Beauty and the Mustache

“No matter.” Sandra released her vice grip and reached for my hand. “Where is your room? We have some sharing to do.”

I glanced over her shoulder at my brothers. Duane gave me a taut smile.

Bizarre.

“Sandra, I don’t want to cry. Please don’t make me cry.”

She shook her head, wrinkling her nose as though my request were silly. It was not silly. She had this superpower where people were absolutely compelled to spill their guts, myself included. She made burdens lighter, but she did this by forcing people to face truths, which usually resulted in crying.

I didn’t want to face truths. I wanted to steal a few moments with my friends, saturate myself in the promise of my comfortable, contented life back in Chicago, and wrap my brain and heart in the bliss of distraction.

Truth was overrated and smelled like onions.

Bliss was underappreciated and smelled like chloroform.

“We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.” She grumbled this statement and tugged on my hand. “Come on, where is your room? We brought you presents.”

I hesitated only briefly.

“It’s upstairs.”

Sandra and Elizabeth followed me after a detour to the front door. I saw Elizabeth grab a duffle bag and Sandra a gift sack, purple tissue paper spilling out the top. Once inside my room, I sat on my bed and turned to face them.

Elizabeth took a seat on the bed, placed the duffle bag between us, and unzipped it. “We brought you some things—just some essentials and—and some other things.”

Sandra hovered by the door. She was surveying the room, I could tell. Maybe she was making a mental tally of my dysfunctions based on the number of ceramic unicorn figurines on my bookshelf. (FYI, there were four of them.)

“You didn’t have to bring me anything.” I gave Elizabeth a reassuring smile. “I’m really fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re in shock, and you haven’t yet processed the fact that your mother is dying.” Sandra leveled me with a sensible, matter-of-fact gaze.

I braced myself for the truths.

Instead, she surprised me by sparing me. “But that’s okay. You’ll adjust. You’ll figure it out. Or you won’t. If you can’t do it on your own, we’ll help you figure it out. Either way you’re covered.”

My eyes lifted to the ceiling then lowered back to her; I was confused. “Then why did you instigate a therapy session with my brothers?”

She shrugged. “Because I don’t know if they have an adequate support system in place to help them work through their grief, especially since your father….” Sandra paused when she saw my shoulders stiffen at the mention of my father.

When you have a despicable person as a parent, I truly believe you can’t escape hating any part of yourself that resembles him or her. Whether it’s a physical similarity, a talent, a propensity, or an inclination that you share, all commonalities are abhorrent to you.

I look like my father. I have his thick dark hair and bright blue eyes. I have my mother’s nose, but I have my father’s wide, full mouth and his height. I am his child, and I hate the man. I hate that I look like him.

My father is a gifted musician. Despite my love of singing and playing the piano as a child and teenager, as a young adult I rejected those creative outlets.

My father is a great dancer. I take pride in my corny dance moves.

My father is a talented con man and a charmer. I am honest to a fault and embrace the discord caused by my bluntly spoken opinions.

It’s hard to find joy in gifts—or potential gifts—when they’re tainted by association.

This is something that people with kind, well-meaning parents have difficulty grasping. It’s not about self-pity and it’s not self-loathing. It’s a desperate desire to disassociate oneself from evil.

“Sorry,” Sandra said, “I know you don’t like to talk about him.” Her tone was repentant, but she looked a tad frustrated as she gestured to the unzipped duffle bag. “Enough of this feelings stuff, look at your presents.”

“Go on then.” Elizabeth’s mouth hooked to the side. “Dig in.”

I opened the mouth of the bag wider and began pulling out items.

I found the pillow from my bed, candles, chocolate, tea, wine, more wine, my two favorite paperback romance novels, new yarn—and a vibrator.

“What…?” I looked at the vibrator; blinked at it, and I lifted my eyes to Sandra’s. “What’s this?”

“It’s a vibrator. Haven’t you ever seen a vibrator before?”

“Yes, Sandra, I’ve seen a vibrator before. Why in tarnation did you bring me a vibrator?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

“It’ll help,” she said simply.

I stared at her for a long moment then rolled my eyes. “It figures that you would bring me a vibrator. You are completely wack-a-doodle-doo.”

“Wait a minute, if you must know, it was Janie’s idea.” She raised her hands in surrender like she wanted to keep me from launching into a tirade. Sandra was referring to our mutual friend and knitting group compatriot, Janie Sullivan. Janie was an Amazonian Princess-sized walking, talking version of Wikipedia. She was also completely oblivious to the obvious. This combination made her infuriatingly endearing.

“She read a study—which she shared with me—about how going through the death of a…of a parent is less stressful for people who are married or in a serious relationship, presumably because of the comfort they receive from their significant other. Part of that, Janie reasoned, and I agreed, is definitely orgasms. Also, I packed you condoms—lots of them, all different sizes. Believe me when I say that having the different sizes comes in really handy. No pun intended.”

I sputtered for a few seconds then managed to finally say, “You’re off your rocker, and Janie is nuts. You’re both cracked nuts.”

“I would have brought a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam, but this one,” Sandra indicated to Elizabeth with her head, “thought it would be awkward.”

I interjected, “Wack-a-doodle-doo!”

Just then, a rooster crowed in the yard, as though to echo my insult. We ignored it.

Elizabeth crossed her arms in a defensive stance. “It would be awkward. And, technically, it was larger than the allowable size for checked bags and carry-on luggage.”

“I think they must make special accommodations for life-sized cut-outs. I mean, how else would you be able to cart them across the country? How do you think Darth Vader makes it to all those kids’ birthday parties?”

“They’re mailed…via the post office.” Elizabeth’s tone was droll and her expression flat. It was obvious that they’d argued this point prior to leaving Chicago.

“We didn’t have time for the post office before we left.”

“Please don’t tell me you had a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam made.” I already knew the answer.

“Okay. I won’t tell you that we had a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam made. I also won’t tell you that he is shirtless and currently waiting for you in your apartment. Thanks for giving me those spare keys, and you’re welcome.”

Before I could respond, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. Sandra promptly turned and opened it, then shuffled backward a few steps.

Drew hovered in the doorway, filling every inch of space with his giant frame. His eyes examined my room then ended their wandering when they landed on me. He looked tense.

“Is everything okay?” I asked then stood from the bed, ready to bolt down the stairs.

“Yes. She’s resting. Duane and Beau are with her now.”

“Oh.” I relaxed a bit, breathed out a sigh. “Okay. Good.”

He watched me for a beat, his eyes never wavering from mine, then said, “I’m about to head out.”

“Okay.” I nodded and glanced briefly at Sandra. She was looking between the two of us with narrowed eyes.

The room fell quiet. The silence became an odd, stiff thing. After a long moment where Drew walked the fine line between looking and staring, he shifted his attention to Elizabeth.

“Thank you for dinner. Everything was delicious.”

“No problem.” She waved away his praise then crossed to him and reached her hand out. He accepted it and they shook. “I’ll see you tomorrow. It was nice meeting you.”

“Tomorrow?” I asked them both. “What’s tomorrow?”

Elizabeth walked back to me. “Drew and I are going to the hospital. I’d like to send your mom’s records to Dr. Peterson.”

“The oncologist?”

“Yeah, I talked to him about it before I left Chicago. Peterson is expecting the chart.”

“Why is Drew going?”

“He holds the power of attorney…right? For the release of medical records?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” My neck itched, and I glanced at Drew. Again, he was looking at me, but this time it was a blatant stare. The intensity and vehemence in his expression caught me off guard.

“What?” I blurted, because I just couldn’t take it. My eyes flickered between Sandra and Elizabeth for help. They were both looking at Drew with thoughtful expressions. “What’s wrong?”