Everything will be okay. Becca is okay right now. There is nothing wrong with having fun. These are things my therapist, Yvette, tells me weekly.
My parents’ rooms are on the west side of the building. Their bedroom door is passcode protected. Each of us has our own password, and the door won’t let anybody through unless one of my parents has pre-authorized the entry. Now the door is propped open.
Laughter bounces out into the wide hall. Perfume wafts into the warm, heavy air. My parents’ suite has always smelled amazing, and has always looked rich and textured. My mother was only two years old when her parents moved to New York, but she visited Bangladesh many times, and the style and décor made a strong impression on her.
I see the gorgeous gold and burgundy tapestry that dominates the room’s right-hand wall before I spot my mother and the women standing with her. Actually, it’s two women and a man. I recognize Tito, my mom’s longtime hair stylist, but the two women are strangers. When I walk through the door, they all greet me at once.
The next two hours are amazing. My mom is one of lower Manhattan’s queens, and never has that fact been more apparent than as I recline on a chaise longue in her dressing room and she directs the masseuse to work me over and the aesthetician to glam me up.
Cindy slathers me in fragrant oil, works the tension out of every muscle in my body, and wipes me down so I won’t glisten too much but my skin is still incredibly soft. Farah smooths gel on my face and uses a heat gun to “plump” my collagen. Then she gives me a makeover that’s to die for. She presents me with a bag of new products, and then she and Cindy leave, asking my mom to send a picture when I’m in my gown.
Mom and Tito talk like old friends as he trims my hair, washes it, and sweeps it into an updo. When he hands me a mirror and twirls my chair around, I see it’s melded into the shape of a conch shell.
“Wow. How did you do that?”
“I could do hair with my eyes closed.” He makes a few adjustments, instructs me to “take advantage of your glorious night,” and then walks out with my mom, leaving me to stare into the mirror. I’m wearing a silk slip with my bra under because I’m shy around so many strangers. With my hair and makeup done, I feel like a different person—someone beautiful and adult.
It’s so weird to realize that I kind of am one. Next year I’ll be at college, geographically close—so I can see Bec lots—but a whole world away. I feel buoyant thinking of what my life will be like. I’ll have someone sweep my apartment for cameras and recording devices, and then I’ll invite Luca over. Maybe he could even live with me. Who would know?
My mother drifts back into the dressing room, smiling in approval at my new, grown-up reflection.
“You look stunning, shona. You will be the belle of the ball.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She stands behind me, giving my left shoulder a brief squeeze as she looks at her reflection in the mirror, then at mine. “They did everything I paid them to and more.” She gives a knowing smile. It’s what I think of as her Disney villain smile, because she seems to save it for moments when she’s feeling superior.
“Thanks for having them come over for this,” I say in the polite tone my mother prefers.
“Oh, of course, my darling.”
I frown at my own reflection. “Mom, why does Daddy call me cara? What does it mean?”
Her eyes lift to mine in the mirror, meeting my gaze for a moment before picking at a bobby pin in my hair. “It’s an endearment. Like my shona—what your Nani called me as a young girl. She would have so loved to see you like this. Nani loved all things beautiful. I’m not sure you remember how lovely she always looked.”
“I do,” I lie. My mother’s mom died when I was seven. I remember mostly that she always gave me dates and little ground nuts.
“Mom, is cara an Irish endearment?”
The smooth, Botox’d place between her eyebrows twitches very slightly. “No, of course not.” She laughs. “It’s Italian.”
She turns around, raising her arms to lift my gown’s hanger from the high rack where it’s hanging.
“Why would Daddy call me something Italian?”
She runs the wand of her steamer over the gown, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “I hope this is not about that boy.”
“What? No. Because of a question about a nickname?” I roll my eyes.
Mom gives me a warning look as she removes the red silk gown from its black velvet hanger.
“You’ll have to ask your father about this.”