by Didi Oviatt
“You might not care much, Ahnia. But I personally don’t want to hear her complain about our disregard for her feelings all night. She made the reservations for this place two weeks ago, remember? We really don’t need to give her any ammo to embarrass Dad with.”
Damn, he’s right.
“I’m hurrying, I promise. Two more minutes!”
“You said that ten minutes ago! And your couch sucks by the way. You probably should’ve just picked me up instead of the other way around. I would have left your ass by now.”
“Go then!” I shout at the door.
He doesn’t answer, but I know he isn’t leaving me either. It’s always the empty threats. My brother and I have been there for each other through thick and thin. He’s my saving grace, and I’m that irritating weight on his back that he’s too stubborn to let go of. My couch really does suck too; he has a good point. It’s the same one I’ve had since my bar-hopping days.
For about three years straight, I lived like a fly. Bouncing around from bar to bar, picking up parties to take back home at all hours of the night. It’s a miracle I survived the consistent drunken madness. I even made it past that phase of life unscathed. My furniture? Not so much.
I finally settle for a black satin piece. It’s mid-calf so I can show off my favorite heels along with the pedicure I treated myself to yesterday, despite the dissipating end balance on my monthly bank statements.
Satin is a terrible fabric when you’re self-conscious about your shape, but screw it. At least the sides are bunched so that my stomach pooch isn’t so prominent. I pull the dress into place, buckle up my stilettos at the ankle, and do a quick once over on my face. A last round of powder is applied, one more layer of mascara is caked on, and a thick, velvety lipstick is carefully smeared into place.
If my body insists on being chubby, then at least my face can look deceptively flawless. Plus, the lipstick makes me look a tiny bit closer to my age, or I look like a kid trying her damnedest to appear of age in order to pave the way for imminent self-destruction.
The ride across town to Dad’s company party goes as expected—slow, quiet. We’re celebrating twenty-five years of active business at Airington’s Treats. My father opened the place with my mother by way of encouragement on her cooking skills. Even after all these years, when I walk into my father’s kitchen, I can picture her bare feet shuffling around and see the swirl of her spinning apron as she dances across the tile with her mixing bowl in hand. Despite her emotional troubles, my mom was always her happiest with good music blaring from the countertop while she baked.
Dad had received a medical settlement early on in their marriage, and after years of ups and downs with my mom’s depression, he talked her into managing a new place to keep her spirits up. Apparently, a big project is highly encouraged by those shiny, worthwhile shrinks.
Mom loved to cook goodies and sweets, and Dad had just enough money left to dump on an utterly impractical investment. Five years in and she’d expanded the small eatery to three locations across the state. After she passed away, my father hired a new manager who, by some miracle, has been able to keep it afloat all this time. Her name is Madge, and she is a bitter old lady with a gruff voice.
Madge is always scowling and refusing to talk to anyone about her personal life. I love Madge. Dad couldn’t have picked a better lady to fill Mom’s shoes in the business department.
Overall, I’m just glad Mom and Dad named the shockingly successful eatery Airington’s rather than Aubrey’s, like Dad wanted. He thought naming the place after her would really make it her own, but she refused to be so boastful as to name a business after herself. Thank God. How awkward would that have been, keeping a business that’s named after your dead wife running for years after her passing? I’m sure Dorothy would’ve loved that.
Dorothy prides herself on Airington's success and takes full credit for its ratings from the public. She’s never flipped on an oven or picked up a rolling pin in her life. Every recipe used to this date is still standing strong from Mom’s personal “scratch only” collection. Dorothy is a phony, and Dad is a saint.
The event center Dorothy chose for Airington’s twenty-fifth anniversary is rather extravagant, too much so in my opinion. But what does my opinion matter? According to Dorothy, I’m merely a washed-up artist on a downward spiral toward a lonely, poor life. I fear she could be right. Dad’s offered me a job at one of Airington’s locations on countless occasions, but I’ve declined the offer every time.
If I’m going to get paid minimum wage to bake cookies, then it sure as hell isn’t going to be tied to my family in any way. I was once deemed a prodigy; if nothing else, that reserves me the right to refuse handouts. I just need more time to get my head straight, I try to convince myself.
“Are you ready for this?” Tim asks as he slides his Jeep into park.
I can see the underlining pity in his eyes. He knows as well as I do how the night will pan out. Everyone here will hug and congratulate Tim on his accomplishments and offer endless words of encouragement for his upcoming adventure into medical school. Then, they’ll turn to me and ask if I’ve decided to write another book yet. To which I’ll shrug my shoulders, and they’ll giggle with fake smiles before they roll their eyes and drop their heads in shame behind my back.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” My sarcasm is oozing.
“Don’t let them get to you, Ahnia.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You’ll write a book that’s even better than your last one, and then everyone who’s had any doubt in you can choke on everything bad they’ve ever said.”
“We both know that will probably never happen.”
“Why’s that?” He lifts a brow.
“You know why,” I mutter and refuse to let my eyes meet his.
“Whatever, Ahnia. You need to get that shit out of your head, and just do what you’re good at . . . writing.”
Tim is the only person who knows what really happened, what my best seller was based on. The fine line between reality, my nightmares, and my written novel explaining the grey area in between.
Her name was Belle, and I haven’t had one single nightmare since the night I bashed her head in with a broken pipe from our garage. I can still feel the cold steel in my hand, and the thought of it makes my stomach flip. That night, Tim picked me up from her house blood-soaked, sleepwalking, and afraid. His tiny hands gripped the steering wheel of our father’s car, and his little face could barely see over the dash. It was the same night Mom crashed while she was out looking for us. It was that very date that my nightmares stopped and my daydreams began.
I force myself back to reality, to the now.
“Shut up, oh mighty perfect one. Although, the thought of Dorothy pawing at her throat while she chokes on my success does kind of make me happy.”
“Agreed,” he chuckles. “Now let’s get our asses in there and support Dad. Just stick with Madge, that ol’ loon will chase off anyone looking for a conversation anyway.”
“Yep, that’s my plan.”
The entryway is large with three men in suits taking coats and hanging them on hooks on the opposite side of a rounded corner. As if we’re incapable of hanging our own, and one man isn’t enough for the job. Their smiles are wide and their welcomes are as fake as the “gold” chain around my ankle.
“Are you here for the Airington’s or for the MacConall’s?” one of the coat thieves asks.
His eye contact is intense, his grin is full of sarcasm, and his pupils are enlarged. He’s probably stoned, trying way too hard to act happy and normal while on the job. I’d sneak drugs too if I had to hang coats for a living. He’d be a creative killer; I see it right off. Probably slip some flesh-eating powder in the sleeve of a stranger’s coat. Then he’d laugh about it later while he sucked every last cloud of smoke from the end of a skull-shaped bong.
“Airington.” I smile back and place my hand through the offered hook of Tim’s elbow.
“Right th
is way,” the young man says; his smile stretches even closer to his ears.
We follow close behind, letting him lead the way. A large, stone archway opens the building up into a wide, double-sided conference space. Nearly a dozen catering carts split the two parties, as well as an empty stage, fully equipped with a built-in bar and a DJ station. I think it’s a safe bet that Dorothy is to blame for the lack of a bartender on the Airington side, likely trying to avoid any kind of scene by an employee. Who cares if they’d have fun in the process, that woman would go to any length to remain in complete control at all times.
You’d think being a therapist she’d understand the concept of popping things that you’ve squeezed too tightly. It looks like I’ll be walking on the wild side tonight and making my way to the MacConall party.
“Children!” Dorothy’s phony voice calls to us from across the room.
Dad smiles in our direction but remains respectably quiet. His fingers are laced together on top of the scarlet cloth of their table. The proud spark in his eyes is genuine. I cringe at the sound of her. You can tell that she’s prepared herself to put on a show from the way she’s talking a full octave above her normal tone. Tim gives her a wave before accepting a hug from Lucy, one of the bakers in Mom’s original location, just a ten-minute drive from my own apartment.
Lucy is young, blonde, with gigantic blue saucer eyes, and an amazing baker. I give her a playful wink while they embrace, and she instinctively rolls her eyes. Lucy is practically my only friend, and I think she’s had the hots for Tim since they first met. He won’t listen to my urging him to ask Lucy out, though, despite the fact that she’s a perfect catch. Whenever I bring it up, he only blushes and tells me to mind my own business.
I look away from Dorothy and her perfect posture with sprayed-stiff curls that barely touch her shoulders. I refuse to play into her show. Instead, I step behind the shield of my brother and Lucy and give a few friendly head nods to a couple of employees in the room while I scan the crowd for Madge.
I smile to myself when I spot her. She’s sitting in the far corner by herself, scowling at Dorothy from across our side of the event center. Then she slips a young woman from the catering service a wad of cash and accepts a full bottle of vodka from behind the woman’s back.
“I found Madge,” I whisper to Tim after he loosens the embrace from another hug.
“Good luck,” he whispers back. “I’ll come and sit with you after I’ve made my rounds.”
“Don’t bother, just keep the wolves at bay. I’ll be fine.”
Tim only chuckles and reaches for my hand to give it a quick squeeze of reassurance. Our eyes meet and he squints, trying to read my thoughts no doubt.
“You sure?” he asks, low enough that no one else can hear. “You seem a little off.”
“What do you mean off?” I demand under my breath.
“I don’t know. You usually don’t seem to give a shit. But today, you’ve been acting nervous.”
I roll my eyes and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. Leave it to caring Tim to overthink every single aspect of the night, including my nerves. It’s a shock that he’s the younger one. Always taking care of his messed up big sister. Saving me from harsh critics, diverting Dorothy’s judgment, and more . . . much more.
Hell, at the mere age of fourteen, he even cleaned Belle’s blood from the car and the floor and woke up Dad to answer the front door. Then, he lied to the police about my being sick in the bathroom, while in reality, I was peeling bloody clothes from my shaking body.
Only the bathroom door separated his convincing lies from my disgusting truth on the other side. They hadn’t even found Belle yet. They were there to tell us about Mom. Only Tim and I knew she was out looking for us. She had to be. We didn’t even notice that her van was missing from the garage when we made it back home from Belle’s house.
“I’ll be fine, really,” I assure Tim. “Maybe you should sit by Dad. One of us needs to do it, and I won’t be able to share the vodka I just watched Madge bribe a caterer for if I’m that close to the warden.”
Tim’s laugh is infectious, but it only lasts for a moment before his face morphs into a deep scowl. Willing me not to overdo it with a warning stare. I giggle, wave a shooing hand in his direction, and do my best to ignore his comment as I walk away.
“Stay out of trouble, Sis.” Tim only sort of teases, oblivious to the dark memories my mind has wandered to.
Madge slides out the chair for me that’s next to hers, but her leathered face doesn’t falter. Gladly, I take the seat and join her for a moment of silence. The sarcasm that I love so dearly about Madge is boiling under the surface. I can tell already that her kettle is about to blow.
The same woman who’d slipped her the bottle of booze makes her way back to our table, balancing a tray complete with pitchers of iced water and soda. The glasses in front of Madge and myself are filled quickly with something clear and bubbly, but only halfway and without asking first what we’d like. I don’t oppose; I assume Madge has already given the girl strict instructions. I completely trust her judgment. It’s probably Sprite or tonic water. Either will do just fine.
Casually, and without being asked, I grab both glasses and hold them under the table for Madge to top off with her hidden contraband. Our actions go unnoticed, and we’re ready to move forward into the night of pending doom. I smile and take a sip.
“I’m glad you’ve prepared,” I finally break the silence.
“You know me,” her gruff voice cracks before she, too, takes a swallow. “This is some good soda.”
“Did you call beforehand, or threaten the poor girl with her life once you got here?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
Her analogy makes little sense in this circumstance, but I appreciate the comeback either way. I smile and we clink our glasses together. The pre-twitch of a grin plays at the corner of Madge’s wrinkly lips. I imagine her to kill a different way every time, yet she’d always top off the event with that reserved grin of pride and satisfaction.
“Just look at him,” I say, motioning my glass toward Tim. “He’s so at ease at these things. Sometimes I wonder if we’re even family.”
Together, Madge and I watch as at least one person from each table rises to their feet to congratulate him and either shake hands or hug him on his way past. He knows them all by name and holds short but genuine conversations with each and every person he encounters. Madge lets out a huff of scratchy air and pulls her shoulders up to her ears.
“You’re smarter.”
“I’m washed up—he’s going to medical school. How many of these bottles did you sneak before I got here?”
“Nah, he just applies himself. You’re still smarter.”
Madge ignores my question, as usual. She really only talks about what she wants, when she wants. If the topic, or even the tease doesn’t fit into her momentary thought process, then it’s brushed aside. It never fails, and it doesn’t matter who she’s talking to. All conversations go the way Madge wants them to, period. I wish I had her tenacity.
Tim takes a seat next to Dad. Both of their faces immediately point my way. Large smiles fill their cheeks. I return the gesture and wave at them. Dorothy, who’s tentatively on the other side of Dad, lowers her eyes as she watches the display of family bonding, a bond that’s completely excluded her. The two of them, both giving me their utter attention from across the room, while she’s a mere two feet away, will never do.
She pulls herself to a stand, straightens her expensive navy blue pantsuit with the palm of her hands, and then begins to tap a spoon against her Shirley Temple glass. She’s holding it in the air like they do in the movies, but only the movies. Sometimes I wonder what kind of fantasy world she lives in.
The room silences, and all eyes are now on Dorothy. She unnecessarily clears her throat before speaking.
“Thank you all for coming tonight. What a crowd!”
Everyone claps, some more enthusiasti
cally than others. Dorothy nods and grins, absorbing the applause like a moist sponge on spilled water. She has a full and satisfied look as if the clapping is actually intended for her personally. It wouldn’t surprise me if she started sprouting overflow water from her ears.
“First item of business, Damian and I would like to thank you all for another wonderful year of success at Airington’s Treats.”
Dorothy raises her hands, and starts the second round of applause herself. I watch my dad closely. Pride seeps through his face as he scans the room. It shows thick in the watering of his eyes and the purse of his lips. His forehead is lifted into a few wrinkles at his thinning hairline. He looks every bit his age.
I watch as he slowly wrings his hands atop the table. He doesn’t join the applause but humbly absorbs it. Every year at the anniversary party, I sit as far from Dorothy as I can and allow myself to feel homesick for Mom.
Two people died that night, and both were my fault. I wish I didn’t sleepwalk, and I wish I could remember exactly what happened under the blanket of that night’s darkness. Most of all, I wish Mom were here now to see her business flourish. Airington’s Treats was her baby, second only to myself and Tim. She loved to bake and she loved the eatery. I can only imagine it to be her giving the speech of gratitude in a room full of content employees, rather than Dorothy.
I tune out the rest of Dorothy’s babbling as two familiar faces catch my attention. My chest drops to the pit of my stomach in one swift motion and stays there. Over on the MacConall side of the event center, a whole different chain of events is playing out. There is also a round of applause, but it’s in the far corner of their space. Luckily, it doesn’t take away from Dad’s party in any way. I’m still distracted by it because of them. I can’t quite make out what they are saying, but I don’t need to.
