Being Audrey Hepburn

“I’m curious, Lisbeth,” he said, smoke drifting from his lips, “why you didn’t tell Tabitha we were acquainted from that night at the Met?”

I had been afraid he would bring that up.

“Why were you waiting outside the bathroom?” I replied.

“Because we were all worried about her. She’s tried before, you know.”

He knew? The air went out of me, but I tried to keep my poise. I was feeling more and more baffled. If he knew, then why did he allow her to be alone in the bathroom?

“I tried to stop her from getting the prescription,” he said, as if reading my mind, “but was unfortunately unsuccessful. Needless to say, I’ve excommunicated that doctor.” From his expression, I knew he sensed my confusion.

“Dear Lisbeth, this all boils down to one thing,” he said, tapping the ash from his cigarette onto a bread plate. “Who are you going to believe?”

“Tabitha, of course. She’s my friend,” I said. “Why should I believe you?”

He raised one of his aristocratic eyebrows. “Because I’m her uncle, of course,” he said, taking another draw on his cigarette. Was he her uncle, really? Her protector, her business manager, her super-rat, a creep, and everything rolled into one? Something didn’t feel right. And he was so offhand about it all.

I remembered Nan’s words from her friend Sammy G … “a liar’s mouth can be full of truth, but he’s still a liar.” Who should I believe, Tabitha or Robert Francis? I had no way of determining the truth about Robert Francis, but in my gut I knew his intentions couldn’t be good.

“Well, Tabitha said that you wanted to speak with me about her situation. That’s why I’m here,” I stated.

“Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I arranged this meeting to have the opportunity to speak with you,” he said, his gray eyes narrowing. “You’re young and lovely, an impressive new friend with enormous business potential, and Tabitha listens to you. The business possibilities alone would have attracted my attention. I’m not sure where you met Tabitha or how you knew she was in that bathroom that night, but I find you riveting and I thought we should meet under … well, more favorable circumstances.”

Robert’s eyes held me locked in some kind of trance until I managed to pull myself away. I stared down at the table, counting the silverware, hoping to regain my composure.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. Nothing but my trench coat had turned out as I pla

“How about a toast to people not being as they seem?” he said. “You know, sometimes the bad people aren’t so bad and the good people aren’t anywhere as good as they think they are,” he added. My hand trembled as our glasses touched.

“I am entirely willing to discuss Tabitha’s situation, once I’ve gotten to know you better,” he said. “I suggest you join me at the party I’m having next Friday evening.” He took a cream-colored envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to me.

“Tabitha has already agreed to come. I hope you don’t mind that I asked her in advance. I promise you, it will be quite pleasant.”

I held the invitation, its creamy paper thick and luscious between my fingertips. Embossed in a delicate gold script were two words: PENTHOUSE A.

“It’s been a pleasure, Lisbeth,” he said, rising, a smirk like he’d flashed before returning to his face. I was surprised at the sudden end of our conversation. I stood self-consciously.

“I’ll consider the invitation, of course,” I said, feeling dismissed.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I hope to see you soon.”

I pulled up my scarf and put on my shades and left the hotel, walking several blocks to be sure no one could see me before I headed down the stairs to the nearest subway stop.

Checking my purse, I saw the invitation and the screen of my phone glow and realized it had been buzzing with calls and text messages.

They were all from Courtney.

40

“Where the fuck have you been?” Courtney screamed as I walked in through the back screen door.

Wearing a baggy gray T-shirt that was three sizes too big and sweatpants, Courtney was bending over the stove. No makeup, no tube top, no fuzzy boots. She was cooking smiley-face pancakes as Ryan poured buckets of syrup on a stack on the table.

“Hey, sis, you’re just in time for di

“Don’t you answer anyone’s texts anymore?” Courtney barked.

“I don’t remember you answering every text I’ve ever sent,” I said over my shoulder as I headed upstairs to my room. I was relieved Mom wasn’t in the kitchen. I threw my stuff on the bed.

“We need to talk now!” Courtney yelled after me, sounding exactly like Mom.

“I’m changing my clothes,” I yelled back from the top of the stairs. Grabbing a T-shirt, some underwear, and my comfiest pair of jeans, I headed into the bathroom and turned the shower up as hot as I could stand.

I hated being home.

Twenty minutes later, my hair was washed and the weirdness of Robert Francis was fading. As I brushed out the tangles, I realized something was odd. Courtney was making pancakes for Ryan. Courtney hated Ryan almost as much as she hated me, and she was making him pancakes for di

Dropping my damp towel in the hamper, I walked down the upstairs hallway, searching for signs of Mom. Was she hungover? I hated going into Mom’s room. You never knew what you were going to find. Peeking cautiously into her darkened bedroom, I could see that her sheets were all tangled and a mess as usual, but no Mom. I made my way downstairs.

“So what’s going on?” I asked Courtney.

“Ryan, enough syrup, eat your pancakes,” she instructed.

“Why pancakes?” I asked.

“There’s nothing else in this fucking house to eat.”

“Mom hasn’t been shopping?” I asked.

“Where have you been for the last four days?”

“What difference does it make? And why are you suddenly acting all Superna

All the color drained from her face. It seemed like Courtney didn’t know what to say. “Just get your ass to the hospital. Mom has cancer.”

*   *   *

I didn’t remember driving to the hospital or parking my car or saying my name. All I could think about was the endless times that I had avoided her calls, deleted her texts, or turned off my phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to her. I was always afraid she would ask me about school, so I ignored her when maybe she wanted to tell me about … I couldn’t even say the word to myself.

I sat in the waiting room feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my whole life. I was afraid to call Jess and ashamed to call Nan. They both knew what I had been doing for the last four days. Mom had been in the hospital for three days.

The large beige waiting room was filled with rows of mauve chairs and ferns. Fox News blared from the TV perched in the corner of the ceiling. I was the only one there, and it felt like torture. I remember wondering if the ferns were real or if someone actually watered them. There were well-used stacks of magazines and a stand filled with brochures covering everything from chronic bed-wetting to hepatitis B.

After a while, I couldn’t remember what I was waiting for. Had the receptionist said a doctor would be with me soon? I couldn’t recall. But I recognized some of the nurses walking by, who whispered when they saw me. They knew my mom. I wondered how they felt. Was she as nasty to them as she was to us? I was certain my mother had told them all that I was going to school to become a nurse-practitioner. They probably still thought that was true.

My mind flashed back to the last time I saw Mom, when Ryan was acting like such a wiseass. I kept remembering her rubbing her arm and sliding down the sleeves of her blouse. It seemed obvious now. She must have had tests, I thought. She already knew she had cancer.