“Of course! What’s going on? Are you feeling sick?”
“No, it’s just a routine checkup.”
“Okay. Is Dad coming, too?”
“No, he has to work on a very important property tomorrow and he’s terrified of needles.”
“… Needles?”
* * *
The Han Fam
SEPTEMBER 2
3:45 P.M.
* * *
If rhinoplasty had a patron saint, it would certainly be saint Saj Kapadia, the most renowned plastic surgeon in Los Angeles. More faces have been broken in his office than at the World Boxing Association—and more money has been spent, as well.
“He’s an artist,” Mom raved on our car ride over. “He makes sure that each nose is perfectly suited to the person’s features. None of that bunny-slope nonsense you see those southern pageant girls sporting.”
“I don’t want a nose job, Mother,” I said, anticipating the question.
“Who said anything about you? I’m thinking of getting one,” she explained, pulling the passenger mirror down and eyeing her already slender bridge.
“Didn’t you already get a nose job?” I asked, stealing a look in her direction.
“Of course, but that was a long time ago. And it’s not a Saj nose. Saj is like the Chanel of the face.”
We pulled into the parking lot and walked the eighteen flights of stairs to Saj’s office, where Mom was greeted like the Sultaness of Juvéderm.* Everyone in the office knew her by name, including the reverend himself, who was somewhere between the ages of thirty and sixty-five. It’s impossible to tell.
“Ahhh, my beautiful Shell.” He greeted Mom with a hug so warm, I’m pretty sure a glacial ice cap melted. “We’ve missed you. Is this your … sister?” he said, gesturing toward me.
“Stepdaughter,” Mom said with a wink in my direction.
“Actual daughter,” I corrected. I pointed to my own nose. “This is what she looked like with the first one.”
Saj laughed so deeply and graciously, I suddenly understood why anyone would allow him to stick needles into their face. He was mesmerizing. Also, oddly attractive for a thirty- to sixty-five-year-old man.
In only fifteen minutes, Mom looked ten years younger. I’m amazed, if not slightly traumatized and confused. I held Mom’s hand as Saj worked his magic, like an inverse sculptor at work. It was fascinating. But about halfway through the visit, I couldn’t help but wonder: When did Mom stop holding my hand during TB shots and I start holding her hand during Botox shots?
SEPTEMBER 3
Theo
* * *
8:05 P.M.
* * *
Theo had meet-and-greet day at the restaurant this afternoon, where he met with the other chefs, the property manager, and, of course, Jackie.
“You must be stoked, man,” Jett said through a mouthful of labneh. “Jackie Reid is a culinary goddess. That makes you, like, a foodie demigod, dude.”
Theo chuckled, slapping a second round of scallops onto Jett’s plate. “Yeah, I’m pretty pumped. Nervous, though. The restaurant opens in less than a month.”
“Is this going to be on the menu?” I asked, pointing a fork at my near-empty plate.
Theo shrugged. “Probably not. The menu is already set. I just have to cook what’s on it.”
“Then they’re missing out, man,” Jett said, forking another huge bite. “This is unreal.”
Theo smiled. “Thanks, guys. It means a lot. It’ll be nice to have a set schedule, too, so we can finally plan that family dinner, Louie.”
Jett shot us a confused look. “Have you still not met the parents?” he asked, perplexed.
Theo shook his head. “Alas, no.”
“Why not?” Jett pushed. “I thought this was happening, like, back in July, or whatever.”
I could feel Theo’s gaze on the side of my face as I paid particularly close attention to the details on my plate.
“Our schedules just haven’t lined up,” I explained forcefully. “My dad is a workaholic, Val went to summer camp, you guys were crazy-busy with the catering, the excitement with Theo’s new job … It just, you know, hasn’t panned out.”
“Bummer,” Jett said, using a finger to lick up some of the extra labneh before plunging it in his mouth. “Well, when you do have dinner, you should cook this. If this doesn’t win them over, nothing will.”
Maybe being three inches taller with a six-pack, I thought.
Theo took a seat next to me, resting a hand on my knee. “Well, once this restaurant opens, there will be nothing stopping me from finally meeting the folks. Right, Louie Love?”
* * *
Mama Shell
SEPTEMBER 4
1:14 P.M.
* * *
Wow. Mom’s not taking this whole back-to-school thing very well.
Not that I blame her … I woke up this morning in a full sweat, convinced I had slept through my alarm and that I was late to “Criminal Psychology” or “The Science of Wind Storms” or some other class. It was like the PTSD of PGM.
But Mom seems unusually distressed. Her behavior has been pretty outlandish, even by her standards. When I got home from Theo’s today, I found her in the living room, lounging on the couch with cucumbers over her eyes and a bright yellow facial mask on. Classical music sounded through the speakers, and lavender incense made the whole house smell like yoga.
Mom lifted one cucumber to look at me. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Like you have jaundice.”
“Good! That means it’s oxygenating. Only ten more minutes, and then I’ll put in the whitening strips!”
My ears perked up in recognition of the symphony playing around us.
“Is this … Mozart?”
“Yes! I used to play it for you all the time. They say that listening to Mozart can help make people smarter.”
“Yeah, if they’re infants.”*
“Must you be so negative? I’m trying to better myself! You should try it, since you’re so obsessed with getting a job.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Don’t sass me, I’m your mother. Now get me an algae shot … I bought a jar of it for us and put it in the fridge.”
Dad’s right: Mom desperately needs a vacation. Speaking of which, I should probably make a to-do list for Santa Barbara. We leave tomorrow morning, and I couldn’t be more excited!! A weekend away is exactly what I need to pull myself out of this fog. Some peace, quiet, and clarity will do wonders for my cluttered-up brain.
* * *
LOU’S LIST OF SANTA BARBARA MUST-SEES
• The Mission District/Gardens
• Santa Barbara Museum of Art
• McConnell’s Fine Ice Creams (sorry, Mom)
• Stearns Wharf
• The French Press (artisanal coffee shop + bakery, at Theo’s recommendation)
• Funk Zone (recommended by Natasha after her California coast bike ride)
* * *
Megan Bitchell
* * *
4:37 P.M.
* * *
Help. My serene Labor Day weekend away just became a lot more laborful.
I stormed into Mom’s bathroom, where she was sitting at her vanity, putting curlers in her hair.
“Megan is going?” I barked, unable to contain my horror.
Mom barely turned away from the mirror, not noticing my obvious rage. “Yes! I just found out this morning. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I pulled my cheeks down with the palms of my hands. “Whyyyyy does she have to come?” I moaned.
Mom rolled another lock of hair into place on top of her head, fastening the curl tightly to her scalp. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited to have a friend on the trip?”
“The last time we traveled with Megan, I ended up missing half an eyebrow.”
“She was just trying to help shape them.”
“With Nair?!”
“It was an accident!”
I rolled my eyes.
Mom pinned another curl up and swiveled her head back and forth, examining her work in the mirror. “Listen, honey, you’ve been in a real slump. This trip is just as much for you as it is for me. If you really don’t want Megan to come, that’s fine. You’ll just have to call Stacey and explain why her niece is not welcome on their annual trip.”
She stuck her chin out and pouted, both literally and metaphorically.
I let out a defeated sigh. “No, of course it’s all right. Just—please don’t ask her to help shape my eyebrows, or give me a facial or anything.”
Mom stuck the last pin into place and turned toward me, looking like a blond Medusa. “Of course not! Why would I do that when there’s a spa at the hotel? I already reserved a facial for you on day one.”
SEPTEMBER 5
* * *
Shelly Hansen
@ShellyHansen
#SantaBarbara for the long weekend! Can’t wait to soak up that #sun #surf #sand #sangria!!! @SoCal_SoVal @LouHansen @StaceyFHoffman @MeganMitchell
* * *
* * *
9:15 A.M.
* * *
At last, some good news to report! As it turns out, Megan isn’t let out of work until five this afternoon, which means I get one fully Megan-less day of vacation to clear my head. Finally, being unemployed pays off! Funk Zone, here I come!!
* * *
OFFICIAL SERVICE DOG CERTIFICATE
K9: Muffin Hansen
Breed: Pug
Handler: Shelly Hansen
Registration #: 2634704
This certificate signifies that Muffin Hansen has been registered as a therapy dog for Mrs. Shelly Lynn Hansen. Mrs. Hansen suffers from anxiety, and is dependent on Muffin to sooth her during times of stress. For this reason, Muffin’s presence is a critical factor in Mrs. Hansen’s mental health, and should be present with his handler at all times.
* * *
9:20 A.M.
* * *
“Service dogs?” I shouted from the backseat as Baguette blew snot in my face.
“I registered them on the Internet!” Mom insisted, turning around from the front to face me. “What more do you want?”
“Mom, I know newborn babies who are better behaved than these pugs.”
“Oh, it’s fine!” Mom dismissed, waving her hand at me. “If anyone has a problem, I can show them my papers.”
Muffin pressed his smooshed-up pug face against the car window, his breath sounding like a powering-up chain saw.
“Dad?” I asked uncertainly.
He just shrugged. “It’s legal.”
“YAYYY!” Val squealed, pulling Baguette onto her lap.
“All right, here we go!” Mom clapped her hands together in delight. “The Official Hansen Family vacation starts: NOW!”
* * *
* * *
OFFICIAL AAA REPORT
* * *
Vehicle Owner: Charles J. Hansen
Report: Flat Tire, Back Left
Time: 10:59 A.M.
Comments: Charles J. Hansen called to report a flat tire on Interstate 101 near Ventura County. Mr. Hansen reported to have hit a pothole at around 10:31 A.M., causing an “extreme jump” from the vehicle. Mr. Hansen, traveling with his wife, two daughters, and two pugs, did not attempt to pull to the side of the road, despite an alert from the car stating “back left tire compromised.” According to Mrs. Hansen, Mr. Hansen insisted the alert was “full of shit” and just used out of an abundance of caution.
After driving approximately one mile, Mrs. Hansen and daughters Eloise and Valentina began voicing concerns about a “strange thumping” as they drove down the highway, asking to pull over and check. Mr. Hansen, not wanting to get stuck in Labor Day weekend traffic, insisted that it was “just the goddamn infrastructure” and proceeded to rant about “where the hell his taxes were going.”
At approximately 10:40 A.M., an emergency light began blinking rapidly, signaling that the tire pressure in the back-left tire was dangerously low. At this point, the daughters both claim that Mrs. Hansen began threatening Mr. Hansen, holding her expensive sunglasses out the window and repeatedly shouting, “I’ll do it!” Finally, just as Mr. Hansen started to pull over, the car came to a halt in the middle of the freeway, causing two cars to swerve to avoid colliding with the Hansen vehicle. Thankfully, no injuries or casualties have been reported.
A truck has been sent to retrieve Mr. Hansen’s vehicle and tow it back to Los Angeles. However, Mrs. Hansen is insisting she and her family make it to Santa Barbara for the long weekend, and has requested a rental car big enough to carry the family of four, their dogs, and their unusually hefty amount of luggage. Their car dealership will be sending over a minivan, though this part of the incident will not be covered by their insurance plan.
* * *
2:36 P.M.
* * *
Well, we made it.
We lost a good four and a half hours of our trip, but we made it.
Pulling up to the beachside hotel in our rental minivan was like entering the promised land after forty years of traveling in the desert by foot. We were cranky, exhausted, and hungry, since Mom had packed snacks only for the pugs. We practically fell into the hotel lobby, kissing the sand-sprinkled floor as fellow tourists walked back and forth in their sandals.
On the bright side: Thanks to a surplus of points on Mom’s credit card, Val and I are sharing an ocean-facing suite with two full beds and a completely stocked mini-fridge. It’s magnificent! We immediately ripped open the overpriced jar of sea-salt cashews and devoured them within seconds, lying on our military-tight beds with the abandon of newly freed prisoners.
“That. Was. Hell.” Val groaned, her arms and legs splayed out starfish style.
“I hate the freeway,” I agreed.
We both let out sighs of relief as our phones vibrated simultaneously:
Mom: Meet us downstairs for lunch in five minutes. Your dad’s hangry, and the pugs need water.
“Do we tell her about the cashews?” Val asked me.
“No. Definitely not. Cashews are the fattiest of the nuts,” I told her.
All right. So we’ll have a quick lunch down at the restaurant, which will give me just enough time to get to the spa for my facial at 3:15. I definitely won’t have time to check any items off my list, but I still have two more days. For now, I’m just going to take some deep, ocean-air breaths, and try to relax.
* * *
Megan Bitchell
* * *
5:30 P.M.
* * *
RIP my face.
I always envisioned spa treatments as a relaxing blend of exotic music and various flavored waters. Instead, I paid money to have a stranger in a lab coat torture me for an hour. It was soothing at first, but then my facialist started poking and squeezing and rubbing oils on me that stung with the intensity of a thousand aggravated bees.
“What’s in this mask??” I asked at one point as my skin started to burn. In a thick Russian accent, she replied: “Eet eez honey, essence of laffender, clay imported from ze Dead Sea, and jalap-ey-ño extract.”
She proceeded to slap a variety of creams and cleansers onto my face, each itchier and more irritating than the last. After an hour of squeezing, exfoliating, and extracting, she finally dismissed me with a few parting instructions: “So ree-member to stay hy-drated, to keep out of ze sun for ze next four days, and…”
“Hold on,” I interrupted, stretching my facial muscles so that they might retain feeling. “It’s Labor Day weekend. This is Santa Barbara. We’re at the beach. I’m not supposed to go in the sun?”
“No, zat will damage ze peel.”
“PEEL?!”
I rushed over to the hanging mirror and sure enough: the creases around my nose and eyes were starting to shrivel and flake, revealing raw red skin underneath.
“Oh my god,” I choked out, mortified.
“Don’t vorry, love,” she said. �
��Eet’ll get vorse before eet gets better, but after three dayz yur skeen weel be flawless.”
* * *
Mama Shell
SEPTEMBER 6
* * *
9:45 A.M.
* * *
I cannot believe what just happened.
Actually, that’s a lie. I obviously can believe what just happened. In fact, I KNEW this was going to happen. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me except for when I’m saying something stupid or awkward?!
First of all: Heading down to breakfast this morning felt like a scene out of a B horror film, only I was the terrifying monster let loose on innocent civilians. Everyone stared at me. There wasn’t a person Val and I passed who didn’t notice my severely peeling skin … One kid even gasped and started to cry, pointing at my face and calling me “Snake Lady.”
Mom and Dad were already at the restaurant, seated at a lovely corner table facing the beach. They were arguing over how many slices of bacon Dad should be having, which Dad insisted was irrelevant since bacon is “healthy fat.” The pugs sat dutifully at Mom’s feet, anxiously awaiting their prize bites of breakfast meat, occasionally pawing at her flowy floor-length dress in anticipation.
“I look like a reptile,” I said, plopping myself down into a chair.
Mom shook her head in protest. “No, you don’t, sweetie. You’re glowing! Isn’t she glowing, Charlie?”
Dad glanced up from his plate of eggs/giant pile of bacon. “Oof. My friend’s face was dipped in acid once. It was a very similar deal.”
“Ughhhhhhh.” I buried my head in my hands as Mom smacked Dad’s arm with her napkin.
“It’s not that bad. I promise,” Mom insisted, turning to Val for support.
Val nodded with an enthusiasm that made it obvious she was lying. “You’re Gucci, girl.”
“I’m what?”
Smothered Page 14
