by Sandra Cunha
No, it couldn’t.
Coco!
“Coco! Where are you, honey? COCO!”
Even though I consider Coco to be human-like, every now and again, she reminds me she’s still a dog.
My first stop is the bathroom, her favourite hiding spot, but she’s not in there. I already know she’s not in the workroom, so I walk towards the open concept kitchen-living room area.
“I’m not mad, honey. If you come out from wherever you are, I’ll give you a treat.”
Nothing.
“I’ll make you a pretty pink bow so people know you’re a girl.”
Coco comes wandering out from behind the kitchen counter with a guilty look on her face.
I squat down to her level. “Coco, that was a very naughty thing you did. Very naughty. You know not to do that.”
She tilts her head to the side and bats her long lashes at me. It’s impossible for me to be mad at her. I get up and go around the kitchen counter.
Maybe it is possible.
My mom’s diary entries are scattered across the floor and some of the papers are torn. Tears are burning in my eyes.
“Go to your bed, Coco! You’ve been a naughty, naughty dog! No pink bow for you!”
A double insult: calling her a dog and denying her fashion. She whimpers, then heads off in the direction of her dog bed.
I pick up the sheets of paper and put them on the counter. Everything is out of order. I have no idea what order they were meant to be in. All I know is my mom’s letter and the artist entry go first, so I try to find those in the pile. And, of course, as my bad luck would have it, most of the damage Coco inflicted was to the artist entry. The one that Betty wants to see. I find some of the pieces, and try to put it back together, but there’s a huge chunk missing. So I get down on my hands and knees and search the area. But after looking everywhere, I don’t find it.
Oh, my God. Did Coco eat it?
My heart fills with sadness.
How could I have let this happen?
Quickly, I scan the other diary entries, putting the remaining ones into chronological order, as I have no idea what order my mom originally wanted us to read them in. The pile seems lighter than I remember.
Did I pick up all of them?
I count them. There are five, plus my mom’s letter. Only five. But I never thought to count them before, so I have no way of knowing if this is all there was. It could be lighter because of the missing pieces.
After I find some tape, I try to repair the torn artist entry. Then, I take a clean sheet of paper from the printer tray and sit down on a stool at the kitchen counter. I begin rewriting the entry from memory. It’s all I can think to do. I remember a lot of what she wrote, which surprises me, but not everything.
Once I’m finished, I allow the tears that have been patiently waiting to finally fall.
Why wasn’t I more careful?
There are so few diary entries, as it is.
What if something else happens, and I lose the rest of them before having the chance to read them?
I imagine all the possible horrible things that could happen, from a raging fire to invading zombies. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen. If I hadn’t already read the artist entry, I wouldn’t have been able to recreate most of it.
What if that had happened to one I hadn’t read?
These diary entries are the last thing I’ll ever receive from my mom. I can’t risk not knowing what she had to tell us.
I need to keep reading them. I need to read them all. Right now.
Betty will understand. I’ll explain to her what happened, and she’ll understand why I did what I did.
She has to.
CHAPTER EIGHT
> Diary Entry <
OCTOBER 10, 1991
Dearest Elizabeth,
It’s official: my last name is now Bettencourt. I signed the papers today, ironically, on my thirtieth birthday. I suppose this signifies a sort of rebirth. Although I’m still processing how I feel about all of this, I know it’ll take some time for me to adjust. Just hearing that name generates so many different emotions in me. But it isn’t as if I’d ever stop hearing it; it was never going away. After all, it’s the last name of my girls.
I’d always assumed it’d become my last name, too, when I married their father. But we kept putting off getting married because of one excuse or another. Not enough money. Not enough time to plan with two small children. And then, he left, and there was no one there to get married to anymore. So, I guess, given the circumstances of his leaving, I caught a lucky break. But the name issue remained.
Originally, I thought I’d change the girls’ name to my own, but that isn’t really my last name, either, is it? I remember how mad I was when my mother changed it to my step-father’s name after she remarried. I wanted to keep my father’s name, in his memory, and because it was the only one I’d ever known. But I was too young to get to choose.
So I decided not to choose for my girls, and chose for myself, instead. Besides, Betty has already learned how to spell Bettencourt—not an easy feat for a four-year-old. It may have led to questions from her about why it was changing; questions I didn’t have the energy to answer.
And, hopefully, it’ll also stop all the unspoken questions from the other mothers at their school. It’s the 1990s, for Pete’s sake, not the 1950s. I didn’t think people cared about this stuff anymore. But I see the questions wash over their faces, and I know it still does. If it comes up, I’ll say I finally got around to changing it to my married name. They don’t need to know the truth. Most of them address me as Mrs. Bettencourt, anyway.
The main point is, my daughters and I now share the same last name. That’s what’s important. That’s what matters. At the end of the day, a name is just a name.
Isn’t it?
If that’s true, then how come I feel as though I’ve lost another piece of myself?
Love you always,
Lizzie
***
I’m illegitimate. This bothers me for some reason. It shouldn’t, I know. As my mom wrote, this isn’t the 1950s . . . or whatever decade it was when people frowned upon this sort of thing.
Maybe it bothers me because I didn’t know until now. I’m just finding out. I’d always assumed my parents had divorced when I was three, after my father left.
But does it make any difference?
Not, really. But it almost feels like I’ve been told I was adopted, and now I’m wondering who my real parents are.
What else was my mom hiding from us? What else does she want to share with us through these diary entries?
Maybe I don’t want to know what that is.
Hold on a second.
If I’m illegitimate, that means Betty is illegitimate, too. Given she’s on the verge of having children of her own, I’m not sure she’d be happy to find this out right now. I should probably keep this particular diary entry to myself. Betty’s Ob-Gyn said she has to keep her stress levels to a minimum so that she doesn’t go into early labour. Plus, Betty’s always been more conservative than I am. So if this new information bothers me, and it does, it’d definitely bother her.
My poor mom. I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like having her name taken away from her as a kid after her father passed away. There’s no way for me to ask her, either. And now I know for sure, I don’t have a grandfather on my mother’s side.
It’s all too much to take in. I’d planned to read all the diary entries straight through, without stopping, but I can’t. I need to process what I’ve just learned. Honestly, I’m afraid of what I may learn next.
So I take the package and place it at the top of the front hall closet. I figure this is the safest place for it. I can easily reach up and grab it in the event of an emergency, like a fire (or zombie attack). And there’s no way Coco can get to it.
Coco!
I find her sleeping in her dog bed and give her a kiss on her tiny head. She opens he
r eyes for a brief moment before closing them again.
The best thing about dogs is, even though they may eat your mom’s long lost diary, they won’t lie to you.
They don’t know how.
“Did you bring it?” Betty asks.
“Bring what?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “The note about mom being an artist.”
She remembered. Of course, she remembered. I’ve been avoiding visiting Betty for the last few days. I wasn’t ready to face her, given what I’d recently learned. I was hoping she’d forgotten about the note, but I guess “baby brain,” or whatever it’s called, hasn’t kicked-in, yet.
“Sorry, Betty. But I don’t have it.” I see her face fall in disappointment. “I . . . um . . . I’d placed it by my bag so I’d remember to bring it, but then, Coco got a hold of it and tore it to shreds. She even ate part of it! I’m really sorry.”
This is mostly the truth, although I’m totally throwing Coco under the bus.
“That’s too bad,” Betty says, looking like she might cry. “I would’ve liked to have seen it.”
“I know.” I sit on the bed beside her and give her an awkward side hug. “Hey, how’s the baby-naming coming along?” I ask, trying to cheer her up.
It works! Her face immediately perks up.
“Actually, I’ve made a spreadsheet.” (Betty loves spreadsheets.) “I have a list of names, along with the meaning of each one.”
“Cool! Can I see it?”
“Nice try, Erin. You can’t fool me that easily. But I did want to get your opinion on middle names.”
“Okay, shoot!” I say, happy to be involved in some way. Plus, this might also give me a clue about the sex of the babies.
“Matt and I are leaning towards having Bettencourt for both of their middle names. What do you think?”
I freeze. If Betty and I had had this conversation a week ago, I would’ve been completely in favour of it. But now things are different somehow. Which is stupid because my whole business is based on our last name. And it’s not as if I didn’t know it was our father’s last name when I decided to use it, regardless of him being married to our mom or not. But it does seem a bit tainted now.
“It’s kind of long,” I say finally.
“Yeah, that’s the drawback if we pick it. Remember how long it took us to learn how to spell it properly?”
No, it took me forever to learn how to spell it properly. I can still hear Betty’s little voice, instructing me: “It’s like the start of Betty, B-E-T-T, and then an E for Erin . . .” Even though she was almost a full-year younger than me.
There’s a slight tap on the door before Matt comes in with a tray of food.
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but someone has to eat,” Matt says, placing the tray on Betty’s belly, which makes the perfect resting spot.
“I hate food,” Betty says.
“Think of our unborn children. I’m sure they don’t hate food.”
Betty gives him a scornful look, and then takes a bite.
“Can I get you anything?” Matt asks me.
“No, thanks. I should be going, anyway.” I say, heading for the bedroom door.
“Don’t forget to get me those numbers!” Betty yells out to me.
“What numbers?”
Betty rolls her eyes at me for the second time that day. “The numbers for the vintage shop.”
“Betty, it’s not going to hap—”
“It could happen. You’re just suffering from Impostor Syndrome.”
“Impostor-what?”
“Impostor Syndrome. I heard about it while listening to a podcast. It’s where you don’t feel like you’re good enough, and everyone is going to find out you’re a fraud. Just get me the numbers.”
“Fine. I’ll get you the numbers,” I say, forcing a weak smile on my face as I wave goodbye from the bedroom door.
My smile fades as soon as I turn my back to them.
Impostor Syndrome.
That sounds about right.
Except, I am an impostor.
CHAPTER NINE
I’M STILL Lady Bettencourt’s official errand girl.
Although the business has graduated to using a courier service for picking up most of our dress deliveries, whenever there’s a special or rush order, I like to handle it personally by taking it to my trusted post office in the underground path. It’s actually more of an underground maze than a path, connecting the majority of the office buildings in the downtown financial core, with a bunch of shops and restaurants along the way to tempt you. I spent many a lunch break back in my cubicle days wandering in this maze . . . and being tempted.
Because it’s summer, the path isn’t as busy as it normally is. The office workers are outside, trying to get in as much of the remaining sun before it goes away. Without those office workers swarming about, it feels sort of like an underground ghost-town. It must be spooky down here at night after all the (living) inhabitants of the surrounding buildings have cleared out.
After having delivered the packages to the post office magicians and grabbing a latte (for tradition), I decide I also want to be enjoying that remaining sun, so I head for the nearest exit.
In my eagerness to get out of this subterranean maze, I bump into someone who’s just as eager to get into it.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, turning slightly to acknowledge the person.
All I see is red.
Fiery red.
A fiery red mane of curly hair.
Vanessa!
I’ve been dreading this moment ever since our last confrontation. I knew the odds of running into her at some point were high, but as it hadn’t happened in almost a year, I’d let my guard down.
She hasn’t seen me; I don’t think. She doesn’t know I’m the one who bumped into her.
Please don’t let her turn around. Please don’t let her turn around!
Maybe I should make a run for it.
Would she be able to recognize me from behind?
I can’t risk it. If I show any kind of weakness, she’ll pounce.
“Watch where—” she says as she turns in my direction, then stops. Her striking, amber eyes bulge for a brief moment when she recognizes it’s me.
“Hi, Vanessa,” I say casually, deciding to play the sports(wo)man card. She won’t be expecting that.
“Erin.”
This is awkward. We should walk away from each other, but neither one of us does. It’s like a force field is keeping us here, locked together for a certain amount of time before we can be released.
“I hope you’ve been well,” I say. And I do, even after everything that’s happened, I do want her to be well; to have found some happiness in her life, instead of trying to take the happiness of others away.
“I’m great—really great. Just had lunch with a client. A very big client. We’re working on something that’s going to be huge.”
“That’s great, Vanessa. I’m glad you’ve landed back on your feet.” I immediately regret my choice of words. She won’t like them.
She narrows her eyes at me. “I heard you added a few more designs to your dress line. So I see things are pretty much status quo for you.”
Don’t let her intimidate you, Erin! She’s not the boss of you!
“Actually,” I say, “I have something big of my own I’m working on.”
“Hmm, what’s that?” she asks, pretending not to be interested.
Yes, what is that?
“I’m . .. um . . .” Think, Erin! Think! “I’m—I’m opening a flagship retail shop for Lady Bettencourt. I signed the lease on a space this morning. You heard it here first!” (And so have I.)
“Well, good luck with that,” she says sarcastically, although I know I’ve taken her (and not only myself) by surprise with my little announcement.
“Thanks! And good luck with your client thing.”
There’s another awkward pause where we linger, staring at one another, wondering what to do next.
/> “I should probably—” I say.
“I have a—” Vanessa says.
And then, the force field breaks. We’re released. We turn away from each other without saying goodbye, to reenter our own universes.
Except, in my universe, I now have an imaginary flagship retail shop to open.
Why would I say that?
I can’t believe I’m still trying to impress Vanessa. Still trying to make her see I’m not just a pattern-cutter with an online shop, carrying only a few more dress designs than when her and I worked together.
That was really dumb.
Or was it?
Maybe this is the next step for Lady Bettencourt. We do need more space. Why can’t that space also include a retail setup? Haven’t I always wanted a brick-and-mortar store of my own? Having a rack of my dresses at the vintage shop is great, but having a store full of them would be even better.
Betty is right. I am suffering from Impostor Syndrome.
Maybe running into Vanessa was the push I needed to realize this is exactly what I’m meant to do.
So I reach into my pocket and take out my phone. It rings a couple of times before I hear her voice on the other end.
“Lizzie, it’s Erin. Tell me everything you know about the sale of the vintage shop.”
After my conversation with Lizzie, I have enough information to start working out a plan to make this impossible dream possible. Lizzie shared “the numbers” she heard being batted around. The very large numbers. Even Betty will be daunted by them. But an idea is forming in my head to workaround that. I just need it to steep a bit more, as Lizzie would say, before I reveal it. I know that somehow, I’ll find a way to make this work.
I know it.
Even with my excitement at the prospect of having my own retail store, I can’t get my encounter with Vanessa out of my mind. It’s playing on a constant loop in my brain. But I don’t want her connected with my decision to try to get the vintage shop, anymore. I want that decision, going forward, to come from a pure place. And I know the perfect way to forget all about Vanessa.
