The High Season(18)

Ruthie closed the drawer.

“How come I can’t raid Verity’s closet?” Jem asked.

“Because she’s six.”

“Oh. The other one.”

“Arden. Because you weren’t invited. Besides, she’s twelve.”

Jem sighed. “I bet she has better clothes than I do already.”

    “Are you okay?” Ruthie asked. “You seem off. Crabby.”

“I’ve got finals and stuff. And the playhouse…”

“You don’t like it? How can you not like it? You saw the kitchen!”

“Everything is so…I don’t know…done.”

“Are you kidding me? For years you’ve been complaining about sofa beds and now you’ve got a European mattress and it’s too done?”

“I know,” Jem said. “I’m reverse spoiled.”

“Nah. You’re just spoiled. My fault. I only want you to be happy, and it’s exhausting.”

Jem leaned against Ruthie. Ruthie slipped an arm around her. She breathed her daughter in, feeling the humidity-swollen texture of her hair against her cheek. Jem stirred and she hugged her tighter. “Just another second. One day you’ll love me again. But by then osteoporosis will have set in and I won’t be able to hug you without fracturing a bone.”

“You are a serious weirdo,” Jem said, but she smiled as she pushed her away.

“So what is it?” Ruthie asked. “This is our best summer squat ever. Why the gloom?”

“I hate leaving my house. I’m going to spend an entire summer afraid I’ll spill something.”

“We need the money.”

“Maybe if all those years you didn’t buy me organic milk and stuff, you would have been able to save money and we’d still have the house in the summers.”

Ruthie started to laugh, but then got momentarily lost in speculating if all those things they had always spent money on to protect Jem—from growth hormones in cows, from pesticides, from trans fats, from PCBs in plastic (all those expensive wooden toys!)—would add up to enough extra cash to give Jem exactly what she wanted, could keep her in Apple products and purses and vacations for years.

    “Remember when we used to talk about fun things, like Death Eaters?”

“Mom!”

“I’m sorry about the pedicure, you can save up for one this summer.”

“It’s not the pedicure. Sometimes it just seems like…like everybody has money but us.” Jem’s finger trailed along a row of folded sweaters.

“Well, lots of people do. And lots of people are suffering.”

“If you mention refugees I’m walking.”

“That’s exactly what they have to do, walk away from a life—”

Jem took a step and Ruthie pulled her back. She stroked her hair. Lightly. Held her like a moth, felt her fluttering wings. “Look, aside from cashmere throw envy, we have it pretty good,” she said. “We’re going to have a great summer. Speaking of which, I bumped into Meret’s mom today. Doe’s been doing this teen outreach thing, and Mrs. Bell is bringing Meret and a whole gang to Spork. So you can hang with friends instead of working the kids’ table, okay?”

“I don’t know if I can come. I’m working tomorrow.”

“Only until three. You can come after work, with Daddy.”

Jem set her jaw. “I can choose what I want to do with my time.”

“Well, sure.” Ruthie peered into her face. “Did something happen at school? Or with Meret?”

“Why did something have to happen at school?” Jem flung herself away. “I have to pee.”

“Check out the toilet! It’s Japanese!”

Ruthie found the pink shirt and white pants. She tossed aside her T-shirt and slipped on the shirt. Silk slipped over her arms and floated around her waist and fit her shoulders and cast a light on her skin as though she was carrying around Carole Lombard’s cinematographer.

    She never wore pink. But this pink was luscious. Inside it she would feel as though she’d burrowed into the heart of a rose.

She pulled on the white pants, satiny cotton sliding across her skin. She twisted in the mirror. Was that an actual ass?

“Whoa, Mom.” Jem walked back in. “You look like a whole different person.”

Ruthie slipped into her flats. “That’s the idea.”

“Okay, no.” Jem perused the shoes and came up with MANOLO MULE KITTEN HEEL. “Here.”

Ruthie slipped into the shoes. “Better,” Jem said.

It was like resolving a painting. If you change a corner, the composition is thrown off. Couture had thrown the rest of her middle-aged self into relief. The bracelet she’d had since college, a plain silver band she’d bought at a flea market in NoHo. And her hair! Carole was right. Everything was wrong.

“My hair,” she said.

“You just need product,” Jem said. “And maybe a necklace or a bracelet?”

“I can’t borrow Carole’s jewelry. Wait, hold on.”

She dashed to Verity’s bedroom. She found the dress-up trunk and pawed through it, looking for that pretty silver necklace. The trunk was heaped with sequined tutus and costume jewelry, most of it too glittery for a Memorial Day picnic. Feathers flew as she tossed boas and hats aside. Something caught her eye, the dull shine of metal against all that sparkle. She pulled out a man’s watch with a nickel case, one of those knockoffs that looked real if you didn’t look twice. She wound it, and the second hand ticked forward crisply.