Magnolia's Violet

by Rachael K Hannah

  “Mother, I don’t see why all of this is necessary. I’m supposed to go to spin class—”

  “Farrah, shut up. just do it,” she hissed, before hanging up on her end.

  As usual, my mother had the final word.

  *

  There were many perks to being an Ansari, not going to lie. Aside from some of the more obvious ones, such as having access to four homes in addition to my apartment in Tribeca, there were vacations around the world, friends, contacts, and recognition. I was a walking cliché: Do you know who my father is?

  The craziest part was that I didn’t even have to say those words—everyone already knew.

  Unfortunately, our family positives could also be considered our negatives. Being a political family, especially one in New York City, meant having the world at your beck and call. When your father also happened to run on a platform that promised to look out for the little guy, however, every bit of our personal lives came under harsh scrutiny. It was as if everyone was sitting back and waiting for someone to mess up, like order fifty thousand dollar curtains for an office library.

  My mother was an absolute pro at being exactly who she was, without coming under fire. I still didn’t get how she got away with it. Aside from being unworldly beautiful, as far as I could remember my mother always had a team of stylists, assistants, and was on first name terms with the most influential people associated with every restaurant, theatre, museum, government office, or general hot spot in a fifty-mile radius.

  Matilda, or Tillie, Ansari also happened to be a master fundraiser and philanthropist, who had achieved near idol status amongst women across the country. Many even speculated that she would dip her toes into the world of politics and go on to do far more than my father could ever accomplish. There was also a rumored book deal in the mix.

  On the other hand, I had never reached the status of perfect political daughter—mainly because I wasn’t too fond of politics. Even though I knew that our family had done so much to help the city, it always felt like there was some backhanded deal to make or price to pay.

  After her call, I hadn’t even bothered to change out of my sweats and into something more professional. If my mother wanted me there ASAP, then there wasn’t time.

  Instead, I hopped into a rideshare and headed straight to headquarters, where I was surprised to hear from mother’s assistant, Tami (not to be mistaken for Hortensia, the one who was berated for the flowers mix-up), that my mother wasn’t even there.

  “She has a breakfast in Midtown,” Tami shared, completely poised, headset positioned, balancing an extra large coffee in one hand and her laptop in another. “Shauna’s here to see you.”

  I felt my stomach drop. Shauna was mother’s favorite PR rep (yes, my mother worked with more than one). I knew that the moment Tami uttered Shauna’s name, the family meant business this time. Before I could open my mouth to protest, the sound of five-inch heels clomping down the hall stopped me. Tami took the opportunity to promptly exit, leaving me to contend with the pit bull to end all pit pulls herself.

  “Hi, Shauna,” I said without turning around. No way around it. This was going to be torture.

  “Farrah, long time no see. Now, why do you suppose that is?” Shauna clasped my hand into her own and tugged, demanding that I turn around. There were many, many unflattering things a person could say about Shauna, but the woman knew how to put on a show.

  Her mahogany-colored hair, highlighted with swirls of honey and creamy caramel, fell in perfect voluminous waves that plunged nearly to her navel. Shauna wore a slinky, yet chic, sleeveless cranberry colored dress that demanded to be noticed against her tight, bronze skin. A single strand of freshwater pearls, each the size of a full marble, draped against her neck, accentuating her hazel-colored eyes.

  As always, Shauna’s wardrobe was perfectly complemented by an oversized handbag and matching heels—both, cranberry colored leather—that, together, cost about what an average American might spend toward a down-payment on a house.

  “Shauna,” I began, “as you know, politics—”

  “Don’t even dream of finishing that sentence, Farrah.” She waved her perfectly gel manicured hand, dismissively.

  My eyes darted around the room, like a small nervous animal, seeking out anyone who could help me. All I saw and heard instead were the clamorous ringing of phones, with men and women of all ages, focused intently on their task at hand—getting my father more votes.

  “Fine, Shauna. I get it. Wait till after November.” In the meantime, I had to drink the poisoned punch and suck it up for the team. Take whatever etiquette class Shauna wanted to enroll me in, kiss a few metaphorical babies, and smile for the cameras.

  “Oh no, not this time.” Shauna led me to one of the many back offices, and for a second there, I went from nervous to downright frightened. “When your father wins this November, and yes, he will win, everything is going to change. There is no more after the election. You’re on center stage, now.”

  Feeling the heat rise up the nape of my neck, I rubbed at it furiously. “I don’t want to move to D.C.,” I protested, sounding more like a middle schooler resisting visiting an unlikable, creepy aunt, than a grown woman whose father was trying to change the country for the better.

  “We don’t need you in D.C.,” Shauna snapped. “We need you up here. Someone needs to be a face New Yorkers can look up to. Someone they can recognize on the street. Someone who’ll remind them of all that Congressman Ansari stands for—and why they voted in the first place. That person is you.”

  “I have zero experience with any of this,” I protested. “I mean, sure I’ve shown up for big events and stood silently off to the side. Smiled and waved for a few cameras. That’s been the extent of my involvement. Look, I get what this is all about. It would help if you had a fresh face at home that voters, especially young ones, can look up too. I’m just not there yet.”

  “Moreover, I would greatly appreciate that it stays that way,” I wanted to add but didn’t.

  Then Shauna said the words I silently prayed to never hear: “Well, princess. I’m going to be the one who gets you there.”

  It felt as if the ground were about to collapse from under me.

  Chapter Ten

  Kat

  “Are you for real? So, what does this mean now? Is Shauna going to send you down to Appalachia to build houses or something?” Dane dramatically rolled his eyes, which abruptly settled on our living room’s fireplace. “Is that fireplace made of marble? In the city, I’m so accustomed to seeing brick everywhere. Brick, brick, brick, brick. But a good marble fireplace… and are those logs white birch?”

  “No, nothing like that. Yet.” Farrah twirled a lock of her hair around her index finger and looked off to the side. “Shauna says that from now on, I need to appear relatable to normal New Yorkers—particularly young ones who aren’t apathetic and will actually go out and vote. Her thing is that if we appear to be a family of hypocrites, that specific voting demographic might not come out at all. Then the opposition will win, or even if they don’t we’ll still look bad—blah blah blah.”

  There was something off about the way Farrah explained the situation to us, and I could tell that even though she was trying to appear blasé about the whole thing, the issue truly bothered her. As one of her best friends, I wanted to empathize and offer some bit of reassurance, but so much craziness was going on in my own life. As much as I hated to admit it, it felt like I was barely treading water.

  The house had grown even more melancholy than it already was, and I felt incredibly isolated. With Candace taking a month-long rest for exhaustion at Sherwood Pines, and our father promptly firing Blanca and taking temporary custody of Parker, being the lone occupant of the Kavanaugh home had felt downright depressing. I missed them, all of them. Despite everything, they were still the only family I had.

  At least I could depend on my friends. Somewhat.

  Sitting around the house wasn’t exactly the usual
city nightlife excursion Farrah and Dane were used to, but they joined Sage and me that night for a few rounds of Pictionary, artisan cheese, and my great aunt Margaret’s recipe for warm apple cider. The main excitement of the evening was that Sage invited an actual guy over—Jake—a teacher she’d met during her one-day stint as a substitute teacher. The fact alone that she had kept him around—for longer than a week—was promising.

  “Normal New Yorker? You mean someone like me?” Sage asked.

  Farrah’s jaw dropped in a way that really came across as a bit on the snotty side, and Dane was even more obvious in his derision. “Wow. How sweet is that? Sage thinks she’s normal,” he remarked snidely.

  Jake automatically rushed to Sage’s defense with the staunch resistance of a child arguing the existence of the Tooth Fairy. “What’s so great about being normal anyway? I think being interesting is a good thing,” he said.

  Sage hostilely replied, “I don’t need rescuing, Jake. Thank you very much.”

  “Down with the patriarchy! Down with the patriarchy!” Dane chanted sarcastically while pounding on Candace’s beloved sandalwood coffee table, obviously amused with himself. If he hadn’t been enough of a real snot before, Dane had spiraled out of control once he made the switch to Jorie’s personal assistant.

  “I liked you when you worked for Dad better,” Sage replied dryly.

  “No you don’t!” Dane shot back. “I used to be all up in your business back then. Now, I’m barely a blip on the radar. Speaking of…” he sullenly looked down at his cell, “Jorie is blowing up my phone with texts left and right. Shoot, I’m going to have to answer this.” Dane stood up and headed toward the doorway.

  “Sooo, who’s up for another round of Pictionary?” Jake asked, a blatant attempt to diffuse the Dramatic Duo.

  “I’m done fooling around. We need to sort out Farrah’s crisis first,” Dane informed him. “Well you all do. I’m taking this,” he gestured toward his phone.

  “What about Kat’s crisis?” Sage demanded. “Kat’s mom is locked away at the Pines and her dad is being a complete jerk.”

  “Yeah but Kat’s issue is family related. Farrah’s has the potential to influence the entire nation,” Dane argued. “Stop distracting me! I need to take this!”

  Farrah was too busy texting away on her phone to care. I smiled at them both, as patiently as I could. “Sage, I appreciate the concern, but this not a crisis for me. That’s the way it’s always been in this house. The only difference is now I’m here alone, for real, whereas in the past, it just felt that way. Please, don’t turn this into a pity party for me. I just wanted a chance to see you guys. It can get lonely here.”

  “And now Jorie’s not even answering her cell!” Dane shook his head in disbelief. “No she is not ignoring me.”

  “Yes, let’s talk about my crisis!” Farrah suddenly perked up and placed her phone down beside her. “You guys, what am I going to do? Shauna is dead set on me appearing normal and average. Like I’m supposed to go volunteer at some flea market in the Bronx this weekend—it’s not even in my father’s district. She’s also arranging for me to be a guest speaker at one of the local CUNY schools. What am I going to say?”

  “What should I text her without sounding like I’m stepping over a line?” Dane wondered aloud, still fixated on Jorie.

  “I don’t think you realize just how out of touch and privileged you sound right now,” said Sage. “Like, none of what you said makes you sound likable—at all.”

  “I’m serious!” Farrah threw her hands up in frustration. “Shauna recommends that I open up about my battle with depression and anxiety, so I can almost create a whole reinventing-myself narrative. That seems so cliché, though. Don’t you think? I mean, the whole politician’s kid overcoming a substance or mental health problem troupe is an old one.”

  “But a good one,” Dane chirped. “Everyone loves a comeback story. It’s what morning talk shows and made-for-TV movies are made of. Play your cards right, and who knows? Maybe they’ll make a TV-movie about your life. I wonder who they can get to play you… dammit, Jorie. Answer your phone!”

  “Ugh, I don’t know about that.” Sage scowled. “I would never want to go public about my issues. Not that I’m ashamed or anything. Because I’m not.” She abruptly turned to Jake. “You know, how I deal with bipolar disorder. FYI—I went to the same exact place Kat’s mom’s at now. Years ago.”

  Seemingly unfazed, Jake just smiled and replied, “We all have something to battle.”

  For a second there, Sage’s scowl softened slightly, and she looked—taken off-guard? Moved even? As if suddenly remembering not to allow her guard down, Sage quickly transitioned her face back into default—resting semi-scowl position.

  Something told me I was going to like this Jake character.

  “Farrah, I understand exactly what you’re talking about. We get a lot of that around here, as you can imagine,” I offered. “Many people are focused on appearances and forming connections, rather than authentic relationship building. To be fair, it’s not everybody. The family next door, for example, is amazing. However, Candace… she is a pro at it, for the most part.”

  Sage nodded. “I’m the product of co-parents and had my own room in Westport, for a while. So, I get it. Abby, Dad’s ex-wife, and their boys are pretty awesome, but some of the neighbors are very image conscious. I completely get it, though. On one hand, you’d rather be yourself, which for the most part you’ve gotten away with. Now that the stakes are high, literally life-changing for your family, there’s this added pressure you never had to deal with before. At least not to this degree.”

  “So the goal here is to appear deep, not vapid,” Dane said.

  “I hate how instead of us all just getting together and having a low-key night in, this has turned into a Farrah-focus group,” Farrah sighed.

  “Have you considered just being yourself?” Jake asked.

  I took a long sip of cider from my unicorn mug. It was funny how the concept of just being yourself presented as a novel idea.

  “According to Shauna, my self is a ditzy, over-privileged socialite who can’t cut it in the art world, despite it being my passion since as far as I can remember—never mind the whole master’s degree program I’m enrolled in. Shauna said that people perceive me as more concerned about designer handbags and New York City nightlife than the issues that affect real Americans. The worst, absolute worst part… Shauna says that I should work for Allison’s antique shop. She thinks it’ll up my likability factor within the millennial demographic.”

  “But all of that is true about you!” Dane pointed out, not so delicately. “Except for the ditzy part—you’re super smart. So what, though, if you’re all about perfect hair and couture, and five-inch heels that defy practicality and the laws of gravity! It works for women like Jorie and Bennie! Why can’t it work for you, too?”

  “Because Jorie and Bennie are super fantastic at what they do and literally move mountains on a daily basis,” Sage said definitively. “They might seem shallow, but it’s the furthest thing from the truth—they’re warriors. Especially Jorie. She rules with an iron fist, tells men like my dad how it’s going to be, and literally has a platform of millions who admire her. So, people don’t mind overlooking the four-hundred-dollar salon visits and vacations to Fiji because she’s a game changer… a decision makers.” Sage’s voice grew more and more excited as she continued. “I mean, maybe some people do mind because the world is going to have its share of haters, but for the most part, people like Jorie and Bennie get away with it!”

  “They’re also not involved in politics,” Farrah added.

  “And that’s what you need to become!” Sage exclaimed. “In fact, that’s what we all need to become. We need to be the ones who call the shots. Not the ones running around all over the city, fetching coffee and dry cleaning for these people.”

  “I’m a teacher, so I just need to worry about when administration comes to observe me—
that, and fending off the occasional unhappy parent. And test scores. And whether the kids are learning. And bullying. And purchasing supplies out of my pocket. And saying the wrong thing… let’s say it’s a different world completely,” Jake said. “I wouldn’t trade it in for anything, though—and I worked hard for it.”

  “I am a coffee and dry cleaning gofer,” Dane lamented. “Though, I kind of like it. It might sound ridiculous, but I like being a part of all the action without being at the forefront. I’m just not there yet.”

  I quietly nodded and fixed my focus on the fireplace, watching as the glowing flames crackled and danced before me. The black marble, deepened with hints of amber and ivory swirls, did very little to comfort me. Instead, I only replayed when the room had been completely renovated only a year prior, and Candace incessantly demanded that the contractor get it just right.

  It was interesting how we had been privileged to a degree that so many probably just dreamed about. Yet none of it seemed to strengthen our resolve or make us better people. Something was lacking, it felt—for the exception of Jake.

  “So Jake,” I asked. “How exactly did you go about becoming a teacher? I started an education grad program myself—majored in psychology, undergrad. Do you really like it?

  You would do it all over again?”

  “I do,” Jake responded honestly. “I hear you guys, and stories from some of my buddies who went in a different direction, I can honestly say that I love teaching. In fact, I’m thinking of going back to school myself. I want to get into a master’s program and eventually teach public school.”

  “Really?” asked Sage. I could tell it was the first time she heard any of this.

  “Sure. The way I see it, you can’t go wrong with more education. And it’s always been a goal of mine to reach kids who need it. A buddy of mine says that Brooklyn and the Bronx are especially in need of new teachers all the time. It might sound cliché but—”