much to look at. I don’t exactly dress to impress, other than for Adam, of course.
No, my mind is playing more tricks on me. Alexei is exactly what he said he was—a chivalrous man who wanted to help a woman with a flat tire. Nothing more.
I struggle to push away the memory of his lips touching my cheek, even as I replay every moment before that with him. Cringing at my foolishness, I take a deep breath and hold it.
God, why can’t this damn sleeping pill just work so I can get to sleep?
From downstairs, I hear noises as the house prepares for the party that will happen tonight. Florists have to arrange the flowers, the cook must prepare the food, and the household staff must make sure everything is just right.
My mother has spent the day running here and there ordering people to do this and to fix that. Ordinarily, I would stay out of her way by spending time with my sisters, but yesterday afternoon the three of them left for a month in Europe with the tutor. I watched with jealousy as they piled into the car with Charlotte, the woman who tutored me since I came home after sixth grade, and drove off to the airport. With them gone, it's just my mother and me and the staff.
I sit at the vanity in my room staring at my reflection and replaying in my head what she said earlier. Tonight is very important, Natalie. You must be your best tonight. There will be people here to impress, and I expect you to do just that. Do you understand?
Nowhere in my expression can I see understanding because this whole thing confuses me. This party is for my birthday. I'm eighteen today. Yet my sisters aren't here to celebrate with me, and no one I might call a friend is invited.
I don't really have friends. It's been a long time since I went to school outside the house, and all those people I thought of as friends years ago have moved on with their lives. Out of sight, out of mind. I see them every so often when I'm at the mall or in town, but they've changed just as I have. We're basically strangers now, even the girls I used to think I'd know forever.
So it will be my mother and me at this party, along with the people she invited who I'm supposed to impress. I don't know why, though. And I don't know how.
I don't really possess any talents. I can't sing or dance. I'm not artistic in the least, but that's not because my mother hasn't tried to make me. I simply don't seem to have that in my DNA. I'm well-educated and well-read as a result of my private tutoring for the last six years of school. I'm fluent in Latin and Spanish, and I can read Russian, if not speak it. I'm better in subjects like English and history than I am in math and science, but I achieved top scores on my exams and could have gone to any college I chose, according to my tutor. Well, maybe not any college but most other than Ivy League schools.
College wasn't a choice for me, however, so I live at home with my mother and three sisters, when they aren't traveling around Europe on a trip I've never gotten to enjoy.
As all these thoughts run through my mind, I notice in my reflection that I'm frowning. Instantly, I push the corners of my mouth up to reverse any lines I may have started. Not too much, though. I don't want to give myself crow's feet. Frowning leaves lines, as my mother tells me all the time, and crinkling around your eyes gives you crow's feet. She says that all the time too.
Leaning forward, I examine my face for any evidence of damage I may have done. Except for the sprinkling of pale freckles across my nose and the tops of my cheeks, my skin is flawless. Porcelain perfection is how my mother describes what it should be. My gaze fixes on those freckles, and I think I have to remember to use that concealer she bought to hide them. Then my skin will be porcelain perfection.
Men love perfection, she always says. That's why women must work at it. A fat woman looks sloppy. A skinny woman looks sickly. Women should be fit but not athletic so they look like a man. If you aren't tall, then you must make sure you look taller. Your shoes, your clothes, your posture can all fool the world into believing you're tall.
I've been blessed with enough height that I don't have to use those tricks. My sister Lauren hasn't been so fortunate. Four inches shorter than I am, she barely stands five foot three. For her, those tricks are a must. She's almost ten now, but she's already begun mastering them. They're her only hope, my mother says.
A woman's neck must never be stocky and short. There's nothing that can fix that. No clothes or way of standing will hide that problem. Tilting my chin up slightly, I look at my neck and run my fingertips over it. Perfect. Not short and fat and not too long.
My mother says I've been given many blessings, and as I stare at my reflection, I see them all in front of me. But I wish I could be like other girls my age. I see them when I go out. Their not-so-perfect necks and faces, their short bodies and soft stomachs. They seem happy with those things as they giggle and talk fast in the mall food court.
Listen to that mindless chatter. It makes them sound like hens running around the barnyard. Don't ever let me hear you sounding like that, Natalie.
Her words as I watched a group of teenage girls like me at a table near us that Saturday echo in my head. To me, they looked like what I wanted to be. I listened to them, but I didn't hear mindless chatter. I heard the stories of their lives. The boys they liked. The makeup they bought at the store. The classes they loved and the teachers they hated. Their opinions on everything in their lives flowed so freely from their mouths.
I envied them for that in that moment. I envy them now.
From behind me, I hear my mother come into the room and see her smiling at me. "It's time to start getting ready, Natalie. Make sure you use just the right amount of concealer on those freckles tonight."
I watch her in the mirror and notice how beautiful she looks for someone her age. Her lineless face with its perfect contours and makeup on the less-than-perfect parts to make them perfect is the example I am to follow. The way her straight dark hair frames her face is what I strive for with my hair.
Although I don't remember my father, I assume he saw her beauty like I do. It's what made him fall in love with her, I'm sure.
"I will. What dress should I wear tonight?" I ask as I always do on special occasions like this one.
Always ready with her opinion on what I should wear, she doesn't hesitate with her answer. "The white silk gown. It accentuates all your wonderful blessings perfectly."
I nod my agreement, but in truth, I have no real say in the decision. As she reaches for a brush to fix my hair, I want to ask who I will be impressing tonight on my birthday. She hasn't wished me happy birthday yet, but she will at the party in front of all our guests. She'll bring out a cake and there will be presents, I'm sure.
"Now Natalie, tonight I want you to show everyone how lovely you are."
Quickly, I respond, "I'll make sure my makeup is perfect so no one can see my freckles. I promise."
She gives me a tiny smile and sighs. "Good, but tonight you will have to show your loveliness inside also. You must remember to speak as a lady does, with tact and grace. There are many women who are beautiful on the outside but hideous otherwise. I've taught you that you must be lovely in all ways, haven't I?"
Once more, I nod. I've been taught for as long as I can remember to be beautiful on the outside and lovely on the inside. To be that, I must be intelligent and well-versed on many topics, but I am never to s
how off or give my opinion. Loveliness demands knowledge that I can be proud of but should rarely speak of. I must be polite and mannerly, showing others respect and deference as I'm still young.
And above all, I must speak only when spoken to. Men never want a woman who spends all her time chattering away like those girls in the mall food court.
"I will be. I promise."
My mother smiles broadly, so big that the area around her eyes creases. I stare in surprise as I wait for her to quickly change expression so she doesn't risk wrinkles, but she holds that huge smile for much longer than usual.
A thrilling sense of accomplishment fills me. I've pleased her, and tonight, she'll see all her effort with me has paid off.
I sit on my bed and hear people beyond my bedroom door preparing the house for yet another get-together tonight. Last night's party never seemed to get around to my birthday celebration. My mother's guests all seemed very interested in me, but not one of them wished me happy birthday. In all the hustle and bustle, neither did my mother.
As I knew I must, I kept a pleasant look on my face as the guests arrived, mostly men my mother's age. They were probably friends of my father's come to celebrate his daughter's birthday. Each one appeared acutely aware of my presence in the room, glancing over at me as my mother spoke. I found that quite rude. For as well-mannered as she expected me to be, they couldn't even feign interest in what she had to say.
I heard very little of what the guests at the party and my mother said to one another. Snippets of conversations regarding how well she'd done with me and how perfect I'd be for something I didn't quite understand were most of what I gleaned from the conversations. I've been brought up better than to eavesdrop, but I do have to admit my curiosity got the better of me a few times during the night.
When someone did come over to speak to me, I made sure to impress them with my intelligence and grace, just as I knew how to. I smiled, but not too much so they might think me silly. I answered questions with honesty and tact, making sure not to offend.
But mostly, the men spoke to my mother in hushed voices, furtively glancing at me as she graciously hosted them in her home. Although it didn't seem to bother her, I felt offended for her, hurt that such people didn't give her the respect she deserved.
None of the names of the guests come to me now. Mr. This and Miss That, although there weren't too many females other than my mother and me. Everyone seemed very preoccupied, their serious expressions very much not what I expected to see at a party.
After they all left, my mother poured herself a glass of merlot and smiled at me from across the great room. "You did very well, Natalie. Tomorrow night I want you to do the same thing. Now get to bed and rest up."
I hesitated a moment to give her the opportunity to wish me happy birthday, but she said nothing else and simply enjoyed her drink. When she turned to look out the window, I silently walked away to my room and undressed out of my white gown.
Maybe tonight she'll give me my gift.
The room is dark and smoke hangs in a cloud at the other end from where I sit. A large man puffs on a cigar that makes the room stink. The smell turns my stomach, and I fear that at any moment I might vomit.
It doesn't seem to affect my mother, though, as she smiles and chats with him and another younger man with black hair. I sit with my back pressed against the hard chair, ramrod straight as I've been taught to. I play little games to pass the time since no one seems to want to speak to me on this night. To myself, I say things like, "When I count to three, you'll turn around" and then I wait to see if my mind games work. They never do, but I keep trying. Anything to fill the time as I sit here alone.
"When I tap my fingers on my knee, you'll look over," I say in my head.
But no one looks.
Tonight feels like a parade of people are coming in and out of our house. Every few minutes, a new man or group of men comes in and another leaves. I try to commit their faces to memory, unlike last night when I spent my time focused on when my birthday celebration would begin. Large nose with dark eyebrows and beady little eyes. Skinny man with a long face and wide mouth.
After a short time, they cease to be people and become characteristics. Dark hair that looks dry and rough to the touch with thin lips. Oily skin with bad teeth.
None of it seems to bother my mother, though. Maybe it's because she's older and more mature. That's my problem. Immaturity. I really should act more grown up and not focus on appearances. People are more than that.
I just wish someone would come over and talk to me.
Everything around me fades away until all I see is darkness. I hear voices low and deep somewhere close by. They say my name in foreign tongues, each one changing it ever so slightly to fit their language.
I wish I could see something. When everyone falls silent, I can still feel their presence nearby. They don't feel threatening. Just there.
The darkness lifts until I can see vague outlines of the people in the room with me. I make out my mother easily. She's standing with some man with a small head and a protruding nose that reminds me of a door handle. His silhouette is very unappealing.
But they remain silent. At least they aren't making any sound. If I focus, I can see my mother's mouth seem to move, but there are no noises coming from her.
The room has become very warm. I can feel the sweat begin to bead near my hairline and down my back as I sit there. No one will want to talk to me if I look like a wrung out dishrag, but there isn't even a hint of a breeze to cool me.
I want to scream to the people near me that I can't hear them. That something's wrong and they should speak up so I can hear what they're saying. If it's rude to whisper around someone, what is it to not make a sound when you're talking?
Then, as if they read my mind, they begin speaking loudly enough so I can hear them. One man wants to know what our family medical history is. Am I healthy? What kind of diseases run in our family.
Not Alzheimer's, I think to myself. Tell him we don't have that. How do I know that? I don't know. The thought just came to me as I sit here thinking I'd hoped my eighteenth birthday party would be better. Just stroke and heart disease. Those I definitely can be sure of, but I know how to eat right and keep myself fit so I don't die early like my father.
Another man leans in and asks her if I'm fertile. What kind of question is that? Who asks that about a young woman sitting within earshot?
I want to scold him for being so rude, but I know my manners and instead sit quietly as I wait for my mother to remind him of how we act with decorum and tact in this house. She doesn't, though. She doesn't chastise him in the least. Quite to the contrary, she nods solemnly like his question is one that should even be entertained.
They turn to look at me and I see she isn't offended at all by his question. Smiling, she holds her hand out and beckons me to join them for the first time that night. Eager to finally participate in the party, I hurry over to her and take her hand.
"Stand still and let the nice man see how lovely you are, Natalie," she sweetly commands, far nicer than I've ever heard her speak to me before.
I interpret her order to remain still to include being silent, so I say nothing as this man with intense eyes and dark hair circles me like he's examining me. He makes noises that sound like he's pleased with what he sees, humming a sigh as he stops behind me.
"Very nice," he says in a low voice. "Very nice, Elizabeth. Include me in tomorrow night's event."
He doesn't come back to stand in front of me, and then before I know it, another man with bushy eyebrows and glasses appears with a younger male beside him. He announces his son is quite happy with all he's seen that night.
The young man is handsome with light brown hair and soft eyes that look blue in the light we're standing in, but I can't be sure. I instinctively smile as he stares at me, clearly interested in talking to me. He looks no more than twenty or twenty-one, the perfect age for a boyfriend for a young woman like me.
My innocent question is met with horrified looks from him and his father. I turn to look at my mother for some explanation as to what happened to make them so unhappy. All I did was politely ask a guest his name. I remembered to smile and make my voice pleasant, just as I've been taught. What did I do wrong?
The hard expression on my mother's face says it all without her having to say a word. I've made a mistake by being so forward. I shouldn't have asked him what his name was. I overstepped my boundaries.
She simply points at the chair where I've spent the night before this, dismissing me for my mistake. I know not to argue, so I return to my seat and quietly do my penance as I must for my behavior. I watch as the two men walk away and my mother follows behind them explaining that I have been brought up right and it was just one misstep. She sounds frantic while she hurries after them. I've never heard such desperation in her voice before.
I don't know how long I continue to sit alone in that chair, my body pressed firmly against the back of it so I'm as proper and upright as can be. All I know is that I'm alone and no one wants to speak to me tonight. No one wished me happy birthday last night, and I don't think anyone will be doing it tonight either.
But if this isn't my birthday party, what is this?
I'm standing on a dais in the great room as my mother points at the men in the crowd before me. She's businesslike, but I don't know what business she's conducting. Smiling when she hears a man call out a number, she points her finger at him and nods, clearly pleased with what he said.
Why would he yell out three? What does three mean?
I look out at the group and recognize him as the man from the party the night before who seemed to examine me. The one so interested in my fertility that he asked that inappropriate question. He focuses his attention on me, like he wants me to see him now that he's called out that number. I lower my head and see I'm wearing my white silk gown again. Didn't I just wear this two nights ago? Why has my mother allowed me to wear it again so soon?