Badly Behaved

It’s with a gracious smile she outstretches her hand. “Please.” She motions toward another set of automatic doors, and when those open, it’s with a heavy dose of steam.

My sister and I step through, into a rain-forest themed room.

Large leaves cascade from every inch of the walls, down the sides and hang high above, small lights threaded throughout, the soft sounds of showers filling the room.

Two large stone-like baths are set against the wall, a waterfall leading into the foot of them, a set of bamboo tables outstretched on the opposite side, steaming towels on top of them and a tray of fresh fruit in the middle.

Monti walks over, picking off a small piece of pineapple, and plucks it between her lips.

We drop our robes and slip into the steaming tubs, breathing in the steam and allowing it to open our lungs and pores.

“Seriously, I haven’t done this in months.” My sister moans, and I fight a grin when the masseuse who slipped into the room slowly backs out of it. “This is amazing.”

She rolls her head along the back of the stone, her eyes meeting mine.

Monti and I didn’t lose touch when she came here last year. We talked all the time, almost as much as when she was home, and we still do. I text her through the day or she me to the point where I consider us close, but close is subjective, and I think Monti might disagree.

She and I talk about the annoying guy who eats during her lectures and new items added to the coffee house menus or joke about what might be said when Gennie reports back to our mom each week. It’s more chatter, easy flowing conversation that provides a sense of a connection, but at the surface is where we stay.

It’s not for her lack of trying, but at the end of the day, I am who I am, which happens to be what my sister fears the most, my mother’s creation.

A blank canvas to be filled and fussed with at the hands of another, without so much as a blink or care or concern. Taught to look without seeing, to smile without feeling, and to speak without interest.

I’m a Monet.

A chameleon.

I’m whatever I must be.

Monti doesn’t judge, never condemns, but I know she pities me. It’s a waste on her part, not that I have to tell her that.

She’s already aware.

“I’ve missed you, sister,” she whispers suddenly, her eyes softening.

I give her a pinched smile and look away.

“I asked them to send me over a profile for all the masseuses. Naturally, I get the hotter, larger-handed man, and picked the one with hairy knuckles for you.”

A laugh sputters from us both and just like that, she brings us back into our own kind of sisterhood.

Two hours later, my sister groans. “Oh my god, what does she want?”

I shake my head, not moving an inch, and enjoying the cool ice mask in contrast with the hot stones being used as my legs are kneaded and pressed.

“Hello, Mother.” My sister’s tone is silvery and fake as hell.

“Where is Jameson?”

I tense, and there’s a slight pause, but then Monti laughs. “I knew you couldn’t possibly have anything to say to me that would warrant a phone call.”

“Is that why you ignored my last five calls?” My mother’s voice is distant, forever only half of her attention given, a pile of work in front of her that takes precedence, I’m sure.

“We’re at the spa,” Monti tells her. “I’d say you’re lucky I have my phone on me at all.”

“Your sister,” our mom clips.

“Mm, sorry. She’s currently being groped and shown what a man with very large hands is capable of, but—”

At that, the hands on my body—not at all hairy, thank you very much—fly off, and I shoot up right in time for my mother to cut her off with a snapped, “Enough.”

“I’m here, Mom.” I widen my eyes at my sister, flipping her off.

“You didn’t tell me you didn’t spend time with Anthony yesterday?” She doesn’t miss a beat.

I look to the masseuse, and he bows his head, he and his partner quietly exiting the room.

“Jameson!”

“I’m here, Jesus.” I tilt my leg, smoothing out a spot of warm wax. “And I did go to Anthony’s, but he got held up, so we had to cancel.”

“Well, he’s been trying to reach you for the last hour. He had to call me at work!”

“The audacity,” my sister whispers, making me laugh, and I throw myself back on the table.

“He was worried, he said he didn’t hear from you yesterday, I now assume he meant once you left, and when you didn’t pick up today, well, imagine the thoughts that must have ran through his mind, especially when he learned your car was stolen, and from your own garage.”