It’s hideous. A taupe halter-neck dress that bells out straight from the clavicle in a strange, asymmetrical triangle. It hangs on her like a poorly pitched tent. The taupe washes her out.
“Tell me,” she says, a little pleading.
But she doesn’t want me to tell her. Not truly. I can tell by the twitch in her lip, the hopeful shine in her eyes. She’s brimming with it: a longing for delusion. She’s not looking at the giant gilt-trimmed mirror Mother nailed to the wall, though it’s right beside her. She’s looking at me. An entity capable of reflecting back exactly what she desires to see. Like how Mother used to look at me instead of a mirror sometimes. Slavering for just the right adjective. Well, Belle? What do we think?
“It’s a little too, I don’t know… look at me, isn’t it?” the woman says, and then laughs, embarrassed.
I smile. “Is that such a bad thing?”
“What do you think?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
I can feel her holding her breath. For a moment, I savor the power, the true words right on my tongue. Unflattering. Unfortunate. I could speak them and crush her.
“I think it’s wonderful.”
“Really?”
“Sophisticated,” I offer. “Avant-garde, even,” I add, over-enunciating the French.
“Avant-garde,” she repeats dreamily. Another language. She likes that. “You really think so?”
“Never hide your light,” I tell her. She smiles. She’s prone to hiding her light, her eyes say. She looks at herself in the mirror. Now it’s safe. Her face brightens at what she sees.
“It is sort of elegant, isn’t it? Cutting edge, even.”
I nod. Absolutely. It could be those things if she likes. “And versatile,” I add. “A daytime sharpness that could translate easily into a nighttime chic.”
Where are these words coming from? My lips, apparently. It always comes so easily. Telling people what they want to hear. Divining the perfect words with one look at their waiting faces. Giving them their dream of themselves. I did it in a spangled bra for ten years beneath the arch of Sleeping Beauty Castle. Aren’t you as pretty as a princess? I’d say, even to the homely ones. Especially to the homely ones. I do it now at Damsels in my dark, high-necked dress. And, of course, I did it for Mother. In this shop and all my life, I’d have my slew of words ready to hand out like candy. You always have the magic words, Mother said, grateful but also suspicious. How do you always know exactly what to say?
The woman smiles more broadly. “I should take you with me everywhere. Normally I shop with my daughter. She’s very cruel. She calls it being honest, of course.” Laughter.
I smile. “Of course.”
“And how are we doing here?” Sylvia says, suddenly appearing at my side out of nowhere. “Oh my, that looks fantastic. Aren’t these halter necks just the cutest things? Just got them in from Sweden.” It has the ring of falsehood. Of too much.
The woman smiles tightly. “Your saleswoman was just helping me.”
“Was she?” And Sylvia’s face darkens, looking at me. “I see. How wonderful. Thanks so much, Mira. I’ll take it from here.” She pats my shoulder and leans in. I catch the scent of her: an insidious freshness spiked with citrus. She whispers hotly, “We left the box by the car. Just the one in the end.” Prim smile. “I’ll come by and visit later, okay? See how you’re getting on.”
She turns her attention to the woman in the taupe tent. Time to reel her in. “Now, are you looking for a little bolero or blazer to go with or…？”
I walk quickly away toward the door, the sound of Sylvia’s voice, a pitch too high, ringing in my ears along with the insipid adult contemporary. The store is an alien landscape, nothing of Mother remaining. Just the mannequins alone in the dusty back room. Smiling mysteriously in the dark.
5
Afternoon. A reapplication of sunscreen, physical and chemical, which I can already feel melting in the light. I’m standing outside Mother’s apartment, gripping the basement box. Staring at her doormat, which reads Wipe Your Paws. On either side of her front door, pots of spiky plants and flowers assail my eyes with their bright shades. Don’t want to go in. Want to check back into the pink hotel. Lie down in a dark room watching Marva videos until I fly back to Montreal. Three days from now. But the flowers need to be watered, don’t they? And her cat, Anjelica, needs to be fed. Her things need to be sorted through, packed. The place needs to be cleaned up, fixed up, Chaz said. Before I can sell it and get out of here. Never come back again to this sunny place she loved despite her enmity for the sun.