“Yeah,” I say tentatively, and I have the feeling of being subtly cross-examined even though I know that’s not Michele’s style.
“And yet, you and your parents don’t talk about what brought you to SLAA. You don’t share it with friends. You don’t share it anywhere but here and with Harley.”
My jaw tightens and my shoulders tense. “I feel like you’re calling me out on something.”
“I’m not. But I want you to think about why you’re able to be this way with her. Why you go all over the city with her, and she meets you after work, and you hang out in between classes, and you know all about these memoirs she’s being forced to write, and you, by your own admission, are not a terribly open person. So why her?”
I picture Harley. Her blond hair. Her brown eyes. Her banging body. But then I shift away from the physical, and I flash onto all the other parts and honestly it comes down to pretty much one thing.
“I can talk to her about just about anything,” I say.
“You can,” Michele nods. “Except one thing. The why behind all of this.”
I run my palm over the tattoo on my shoulder, underneath my shirt. The why of all of this.
Harley
As soon as I open the door, the familiar greeting pours forth.
“You look so pretty,” my mom says in this incredibly reflective air. As if this is the first time ever, in my whole life, I’ve looked so pretty. I’m wearing a short skirt, a t-shirt, and my Mary Janes. I look like I do every day. Still, no matter what, without fail, you can set your ever-loving clock to it, You look so pretty is always the first thing my mom says to me.
I wish I hated it.
I wish I didn’t need to hear it.
But I ache without it. It’s become as necessary as air and sun.
It’s my confirmation that all is right in the world. She raised me to be pretty. She trained me to be pretty. She is pretty too.
The difference is she never used her pretty to win things in life. She earned all her accolades, all her praise, all her awards. She doesn’t even hang them on the walls or frame them. She’s so humble, brushing them off as if they’re nothing when people praise her. But they’re not nothing. She’s won national awards from every journalistic association in the world, it seems. She’s earned the most prestigious prizes in her field since she’s a top-notch investigative reporter on “Here and Now,” the venerated show that has exposed government secrets about the wars, not to mention high-profile politician shenanigans. My mom uncovered the Sexting Senator, the congressman who hired young male escorts to give him blow jobs on Uncle Sam’s dollar, and a child prostitution ring run by an ex New York City Mayor.
Barbara Coleman.
Her name even sounds like a kickass reporter who takes no prisoners.
She is the most feared whistleblower in America, and her two non-fiction books have topped the bestseller lists. She’s been called The Cleaner and I’m told that politicians shudder and quake in their boots when she starts investigating them. She’s been relentless in her pursuit ever since my father took off when I was in first grade. She kicked him out after several affairs. Then, with the help of her editor, who plucked her from the assignment desk, mentored her, and fed her reporting opportunities, she refashioned herself into some sort of avenging angel, a righteous doer of good, exposing all the evils behind closed doors.
She is one of the most admired women in America.
And she has a slut for a daughter.
She stands tall and regal at the stove, stirring a pot with a long wooden spoon. She wears a flowy magenta blouse, the color so blazingly rich she looks like royalty. She’s paired her top with trim black slacks and suede pumps, and her raven-colored hair is pulled back in a comb. She’s beautiful and she is ready for a new man.
“Hi Barb.” I leave my purse by the door as I head into the kitchen.
“I’m making Moroccan stew tonight in honor of you being nearly done with your second year of college,” she says coyly. I’m not sure why she says it coyly, but perhaps she’s flirting with the stew.
“But of course. British lit originated in Morocco,” I say, since English is my major. I love to write, but not the kind of writing she does. And not the kind of writing Miranda makes me do. I like to make up fantastical tales of talking animals, magical doorways, portals to other worlds. Only I don’t really have the time to do that kind of writing anymore. I used to have notebooks and journals full of tales, until Miranda subverted my love of words with her twisted debt.
But I don’t like thinking about Miranda when I’m here.
My mom winks at me, loving our sisterly banter and jokes. That’s what we are. Sisters.
“Who’s coming over tonight?”
She screws up her forehead. Maybe she can’t remember. Or maybe…no…not this…not now. Her eyes go glassy, and her lower lip quivers. “Not Phil,” she chokes out, dropping the spoon and covering her eyes.
I pull her to me, wrap an arm around her. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I reassure, even though I wish she’d never met Phil, her last boyfriend. Tears leak onto my shirt as she heaves out several thick sobs.
“I miss him,” she moans. “I don’t know why he left.”
I do. I know why he left. I won’t tell her though. “Because he’s a jerk and you deserve better, Barb,” I say, because she doesn’t like me to call her mom.
She nods against my chest and sucks in her breath. There. She’s pulling herself together. One hug from me, one firm but loving reminder, and that’s the magic formula to make Barb Coleman happy again. “Forget about Phil, okay? Get that dick out of your head and your heart for once and for all. Now tell me about this new guy.”