didn’t deserve a nap, but I felt useless and weak and thought that maybe it was the best thing for me. I expected to see Ted when I closed my eyes, to smell his vodka-heavy breath and feel his thick slab of a body. But it was Mark who filled my mind.
My father knocked on my door at five o’clock.
“Come in,” I called with a sleep-heavy voice, hopping out of bed.
He poked his head in. “Have you been sleeping?” he asked reproachfully, surveying my disaster of a room. There were shopping bags scattered about and dirty laundry on the floor, and my suitcases still lay open and shoved into a corner.
“Just for an hour or so,” I lied. “I spent most of the day online looking for a job.”
He eyed me skeptically. “Why don’t you get ready and see if your mom needs some help.” It wasn’t just a suggestion, but an order. Dinner with the Arnolds would be the beginning of my penance.
. . .
“Well,” said my father, who was studying the label of a bottle of wine when I walked into the kitchen, “don’t you look nice.” He was always pleased when his daughters looked and behaved like ladies. My parents were both wearing their most flattering colors, and I knew that my mother had orchestrated their outfits, she in a nicely tailored navy blue shirtdress, while my father wore a salmon-colored button-down. I had selected a pencil skirt and a Lynn Arnold–friendly ivory twinset. The house looked beautiful, too, with the kitchen island already housing a spread ofplump shrimp, a board with several small and interesting artisanal cheeses, and a platter of charcuterie. At the wet bar sat a good bottle of scotch; a few different wines, including a nice Sancerre; and several bottles of San Pellegrino so that Lynn Arnold could make herself a spritzer. From what I understood, Lynn did not approve of women becoming inebriated. My mother saw me eyeing the bar. “Ellen,” she said, looking at me from beneath her brows as she pulled Saran wrap off a bowl of olives, “I want you to take it easy on the alcohol tonight, okay?”
“Yeah, I was planning on it, Mom.” My mother always got worked up before company came, but she seemed particularly on edge tonight and was clearly pulling out all the stops for the Arnolds.
“Good girl,” she said, sticking a spoon in a simmering pot of lobster bisque. “Your father and I really want tonight to go well.”
My parents seemed to have attached an inordinate amount of importance to tonight’s dinner and I wondered why. Aside from the occasional church gathering or event, I had never known them to do much socially with the Arnolds and was aware that my mother had her secret misgivings about them, as she had about many members of their church. “They may go through the motions every Sunday, but that doesn’t mean that they have a relationship with Jesus,” she’d say. It was no secret in my family that my mother preferred the flamboyant, charismatic Christian church that we had attended as children to the more staid, conservative Christ Church, where my parents were currently members. My father had convinced her to switch, and Luke, Kat, and I all gratefully echoed his wishes, hoping that my mother would learn to tone it down, to blend in. While both of my parents identified themselves as “born again,” my mother was unapologetically outspoken about it. She had never really fit in at ChristChurch, as her brand of faith tended to make everyone a little uncomfortable. While the rest of the congregation went to church each week and attended the occasional Bible study or prayer meeting, my mother rarely went more than ten minutes without mentioning Jesus. It wasn’t just about tradition or community for her; Christianity was the lens through which she viewed everything. And Jesus was as real to her as I was.
The front doorbell chimed and my mother’s eyes widened. It was showtime. “Roger, the door,” she commanded, though my father had already sprung into action.
I
My father knocked on my door at five o’clock.
“Come in,” I called with a sleep-heavy voice, hopping out of bed.
He poked his head in. “Have you been sleeping?” he asked reproachfully, surveying my disaster of a room. There were shopping bags scattered about and dirty laundry on the floor, and my suitcases still lay open and shoved into a corner.
“Just for an hour or so,” I lied. “I spent most of the day online looking for a job.”
He eyed me skeptically. “Why don’t you get ready and see if your mom needs some help.” It wasn’t just a suggestion, but an order. Dinner with the Arnolds would be the beginning of my penance.
. . .
“Well,” said my father, who was studying the label of a bottle of wine when I walked into the kitchen, “don’t you look nice.” He was always pleased when his daughters looked and behaved like ladies. My parents were both wearing their most flattering colors, and I knew that my mother had orchestrated their outfits, she in a nicely tailored navy blue shirtdress, while my father wore a salmon-colored button-down. I had selected a pencil skirt and a Lynn Arnold–friendly ivory twinset. The house looked beautiful, too, with the kitchen island already housing a spread ofplump shrimp, a board with several small and interesting artisanal cheeses, and a platter of charcuterie. At the wet bar sat a good bottle of scotch; a few different wines, including a nice Sancerre; and several bottles of San Pellegrino so that Lynn Arnold could make herself a spritzer. From what I understood, Lynn did not approve of women becoming inebriated. My mother saw me eyeing the bar. “Ellen,” she said, looking at me from beneath her brows as she pulled Saran wrap off a bowl of olives, “I want you to take it easy on the alcohol tonight, okay?”
“Yeah, I was planning on it, Mom.” My mother always got worked up before company came, but she seemed particularly on edge tonight and was clearly pulling out all the stops for the Arnolds.
“Good girl,” she said, sticking a spoon in a simmering pot of lobster bisque. “Your father and I really want tonight to go well.”
My parents seemed to have attached an inordinate amount of importance to tonight’s dinner and I wondered why. Aside from the occasional church gathering or event, I had never known them to do much socially with the Arnolds and was aware that my mother had her secret misgivings about them, as she had about many members of their church. “They may go through the motions every Sunday, but that doesn’t mean that they have a relationship with Jesus,” she’d say. It was no secret in my family that my mother preferred the flamboyant, charismatic Christian church that we had attended as children to the more staid, conservative Christ Church, where my parents were currently members. My father had convinced her to switch, and Luke, Kat, and I all gratefully echoed his wishes, hoping that my mother would learn to tone it down, to blend in. While both of my parents identified themselves as “born again,” my mother was unapologetically outspoken about it. She had never really fit in at ChristChurch, as her brand of faith tended to make everyone a little uncomfortable. While the rest of the congregation went to church each week and attended the occasional Bible study or prayer meeting, my mother rarely went more than ten minutes without mentioning Jesus. It wasn’t just about tradition or community for her; Christianity was the lens through which she viewed everything. And Jesus was as real to her as I was.
The front doorbell chimed and my mother’s eyes widened. It was showtime. “Roger, the door,” she commanded, though my father had already sprung into action.
I
Similar Books
