Being Audrey Hepburn

“You know the whole family was supposed to be there. The school-board attorney made it a condition of your brother’s release. I didn’t expect your sister,” she said, taking another drag on her cig. “But I expected you.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know,” I said, wondering why those words hurt so much and why I felt so bad that I had let her down.

“Well, how would you know if you don’t answer your fucking phone? I even texted you,” she said. I felt her pushing toward a buildup. “I called everywhere; Nan didn’t know where you were.” I wondered if Nan was worried. Crap.

She grabbed her usual coffee mug by the sink. The bottle of Gordon’s would be next. Then Ryan walked in. He stood in the kitchen doorway. I hadn’t seen Ryan for a while. He seemed taller and his hair was longer, especially in the back. Mom must have cut his mullet for the therapist meeting. The run of freckles across his nose had faded, but he had the same crooked grin.

“Hey, sis, did you hear?”

“Hear what, Ry?”

“I’m clinically depressed. Pretty cool, huh?” He had a smug expression on his face. Instead of being repentant for all the trouble he caused, he seemed to be thriving on the attention.

“Well you seem pretty happy about being depressed.”

“Fu

“Make me some Eggos, Mom,” Ryan demanded. How did he think he’d get away with that? But Mom was silent. Normally she’d have snapped at him by now. He seemed to have some edge on her, maybe the therapist told her to be nice to him.

“Do it yourself, Ry, I need to talk to your sister,” Mom said quietly.

“But I always burn them,” he said with a tiny wicked smirk.

“I’ll make them,” I volunteered and opened up the freezer. I figured it couldn’t hurt to drag this out as long as possible to avoid whatever it was that Mom wanted to talk to me about. Putting the waffles in the toaster oven, I noticed Mom’s hand shaking slightly as she held her cigarette. Something was going on with her, but I couldn’t tell what.

“So, who said you were depressed, Ry?” I asked.

“The head doctor. He said I need more stability at home,” Ryan said, smugly pleased now that he was the focus and everyone had to worry about him. I guessed that Mom had gotten reamed at the therapist’s office.

The timer rang on the toaster oven, and then I buttered the waffles and handed them over to Ryan. He sat down across from Mom at the table.

“Ryan, I told you I need to talk to your sister,” she said. Ryan seemed unfazed, like he wasn’t afraid of provoking her.

“But I want to hear,” he said. He was totally pushing it. Mom looked up from her coffee at Ryan. I thought she was going to leap across the table and choke him.

“Get the fuck out of here,” she said quietly and went back to her coffee.

Ryan hustled up, so I guessed there was a limit to how far Mom would accommodate him. He grabbed his waffles and nodded with that shit-eating grin of his as he left.

“You missed the school orientation,” she said. “Hand me my lighter, will you?”

“Really?” I passed the Bic and she lit another cigarette.

“They sent this letter.” She fished a piece of folded paper out of the pile of papers on the kitchen table and slid it over to me.

“Mom, it’s addressed to me—it’s my mail,” I said.

“It isn’t if you don’t pick it up.”

I took my time reading the letter. It wasn’t anything new, really. I had been to one of the orientations before. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what dorm I was going to live in or where the classes were. The school was only five miles away. But the fact that she was opening my mail meant that she had some kind of clue. That couldn’t be good.

“I don’t have to go to that orientation,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s optional. I went to the first one instead when we signed up.”

“Is there something going on you want to tell me?” she asked, exhaling the smoke as she spoke. She rubbed her arm again as if it were sore and straightened her sleeve. Mom was on the hunt. That was her way when she suspected something.

“Don’t go off the rails on me, Lisbeth,” she said, looking me in the eye. “You’re the only dependable one left.”

“I know, Mom,” I said, not having the slightest clue how I’d ever be able to talk to her about what was really going on.

“I’m going to need you around more,” she said, sternly.

God, I hope not, I couldn’t help thinking.

She knew something was up, but she hadn’t put her finger on it—yet.

29

I arrived at Montclair Manor without calling, and when minutes passed and Nan hadn’t opened the door, I started to panic. What if she had fallen or had a heart attack?

Peering through the side windows, I couldn’t find a sign of her anywhere. She wasn’t in the back either. I knocked on every door and window. As I decided to head for Nurse Betty’s office, Nan’s door opened and there she was, dressed in a fluffy lavender bathrobe, her cheeks rosy, her silver hair pulled into a chic knot.

“Nan, you’re okay!” I said.

“Of course, dear, I was just taking a bubble bath.” She stretched her arms out to hug me. “Like liquid Prozac, isn’t it?”

We entered, and I wondered how on earth I had stayed away from Nan’s apartment for so long.

“It’s so lovely to see you,” she said from her bedroom as she changed into her clothes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your bath.”

“Oh, not a problem. I’m quite shriveled up and wrinkled as it is,” she said with a laugh. “Although the sea salts were soothing.”

I heard the distinctive snap of her Chanel compact, the one she still had from the sixties that she continuously refilled herself. Don’t ask why, but to me that little click had the definitive sound of luxury. It always summoned the smiling, elegant image of Nan.

She entered the room all bright and shiny, with a light blush highlighting her cheeks, an absolute minimum of makeup, totally put together in seconds. I marveled at how she did that.

“And to what do I owe this wonderful impromptu visit?”

“Missing your cheesecake?” I said sheepishly.

“Well, unfortunately there’s no cheesecake in the house,” she said with a sad look. “But today’s special is chocolate heaven cake. I hope that will do?” Her eyes twinkled.

“That sounds even better,” I replied. “And I could help with the whipped cream.”

“Splendid idea,” she said.

We both slipped into her miniscule kitchen that was hardly big enough for one. As I whisked the cream in a metal mixing bowl, I inhaled her perfume and immediately felt at ease.

“You know, Nan, there was an oil painting in your storage area of a little girl. Is that you?” I asked.

“I doubt it, dear, that was probably my mother.”

“Really? But she looks so much like you,” I said.

“Everyone said that, and I always thought it was fu

“Well, you’re not stuffy.”

“I certainly hope not!” she said as she dolloped endless spoonfuls of whipped cream onto her homemade chocolate cake. “Come, let’s eat! I have something to show you!”

We squeezed through the kitchen and sat in the living room. There on the table was a new scrapbook I had never seen before.

“I’ve been working on a little project,” she said. She handed me the cake knife. “Would you please do the honors?” Sitting next to me, she opened the scrapbook to the first page. There I was, in the Audrey Givenchy on Page Six.

“What is this?” I asked as I put down the cake knife and began turning the pages. Page after page contained clippings and photographs, some from the Web, some from newspapers and magazines, including Us Weekly.