When We Were Bright and Beautiful(16)
“Not shallow, per se.” I smile back. “Discriminating.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. The only person’s appearance I care about is yours. And it pains me to say this, but God Almighty, Sweet Girl; you are a fright.”
Eleanor isn’t physically demonstrative, so when she reaches out to smooth my hair, I light up from within. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Which is what I mean by insatiable urges. The poor woman has already given me the keys to the kingdom and the family jewels. Still, I want more.
“Seriously, Cassandra. When was your last trim? Tomorrow is devoted to Billy. I want to bring him home and get him settled. But Tuesday, we’ll take care of you: tip-to-toe, hair and nails. I’ll make the appointments.” She glances up, like she thinks I’ll disagree, though we both know I won’t.
Eleanor has high expectations for her children. I’m female, so my appearance is non-negotiable. Her primary target is my body, which she’s been policing since I could walk. “Boys will be boys, Cassandra, even good boys. You’re a pretty girl. Why borrow trouble?” As far as she’s concerned, it’s my responsibility to ensure that I’m never viewed sexually by men—any man, including my brothers. Eleanor was raised in a subculture that enforces firm codes of conduct for both genders, but particularly girls. So, she raised me the way she was raised, the way her mother was raised, the way her mother’s mother was raised, and so on, all the way back to that naked slut Eve, whose downfall could’ve been prevented had she made better choices.
“We have an early start,” Eleanor reminds me. “I should lie down. But I heard what you said about Mr. DeFiore and will keep an open mind. And I appreciate you dropping everything to come home. It means a lot to me, and I know it means the world to your brother. Both brothers.”
“I’d do anything for Billy, and for all of you. I miss you guys every day.”
“I know, Cassandra, but you’re where you’re supposed to be. Now get some sleep.” She brushes my cheek with her fingers. Her touch lingers long after she leaves.
Though Eleanor is a pain in the ass, her dedication to my welfare is more than I deserve. With Lawrence, she raised me like a real daughter—that is, no differently from their sons. Together, they began the adoption process, only it was never finalized because of reasons too complicated to understand, unless you’re well-versed in revocable living trusts. I’m sure the decision had to do with money, but whose and how much I have no idea. Nor do I care. Eleanor is the closest I’ll ever come to having a living, breathing mother. She took me in when no one else wanted me. She fed, clothed, and protected me. You could say that she and Lawrence saved my life, and you wouldn’t be wrong. To this end, I spend an unholy amount of time conforming to her views of how I should look, how I should act, and who I should be. Both of us, I believe, consider me a work in progress.
10
THE NEXT MORNING, THE SKY IS PURE CERULEAN BLUE, AND the sun is bright yellow. It’s picture-perfect outside, as if the universe is casting a hopeful glow on today’s court visit. Choosing my outfit, I shoot for demure elegance with a come-hither edge, a mix of high and low fashion: chocolate-brown skirt (the Row), silk blouse (Burberry), thrift shop camisole, Louboutin heels, and beige tights (Gap). I wrangle my hair into a messy chignon, clip on my Mikimoto pearl necklace, and set off.
Our apartment spans two floors, and we spend most of our family time in a smaller living area that we call the celebration room. Here, we open birthday presents, trim Christmas trees, and announce good news (hence the corny name). But if I had to pick a favorite spot, it would be the dining room. When we were kids, before my brothers left for Groton, I loved our family dinners. Platters were passed back and forth while we reviewed our days. Cassie, please hand me the salt. Cassie, sit up, dear. Cassie, tell us three good things. Nate, Cassie, Billy. Billy, Cassie, Nate. Three Musketeers. Like most kids, I believed my family was the center of the universe, and I felt proud to be included.
I’ve only lived in a few places. However, I am well-traveled, and have come to recognize that a house’s personality reflects the best and worst traits of its owners. I barely remember my birth parents’ home. The Tarrants, an elderly couple, live there now. They have a daughter and son, both older than me. When I was younger and saw the family in passing, I’d imagine that the girl and I were the same person. She was the former me, forced to grow up in a cold, sad mausoleum; and I was the new me, spirited away to a bright, beautiful dreamland. I knew it was childish, but I couldn’t help feeling superior to her. I was the anointed one; I had been chosen. I never did go back to my old apartment; trying to picture it conjures a sweep of loneliness, even all these years later. The foyer had a marble floor, so you stepped off the elevator into a hard, sterile space. There was an art gallery, library, and billiards den, plus six bedrooms and a private guest wing. The rooms, long as tennis courts, were overstuffed with antiques, and yet felt cramped and devoid of life. For all its opulence, the house evoked despair, like a spinster who stocks up on Hummel figurines to hide the absence of love in her life.
The Quinns’ house, by contrast, is an oasis of warmth and light. They have the same mix of formal and informal rooms, but the couches are plush and inviting. Music plays quietly, even in empty rooms. The air smells of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies. They host parties with friends, business associates, and household staff. As a child, I loved being among the crowd, even if I just curled up on a chair and read. Maeve and the nannies hovered nearby, chiding me to eat in hushed voices. I felt blanketed by affection, welcomed by all. The sight, scent, and sound of the Quinns imprinted upon me so completely I was like a baby duckling, drawn back and back and back.