Page 130 of Gilt

I give her a look that says way more than what comes out of my mouth next. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

My mother actually brings me a Happy Meal.

“I can’t remember if you still hate ketchup,” she says as she hands the box to me at the door.

“I’ve made peace with tomatoes,” I reassure her as I try to concentrate on the carefully proportioned glut of calories that she’s brought me. Who decided apple slices were fast food? But I can’t distract myself from the fact that for the first time, in a very long time, it’s my mother standing at the door. Not Vivian von Essen.

Her perfectly manicured nails are chewed down to the quick, and she twists her fingers nervously. She’s wearing a simple wrap dress instead of a tailored suit, and although her hair is done, it hangs flatly over her shoulders. Somehow she’s become the before shot in a shampoo commercial.

This is the woman I grew up with—harried, nervous. My dad’s gambling problems made it impossible for his business ventures to succeed. I’d watched her dreams slip away for years until this was what she looked like. She’d turned herself around then and left behind anyone who might have dragged her back to this state. I’m not sure what it means that she’s here now.

Josie tip-toes down the hall to greet her. “Hi, Mrs. Von--”

My mother holds up a hand to stop her. “Mrs…um, I mean, Vivian is perfectly acceptable, Josie.”

Perfectly acceptable. Well, it’s good to know that the rod that maintains her stiff formality is still in place.

Josie glances at me worriedly. I’m not imagining that she looks like hell.

“I’ll leave you two to talk.” With that, she disappears.

Mom and I stare at each other. Usually, we meet on neutral ground. When she’s in Vegas, mom doesn’t come to dad’s house. We meet for brunches or afternoon tea. Occasionally, she convinces me to go shopping, and while the Deckard’s house isn’t home to either of us, it’s far from neutral.

That means that in my mother’s eyes, it’s up to me to play the hostess.

“Uh, why don’t we sit down and eat,” I finally manage. That’s about the time I realize she’s holding another Happy Meal. Apparently, mom also wants to pretend she’s a kid again. I guess adulting doesn’t get any easier. She catches me staring at the bag.

“I brought one for Josie,” she explains.

“I’ll give it to her,” I say, seizing the opportunity to run away for a minute.

Josie holds up the sign of the cross when I enter her bedroom.

“I brought you food.” I toss the happy meal on her bed like a sacrificial offering.

“I’m still not bailing you out of this.”

“Please do not make me talk to her alone,” I beg.

“Un-uh.”

“I’m revoking your friendship card,” I tell her.

“I think I can find someone else to French braid my hair,” she teases.

I shut the door a little too hard behind me.

“Josie’s been battling the flu,” I say as a means to explain why she’s hiding out.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” mom says absently. “It’s probably best that we talk alone anyway.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask her.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

That makes two of us. Later, I’m going to regret not eating these French fries, but right now, I know I can’t force them down. Not when my mouth is so dry it feels like someone shoved half a package of cotton balls in it.