Lib Novel Page 47
“I thought we could start with raiding Nanna Dot’s liquor cabinet and just talk. No agenda. We don’t even need to bring up the past. But I want to get to know you again, and I sure would love for you to get to know me.” She crinkles her eyebrows, raising them with an expression of hope. And even though I’d been pretty set to stay in my room for the rest of the night, I relax into something that must look like acceptance. She beams at me, making room for me to join her in the hall.
When I reach downstairs, I realize just how much I’ve been gone. It seems I haven’t noticed all the things she’s changed down here. The living room no longer has mountains of laundry on the couch or piles of junk mail and bills on the curio. Instead, the colorful couch has new throw pillows and a fluffy blanket laid over the back, both in stark white. There are new plants in the corners of the room and by the tall floor to ceiling windows. On the curio are three bouquets, all with white pom flowers that send a message of cheerfulness. It used to feel dark in here, but somehow she’s made it feel light and airy.
But I’m seeing red. This is not her house, it’s mine, and she never even asked if she could do any of this.
“What did you do to my house?” I demand. I don’t miss the way the words hit her right in the gut, the way she winces before hiding behind her usual mask of haughty loathing. “Where are all my things?”
She’s frozen in place, her mouth hanging open at my outburst—and fuck, I feel bad. I actually feel bad. To be fair, the place looks so much better than before, and I know I’m being a bitch. But then she shakes her head.
“You know what? Never mind. I was stupid for even trying to be civil or do you a favor with this dump.” She crosses the room and yanks open a closet. “Here’s where all your clothes are, neatly pressed and hanging instead of dying in a mountain on the couch.” She points to a shelf on the curio, which is also neatly organized with books and a filing container. She takes the container out and thrusts it at me so that I can see the few bills that are there. “I threw the junk mail away, unless you’re really interested in buy three get one free tires. They’re still in the recycling if you want to throw it all over the place like you usually do.”
She storms into the kitchen while I place the bill file on the curio.
“Put it back where it belongs,” she yells over her shoulder.
“You’re not my mom,” I yell back, but I also pick it up and place it on the shelf next to the books. I honestly wonder how I’ll remember to pay any of them now that they’re out of sight. She’s totally ruining my filing system, which is to leave out anything I don’t want to forget about. Well, we’ll see how pleased she is when the electricity is shut off from non-payment.
I march into the kitchen to tell her so, but then stop at the threshold and look around. The counters are cleared. The microwave has been moved to a more open spot and out of the way. The kitchen table is completely cleared off and the window has brand new curtains that give the room a fresh look. In fact, the whole room looks fresh as a whole and almost more spacious. On the kitchen island is every single bottle of alcohol Nanna Dot owned, a dust rag next to them. I can see she’s been wiping them down, judging by the clean bottles on one side and the still grimy ones on the other.
“So, you not only think you own the place, but you also think you can drink all of Nanna’s booze? Well fine, Jordy. Get good and drunk, it always worked for your mom.”
“Fuck you, Nina.”
I want to be pleased that I got to her, that I broke through her icy exterior. But this time, the wounded expression on her face remains.
I broke the unspoken rule. I hit her in a place I already knew was raw. I took something she confided in me when we were young, and I used it against her. I remember all the times she’d escaped the house after her mom had a few too many, picking me up on the way so we could spend the weekend at Nanna Dot’s. It was ironic since Nanna aided and abetted us in underage drinking. “As long as it’s in my house, and nowhere else,” she’d say, and we’d promise—though I broke that rule at so many high school parties. But on those weekends, Jordy sipped her drinks slowly, then confided in me after the lights went out about the things her mom called her when she was drunk. The way Aunt Lil yelled at Uncle Dan, threatening divorce. The tears, the complete chaos, the way even a pillow over her ears couldn’t drown out Aunt Lil’s drunken tirades.
I owe her an apology. It doesn’t matter that we’ve been enemies for years, we were friends once, and we told each other things that we never told anyone else. No matter what’s happened since, neither one of us has used those confidences as weapons.
Until now.
I lower my gaze to the ground, the apology sticking in my throat. I can’t seem to utter the words. So instead, I shuffle over to the island and pick up the bottle of whisky that Nanna Dot always used for Midnight Manhattans. I look at her, but she turns away abruptly, bringing one of the bottles with her to the sink as if she can’t be near me. She runs the water while I busy myself with the appropriate ingredients. Nanna always used her favorite whisky glasses, so I retrieve those from the neatly straightened cupboard. It’s obvious Jordy worked hard in here, and I never even noticed because I’d been at the ranch during waking hours, and in the kitchen only long enough to get my coffee and go. How long had it been this way? How long did this take her?
“That was shitty of me to say,” I finally utter. She stops washing but keeps her back to me. The words are right there, and I can either swallow them forever or be the one with the olive branch. “I’m sorry.”
Jordy turns and I hold out a Manhattan. She eyes it, and I see the corner of her mouth twitch.
“Is it poisoned?” she asks softly, then smiles at the joke. I smile back cautiously, still holding it out.
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
She takes it, holding it in her hands like she’s not sure what to do with it. So I move my glass towards hers, the silvery clink filling the spotless room with the sound of amends. Then, holding her gaze, I take a sip. She does the same.
“You still do that,” she says, her eyes crinkling before she takes another sip.
“If you don’t hold eye contact, you’ll suffer seven years of bad sex. You know that.”
At this, she lets go and laughs out loud—and I do too.
Two hours and half a bottle of whisky later, we’re huddled over Nanna Dot’s old photos and laughing more than I’ve laughed in years. The past floods into the present as we point out how dorky we were wearing Nanna’s smocks and muumuus, as if they were costume pieces and not her everyday clothes. When we were younger, we used to put on these theatrical performances that were mostly made up on the fly, even though we’d whispered ideas beforehand. Our parents would wear these stupid canned smiles that we later realized were their way of humoring two gauche and gawky girls. But Nanna Dot’s smile was real, as was the way she clapped her hands and exclaimed. Even when I fell during the dance performance and pretended it was part of the act. Even when Jordy’s voice wobbled and cracked during her musical solo.
“We should call that talent agency,” I once heard Nanna Dot whisper to my mom and Aunt Lil. “You know, the one that gets kids in commercials or on the Disney Channel. Or maybe dance and acting classes to refine their skills. Agents would fall all over themselves with natural talent like your girls.”
“Holy shit, we were awful,” Jordy says now, picking up a photo of us in Easter bonnets and long nightgowns. She breaks into a bad imitation of the song we made up for this performance. “I’m like a flower in May, on a bright sunny day, hoping you’ll stay if you come my way.”
“Oh man,” I groan. “Why did we ever think we were any good?” I sip my whisky, then nod at Jordy. “At least you improved with lessons. How did you convince your mom?”
“I didn’t,” Jordy says. “When my mom said we didn’t have time or money for something like that, Nanna Dot signed me up for classes anyway and drove up to Santa Barbara every week to take me.”