I crunched the napkin in my hand and wiped my mouth.
"No, no, no," she cried. "You dab your mouth, Brooke. This isn't a hot dog stand, and even if it was, you wouldn't do that. It looks too manly, gross." She shook her head to rid herself of the feeling. "Go on," she insisted. "I want to see you do it right. That's it," she said when I dabbed my lips so gently I hardly touched the napkin. "Perfect. See?" She looked at Peter.
"Yes," he said. "She's going to do just fine. How do you like your champagne?" he asked me.
I shrugged. "I thought it would be sweeter."
"It's not a Coke," Pamela said. "Besides, sugar is terrible for your complexion. You'll see that we have no candy in our house and that our desserts are all gourmet when we have them. We're both very conscious of calories normally, but tonight, being it's so special, we're indulging ourselves," Pamela explained.
Jolene came in with our salad. I watched Pamela to see which fork to use because there were three. Peter saw how I was studying their every move and smiled.
"Every moment of your life in this house will be a learning experience," he promised. "Just follow Pamela's instructions, and you'll do fine."
Our saladas followed by a lobster dinner. Sacket brought out wine, and I was permitted some of that as well. Everything was delicious. The dessert was something called creme brillee. I hadn't even heard of it, much less ever tasted it, but it was wonderful. Everything was.
Afterward, we went into the family room to talk, but Pamela seemed very fidgety. She excused herself and went upstairs. I wondered what was wrong, and when Peter was called to the phone, I decided to look in on her. I hurried up the stairs and knocked on her door. She didn't answer, but I heard what sounded like someone vomiting. I opened the door and looked in.
"Pamela?" I called. "Are you all right?"
The sounds of regurgitating grew louder and then stopped abruptly. I heard water running, and a moment later, she stepped out of the bathroom. Her face was crimson.
"Are you all right?"
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I thought I heard you being sick."
"I'm fine," she said. "Did Peter send you up?" "No."
"I'm fine," she insisted. "Just go back downstairs and continue to enjoy your evening. be right there. Go on," she ordered.
I left, closing the door quietly behind me.
If she was sick, why was she so ashamed? I wondered.
Minutes later, she rejoined Peter and me, and she looked as perfect as she had when she had come downstairs for dinner. She was certainly not sick, I thought, not the way I knew sick people to be. Peter didn't notice anything wrong, either.
He asked me lots of questions about my life at the orphanage. Pamela was more interested in what I remembered about my mother.
"Nothing, really," I said. "All I have is a faded pink ribbon that I was told was in my hair when she left me."
"You still have it? Where? I didn't see it when you came here," Pamela said quickly. She looked at Peter fearfully.
"It was in the pocket of my jeans," I said. "I put it in my dresser drawer."
"Why would you want to keep something like that?" "I don't know," I said, near tears.
"It's nothing, Pamela. A memory," Peter said, shrugging. She looked unhappy about it and settled back in her chair slowly.
"There are all these horror stories about families who have taken in a child, and years later, the biological mother, a woman who had nothing to do with raising the child, comes around and demands her rights," Pamela muttered.
"That can't happen here," Peter assured her. "She doesn't even remember her face. Do you, Brooke?"
I shook my head. "No."
"You shouldn't hold onto anything, not even a ribbon," Pamela said angrily. "The woman got rid of you like . . like some unwanted puppy,"
"You're upsetting her, Pamela," Peter said gently.