Keeping Up With Piper

by Amanda Adair

  Preparing a girl’s birthday party with around twenty guests, from which ten are children, is exhausting. You want a piñata for Dana Isabella, a birthday cake that looks like a unicorn, lots of alcohol for all adults, dads and moms, and you want my Nanny to serve as an entertainer. We’re almost done googling for confectioneries and looking for decorations on Amazon when you ask me about my family.

  “Sorry, what?”

  I close the laptop, your laptop. It’s awkward knowing what’s on there.

  “Where are you parents?,” you repeat your question.

  “Oh, they’re in Indonesia,” I answer.

  Kye knows the truth. I can just hope that you’ll never talk to him about his grandparents. “How about your family?,” I quickly change the subject.

  You shove the iPad across the kitchen table. “They’re in my hometown. Maywood, Pennsylvania. It’s so small, you’ve probably never heard of it.”

  What a coincidence, I know that town. I shake my head.

  “It’s a rural upper-class town. My stepdad works at this PR company in Philly,” you say proudly. “He travels a lot. He used to get all these samples and he gets discounts at so many places. I had a great time as a teenager.”

  Maywood’s definitely not an upper-class town. Is that what you tell people who don’t know that place? Do you need to make things sound better than they actually are? Do you feel better now?

  “Interesting,” I say. “And your dad?”

  “He’s in Detroit,” you say. “With his new girlfriend and their son, my half-brother Warren.”

  “Detroit’s nice,” I say. I’ve never been to Detroit. “What does your mom do?”

  I sound too interested but it’s okay since I already know what her parents do and how many half siblings she has.

  “She’s an educational advisor,” you say. I knew that but I never understood what she actually does all day. “My sister’s twenty now. She studies at the University of Pennsylvania. Her major’s sociology. Do you have a sister or a brother?”

  “No, I don’t,” I say. “Do you want another child?”

  I change the subject. I don’t want to talk about my family or my siblings or anything like that. I breathe out. I need to calm down.

  “I don’t know, do you?”

  “Probably,” I answer. “I guess that’s what happens when there’s a new partner.”

  “I want a guy who can take care of me and my daughter. Are you dating at the moment?”

  “No, I’d tell you.”

  “Good.”

  When do you want to tell me about all of your Tinder dates? Your matches give me the impression that you have no type at all. Today Kye and I stay at your apartment overnight. You’re already asleep when I take my phone and scroll through the screenshots I took form your Tinder matches. You don’t seem to have a type. There are blonde guys, guys with black hair, with or without beards, really tall guys, smaller guys, eighteen-year-old teens and men that could be your father. I found a few messages on your phone from Malcolm. He texted you, “wanna hang?” That’s definitely what a handsome gentleman and son of a respectable family texts the woman he wants to date, love, spoil, marry and have children with. I’m almost jealous. No, wait, it’s thirst. I’m thirsty. Quietly I get out of bed and walk into the kitchen to get some cold water. You’re still deeply asleep when I get back.

  A week later at work you tell me that Malcolm and you met again. You told me he’s good to you, which means you slept with him again, and he took care of your desires. You just like it that he seems to be interested in you, even though he’s not, and you don’t get it that he’s an asshole. Also, nobody’s told you yet that he’s a broke addict. You’ll find out soon enough. Hopefully before you decide to get pregnant and trick him into paying alimonies. Yesterday I found something on your phone that I expected you to tell me. Tammy texted you. She’s going to come to New York next weekend when Dana Isabella’s in Connecticut with Joe.

  You texted her, “great, I’m happy to see you, you can stay at my apartment.” I don’t want her to come to Brooklyn.

  I didn’t have any time to figure out how to keep her away from you because yesterday was Dana Isabella’s birthday party. She truly had a princess-like birthday party with everything one could dream of. Most of the moms and the few dads who showed up liked me, they liked us. Kye found new friends, and I feel like Kye and Dana Isabella get along well. After summer Kye will be so happy at his new school. Of course, most of them are a few years younger, but most kids at that private school are probably just as sweet and well-behaved as those at your daughter’s birthday party. What I’ve noticed is that despite her young age Dana Isabella already has a tendency to gossip. She’s only five but being raised by you will eventually turn her into the same kind of nasty bitch that you are.

  Most day at work are the same. We manage pseudo projects, have team meetings and listen to Paola’s self-praising monologues lasting for hours. I do phone and skype conferences with partners, watch over deadlines, but even after months doing this I still see no relevance in our work. It was your idea to go on vacation with our kids in summer.

  “For two weeks minimum,” you said, “before school starts.”

  Of course, I’m in. “Whereto?”

  We drove home from work and picked up our kids when you told me you wanted to go on vacation with me before school starts again. The Hamptons was your first suggestion and that’s where we drove to. It’s just a three-hour drive. We (which means I) asked Paola for two weeks off and we got them. Well, partly, because she wasn’t too happy with the idea that two members of the same team of three leave for half a month at the same time. Nobody would even know we’re absent. All of the work we do is nonsense. I was able to convince her that we can avert the apocalypse by letting me work remotely. The deal is that I work two days a week. You, Piper, have those two weeks off completely. You don’t have to work because you’re just one of my project assistants. Amber knows that we’re gone for two weeks and I expect her to call me five times a day. She wants to be friends with us so badly. It’s sad. I’d like her to understand that being close to you leads to a chain of disasters. It’s nothing she’ would want.

  On our first day we went to the beach, built sandcastles, ate overpriced ice cream and watched the sunset from our beach condo. On our second day we went bike riding and visited a lighthouse. That was the day I asked myself what I was doing. Shit, this is not what I planned on doing. I didn’t want to brighten up your life, at least not in the long run. I need to focus. This will be our first and last vacation together, I promise myself. Back at our condo, which I’m paying for by the way, I go through your laptop while you’re playing with the kids outside. I’m not looking for anything in particular. I just scroll around, open several apps, go through your browser history, your emails and photos. There are photos of yourself, lots of selfies, photos of you with your mom, your sister Tessa and either your father or your stepfather, Tessa’s dad, and photos of you with your old squad. One of them is Tammy, or Tamara. She’s trying to let her past go by using her actual name and trying to get rid of her nickname. It doesn’t matter what name she uses, she’ll always be an evil idiot, just like her husband Jason.

  I close the photo app because I can’t stand looking at their faces. Instead I start reading some of your emails. You’ve connected your work account to your mail program. There’s lots of internal mails from lalamilan. I’m not sure if we’re allowed to do that. One of your emails is from your mom. You’ve received it just three minutes ago.

  Piper, my dear,

  I’ve called you three times today. Are you okay? There’s something I need to talk to you about, something important. Can you call me back today? Or maybe tomorrow?

  I know you’re on vacation with your friend, it’s just that Tessa’s devastated and I’m not feeling well, too. Just call me later on, I can’t tell you via email.

  Lots of love,

  Mom

  I wipe away a
tear rolling down my cheek. It’s not that this email is soul-stirring, it’s because it reminded me of something. Whatever your mom wants, though, it’s urgent. And wow, she knows we’re friends. Does she know my name? I look up because suddenly I feel like I’m way too relaxed for a stalker. I should check if you’re still busy from time to time, so you don’t catch me reading your personal emails on your laptop. Your browser history reveals that you’ve googled terms such as “can you get fired for faking sick”, “does he like me test” and “Tessa Flores”. Googling your sister’s name doesn’t seem as suspicious as the other ones. When one googles your sister, her Instagram pops up. I’ve seen it many times. I hate looking at her face. She doesn’t look like you, her nose is smaller, she’s tanned, her hair’s shorter and less dark, she’s skinnier and smiles more often, at least in her photos. She also doesn’t have a C cup, not even close. She looks a lot like her dad. She’s only twenty but she likes posting photos of her ass in red or black bikinis, just like you. Last week she was on vacation with a blonde guy named Chester. They went jet skiing. Isn’t it funny how people just post their whole life on social media? Everyone can see where they are. You posted a photo of us on your Instagram, a selfie. But we’re both wearing sunglasses, and I’m wearing a cap, so it’s alright. Also, you can’t tag me because there is no Blair Morgan on any social media platform. You’ve captioned the photo with “nothing can destroy our hot bodies, neither vanilla ice cream nor having kids, love you, Blair”. Deep.

  A message pops up. It’s from Malcolm. You saved his contact as “Malcolm hottie” followed by the eggplant emoji. I want to throw up.

  “Sorry, babe, I’m on my way to Miami,” he texted you. No emoji.

  Babe. He wants you to believe that you’re his very special sweetheart when your actually one of many. You should know guys like Malcolm are only using you. You even made a bank transfer to him. The subject line doesn’t tell me much, so I have absolutely no idea why you sent him money. He probably came up with a tall tale and you were dumb enough to believe him.

  I keep co-reading your emails and messages, but I can’t find out what your mom wanted from you. You got up early the next day and called her but since you went outside I couldn’t listen to your call. I woke up too late. I always keep my door open, so I hear you when you get up and walk downstairs.

  A few days later we want to do wine tasting but when I walked downstairs, ready to go, you stand at the kitchen counter, turn around and say, “I know who you are.”

  I couldn’t move or speak. I didn’t expect you to find out anything about me. What exactly do you know? That Blair Morgan is a lie? That she does not exist? Did you find out my certificates are fake? Did maybe Paola find out because she got suspicious? Did anyone tell you that I’m not who I say I am?

  You come closer and show me your phone. You look at me like you’re waiting for a reaction. On the screen there’s a photo of a woman with brunette woman with tanned skin and extremely whitened teeth.

  “What is this?,” I ask.

  You laugh. “That’s Blair Morgan on LinkedIn.”

  You scroll down. It’s a LinkedIn profile of a woman named Blair Morgan. She has an MBA from the University of Chicago and works at a one of the Big Four.

  “Ah, funny.” I try to pretend like it is funny. “She doesn’t look like me at all.” And she doesn’t look like me a few years ago. She’s the opposite of me.

  “While I was waiting for you I was searching for you on LinkedIn,” you say.

  You could’ve just interacted with the kids, but no, you’re on LinkedIn while our children sit in the living room, bored and alone. Thanks, mom of the year.

  “I don’t need LinkedIn, I have a job,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  It probably is suspicious that I don’t have any business profile even though I have an impressive resumé. Wouldn’t a young ambitious NYU graduate who’s worked in Europe be searchable online? But why should I create a fake online identity? It was a lot of work to create a new identity for me offline.

  After the wine tasting we went to a beach restaurant that is known for its seafood. We ordered lobsters and I reminded you to transfer the money for the condo to my bank account. Actually, I manage my money via PayPal. It’s easier and I don’t have to open up a fake bank account with my fake name.

  “Yeah, sure,” you say. “I do it tomorrow.”

  “Mom,” Dana Isabella interrupts our conversation.

  “Yes, sweetie,” you say and look at her.

  “Can we go to the beach,” she begs.

  She’s wearing a colorful dress and a hat. She always looks cute, but she’s never really allowed to play. You don’t want her clothes to get all dirty.

  “It’s late,” you argue, “but we can go tomorrow.”

  I wouldn’t want to be your daughter. When I look at how you treat her I can’ t believe you wanted to become a teacher. You’re better off with the superficial social media sphere.

  “How’s the lobster?,” I want to know.

  “Amazing,” you say and lean forward, “but I think I’m gonna get some more wine. I’m gonna be a little wasted, is that okay? You’ll have to take care of the kids.” You press your lips together. “Maybe.” Silence. “Okay, probably.”

  How kind of you to ask me for permission. “Sure, I don’t mind.”

  Destroy your liver, maybe you kill yourself before I do. I’m glad you stopped smoking when Dana Isabella was born. I can’t stand people who smoke even though kids are around. I know Penelope still smokes a lot. She didn’t manage to overcome her various addictions. Apparently she started doing drugs when she was thirteen.

  At the end of the evening you are indeed wasted. Dana Isabella and Kye play with their toys, action figures and dolls. The restaurant’s crowded now and most people order lobster.

  “Look at her,” you say, lean over the table and grab my hand. “She’s fat.”

  I look to the left and into the eyes of a woman with a chubby face. She heard you. Embarrassed I turn back to you.

  “Hush! You’re being rude.”

  “It’s not my fault that this ugly and fat woman sits next to us,” you say. “It’s so disgusting. And she has acne.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Seriously I don’t want to be forced to look at her.” You turn your head to the side and start talking directly to her. “You should consider eating less.”

  “Sorry, she’s drunk,” I tell the woman who looks hurt and angry.

  I’d like to say you’re just as bitchy when you’re sober, but I can’t. I wave the waiter to us and pay for our food.

  “Let’s go,” I say to you, Dana and Kye.

  “We’re going?,” Kye asks and looks all sad. “I want to play.”

  “Can we play, Blair?,” Dana Isabella says. She has such a high and sweet voice.

  “It’s late, you need to go to bed,” I say and caress Kye’s head. His hair is a few centimeters too long. I’ll have to take him to a hairdresser soon. And I have to dye my roots blonde again.

  “Yeah, it’s better we go now,” you say as you get up. You stagger a little. “There’s a walrus blocking the view.”

  I smile at the woman and say, “have a nice evening.” She doesn’t smile back. Most of the other guests started staring at us. I hate unnecessary drama. And you, Piper, are the incarnation of drama, malignancy and hate. I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t know why you turned out like this. Maybe your parents’ education turned you into a bitch, or maybe you lack self-esteem.

  “Come on,” I say and drag you to the car.

  “What’s wrong, mommy,” Dana asks me as we reach my white Mercedes.

  “She drank too much,” I say. What else could I tell her? “She needs to sleep, just like you.”

  “I didn’t drink too much,“ Kye says.

  We drive to the condo and I leave you on the sofa while I bring Dana Isabella and Kye to bed.

  “Am I fat and ugly?” Dana Isabella ask
s me while lying in bed with her stuffed giraffe named Doodoo. “I think Sabrina is fat and ugly. She’s in my class.”

  “No, no, that’s nothing you say to people, or about them,” I say because I know she got those words from her mom. “You’re a pretty little girl. And I’m sure Sabrina is, too”

  “Is Doodoo fat?” She cuddles the giraffe.

  I shake my head. “Sleep well.”

  When I get downstairs, you are already deeply asleep. In front of the sofa on the white fluffy carpet there’s some smelly orange vomit.

  I must admit it gave me a little satisfaction to see you surrounded by your vomit yesterday. I didn’t clean it, I’m not stupid. I went to sleep and when I woke up I brought Dana and Kye some pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast. I didn’t want them to go downstairs and to see you like this. They’re kids, I can’t tell them you’re a piece of shit that always behaves like this. You slept until the early afternoon, so Dana Isabella, Kye and I spent some time on a boat. I sent you a message, just in case you woke up and wondered where we are. At around three pm you texted me.

  PIPER

  I have a date, see you later

  I look at Dana and Kye. They’re building sandcastles again. I guess you’re on a Tinder date. I know you’ve matched with some guys that are currently around. Even after the kids and I came back to the condo you weren’t there. Even when I woke up in the middle of the night you still weren’t there. I still have no idea where you are.

  “Where’s my mom?,” Dana Isabella asks.

  We’ve had breakfast and I’ve helped the two brush their teeth. I don’t know what to do with them now.

  “She’s busy,” I say.

  Truth is I’ve texted you three times, I’ve called you five times, and I have no clue where you are. Did your Tinder date murder you? I hope so. Did you find a real billionaire and flee with him to Bora Bora? I hope not.

  “I miss her,” Dana says.

  Kids are so cute, they like you even though you’re a horrible mess. Or probably because they don’t know yet that you’re a horrible mess.