If I Have a Wicked Stepmother, Where's My Prince?

"Fine."

The door opened and my dad and Mara came down. Or started coming down. It seemed to be

taking them forever. I looked over to the stairs and saw they were each carrying a heavy bundle

wrapped in brown paper. They must have been heading to the basement storage area to put away

whatever precious treasures they'd discovered along the Hudson River.

"Hey," said my dad when he got to the bottom step. He was panting slightly. Mara was standing

behind him, but thanks to her daily gym sessions, she wasn't out of breath.

"Hey," I said.

We stood there for another minute. "We were up in Lomax today," said my dad.

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"Oh." Just how many breakfronts does one household need?

My dad was smiling at me. "I remembered you'd admired this, so we wanted to get it for you."

I wasn't sure what he was talking about. "This?" I asked.

He pointed at the package Mara held balanced against her hip. "Open it."

I went over to Mara and took the package from her. Kneeling down in front of it, I pulled at the

brown paper, ripping off one layer after another. I wondered if it was going to turn out to be one

of those tiny little boxes that's inside a dozen bigger containers. God, she'd probably gotten me

some terrible piece of jewelry to wear for the prom. Lucy, the bad news is I haven't been able to

furnish your room. The good news is I've been able to furnish you! With this lovely rhinestone pendant featuring a Pilates instructor and her pupil.

Finally I hit something that wasn't brown paper, and all at once I knew what was underneath the

wrapping I'd been wrestling with.

"Oh my god," I said. I tore off a section of paper to reveal a leg of the wooden easel I'd seen so long ago. "Wow." I studied the claw-feet and traced my hand along the intricate woodwork. It

was even more beautiful than I'd remembered, or maybe it had just been polished. Even in the

dim light, the wood gleamed. "Thanks," I said, standing up.

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"We thought ... well, I thought." My dad cleared his throat, still struggling to find the right

pronoun. "It seemed possible you might like to put this on it." He walked toward me, awkwardly

balancing the large, square package he was holding. "I was supposed to save it for your

eighteenth birthday," he said, "but I thought you could use it now." He lay it at my feet and took a step back.

"Oh," I said. "What is it?"

My dad paused and swallowed. "It's a painting your mother did. She wanted you to have it."

The three of us stood there, not moving or saying anything, as if the brown rectangle at my feet

was ticking. After a minute my dad put his hand on Mara's shoulder. "Excuse me a second," she

said. Then she turned and went upstairs.

My dad gave a little cough. "Do you mind if I stay while you open it?"

My throat was tight, and I just shook my head to indicate I didn't mind. Then I untied the cord

and peeled back the wrapping.

I hadn't seen one of my mother's paintings in a long time--since we'd packed them up and put

them in storage when we moved--and I'd never seen this one before. The painting was of a city

wall covered in graffiti and posters, some of which were peeling off, some of which were partly

covered over by other posters. Each of the posters was a self-portrait of my mom, the same one

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repeated over and over in slightly different colors-- greens and blues, browns and yellows, and

here and there the faint purple of shadow. Her eyes were wide, her hair wild and curly around her

small face, her smile mysterious as the Mona Lisa's. As my eyes studied the posters, I realized

they were grouped together in order to form a composite image. Once I figured that out, it only

took me a minute to see that it was of a woman holding a baby in her arms.

"She started this when she got sick," said my dad, his voice thick. "She made it for you." He lifted his hand to his face, and I realized he was crying. "She would have been so happy to know

you're becoming an artist."

I'd never seen my dad cry before, and it made me start to cry, too.

"I wish I had known her," I said. "I wish she had known me." And then I added, "I wish we could have been a family."

My dad put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulders. "I wish that, too," he said, taking a

deep breath and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "You know, Lucy goose, I can't make

everything perfect. I wish I could, but I can only do the best I can. And I--" He took a deep,

shuddering breath. "I'll always be your home. And you'll always be mine. And I hope that

someday this will feel like your home, too."

I knew if I tried to say something, I'd start bawling.

"So here's the deal, kiddo." He dug a handkerchief

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out of his pocket and blew his nose. "I'm going to be home for another week. Then I'm going

back to San Francisco for two more weeks. And after that, if I can't work on things from the New

York office, I told them they're going to have to finish up without me." He squeezed my

shoulders. "What do you say to that?"

I opened my mouth to answer him, and a really loud sob came out. I put my hand on my mouth

and shook my head.

"Is that a 'No' head shake or an 'Okay' head shake?" I shook my head again. "No?" said my dad. I shook my head again.

"Okay," he said. I could tell from his voice that he was smiling.

I nodded, and he handed me his handkerchief. "It's a bit worse for wear," he said.

I blew my nose, loud, and took a deep breath. Then we sat there, not saying anything, just

looking at the painting together.

Finally I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. "I guess I should get going," I said.

"I guess so," he said.

Just as I stood up, there was a pounding above our heads. Seconds later, Emma and Amy came

tumbling down the stairs. "We want to see Lucy in her dress. We want to see Lucy in her dress!"

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They stopped short when they saw me. "What are you wearing?" they demanded. "Where's your

dress?"

I pointed at the garment bag. "It's over there. I'm getting dressed at Madison's."

"What?" They looked at me like I'd just a

"But you can't! You have to get dressed here!"

"Lucy, you have to let us help you."

"I don't really need help getting dressed."

Emma circled around the bed. "You know what we mean."

"I'd love to see you in the dress," said my dad. "Unless that would ruin your plans."

"Yeah, Lucy," said Emma. "You put it on now."

"Yeah," echoed Amy. "Put it on."

Emma, sensing my resolve was weakening, took advantage of her opportunity. "Okay, we're

going to go upstairs, and then we'll come back in five minutes, and you have the dress on." She

started herding everyone upstairs in front of her. "Come on" she said when my dad hesitated.

"Move it." Once she'd gotten everyone onto the staircase, Emma turned back to me. "Five

minutes," she said.

I listened to the door shut behind the three of them, and then I walked over to the dress. I took a