The Moment Before

Chapter Three

THREE

Mom is breathtakingly fragile in her couture costume. At forty-five she can still pull off a Betsey Johnson and not look like a total cougar. Since Sabine died, she’s gotten even more beautiful. A sort of widow look reminiscent of photos I’ve seen of First Lady Jackie Kennedy. Oversized sunglasses, the occasional silk headscarf. Grieving chic, that Sonia Panapento Wilson. And Dad? He looks like shit. He barely tucks in his shirts anymore. Stains on his clothes, a half-shaven face. His last haircut was for the memorial service. Mom tells him he needs to pull it together for tonight. She’s saying this from the guest bathroom while spritzing product into her hair.

“Don’t start, Sonia,” he mutters. He’s pawing through the collection of sports jackets in the hall closet, and he finally selects one, clears his throat, and sighs. Then there’s the sound of hangers falling off the rod. He’s become clumsy; he’s probably drunk. From the living room chair, where I’m still snuggled under Nona’s black and gray afghan, I call out, “You don’t have to go, you know.”

Dad whips around, his jacket hanging loosely on his diminished frame, a couple of choices of tie in his hands. “Brady, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

It’s their first public appearance since Sabine’s memorial. I can smell the whiskey on Dad’s breath all the way in the next room. The dark circles under his eyes, his greasy cowlick, people will wonder if he was the model for my prize-winning charcoal of the homeless guy. I wish the two of us could just stay home. Nap under this warm blanket and let gorgeous Mom accept the prize on my behalf. Didn’t some movie star do that once at the Oscars?

“Are you dressed yet, Brady?” calls the movie star in our house, who just happens to also be a first-gen Italian Princess.

Sigh.

“Brady, you better get a move on,” chimes Dad, examining the face of his watch under his cuff.

The fuzzy afghan is my shawl as I shuffle to my room. Everything’s a mess. On my bed are the choices: the same leggings I wore earlier with a sixties house dress meant for someone with twenty pounds more boob, a faux-Victorian gown, all lace and shimmer and high neck. Neither of these options feels right. They expect me to dress all weirdly artsy, of course. I have to look the part. A pair of black skinny jeans with an electric blue sweater dress. An Oregon Trail pioneer apron over Pleather pants. Converse sneakers, boys’ boxers, a unitard. The trench coat lies in a heap of outwear against my dresser. Ski pants? Maybe a tutu under a hand-knit car coat? Feeling shivery, I pull the Nona blanket tighter around me.

“We’re leaving in ten,” calls Mom.

My cell is charging on my desk and it’s beeping every three seconds with texts. Well-wishers. Frenemies. BFFs. When I scroll down the list, it’s mostly Martha. Dear Martha. She wants to sit next to me tonight, hold my hand. I don’t read through them, but I feel her boosting spirit. I see the X’s and O’s that fill the screen. If love flies through the air but the recipient isn’t actually paying attention, does it count?

Want to wear one of my dresses?

It takes me a minute to understand what’s going on with that offer. More than a minute, actually, for the idea to penetrate.

The red Juicy with the back zip; you’d look stunning in that.

The thought of the trespass. Actually crossing that threshold. Butterflies hatch and flutter in my gut. I’ve only set foot in Sabine’s room once since her death.

The one I wore to Freshman Fling. I think it’d be the perfect fit.

The happiness in her voice. That same voice that led her tribe to cheering victory.