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I’m a working girl, and I love it. But here I am, leaving the tiny apartment on the admittedly dirty streets of South Loop, heading to dinner with my betrothed pack—with whom, I wouldn’t have to work a day in my life, and I know I’d only receive the best, of everything—and I couldn’t feel more miserable, or lost.
I pull up to the gate and type in the passcode, winding my car down the long, landscaped yard, complete with water features and statues pretending to be some ancient Italian estate. We’re not even Italian.
My mother would have a fit if I left my car in the roundabout, so I pull further onto the property, past the massive pillars elevating her garden veranda, parking in the garage beside their collection of over-priced vehicles. I climb out but stand there and stare across the garage, more like a hangar, at the expanse of gratuitous wealth and can’t help but feel a little sting in my heart.
I am doing this to help my family, but I can't help but think, if they are in such financial trouble, couldn't they sell a car or two? How deep in the hole are they?
Staring at the two Lamborghinis, Bowen’s electric Hummer, Mother's Audi, I know it’ll only get worse when I step inside the house.
I've had a taste of living on the other side of the tracks, so to speak, and the pitfalls are nothing like I’d have expected. I can now see so much more clearly how wasteful my parents have been. With their money, with themselves. With me. They’ve forced me into an impossible situation, all so they could have this… more cars. A bigger house.
"Imogen, honey, is that you?"
Spinning on my heel, I find Bowen watching me from the door. His smile is tight, and though it’s only been a couple of weeks, his graying hair seems more prominent. He looks tired.
"I saw you pull in. Come inside, dear, your mother wished to speak with you before Stevens arrives."
"Of course," I offer my practiced smile, folding my hands in front of me and follow him through the courtyard and a side door opposite the garage. We weave our way through the house, past rooms filled to the brim with various decor, art, and books meant to give off a certain image. All I see is more stuff.
We find my mother, Regina, in a harried state, yelling at poor Gerald, their cook.
"I said crisped, not burnt! These leaves are too dark!"
Gerald grits his teeth in response. "You asked for crispy Brussels sprouts. Any less, and they’d be soggy. I’d be happy to do them again if—"
"Yes, excellent idea," she cuts him off. "Do it again. Dinner is to be served promptly at seven, so there’s still time. That’s a good dear," she gives him a pinched smile, which makes her look like she’s sucked on a lemon. I know that look well.
I debate announcing my presence. Taking attention off Gerald is the kind thing to do, even if the chaotic wrath of her nerves will turn on me. But I’d only be delaying the inevitable.
"Mother, you know Gerald is a wonderful cook, and whatever he serves will be spectacular." My mother whips her attention to me, and I catch Gerald’s relief when his shoulders drop and he gets back to work. I suspect my mother's been here, complaining and nitpicking, for a while now.
"Imogen. You’re late."
"I’m not la—"
"Come, we need to fix your hair." She grabs me roughly by the wrist and only relents when I follow without protest. We spot my other father, Jeffrey, before ascending the staircase off of the foyer.
"Hi, Dad," I lean in to greet him, but he pulls away with a hiss, and that's when I notice his arm cradled into his midsection. "Oh, my goodness! What’s happened? How did you—"
"It’s nothing to worry about, dear. Lovely to see you. Go with your mother."
"But… what's happened to your wrist?"
"Just a little sprain. I injured it at the gym, on the treadmill. Don’t fuss, darling, I’m just clumsy in my older years. It’ll heal in no time. Be a good girl and go with your mother to get ready."
He dismisses me, joining Bowen in the hall before they both disappear into their shared office. My other two fathers, David and Hale, travel often for work, so I won’t see them tonight.
"Imogen!" My mother snaps, when I realize I’ve been staring down the hallway after my fathers. I follow her up the stairs, down the hall, and into my bedroom. As usual, she lets herself in. You’d think I was a naughty school girl the way she treats me, not a twenty-three-year-old woman who's never stepped out of line in her life.
At least, not before I became an exotic dancer, but my mother doesn’t need to know that.
"What happened to Jeffrey's arm?" I ask as soon as we’re behind closed doors.
She ushers me into the en suite bathroom without responding, rifling through the drawers of the vanity. Pulling out a brush, I notice her shaking hands but don’t comment as she tugs the pins out and begins brushing my hair.
I let her have control, noting the distance in her eyes. Her mind is a million miles away from her task, but when she starts over-brushing, strands ripping from my skull, I place my hands over hers, gently tugging the hairbrush away.
"I think that’s good," I say gently.
