“Hey, Mom.”
“Are you still asleep?”
“Not anymore.”
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
My alarm clock is shaped like a panda bear, the black spot over his eye faded from years of hitting the snooze button. Neon blue numbers tell me it’s only ten fifteen. My mother’s flair for the dramatic extends to telling time.
“Is there a reason you’re calling or do you just want to know if I need anything?”
My mother has never asked if I need anything, not ever. I can imagine me as a crying baby in a designer crib, my mother peering in with that same frozen look on her face, telling me that wet diapers make my butt look big.
“If you can manage to pull yourself out of bed, your father needs your help.”
“Really.” This should be interesting.
“He has a work associate coming this afternoon, but he’s probably going to be running late after golf.”
“By work associate you mean…”
“Sergio De Fiore.”
“The mobster?”
A snort. “You’re so dramatic, Emily. He’s a completely respectable businessman.”
Right, just like Daddy’s a respectable businessman. “Why can’t you meet him?”
“Because I cannot stand that man. There are terrible rumors about him. And he always looks at me like I smell bad, when he’s the one drenched in cologne. It’s horrible.”
“You do realize it’s bad to leave your teenage daughter to meet with a dangerous criminal, right?”
“He wouldn’t possibly do anything to you, not when he’s working with your Daddy on a deal.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Besides he’s bringing his wife. She’s so much younger than him. It’s disgraceful. You’ll probably have much more in common with her, anyway. You can braid each other’s hair and play with Barbies while you wait.”
“I’m nineteen, Mom. Not nine.”
Nine when I was carted to the psychologists office and left there, like some kind of reverse hostage to remain in that leather chair until I had a diagnosis. It was a problem, though. None of the usual suspects fit. Not narcissistic personality disorder or even sociopathy. My lying was so habitual, so pointless, that only the pathological lying—both a syndrome and a symptom—could fit.
I’ve always thought it perfect that pathological lying is controversial in the psychobabble community. As if nothing about us can be fully trusted, even the diagnosis they give us.
“Show him to the front room, understand? Offer him something to drink. Wear something nice. And for God’s sake, Emily, don’t tell him any lies.”
The line clicks in my ear, and I drop the phone onto the sheets.
I’d been dreaming when the phone rang. Most of the dream slipped away through the sieve of my mother’s grim aggravation, but a little bit lingers. I have the most uncomfortable sense that it was about the gardener.
I’ve been a little obsessed with him for the past three days. With the dirt under his nails and the triangle of scruff he missed while shaving. He was just so real. So alive standing in that kitchen. He made me feel more than the boys in school ever did.
Part of me wants to push my fingers into the waistband of my yoga pants, to think about those dirt-stained fingers and that uneven scruff a little longer, to make myself shudder and clench and moan.
But I need to get up. I need to shower and change and wear something nice.
And possibly get out my Barbie dolls.
Our house was built in the 1920s, which means it has Gatsby-level extravagance. Cherub sculptures shoot water from the stone façade into an actual moat between the house structure and the wide paved drive. Some of our neighbors tore down the old rotten structures, building modern mausoleums in their places. Others spent large fortunes restoring each banister and balustrade.
My parents took the Frankenstein approach. They ripped out the interior and left only the opulent shell. So my bedroom has plush shag carpeting with leaves and stems etched into the green wool. The bathrooms are finished with white marble and shiny gold, two separate showerheads in the large standing space.
Water beats down on me from both sides, wiping away the last vestiges of my dream and my mother’s wakeup call, both the good and the bad swirling down the drain.
I wrap the white bath towel around my body, pushing the corner into the top edge so it will stay put. It will have to do until my hair dries enough to tease it. My mom may not care about the meeting enough to come herself, but she’ll throw a fit if she finds out I didn’t look my best.
Come to think of it, this must be some kind of punishment for Daddy. Making him host with me as the shitty substitute. It will be an insult to this Sergio De Fiore. Goose bumps rise over my bare arms.
He’s not the kind of man you want to insult.
The panda clock says I have forty-five minutes, but what if he’s early?
