We Run the Tides(34)

Class is dismissed even before the 3 p.m. bell. The mothers in the horseshoe driveway are out of their Volvos, standing in small knots of conversation. They look more dressed up today than usual. I count at least six ironed pencil skirts.

*

WHEN I GET HOME I walk through Ewa’s room to get to mine. We call it her room now because the Swedish network hasn’t found her a new au pair position yet. This is a huge relief to me.

I’ve shown Ewa the polka-dot dress I bought on Haight Street, but she hasn’t seen it on me. I close the door to my room and slip it on for the party. As I button the bodice I think of the shopkeeper with her delicate, capable hands working the same buttons on the mannequin. I don’t feel like myself, in the best way possible, since myself is someone who’s been ostracized.

I slide into the new shoes and step into Ewa’s room.

“Perfect,” she says, pronouncing it purr-fect. Then, instead of asking me to spin around, she gets up from the couch and circles me as though I’m a statue at a museum, a work of art.

“Now,” she says. “I have a surprise for you.”

She walks to the sewing closet, her wide feet leaving imprints in the plush white carpet. She has transformed the sewing closet into her own—my mother’s knitting, embroidery, and quilt square have all been moved to the bottom shelf. I take this as a welcome sign that she’ll be staying for a while.

Ewa removes a circular leather case that looks like it’s intended to carry a musical instrument—a tambourine? A drum? She unzips it with the easy efficiency of a flight attendant demonstrating how to use a flotation device.

“Ta-da,” she says, and she hands me a hat.

It takes me a minute.

“Is this a bowler hat?” I ask. When reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being I hadn’t been able to picture it.

“Ja,” Ewa says. Swedes aren’t big nodders. They do the oppo site of nodding—they raise their chin up and inhale and say ja at the same time.

“Yeah?” I say. I try it on and know it is probably ludicrous.

“Ja, ja,” she says, seeming noncommittal about the success of the hat she has purchased for me.

I wear it anyway. Ewa and her au pair friend Monica drop me at the party in the Jaguar that belongs to Monica’s “family.” They can’t find a parking space so they double-park outside the house so I can exit. I hold on to the back door handle a moment too long so that I’m still holding it when they start driving away. Release, I tell myself. Let go. I half-hoped they’d walk me to the door.

The party is at the home of Arabella Gschwind, Maria Fabiola’s godmother, a woman I haven’t met but who my dad says is a well-known interior decorator. “She did the living room of the Decorator Showcase house this year,” my dad told me, clearly impressed. Arabella lives in the Marina. Correction: she lives on the Marina. She lives on the street that borders the water where boats are docked and where everyone runs on the weekend, looking fit and pretending to live in Southern California. Marina Boulevard is the street in San Francisco known for its Christmas decorations. Just last month, in December, my family took a special trip to drive by the houses with all their lights and reindeer and Santas. “Pick your favorite one,” my father said, as though whatever house we chose would be ours.

“Too much,” my mother said. “Too much . . . America.” But her posture revealed the truth—she was tilting forward in the front seat to get a better view.

It’s windy out tonight. As I climb the stairs to the house I hold on to the top of my bowler hat, afraid it’s going to blow away. I’m relieved I don’t have to ring the doorbell; the door is unlocked and cracked open. When I step inside it slowly occurs to me that this is the home of Leon, that Arabella is his mom. Leon went to the French-American school last year until his parents divorced and he moved to Geneva to live with his dad. I know Leon from dancing school. Everyone knows him from dancing school. Last year, when we wanted to tease fellow classmates, we’d call their houses when we knew they weren’t home and when their parents asked if they could take a message we’d say, “Tell them Leon called.” Then we’d spell the name so there could be no confusion. We knew that when the girl returned home she would be thrilled. We imagined her calling Leon’s house and feeling rejected. That was our idea of fun.

The walls of the foyer are filled, salon style, with photos of Leon at all ages. Here he is sporting ironed shorts with suspenders. Here he is dressed in a suit and bow tie. Poor Leon, I think—such fancy clothes for a kid. I spot a woman across the room dressed in a tight white silk dress, a bolero jacket, and heels so high I worry her calves might snap. I suspect she’s the reason for Leon’s old-man wardrobe. A face-lift has never been pointed out to me before but the skin around her eyes and mouth is so taut that all I think when I see her is face-lift! She’s greeting a young man. “I’m Arabella,” she says, and kisses the young man on both cheeks. Astonished by the attention, he fails to introduce himself. “Where’s the toilet?” he asks. “The W.C.,” she corrects him, “is to the right of the Diebenkorn.” He walks away from her, feigning comprehension.

I hear the party within the heart of the house—in the living room and the dining room to the left of the foyer—but I can’t bring myself to join. The front door opens and Julia and Faith step inside. I look at them, expectantly, plaintively. We’re all here. It’s all okay. A new year. A party. A safe return. But their made-up eyes slide over me.