Miss Matched

Chapter 4

As I walk through the heavy front door and past the center table, decorated with a two-foot high fresh floral arrangement, I can hear the click of my sandals against the polished marble floors. My footsteps reverberate off the high ceiling, echoing throughout the main room. I make the left, to head back to the wing that houses the master bedroom. If this is anything like past break-ups that's where Mom will have burrowed.

She is. Not exactly secluded, but rather draped like an expensive gown on her pink velvet, tufted chaise. The pink chiffon, floor-length negligee and robe she's wearing is a shade lighter has a shade of pink than the chaise. My blue jeans and grey sweatshirt clash with her décor.

"Frederica. I'm so glad you're here." She lifts the bottom of the robe to let it fall over her and drape slightly off the chaise, barely brushing the floor, as if this is part of a photoshoot for Vanity Fair.

"I didn't bring a photographer with me, Mom, so cut the dramatics."

"I wasn't—

"You were." I sit under the canopy of her four-poster bed. Only the best for the queen. "Now, why don't you tell me what happened with Peter and then we can figure out the next steps." Even I can hear that my tone is cold and clinical, but seriously, I'd already been through this so many times before, and I knew the process would be exhausting.

"Can't we postpone that for a day? You just got here." She rests the back of her hand against her forehead. I almost expected her to say woe is me.

"No, we really can't. I have to get back. I have a life."

"Really?" Felicity sits up, swinging her feet around to the floor. "What precisely are you getting back to?"

She always did know exactly when to plant the knife and when to twist it. Very good mother. College completed, no job, no significant other (or as she would call—boyfriend). Yes, what indeed?

I merely sigh. Maybe we need to call a truce here. "I'm thirsty after the ride. Could I get you a glass of iced tea, or maybe water?"

"Tea would be lovely. Unsweetened, please."

Serving her gives me a moment away to collect my thoughts. In my psych class I learned we're what's called co-dependent. Not sure I know how to fix that, but it feels like déjà vu since we've been down this road before.

In the kitchen there are dirty dishes piled in the sink. It's a mix of Lenox china and crystal. A half-eaten box of Moo Goo Gai Pan is open on the counter. I snicker to myself. You have to give her points for eating Chinese takeout on the fine china, but I know I'll probably end up doing dishes later, so I make a mental note to buy some paper plates, Chinet would probably be best for mother.

Other than the sink, the kitchen is spotless because what my mother usually makes for dinner is reservations. An old joke, but true in Felicity's case. On the shelf, above the wine fridge, is a dual beverage dispenser—one side tea and the other water with citrus fruit floating in it. At least she's keeping up with this. I fill highballs with ice and get a glass of the water for myself, tea for her. For one brief moment, I consider putting a packet of Equal into hers, just to bother her, but decide against it. I'm not feeling completely evil today, and she did just split from her husband, after all.

Back in her room, she's moved from the chaise to the vanity bench and is applying face cream, anti-aging I suppose. "Thank you, dear." She takes the glass from me without looking away from her own reflection.

Felicity O'Hara, although I hate to admit it, is stunning even without her make-up. Perfectly arched brows, a jet-black, chin-length bob, Snow White complexion. It's her skin that is so remarkable. Someone half her age would be lucky to call it theirs. I expect that most of my looks came from my biological father, who didn't make the list of exes, or some distant relative of hers I've never met. The only thing I have of hers is the button nose, which I'm happy to own, but if I would've had a say, I'd have picked the skin.