Like a Love Story(43)

“Tara!” I scream back, and without looking over at my mother, I rush into my sister’s arms. When she holds me, I melt into her body a little. She feels familiar. She reminds me of a time when I knew what to expect. But her scent is new. She smells like cigarettes, maybe, and a new perfume.

“Did you not arrive with the other passengers?” my mother asks.

“My flight was overbooked, so I ended up on an earlier flight,” Tara says. “I tried to call and tell you, but no one answered.”

“Oh,” my mother says, suspicious.

“The good news is they gave me credit for the inconvenience, so next time you don’t have to buy me a ticket.” Tara looks at my mom with annoyance. I know what Tara is thinking: that my mother is always suspicious of something. “Or maybe you don’t care about airline credits anymore now that you’re so rich.”

“Tara, please,” my mother says. “Let’s not begin like this. It’s so nice to see you.” My mom takes Tara’s hand and pulls her into a limp hug. They kiss each other on both cheeks, each marking the other with a small smudge of red.

“God, you even smell expensive now, Mom,” Tara says.

Tara has not yet learned the first rule of our new life, which is that we don’t talk about the money we now have. Tara has never been good at rules, whether spoken or unspoken, and it’s like all she wants to talk about as we head home is money. Seeing our life through Tara’s eyes, I understand. When we left Toronto, we were a family that had been living in a cramped apartment and did laundry once a week because we didn’t have a lot of nice clothes. Now my mother is wearing a Versace blouse, holding a Chanel handbag, and picking her daughter up at the airport in a Mercedes Benz.

Tara notices everything. She notices that our car is spotless and points out that parking a car in Manhattan must cost more than her college tuition. I’m in the back seat as we head into the city, and I can see Tara in the front passenger seat, taking in the city as we enter, the grime and the height and the energy of it. She has the fire this place requires, not me.

“Tara, may we speak frankly before you meet Abbas?” my mother asks as she takes a wrong turn onto Madison Avenue. I realize my mother is purposely extending the car trip to have this conversation.

“You know me, Mother,” Tara says. She calls her Mother when she wants to annoy her. “I’m nothing if not honest.”

That’s not true at all. Tara lies all the time. She lies about where she goes, and who she goes with, and what she does when she’s there. But the thing about Tara that’s so fascinating is that she makes you feel like she’s always being honest, because of her confidence and delivery.

“I have not told Abbas about some of your past mistakes because I don’t want him to judge you on your past . . . ,” my mom begins, and I know that this conversation will go very, very badly.

“They weren’t mistakes, they were choices,” Tara says, her voice already rising.

“Just as I would not want to be judged based on my past mistakes,” my mother continues, staring ahead at the road, going in the complete wrong direction now. “Perhaps moving forward, we can keep our emotions a little more private.”

“Oh, okay,” Tara says snidely. “So basically, you want me to hide who I am to make you and your new husband more comfortable.”

I stare at the store windows, all those fancy boutiques with their perfectly proportioned mannequins in the windows, draped in luxurious fabrics. I imagine Judy at her sewing machine, creating the different looks. I see her surrounded by colors and fabrics and ideas. We pass a store that’s working on a new display. In the window is a man disrobing a male mannequin. I look at the mannequin’s body and find myself getting a little hard. I cover my crotch with my hands. I imagine that Art is the mannequin, standing in the store window naked. How sick do you have to be to be turned on by a piece of plastic? In the background, their argument continues.

I just want him to see the sweet you, the real you. . . .

As opposed to the fake person I used to be?

You were young. Everybody is a fake version of themselves when they are young.

No, it’s old people who are fake. They forget who they really are.

You won’t feel that way when you’re my age.

You just look young ’cause you have money now.

Please do not talk about money in front of Abbas. People with money do not talk about money.

I know, I know. And people with dead dads don’t talk about dead dads ’cause it makes people uncomfortable. God forbid we cause anyone discomfort.

You are causing me discomfort right now, not that you care.

“Hey, Zabber, thanks for all the support. Much appreciated.” Hearing my nickname snaps me back to attention. We are pulling into the garage now, my mom having accepted that she must eventually turn the car in the right direction and go home.

“Reza, my love,” my mom says, agitated, “what have I done to deserve your sister’s awful treatment of me? Tell me.”

“I’m still in the car!” my sister yells. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. Can you tell her how annoying that is, Zabber?”

This is what they do. They make me a referee of their eternal competition.

My life could change again very soon. Tara is about to meet Abbas and Saadi for the first time, and given her propensity for destruction, we could all be on our way back to Toronto by tomorrow. But to my surprise, Tara is on her best behavior when Abbas greets her at the door. When she turns on the charm, she is irresistible, and she turns it on now, all smiles, compliments, and questions. She says things like “Wow, what a beautiful painting,” and “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a younger Marlon Brando?” and “Seriously, it is so nice to finally meet you after hearing so many amazing things from my mom and brother.” The closest she comes to mentioning money is when she says, “I feel like Annie when she sings ‘I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here,’” which is a charmingly appropriate way to acknowledge that these new surroundings are opulent and that our new stepfather is Daddy Warbucks.