Rouge(10)

3


Dreaded breakfast with Mother’s lawyer. When I get to the hotel dining room the next morning, Chaz is waving at me from a table by the window.

“Mirabelle,” Chaz says. “Been a long time.”

“It has,” I agree. Yet Chaz hasn’t changed. Pale violet suit of wrinkled linen. Tanned and emanating a musky cologne. Still standing on ceremony like someone in a French court, which I suppose he sort of is, being Mother’s lawyer. When I was younger, he reminded me a little of a perverted Rumpelstiltskin. I’d watch him ogle Mother. Take her in with a twinkly-eyed delight I found obscene, like she was a bowl of bright, erotic candy. Hi, Chaz would say to me. And I’d grip her hand tighter. Shy, Mother would say. And he’d nod sympathetically, though he was obviously annoyed. What did Chaz always say?

I’m your mother’s gentleman friend.

Now he looks me up and down as he used to when I was a teenager. Takes me in, so to speak. His face says I’ve made an impression on him. On his dick. Good for you. He nods a little. Good work. Impressive. Though of course I’m not Mother.

“So good to see you again,” he says, giving me what he believes to be the gift of his grin. “Got us a table by the water.” He gestures graciously to the seat facing the waves. I take the seat with my back to the ocean and stare at Chaz. I don’t say it’s good to see him. Mother would have smacked me for this. Manners! she would have snapped, probably even now. But it isn’t good to see Chaz. At all. If he looked troll-like to my young eyes, he looks more so now. A hobgoblin with a fake tan, conspicuously brown glossy hair. Though he does seem to be exfoliating.

“I ordered coffee,” Chaz says, as if offering condolences. “There’s a basket of pastries coming too. Croissants.” He tries for a wink. Because I’m from Montreal. And being from Montreal, I love croissants, don’t I?

Most mornings, I have what Mother called my skin sludge. A blueberry and spirulina smoothie into which I pour a copious amount of collagen. The smoothie is really just a vessel for the collagen, but I enjoy the ritual, watching the powder dissolve into the blue-green mulch. You drink that? Mother said the last time I visited. I was making one in her kitchen. She watched, looking disgusted but also curious. What’s all that white powder you’re putting into it there?

Just a little cocaine.

Well, now I’m interested.

“I’m not hungry, thanks,” I tell Chaz.

And then his face changes to a performance of recognition, grief. Ah yes, of course I’m not hungry. How could I be? He watches me pour myself some coffee.

“How are you holding up?” Trying for softness. Though I know he doesn’t care, his tone does something to me in spite of myself. I feel I could crack like an egg. But I won’t. This morning, I applied three layers of an antioxidant serum enriched with Firma-Cell, followed by seven skins of a roaring water kelp essence, followed by the Iso-Placenta Shield to smooth and tighten. Then the White Pearl Pigment Perfector mixed with the Brightening Caviar for Radiance. Then of course the Diamond-Infused Revitalizing Eye Formula, the Superdefense Multi-Correxion Moisturizing Cloud Jelly, and two layers of broad-spectrum Glowscreen, physical and chemical. I did this in the half-dark of the hotel bathroom, while Marva played on the counter, talking softly to me about the benefits of moisturizing cloud jellies. I think about the many layers, the many ingredients, the many sophisticated formulas right now shielding me from oxidizing free radicals while also keeping me hydrated. I shrug and stare at Chaz through Mother’s sunglasses. They’re huge and dark, that Jackie O style she loved. For those days, she said, when the truth is laid bare. Or for when the Revitalizing Eye Formula goes rogue and bleeds, creating a teary effect. I won’t lay the truth bare before Chaz.

“It’s hard,” Chaz offers.

“I’m fine,” I say.

And then he smiles at me with something like understanding. Reaches out and puts his hand on mine. “There, there,” he says awkwardly. I look down at his Apple Watch. Nestled there in his hairy wrist. Two fat gold rings on his pudgy fingers, one of which has an insignia of an S. His hand feels heavy on mine. Smothering.

A waiter arrives bearing a tray. “Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon? Pastries?”

“Perfect,” Chaz says.

I watch him ravage his eggs, making vapid observations about Mother’s death as he chews. “Sho shudden,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m as shocked as you must be, honestly.” Respectful silence or is he just swallowing? “And so young, too. Well, maybe not so young. She looked it though, that’s for sure. Younger looking every time I saw her. Almost like she was moving backward in time rather than forward, you know? Not like us mere mortals, right?”

“I guess so.”

You’re a fucking freak of nature, I told her once. And Mother just looked at me, touched. I watch Chaz take a knife to the wobbly egg.

“So. You’re back in Montreal now, huh?” he asks. Because we have to make a little conversation before he gives me the terrible news, right? Makes it more human. I’m human, says his face.

“Yes.”

“No more playing Mulan for you.” He smiles. See how he remembers that I used to work at Disney while I was in college? He got the princess wrong, of course, but he remembered she was ethnic. Because I’m ethnic, aren’t I? Something other than Mother, anyway. He forgets what exactly. Somewhere from the south and the east. I was Princess Jasmine, I could tell him. The Arab one. Like the father I barely knew. Died of a heart attack when I was five, before I could form a memory beyond the smallest fragments. The closest I ever got to him was lining my eyes with kohl, talking to little kids about how I flew here on my magic carpet. But I just smile at Chaz.