Matt says to think of it as a coming out party.
"A coming out party?" I say into my phone. I look at what used to be my bed. Right now, it's my new closet because everything that used to be in my closet has been tossed haphazardly onto my bed. "What am I coming out from?"
Matt laughs. "You're coming out with me."
"That's what worries me."
"Don't worry about it," he says, "You've already met my mother and I think I can safely say she's the wackiest of the lot."
"The thing is, Matt, I've never met anyone's family before."
"Your friends don't have families?"
I smile. I tell him he knows what I mean - I've never met the family of anyone I dated. Then again, I've never really dated anyone. "Could explain it," Matt says. "Besides, it's not really a family gathering, more like a big cocktail my father's having where my parents will both happen to be. It's mostly my father's business associates. He just closed a deal. Chichi's is catering."
"Chichi's? Wow! Wait until I tell Stella. She's sort of bummed out because Mr. Wonderful cancelled out on her last minute."
Matt releases a long sigh. It's as if he's gone from jocular to heavy within the span of my sentence. I ask him if he's okay. "I shouldn't have said anything," he says.
"About what? Chichi's?"
"Can we just not talk about Chichi's?"
His voice is sharper than I've ever heard him sound before. "Emma?" he now says, "Sorry for snapping. I guess I'm just on edge with work."
"I still think your mother going to your father's cocktail party is weird," I say, more to change the topic than from actual interest. "I thought they hardly spoke to each other."
"My Dad's what people like to call an important man," Matt says. His tone of voice, I notice, is back to how it was at the beginning of our conversation. "It means he knows a lot of important wealthy people who just happen to be the kind of people my mother likes, especially if they're older. Oh, and it doesn't hurt if they've got a disease or two. In fact, the more diseased the better. My dad likes to help her out when he can because relationships keep her busy and the busier she is, the less he hears from her. It's like Gandhi said, Get someone involved with someone rich and you will not hear from them."
I laugh. "Gandhi never said that."
"Well he must have said something about getting involved with rich people."
"Don't think so."
We talk for a few more minutes, then hang up. He comes in an hour and I still don't know what to wear. I head over to the bathroom, only to find Ax kneeling on the floor with her ear pressed against the wall.
"What the--"
"Shh," Ax whispers, "I'm listening to the Dave and Liv show. They're talking about you."
I'm not sure how seriously I should take Ax. Yes, the bathroom we share is connected to Mom and Dad's bedroom, but I've never overheard any of their conversations from in here.
"Ax, you can't hear--"
Ax looks up at me and smiles. She motions for me to join her on the floor. I only now notice she's moved the basket with the towels to the side. She points to a small hole in the wall. "I drilled a hole right through to their room," she whispers.
"What? When did you do that?"
Ax shrugs. "A few years ago. Do you want to hear or not?"
I tell her to move over and to close the bathroom door. Ax is right, you can hear every word they are saying.
Dad: "Does this mean it's serious between this Matt guy and her?"
Mom: "I don't know."
Dad: "Well maybe you can go in there and clean the windows or something."
Mom: "Have you lost your mind, Dave? How the hell am I supposed to walk in there and start cleaning her windows while she's changing?"
Dad: "Why don't you do what you used to do when she was little. Remember? You'd drive her and her friends allover the place and you wouldn't say a word and they would forget you were there and they would start talking. It's how we found out who was having what party and whose parents were out of town."
Mom: "Are you suggesting I walk into her room and just stand very still?"
Dad: "You wouldn't have to stand very still. Maybe sit on her bean bag or something. Maybe read a book. What? Why are you looking at me that way?"
Mom: "You think I should walk into her room, plop myself onto her bean bag, and read a book while she's changing. Is that what you're saying, Dave?"
Dad: "Yes. No. Maybe."
Mom: "You think, Dave, maybe you and I should go away for a weekend. You know, get away from work for a few days, maybe get back in touch with reality or something."
Dad: "What about Alex? Think we can send her in there to find out what's going on."
Mom: "It's going to cost you. Last time I did that, she charged me two hundred bucks."
I look at Ax, ready to kill her. "Shh," she says, "Now is really not a good time to lose it. Besides, Emma, let's get serious. When has there ever been any big news concerning your life? I just make it sound like I know something major about you and Mom starts frothing at the mouth she's so desperate for you to have a life. Honestly? It's like taking candy from a baby."
I get up. I've heard enough. Ax follows me to my room. Listening to Mom and Dad talk about her is interesting. Listening to them talk about me is redundant. She looks at my bed and slowly rifles through my clothes. "You and I need to go shopping, Emma. This is pathetic. Very pathetic. Twenty-four and not one sexy outfit. It's almost embarassing."
I look at Ax. "Maybe take a look at your own wardrobe before dissecting mine," I tell her. "Jean shorts coupled with t-shirts plastered with the faces of various famous scientists are not anyone's idea of fashion. Also, what does an eleven-year-old, flat-as-a-board know about sexy?"
Ax tells me to "hang on a minute". A few minutes later, she's back with two shopping bags from two boutiques in SOHO. I watch as she takes out a pair of strappy black heels and what looks like a little black cocktail dress. I look at the price tag which is still on the dress. $600.00.
"Six hundred dollars? Did you shoplift this? Please tell me you didn't shoplift--"
Ax tells me to relax. She bought the shoes and the dress with the money she extorts from all of us. Two hundred dollars from Mom, eight hundred dollars from Gran, pocket change from me and Dad.
"Eight hundred dollars from Gran? What did you have on her?"
"I hacked into her Prayer Warrior account and started writing all these anti-prayer slogans. She asked me what it would take to get me off, and I told her. I had her wire the money to Linny's house so Mom wouldn't know."
"And you bought these shoes and this dress because... I mean, they're not even your size, Ax, they're more my size."
Ax nods and reaches for my cell phone. "I bought them as a future investment for when I'm about sixteen. I figured I'll develop into about your size and I need to be ready for the "Most Promising Scientist Award" that's handed out in the sixteen-to-eighteen-year-old category." She holds up the black dress. "I wanted something that said I'm sexy and confident, not, I'm a slut and I'll sleep with anyone. The salesgirl actually picked this one out."
I ask her who she's calling, but she's already on the phone with Kate. "You need to get here now. I can't manage the make-up and we've all seen what Emma's idea of make-up is and it's not like I can call Jen because who knows what she'd put on Emma's face and I already tried calling Stella, but no answer, and we all know what I think of Shelby, and I respect Anne too much to ask her to demean herself with such trivial things as makeup."
-------
"Wow!" Matt says as he holds the door of the cab open for me. "I don't think I've ever seen you so made up. And that dress."
"Compliments of Ax," I tell him.
Matt looks at me, confused. I tell him I'm kidding because there's only so much Ax explaining I can do in one lifetime.
His father lives in a brownstone which looks very similar to the one my parents live in, except its interior is much more opulent. The party is catered, as Matt said it would be, and packed with people I don't know.
Thnx, I text Ax, Dress is perf. Shoes too.
You owe me 50, she texts back.
50!
40 for rental, 10 for overhead.
It is an older crowd and every three minutes someone wearing all black and holding a tray in one hand, and a stack of black and white striped cocktail napkins in another, asks whether I would like whatever it is they're offering.
"Darling," a woman calls out to Matt. She looks like she is about forty and her red hair is cut stylishly short. She wears a tight white skirt which shows off her tanned legs and a white silk shirt that shows off her cleavage.
"Mom," Matt says, "I believe you've met Emma."
His mother. His mother who has had a complete makeover and looks about ten years younger than she looked a few weeks ago. His mother laughs. "Don't look so shocked, dear. What's his name left me and the other one he was living enough to ensure not one inch of us wouldn't be touched up. " She turns her attention back to Matt. "You like?" she says, pointing to her cleavage.
"Mom, please," Matt says, "We don't want to scare Emma away quite yet."
His mother takes a sip of her Martini. "You must call me Jenna," she says, her brown eyes on me. She smiles at another woman who approaches us. "Oh, and this here is Francis Giddard. Francis, my son and his friend, Emma."
Francis looks like a carbon copy of Jenna. No surprise, they met at the same change-your-look clinic in Arizona. Francis is a private nurse for a very wealthy ninety-year-old man named Teddy. Why is this important? It's important because Francis introduced Jenna toTeddy and now Jenna and Teddy are getting married.
"I can't wait for you to meet him," Jenna says.
"Is he here?" Matt asks.
"No," Jenna says, "Unfortunately the coma makes it hard for him to travel."
Matt and I sit with this for a few seconds. I look at my drink and wonder whether someone didn't slip something in it. Matt seems to read my thoughts. "Wish I could say you've been drugged," he whispers into my ear, "but welcome to my mother's life."
"Coma?" Matt now says.
Jenna nods like being engaged to someone in a coma is the most natural thing in the world. And this is where Francis, the nurse, comes in. Believe it or not, Francis is not only a private nurse, she is a "coma interpreter" as well.
I ask Francis what a coma interpreter does, exactly? Who knows, it actually sounds like something I might be qualified for. I imagine myself coming home and telling my parents I finally found my calling. Forget writing a novel, I imagine myself saying, I'm becoming a coma interpreter. Bet there aren't too many psych patients who've thought of that one.
In short, a coma interpretor is someone who scouts the planet for really rich, older single men, preferably without too much family, who are looking for a little marital bliss before they pass away. It is Francis' job to interpret, through their breathing patterns, what kind of a woman they are looking for. It is then her job to interpret, again through the rhythm of their breathing, what they say to this woman. 99% of the time they ask the woman to marry them. 99% of the time the woman says yes. 99% of the time they ask Francis to contact their lawyer so he knows the new wife is now in the picture, What does Francis get paid for this? A 25% of whatever the new wife gets commission fee .
"Think of it as an arranged marriage," Jenna says, "You know, where you have an interpretor who does all the talking for the couple."
I hand my empty glass to one of the people in black. A second later I'm holding a second Martini glass. "Cheers," Jenna says, clicking the tip of her glass against mine.
Matt gently nudges me forward. He's had as much as he can handle from his mother. He'd like me to meet his father. Also, if I like art, his father has quite the collection. "Emily!" someone screams behind me. I turn around only to find myself face to face with Bibs.
She looks gorgeous! Only someone with Bib's perfect proportions could pull off such a skimpy sequined dress. I ask her if my Uncle Frank is here as well.
"Who?" she says.
"Rich guy."
"Oh, him, no I don't think so. At least I didn't come with him. This lady... wait, I can't remember her name... Anyway, she's a nurse or something. I met her at Scarpi's, you know that Oyster bar on Lexington and something. Anyway, I told her I was sick and tired of playing mommy to whatever their names are and she said she had some single guy, no kids, she could hook me up with. Oh, there she is." Bibs waves at Francis who comes over, wheeling some old looking guy in a wheelchair. Bibs tells me if I'm ever in the market, Francis is the way to go. I tell her I'm fine.
"No, really," she says, "This woman is amazing. Do you know I actually sat down and calculated how many years rich guy had left. Guess how many? At least thirty. Can you imagine being stuck with him for another thirty years and playing mommy for that whole time?"
I mumble something about, "It must be difficult." I look around for Matt, but he's talking to a group of people. Our eyes meet and he throws me a wink.
"Wendy meet Harold Shearen," Francis says. She parks the guy in the wheelchair in front of Bibs.
Wendy?
"Oh you can call me Bibs," Bibs says. She leans forward so her cleavage is eyelevel to Harold. I swear if Harold was a dog his tail would be going a mile a minute.
"Bibs?" he says. "How unusual."
"Have no idea what it stands for, but my former step children gave me the name and keeping it is a way of reminding myself..." Bibs takes out a Kleenex from somewhere inside her cleavage. She dabs her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says, "But when I think that nasty man won't let me see those darling kids again...."
I walk off and slowly make my way towards Matt who is now talking to an older man with grey hair. "Dad," he says, extending his arm towards me, "Meet Emma Watson."
Matt's father gives me a warm handshake. He has the same lopsided smile as Matt and the same eyes. He says it's good to finally meet me. "Matt talks alot about you," he says, "Not that I see my son that often, but when I do."
I look over at Matt who is blushing. His father wants to know whether Matt has shown me his art collection. "I've been collecting all my life," he says, "Even before I could really afford it, I'd buy a piece here and there." He guides us towards the living room which is a little less packed than the foyer. There's one piece, in particular, that he's very proud of. The work is encapsuled in a plexiglass bubble which hangs suspended from the ceiling. The bubble is filled with "snow" and on this "snow" a small plastic figurine of a girl who walks quietly along.
"The solitary journey of humankind," Mr. Grierson says. "That's what this piece represents. It's so universal, yet so personal. So forlorn, yet so full of hope. So..." He looks past me and screams, "Greg, Nancy, over here."
Matt takes my hand and starts to lead me away. "We'll be back in a minute, Dad."
"What? No way, Matt, I want Emma to meet your uncle. He wasn't even supposed to come tonight. Remember? You asked me whether he'd be here and-- Geez, what's wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Mr. Grierson is right. Matt looks paler than pale and his lips are pressed tightly together. "What's wrong?" I whisper.
"I just want to get out of here. Please, Emma, let's just get out--"
"Matt," Matt's uncle says. He gives Matt a friendly pat on the back. For some reason, he looks familiar, only I can't quite place him. He shakes my hand and says something. "My wife," he now says, "Nancy Hastings."
Hastings... Hastings...
"So this is the girl who has my favorite nephew wrapped around her little finger," he says.
I nod, my mind trying to figure out where I know this man from. Beside me, Matt is trying to nudge me to leave, but I'm not going anywhere, not with Nancy Hastings talking to me about how she hopes John (Matt's dad) hasn't bored me with his art collection. She is young, maybe in her mid-thirties, and friendly, and very pretty, but then why wouldn't she be.
"You okay, Emma?" Mr. Grierson says, "I know my brother has quite the effect on women--" Nancy Hastings gives Mr. Grierson a friendly punch on the arm.
"Stop it," she says, "You're embarrassing her. Maybe, though, one should explain why two brothers have two different last names. Same mother, two different fathers."
Greg Hastings! Stella's boyfriend who supposedly left his wife-- I look at Matt and I know, in that one second I know he has known all along.
"Emma," I can hear Nancy Hastings call my name. She's holding me up on one side, Matt on the other side. Matt is whispering something in my ear, but I can't hear a word.
"Leave me alone," I hear myself saying. "Just leave me alone." I shake myself free of their hold. Matt tries to take my hand. "Let go of me," I say loud enough for everyone nearby to turn their heads to look at us.
I make my way out. It is just starting to get dark. I half walk, half run turning down this street, then that street. Only when I am certain Matt won't come running behind me, do I relax my pace and then I burst into tears. I walk and cry, not sure if I'm crying for me or for Stella.
Or maybe it's for both of us.