Six, Maybe Seven

by Katie George

  Chapter Nine

  I SAT IN my car, texting my brother, outside Annabel’s Hills mansion. My brother, Eric, was nineteen-years-old and a rising sophomore at UT-Austin. He wanted to join the Air Force and become a pilot, as he’d flown since his fifteenth birthday. One thing about having a rich stepfather whom you’ve met once or twice is that he does not mind sending monetary gifts on you for Christmas or birthdays. Mom always said it was Victor, but I knew it was her. Annually, on my birthday and Christmas, I received checks for a few thousand dollars—a handsome sum—and deposited it directly into my savings account. I sent my thank-you cards, not afraid to remember some decency she’d taught, but left it at that. Money does not equal a relationship.

  Eric was texting me about his day, and his girlfriend Cristina, whom he’d dated throughout high school. They sounded pretty serious, but I was the one who told Eric to broaden his interests. Yet I ignored my instincts by encouraging Eric, who sounded like he missed me for once. Usually when I came into town, we were inseparable, but this was the first summer I hadn’t gone back to Texas because of my job and the apartment I’d leased with Jamie.

  Someone tapped on the windshield, and I screamed, scared to death. I reached for the Raid in the passenger’s seat but realized that it was Annabel who was knocking on the door. I opened up and threw myself into her hug, which was quite hard to ignore. The woman had breasts as big as Texas—well, almost.

  “I noticed you drive up, and you never came up to the door, so I came to check on you,” she said, her usual scent of fruitiness distinct.

  The verdant growth of trees and gardens made Annabel’s locale seem something besides Southern California in the summer, but it made me homesick. I liked greenery; it reminded me of my mom. Then again, Texas is not always green. I stuffed the feelings deep inside and stuck my arm around her neck. The ivy was steadily growing up the side of one wall of the Tudor-style mansion, which was rare here. Most people went with ranch-style homes.

  She brought me inside, where her little York terrier jumped on my leg. “Bella, behave,” Annabel gushed. She had received the mansion as a graduation gift from her parents. I had not been jealous of this gift, because Annabel had made it clear that it was open to anyone who wanted to come over.

  “Hungry? Thirsty? It’s a drive to come over from Glendora.”

  “I had McDonald’s, but I could have a drink of water.”

  “Stop with the formalities. You are welcome to anything in this house, Emma. Anyway, it is so nice to see you in person! I missed your familiar red waves.” She tugged on my hair, which she had done since we first met. Red-haired people are so rare was her first slew of words to me.

  “I can’t believe you’re about to get married,” I said, though it sounded rehearsed. Annabel didn’t notice that my voice lacked a beat of true enthusiasm. Yet I was happy for her; I was still wounded by my own insecurities.

  “I know. Dexter and I were just talking today about how fast our time together has gone. Can you believe we only started dating two years ago?”

  It was weird to think about. I’d only known Annabel a handful of months—enough time for a quick spring trip to Cabo San Lucas—and when we came back from summer, for our junior year of college, she met Dexter Banderas, who had transferred from Columbia, which was insanely unusual. All the girls ogled over him, because he was a California-bred native who’d hated the gloom of New York in winter. He came back to the sunniness of his home and in the first week was seriously dating a pretty, modelesque girl named Annabel Tipton.

  They’d dated seriously for a year before he popped the question the beginning of senior year on fall break in Paris. She came back sun-kissed (if one can possibly be more sun-kissed when living in SoCal) and with a huge blue stone on her ring finger, a treasure passed down a trickle of Banderas generations. She was the first of my friends to get engaged, but I knew even then that many would follow her lead.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said as I took a sip of water Annabel poured for me. “I’m so excited for Kauai though.”

  “Oh, me too. When Mom and I scouted the island back in May, I really knew it would be perfect. Promise me you’ll let loose, have some fun, put the paperback down!” Her smile was so big that I desperately wanted to tone it down.

  “I can’t guarantee that I won’t read if I have the opportunity to do so, but I will have fun. I can promise you that.”

  Annabel playfully rolled her eyes and pulled me into the spacious, gorgeous dining room. Compared to my makeshift table, the orchestration of the chandelier, hidden lights, and a dresser of antique china added to my feeling that I’d entered a haven for an interior designer. On the desk were stacks of pictures, gowns, tourist opportunities, and even the set-up of how the ceremony would play out. Annabel’s aunt worked as one of LA’s premier wedding planners, and of course she had offered her full services to her favorite niece.

  “So, I have your tailored bridesmaids dresses upstairs in my wedding planning room. I converted the sewing room into a full-on wedding station. My gown’s up there, and…wow, a glob of hair fell out in the shower yesterday. I’m so stressed out.” She put her face in her soft palms.

  “Oh, Annabel! Don’t do this.”

  She looked up, tears popping into her eyes. “Mom wants me to lose another five pounds before the wedding. But I’m starving as it is—and Dexter’s busy with his new job and his own familial responsibilities.”

  “What about Isabel?” Isabel was the maid-of-honor, Annabel’s childhood best friend.

  “She’s tried her best, but she’s busy with her little girl. Oh, we’ll get through it, but honestly, I think I’m stressed because Mom wants this to be the perfect show. I don’t want it to be a show. I want it to be an honest wedding.”

  I contemplated her words, thinking that many weddings were shows, were little entertainment opportunities, were places to show off. Yet as I listened to my friend in the only way I knew how, I thought, in the darkest part of my mind, that I would give anything for my mom to care about my wedding at all.

  WHEN I GOT home, Jamie was snoring on the couch with episodes of House Hunters International faintly in the background. I pushed on his shoulder and he awoke with a start. He would start filming in August in a soundstage in LA and later in the green Mexican jungle, which worried me. With him gone, I’d have the apartment to myself, which scared the living daylights out of me. I was used to being on my own, but not like that.

  “Hey,” he whimpered like a little child. “You’re back.”

  “Go to sleep. I’d carry you, but we know how that would work out.”

  He smiled. “Night, girl.” He stood up like a zombie and went off to bed.

  I fell down on the couch and stared down at my phone. For a moment I debated whether I should do what I was about to do, but then my fingers seemling moved without any guidance from my brain. The beeps on the line were in perfect correlation with the beating of my heart, but finally, a sleepy voice murmured over the line, “Emma?”

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, wiping a stray tear loose from my face.

  “Sweetie,” she said, shock echoing her voice, “it’s almost midnight. Did something happen?”

  “Not really,” I said, trying my best to hide the sadness. “I just wanted to hear you.”

  “Victor, it’s nothing big,” she said off the phone. She came back to me, as I heard her clear her throat. “Emma, it is so good to hear you. Every time I call I never get a response…”

  “I’m sorry.” The little squeak that I heard sounded nothing like the resilient me. I cringed. “I would be lying if I made up an excuse.”

  “Honey, what’s wrong? You sound beat.” A hint of her twang reminded me of our old farmhouse, the one where little pencil marks were etched on doorposts. The house I dreamt about sometimes, the house that I could not imagine without both my mom and my dad.

  “Sometimes a girl needs her mom,” I said. “Especially when her mom is on the planet—and only
a few hours away.”

  “Talk to me, Emma.”

  “I saw that your address is listed as a San Diego residence. I googled it a few months ago when you sent me the birthday money. Nice place, Mom.” I decided against the tone laced with rat poison, so I offered a sweeter, “If you know I live in Los Angeles, why do you never visit?”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to see me, honey. I’ll come tomorrow if you want me to.”

  “No, no, no. Don’t worry about that. How is Victor?”

  “He’s a good man, Bluebell.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I said, fire dripping from my tongue. “Dad calls me that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small. “Emma, I want to see you. In person, not over the phone.”

  “I know. I’m not ready. This a step in itself, Mom.” The last word came out so pitifully. “Good night,” I whispered, unable to say anything more.

  I sat for an hour, my body erect against the sofa, until I remembered Sam would be coming over soon. Yet even that thought did not console the hurt and angst in my lungs, of the fact that my mother, only a few hours away, had not made a move to see me, her only daughter. It was a second betrayal. She had abandoned me for New York, and then for Victor.

  My heart pained for my father, who had never gotten over his wife. Yet she had gotten over all of us, seemingly in an instant. An instant is enough time to cause the broadest form of chaos, a chaos not even a crystal ball can foresee.