No One Knows Us Here(36)
“We got home like a minute before Mom pulled up into the driveway. We jumped onto the couch and turned on the TV, trying to act all casual.”
I laughed. “You think she bought it?”
“Who knows. She was in a good mood. She made us her special lasagna for dinner.”
“God, you do remember everything.”
“Best day ever. Best day of my entire life.”
“It was a pretty good day.”
“You know what we should do?” Wendy asked. “Make that lasagna. And we should eat it in the living room, watching the same movie we watched that night.”
“What did we watch?”
“You don’t remember?”
I closed my eyes, trying to recall every detail of the night. The lasagna our mom made, with the béchamel sauce instead of a marinara sauce. Sitting in front of the TV to eat it, something we never did when Jason was around. And the movie—“Dirty Dancing,” I said.
“Yes!”
“Mom thought it was inappropriate.”
“But you talked her into it. Like I said: best—day—ever.”
I didn’t have a recipe—I’m not sure our mother did, either—but I figured I could make it from memory. We went to the store to buy the noodles and the spinach and the fresh tomatoes. Everything out of season. We bought two pints of Ben and Jerry’s, too, and popcorn for the movie.
We chopped vegetables and whipped up a perfectly smooth béchamel, and everything seemed worth it then. I’d done it. Sure, it had required some sacrifice and I’d sold my soul and would probably never find love again—but look at my little sister! A month ago she was suicidal or, at the very least, pretending to be suicidal, which was not all that much better. And now she was laughing and we were putting a lasagna in the oven and getting ready to stream Dirty Dancing.
I hadn’t watched Dirty Dancing since that night with my mom and Wendy, but there had been a time when it was my favorite movie, probably because it had been my mom’s favorite movie when she was growing up. I knew all the lines, could sing along to every song. I could probably even re-create half the dances.
Wendy and I were on the couch, the smell of the lasagna wafting from the kitchen into the living room, reminding us of our mom, our beautiful young mom. We were leaning against each other, arm to arm, as the opening credits flashed across the screen over couples in fedoras and headbands gyrating in jerky slow motion to “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes.
And then the jarring sound of shattering glass rang through the apartment.
“I have to get this.” I jumped off the couch, scampered off to the dining room, and answered the call.
“Hello?” I almost whispered, staring at Leo’s face in the Mirror.
“Hey, babe. Miss me?”
All the air whooshed out of the room at the sound of his voice. After what I hoped was a barely perceptible pause, I spoke. “So much.”
“We have reservations at eight. Wear something nice. I’ll come pick you up.”
God, why now. Why right now. What would I do with Wendy? I couldn’t leave her alone. Not on the first night. She was a troubled youth. A suicide risk!
All that flashed through my mind in about half a second. “Can’t wait,” I said to Leo Glass. Part of me still couldn’t believe I was doing this. I looked over at Wendy.
Maybe Margorie could come over and watch Dirty Dancing with my sister. She picked up but said she couldn’t do it, not tonight. She was out with her boyfriend. They had tickets for a show—in Seattle.
I had half a mind to ask Sam. He wouldn’t be home anyway. It was Saturday night; he would have a performance. I felt relieved then, knowing it was impossible. It would be difficult to come up with a worse idea than asking Sam to babysit so I could dress up like Melania Trump and go out with my new billionaire boyfriend.
“Who was it?” Wendy asked when I walked back into the living room. She had paused the movie for me.
“That was work,” I said. “Something urgent came up. I have to go—uh, go deal with it.” This sounded fake, even to me.
“What came up?”
“I set the timer for the lasagna. When it’s bubbly and browned on the top, you can take it out. Don’t forget to turn off the oven.”
“You’re seriously leaving.”
I put on a desperate, pleading expression that I hoped would communicate how sorry I was, for everything. Then I disappeared to my room to get ready.
I came out wearing a tight dress and lipstick and high heels, and Wendy just stared at me. Her mouth fell open. Whether this was actual shock or fake shock, designed to make me feel even worse than I already did, I couldn’t say. “Some emergency,” she said.
“It’s a work event.” Maybe she’d fall for this. “Important people are there. Investors. I just need to”—I racked my brain, trying to think of why anyone would possibly call upon me to deal with a team of important investors—“to smooth things over.”
Wendy sank deeper into the couch cushions and glared at the frozen dancers on the television screen.
“We can do this whole thing tomorrow night. Lasagna’s good the next day. It’s better—the flavors have time to meld.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“So?”