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  “Nor I.”

  It’s bad Mamet no matter how you look at it.

  “You know, honey”—my mother says, leaning forward, her hand shooting toward my head—“you could really use a shaping. And perhaps some fresh highlights. You’re looking a tad dull.”

  As I attempt to dodge the oncoming fingers, they somehow arrive at my ear and push thick, blondish-brown strands of hair behind it. My quick head jerk surprises her, and I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or hurt. She pulls her hand back, and as she does, her ring gets caught. There’s a slight tug, the momentary throb of pain, the holding still while she tries to untangle her wedding band. White Wine and Cosmo attempt to help, but only make things worse.

  If I don’t break free, if I don’t get myself out of here, I swear to God my head will explode.

  A sharp yank releases both of us, and I excuse myself from the table stating I need to check tonight’s reservations. The New York Times food editor is supposed to be having dinner here. This causes a collective “Ohhhh” from the group, which fades as I head deeper into the restaurant and push through the swinging doors that open into the kitchen. Moist heat hits me like a humid summer day. The banging of pots, the steam from the scorching water, and the wet heat from the dishwashers is overwhelming. The chef is yelling while slamming down a bowl. There’s the clanking of plates and glassware. Everything sounds extra loud, and the light is ultrablinding as the bustling culinary area moves to its own rhythm.

  My eyes eventually rest on Renaldo, the busboy. He’s cute and young and innocent, and he likes me. I know this because he blushes whenever I’m around and always asks if I’d like a muffin or coffee or one of the freshly squeezed juices when I pick up my morning paper and fruit cup.

  I slide up to him, whisper into his ear that I need help reaching a jar of jam kept in the dry pantry. Would he lift it down? I pull him by the untied strings of his apron, the universal sign for the end of a shift, and lead him into the back room where the economy-size bottles of condiments and baking ingredients are stored.

  He flips on the light and walks directly to the oversize bottle of raspberry preserves. The room is small but well organized. Large plastic containers, bottles, and packages of spices are stacked high on a shelf above a sink and cutting table. On the opposite side are racks and racks of cooking paraphernalia: soy sauce, salad dressings, oil, and vinegar. Cans of teas and jams. On the floor are the supersize boxes of flour, sugar, rice, and wheat.

  He’s in midreach when I shut the door behind me. He spins around and smiles sheepishly. His skin is tan, his face smooth. His lips look soft, eyelashes full. His cropped black hair has too much gel in it, giving off a bristled appearance. When I dim the light, his face almost glows. I glide over to him, lean in close, and rest a hand on his right shoulder blade. It feels strong and narrow, and I wonder what’s going through his mind at this very minute as I do something I’ve never done before. I don’t have one-night stands. I don’t have interhotel relationships. I slide my hand down until I reach the belt loops of his pants, place myself up against the cutting board, and kiss him. He tastes salty and smells of olive oil and sweat and a hint of Old Spice, which reminds me of the commercial with the kid and the father who’s dressed in a blue turtleneck at Christmas time. A wife and golden retriever are at his side, a sailboat is in the background, and everyone seems enormously happy in a fake sort of way.

  At first, Renaldo doesn’t return the kiss. He is uncomfortably quiet. Seems frozen and confused, and I must lead him though this, find a place to put his hands on my body.

  “It’s okay. I want to do this,” I whisper into his ear, breathy and warm, like on TV, like in a porn video.

  His light brown skin is darker in here, and I can barely make out his facial features. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I undo my belt, unbutton my slacks, search for his small, calloused hands and place them on my hips, help him feel in the dark for my underwear. I reach for his belt and remember he isn’t wearing one. Instead I undo his pants, push them down, hear them drop to the floor, feel the elastic band of his briefs, no, boxers. Renaldo’s fingers are lingering at my waist. They seem lost in the lacy fabric and I shove his hands away and take off my underwear for him. Frustration is building inside my chest, like a balloon filling with air, the inner pressure pushing on my ribs.

  “Please, it’s fine. Really.”

  There’s a stillness, followed by the breathing through nostrils. Then something takes over inside him. Male hormones? Perhaps it’s the understanding that this is actually happening and he becomes all man. He hurriedly undoes my shirt, pulling at the buttons and lifting it up over my head. Then he reaches for my breasts, cups his hands over my bra while brushing his face up against mine.

  Yes, I think. Keep going, I mentally encourage him. I grasp his face, hold his chin, feel for his cheeks and lips to see if he is smiling. He twists his face to the left and kisses my hand on the palm side. His lips are damp and soft, like moist cotton. He is so gentle, so kind I want to cry.

  His body is narrow and slight and it almost feels as if I’m fucking a child. “I swear,” I murmur into his ear, “I will never be one of them.” He pauses for a moment, tightens his grip, and brings me close to his body. I would rather spend a lifetime alone than become one of those ladies at the table having tea and wearing rings and spending their husbands’ money.

  When I return to the table, my damp face has been patted dry, hair restyled, makeup reapplied.

  “Morgan, what took so long?” my mother asks.

  Sweat is running down my back. I’m slightly winded and a little disoriented. I can feel my face contort into a smile. As hard as I try, I can’t remove the grin, and I must restrain myself from leaping onto the table shouting, I just fucked the busboy. I fucked the busboy while you all sat on your asses and ate.

  I take my seat. “I was following up on some reservations. We have a divisions dinner next week…”

  “There must be a lot of them, you were gone for twenty-five minutes.”

  “Was I?” I say, head tilted to one side, an innocent expression on my face. “There was a small crisis in the kitchen.” I reach for a salmon tea sandwich and a raspberry scone.

  My mother turns to Cosmo and Martini. “Who would have thought,” she beams.

  My mother extends her hand from across the table, rests it on mine. This time I stay still, remind myself not to pull away. “At thirty-two, she’s the youngest divisions manager the hotel has ever had. Such responsibility.”

  “Not too shabby,” Martini adds.

  The women nod, their recently Botoxed eyebrows not arching, their collagen lips full and pressed into closed smiles.

  “I barely see Lindsay. Sony works her like a dog,” states Gin & Tonic. “You really have no idea. And James stays at the office sometimes till ten or eleven at night, can you imagine?”

  I look at my watch and calculate in my head how long it will take for people to remember my sister. How long until they switch subjects.

  It only takes a few moments for the acknowledgment to happen, for memory to register. Red Wine shoots a look to Cosmo who, in turn, nudges Martini, who is quick to add, “Anyway, it’s really wonderful. Your mother is very proud.”

  Everyone nods as a check is placed close to me. My mother starts to reach for the leather billfold, but I arrive at it first. “I got it, Mom.”

  “Nonsense,” the women say at once.

  “Really, ladies. Please. My hotel, my pleasure.”

  “You’ll be able to write it off?” Cosmo asks.

  “Yes, we don’t want you paying for it,” White Wine adds. And with that, an outpour of wallets surface: LV and Prada and Gucci all make an appearance, their accoutrements as signature as their liquor choices. “Really, I’m happy to do it.”

  My mother is radiant. Now they won’t pity her. Sure one of her daughters is dead, but the living one has clearly made up for the loss.

  Finally free from my mother and her bridge f
riends I swing by the party room at 5:10 p.m. to meet with Trish Hemingway, who is already waiting for me.

  “I’m sorry, am I late?” I ask, my right hand already extended as I walk over to an attractive, well-dressed woman with long dark hair and soft brown eyes. “I’m Morgan. I’m guessing you’re Trish?”

  She nods, her brown locks dancing as her head moves up and down. She’s pretty in an earthy way. Her tan wool turtleneck, jeans, turquoise ring, and thick silver cuff bracelet remind me of a Ralph Lauren ad.

  “So this is the room I was thinking about for you. It holds fiftyish people, and we would handle the catering and…”

  “It’s perfect. Really perfect,” she says. “Do you mind if I take a picture or two?”

  “No. Go right ahead.”

  As she snaps away with her camera, the old manual kind, the clicking and fast-forwarding sounds reverberate off the tan, linen-lined walls. And suddenly, something inside me feels both hollow and heavy. I look at Trish, her face partially hidden by the camera and realize there’s something strikingly familiar about her.

  “I checked over the price sheet you faxed me, and I hate to ask this, but is there any chance in getting a discount or anything, even if I paid in cash?”

  She brings the camera down to chest level and looks at me. “Or perhaps you have a neighborhood price? I just bought a gallery space two blocks away from here and if you did have some sort of…never mind.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her lips curling up in embarrassment. “It was stupid of me to ask. It’s just that my life savings is invested in the space, and I took out a loan, and my best friend, well she used to be my best friend, but she’s marrying this awful guy and she’s lost all this weight and I just wanted to do something nice for her—” She stops short and glances at me, then at the floor. “Really. It was ridiculous for me to ask.” She looks back up, her eyes are glassy. Then she snaps my picture. “Sorry. Old habit.”

  After Trish leaves I head down two flights of stairs, swing open the door that reads SALES AND ADMINISTRATION and take solace in my office. I wonder what Renaldo is doing. I think about sticking a note in his box that says, “Please don’t worry. Everything is fine,” while trying to see if I’m wearing his scent. It’s not on my shirt or in my hair.

  I knock on my boss’s door, get no answer, and proceed back into my office where I check messages, plan out Tuesday’s sales event with the chef, and before I know it it’s almost 7:00 p.m.

  Before Trish left, she handed me an invitation to her gallery opening. It’s a black-and-white photo of an eighth-story window taken from street level. One can just make out a silhouette of a woman pressing her body up against the glass, as if trying to escape. I wonder if it’s a self-portrait. Underneath, in bold red letters, it reads FRESH ART GALLERY.

  Trish blames her camera obsession on her parents, who are both famous in the art and writing worlds. I’ve read most of her mother’s books, and one of her father’s sculptures resides in my parent’s home. I trace the figure with the tip of my index finger, and wonder what I’d do if I weren’t in the hotel business, if I had star-status parents rather than the Jewish, neurotic, anal-retentive ones I’ve got. I lean forward and stick the card on my bulletin board. As my eye catches the picture of my sister that sits on my desk, it hits me why Trish looks so familiar.

  My parents have only one photo of Dale: a small black-and-white kept in the den among a flock of others. In it, candy is strewn everywhere and plastic pumpkins rest on their sides, haphazardly tossed, their services no longer required until next year. I’m four and dressed as a mouse. Dale, six, is a cat. Our arms are wrapped around each other, and large, toothy smiles spread across our faces. It’s a hokey shot, one that exudes happiness. The photo is like a magnet; people are somehow drawn to it. When company comes over to my parents’ home for dinner or a night of cards and if they’re new friends and don’t know about Dale, they often ask who the children are. They pick it up, examine it like it was a report card. They smile, say how sweet. They usually guess I’m the mouse, but look up, perplexed, faces waiting for information on the other child. A cousin? Next-door neighbor? Now my mother hides it. Sticks it in a drawer and takes it out when they leave.

  I own the same photo, had it blown it up to fourteen by sixteen. It hangs on my wall in a silver frame and is one of the first objects people see when they enter the apartment. I say hello to it everyday. Living with a ghost is easier than living alone. Other belongings and photos of hers reside in a fireproof box hidden in my hall closet: her first shoes, a stuffed monkey purchased at FAO Schwarz, a T-shirt, a handful of Smurfs, and hair ribbon. My mother doesn’t know I have them, and if she does, has blocked it out. The night before the Salvation Army was to come and remove her possessions I went into the back hallway, opened the boxes, rummaged through the large, durable black garbage bags, and, like a burglar, stole them. Each year on the anniversary of her death I rifle through these items. My mother, on the other hand, writes a check to Sloan-Kettering’s children’s ward and another to the Ronald McDonald House. Though the box smells of metal, it cannot erase the scent of baby powder, gummy bears, Mr. Bubbles, and rubbing alcohol. To this day, I can’t touch a drop of liquor that smells medicinal. Can’t forget the feel of my sister in my bed during story time, her arm draped over me, my cold feet trying to get warm by touching her calves. The way we would giggle with the lights out. Make shadows and silly finger figures on the wall with our flashlights. The sound of her voice as she uttered “Peanut,” the nickname she’d given me.

  The last photo taken of Dale is at Disney World. We’re standing on either side of Goofy wearing matching mouse-ear hats with our names written on them. Hers covers her bald head. When we came back to New York, she refused to take it off, insisting on wearing it to bed. We’d wake up and find it on the floor, having fallen off sometime during the night. In the photo, she is pale and thin, fragile, but smiling. Though her wheelchair is missing, we still don special bright purple VIP badges that hang down from our chests. In Disney World, no one waits on lines when you have cancer.

  Once outside, like magic, a cigarette appears at my lips, and for the first time all day I feel my body let go. It gives in as I listen to the paper burn, as I watch smoke leave my mouth. My mother’s been demanding I quit for years.

  “Isn’t it enough I lost one child?” she routinely asks.

  “Lung cancer is completely different than leukemia.” Though every headache I have makes me think brain tumor in blinking neon. Every yearly checkup brings about waves of anxiety. Every gynecologist appointment where my doctor feels my breasts, I pray silently to God or whoever decides the fate of young women in their early thirties, that I’m too young to die, that the doctor should find nothing. That the soft pads of his fingers should move effortlessly over the mounds on my chest without hesitation or focusing on a small area.

  I loathe filling out the contact sheets. Hate the heading FAMILY HISTORY that appears in bold black type. “Cancer, older sister died at eleven from leukemia” are the words that follow in messy blue penmanship. It’s a CliffsNotes version. An abbreviation of a life taken too soon. When doctors skim my chart, or ask me to refresh their memory, as soon as I utter “leukemia” they are kinder; their faces become more serious and reserved. Their actions are slower and they linger at my throat, spend more time on my lymph nodes. They palpate under my ears, stay at my glands longer, ask me to swallow, and draw blood.

  At home, the clock on the stove reads 7:38 p.m. One hour until I’m to meet Bernard, who is waiting to discuss our moving in together, for dinner at Gobo. We met a year ago on a blind date coordinated by the hotel’s chef. We’ve been on-again, off-again, though lately it’s more off than on.

  I step into the shower, steam envelops me, the hot water and pretty scented exfoliating soap removes the smell of smoke and sex. It erases my day, washes my mother away as I try to figure out how I can move in with someone named Bernard, Bernie to his friends.

  Bern
ie sounds like a beagle that never comes when you call for him. Bernie is the name of an old man in elastic waistband pants and a golf hat who plays cards with his cronies in Florida. Bernard is not the name of my future. He is, however, a wine aficionado. He writes about it, gives talks, has published books, and works with wineries. He is doctor to the sick grape and the shriveled vine. Bernie will never cheat, doesn’t take spur-of-the-moment trips, uses a money clip rather than a wallet, and knows the interest he earns from his 401k. At five foot nine he is five inches taller than I, wears a tie—always—is very corporate, and truly understands hotel and food politics, which is a major plus. My friends adore him, and love when he comes to their parties because of the wines he shares and the vast knowledge he has. He teaches a course at the New School, and young groupies call him from liquor stores in a panic requesting last-minute suggestions. They’re in a bind, they want something to impress their date, or their date’s parents, or their boss. “What to bring?” they squeak. Bernard never turns his cell phone off, as if he’s on a transplant team waiting for a heart or kidney to arrive in a mini cooler. He is dependable, kind, sophisticated, and smart. His parents are lovely, his brother a sweetheart. But he’s boring, passionless—unless we’re in a museum or wine store. Bernard makes good investments and his shoes are always freshly polished, like his teeth, which he keeps as white as winter snow. He likes his dentist, who he sees every other month for a cleaning. “Wine stains, Morgan, trust me,” is his mantra. The four of us have dinner often, Bernard and I, the dentist and his trophy wife. When everyone talks, their teeth glisten, like a toothpaste ad.

  “I’m too young for this,” I say to no one, wishing Dale were here to give sisterly advice. “He’s too much man and not enough boy.” In actuality, he’s too much man for the woman I have yet to become.

  I spot Bernard, who’s already seated, as I enter the restaurant, which is tight and crowded and reminds me of the kitchen at work. Flashes of Renaldo appear in my mind and I wonder what he’s doing now. I visualize him repeating the story in Spanish to his friends who hoot and clap, pat him on the back and high-five him.