Even the snowy-white dog snoring on a matching dog bed is boutique—a shedless bichon named Olaf that cost more than Chelsea’s first car, because David couldn’t stand the thought of dog hair rolling along the marble floors like tumbleweeds. Poor, sweet Olaf is terrified of him and spends most of his time hiding in a closet. But then again, Olaf is deeply inbred, a yipping bag of neuroses and surprise puddles of pee.
The big and airy house is the complete opposite of the shitbox apartments Chelsea grew up in. It should be beautiful and relaxing, but it’s closing in on her, an avalanche of stuff and the never-ending work it takes to keep that stuff either proudly displayed at perfect angles or hidden from view, to keep everything running. She never imagined that life would be like this, that she would feel so constantly trapped.
Chelsea is pouring another cup of coffee that will barely touch her bone-deep disquiet when the doorbell rings, sending her entire body rigid. She scans the wall calendar, the dates empty of commitments and the top crammed with posed pictures of her family in matching crisp white shirts, but no one is due to work on the house or make a delivery. Between Dream Vitality and David, most of her old friends keep their distance these days, which means only one thing. Her feet already know it and are propelling her backward, away from the soaring foyer and toward the laundry room, where the windows are too high up to tattle on her as she hides. The garage door is closed, after all; there’s no way to tell she’s home.
And then her phone buzzes in her hand, and the text pops up on the screen.
I know you’re in there.
Even the laundry room can’t save her. Back in the kitchen, she gulps her coffee and slams the gray ceramic mug down almost too hard, the blond liquid splashing onto the black granite. She hurries to the huge master bathroom, brushing her hair and touching up her lipstick. Her mascara is running, just a little, making her blue eyes pop, and she dabs a tissue under each eye. There’s a tiny coffee stain on her shirt, so she throws on a new one and jabs midsized diamond studs into her ears—not so small that they look like all she can afford but not so big that it seems like she’s trying too hard.
When the knock comes, it’s light and jovial.
Tap tap tap-tap-tap.
It’s just little old me, the knock seems to say. Just a friendly visit.
If malignant narcissism could knock, it would sound like that.
Knowing that if she doesn’t hurry, she’ll hear the scrape of the mat being moved aside and the emergency key turning in the lock, Chelsea scurries across the tile, checks the peephole to confirm, and opens the door with the sort of smile that chimps use when they’re about to get torn limb from limb by bigger chimps.
“Well, that took you long enough,” says Patricia Lane, her own answering smile proper and polite and yet the sort that reflects the stronger ape promising a primordial beat-down with a femur bone. “Eighty-six degrees today. In April! I’m lucky I didn’t melt out here.”
Witches melt in rain, not sun, Chelsea wants to say but doesn’t. And you’ve lived in Central Florida your whole life, so move away if you hate it so much. But, just like with David, talking back only makes it worse.
“Hi, Mom. Come on in.”
There is no hug, no posh and affected air kisses, definitely no real kisses.
There never have been.
Patricia straightens the cardigan knotted over her silk shell and looks down her nose at her only daughter before sweeping into the foyer. “I’m not a vampire, darling. I’m family. I’m always welcome.”
If she’s being honest, Chelsea knows her mother looks more like she’s actually Chelsea’s older sister. Patricia’s hair is blonder, her face is tanner and still smooth, her clothes are neater, and her figure is still so trim that they could trade clothes if they had anything close to the same taste. The diamonds in her ears and on her fingers and wrist don’t say, I’m just the right size; they suggest that, given the slightest provocation, they would delicately shred you to ribbons while explaining the Mohs scale in the most patronizing manner possible. Chelsea’s mother, as David says, puts in the work.
As Chelsea locks the door behind her, Patricia turns a slow circle, raising one perfect eyebrow at the chandelier.
“You have to remind them to dust, dear,” she says, almost sad. “Let these once-a-week cleaning services get away with one thing, and soon they’ll stop dusting the baseboards and you’ll find cash missing. Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.”
Chelsea looks up at the chandelier but can’t see any dust.
“So what did you need?” she asks, hoping to end the visit as soon as possible while still appearing polite so she won’t get another lecture.
Patricia’s gaze stops checking the glass over the family portraits for water spots and lands on Chelsea, the older woman’s frown going deeper without making any creases in the smoothly filled putty of her face.
“Does a mother need a reason to visit her daughter?” she asks, sounding wounded. “Can I not simply take a loving interest in your life?”
Chelsea smiles as her teeth grind together. “Of course you can. What did you want to talk about? Ella and Brooklyn are doing well in school—”
Patricia sighs the sigh of the sorely aggrieved and swans toward the kitchen, where she plucks a mug from its hook, frowns at its interior, and wipes it out with the kitchen towel before pouring herself a cup of black coffee. She sips it, eyes closed, expectant, then makes a face.
“These beans are burned. I told you: You can’t just buy any old bag at the store.”
Holding up the twenty-dollar bag of single-origin coffee from a specialty shop, Chelsea presents it for inspection. “I didn’t.”
Instead of taking the bag or even looking at it, Patricia flaps a hand at it in a gesture that reminds Chelsea of how her mother treats sticky toddlers. “Then you bought the wrong kind. Your generation, I swear. Can’t tell you anything.”
Patricia’s gaze tracks around the kitchen like an airport security dog hunting for more delicious contraband, and Chelsea realizes her mistake the moment her mother goes on point, eyes alight and smile curling up.
“Oh!” She puts down her mug of coffee and saunters over to the wooden cabinet still sitting on the kitchen table. “Are you still doing your…little business thingy?” Patricia pulls out a bottle at random and twists off the top, breaking the seal and making Chelsea wince as she sniffs. “Ugh. Thieving Blend? It smells like angry Christmas at the Dollar Store. Do people actually pay for that?”
Chelsea can recite the ingredients, uses, and benefits of the oil by rote, but that would be a mistake, as would be revealing that the simple twist of the cap has cost her twenty dollars that was a problem even before that damn letter arrived today.