“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Open it up,” she says, squeezing my hand.
The way I spring off the couch catches me by surprise. I’m not really a girly-girl who squeals at the thought of putting on a pretty dress. But my mom is, and since she is clearly looking forward to seeing me in something sparkly and decadent, I don’t want to sour this moment.
Maybe she’s trying to find her fight.
After running into the kitchen to snag a laser pen from the utility drawer, I come back into the living room and waste no time aiming the red dot at the quick-seal and slicing through the sides of the box. Inside, there are a lot of small foam peanuts, tissue paper, and plastic to wade through. I have to admit, it’s fun throwing it all onto the floor. When I finally dig deep enough and get to the dress, I remember every single detail I loved about it.
The sweetheart neckline adorned with sequins. The mermaid fit that makes my waist look freakishly tiny. The bold emerald color that contrasts my light complexion perfectly.
As I pull it out of the box and hold it up to myself, my mom almost gasps.
“It’s every bit as perfect as I remember it,” she says proudly.
As much as I hate to admit these things, she’s right—it is.
“Go upstairs and put it on; then make an obscenely dramatic staircase entrance,” she adds, laughing.
This feels so good, being normal with her.
“Okay, but only if you try yours on with me,” I say, holding out my hand. We had also picked out a dress for my mom to wear. “Is it upstairs in your room?”
She visibly stiffens, and I feel my arm dropping.
“Regan, I’m sorry. I . . . I can’t go with you to the party.”
And suddenly, I’m clinging to the dress like it’s a safety blanket. “Why not?”
“Honey, it’s tomorrow night,” she says, casting her eyes away from me. “I don’t think I’m ready to be out in public just yet.”
“But you just said that tomorrow you’d be better.”
God, I sound like such a little brat. What I said is so manipulative and whiny, and I want to take it back, but it’s too late.
“I will be better. Just not enough to be social in a group of people who are going to want to talk about your father,” she explains. “Can you understand that?”
I want to say yes, but my bottom lip is quivering. I’m so ashamed for acting like a five-year-old who’s not getting her way, but . . .
Doesn’t she understand how hard it is to miss both Dad and her?
Mom gets up, leaving Walden behind on the couch, and comes over to hug me. My dress might get wrinkled, pressed between us like a pancake, but I couldn’t care less.
“Listen to me, Regan. I want you to go and have a great time with Patrick,” she says as she strokes my hair. Then all of a sudden I feel her start to shudder, like she’s about to cry too. “And don’t be afraid to keep living your life, either. Whatever it takes for you to heal from this, that’s what you should do.”
I want to say something, but if I let one word escape my lips, I won’t be able to hold us up anymore. So we stand like that for a while, quietly, until we’re both strong enough to let go.
I don’t look or feel at all like myself.
Maybe it’s because I’m not used to wearing haute couture, diamond chandelier earrings, waist-length hair extensions, or the pound of makeup that I let my mother layer on my face.
Or maybe it’s because the last time I followed hordes of guests up the polished granite walkway of the Simmons estate, Mom and I had just finished watching an empty coffin being loaded into our family crypt.
I inhale deeply, trying not to remember Dad’s memorial service or the reception that Patrick’s mom hosted for us afterward. But images from that day start flooding my mind, and I freeze, right in the middle of Cathryn’s stream of incoming party guests.
The boring black shift that I mindlessly slipped on that morning.
The minister bestowing blessings that I paid no attention to.
Mom doubled over when we said our final good-byes with the help of two single red roses.
I was in so much shock then; I didn’t even shed one tear. Perhaps if I’d seen my father’s body, I might have cried.
As I stand here, unable to move in my perfectly fitting, two-thousand-credit designer gown, I wish that shock had never gone away. Sometimes I desperately miss the beautiful numbness that gets you through that first stage of grief or, if you’re lucky, makes you think that what’s happening to you isn’t even real.
Before my dad’s accident, Patrick and I used to Escape together with our Equip prototypes so we could feel that wonderful nothingness, but now . . .
Running my hands up my bare arms, the same way I did at my dad’s funeral, I feel like all the nerves on my skin are raw and exposed. It only gets worse post-Aftershock.
I know it. And so does my mom.
Suddenly, two women whiz by in identical hot-pink pantsuits, almost knocking me over. I’m actually thankful for their rudeness, because it propels me forward, although in baby steps. I steel myself and set my gaze on the enormous villa that Patrick grew up in. I don’t recall this place looking so intimidating, which is strange, because it’s the size of a city block and, with its large, domed ceiling, bears a strong resemblance to the old Detroit Observatory. It’s also on top of a steep hill in the exclusive Heights Sector, far from the reaches of Florapetro pollution, so no one has to worry about putting on their O2 shields.
I glance at the sparkly little white lights that coat the postmodernist sculpture garden and the three-tiered outdoor fountain, which bookend the house. Strands of silver garland are skillfully hung over the front of the forty-foot-tall arched windows. I’ve never seen the estate so impeccably decorated before, but I suppose that’s because a few years ago, Dad thought I was too young and immature to attend galas like these.
If only he could see me now.
I wait for the crowd to thin out a bit before I approach the grand entrance, and when I do, a long-legged woman in a gold spandex leotard holds out a scanner and smiles at me.
“Welcome,” she says. “Passcard, please.”
I open my silver beaded clutch and pluck the card out. While Goldie scans it and politely gives it back, another woman walks over, decked out in a similar blue costume and batting her glittering eyelashes.
“Follow me, Ms. Welch,” she says, motioning toward the right.
I know the way, of course, but I let her lead me because it makes it seem like I’m a stranger around here, and I have to admit, pretending feels kind of good right now. Along the way, I catch a flash of long spiral curls and shimmering green in one of the mirrored walls. I don’t even register that the reflection is actually of me until Blue Lady and I are just about to step into the ballroom.