Beauty and the Mustache (10 page)

Elizabeth was shorter than
me by about four inches, but she was also curvy and soft, and her
hugs felt like being surrounded by a warm, beautiful cloud. Adding
to this affect was the paleness of her skin, the golden blonde of
her hair, and the ethereal blue of her irises. We gave and received
comfort for a short moment before we were interrupted by Sandra’s
voice, which was closer than I’d expected.

“
Ashley
Winston.”

Sandra was standing next
to us, staring at me. She was smiling—from her big green eyes to
her flaming red hair to her large white teeth—but it wasn’t at all
sympathetic. It was just a big, old, happy smile.

She launched herself at
us, her arms coming around both Elizabeth and me, and kissed me on
my cheek and then my chin.

“
It is so good to smell
your hair right now,” Sandra said. Of course this made us both
laugh, because who says that?

She squeezed us, causing
Elizabeth to squeak. “Sandra…I…can’t…breathe….”

“
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?”

“
Nothing.” He said the
word like we were fighting, like he was throwing it at
me.

I frowned at his oddness and was about to
question him further when Sandra stepped in front of me.

“
Will we
be
seeing more of you?” she asked
Drew. She crossed her arms over her chest and paused. I recognized
her tone as one she used when conducting an interrogation, though
her question was benign enough.

Drew’s attention settled
on Sandra, and he mimicked her guarded stance.

“
Yes.”

“
So, Charlie….”

“
The name is
Drew.”

Sandra ignored the
correction. “How often will we be…
seeing
you?”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Daily.”

“
Reeeeally.” Sandra lifted
her chin. I could tell she was sizing him up. Heck, even Drew could
tell she was sizing him up.

Neither spoke for a
prolonged minute. Elizabeth and I glanced at each other, and I
shrugged.

I was about to break the
weird stink-eye stalemate with a suggestion that I walk Drew
out—even though the thought made me strangely nervous—when Sandra
said very gently, “Not all women are bad, you know. We’re not all
viperous bloodsuckers. There are some good ones…like Ashley. She’s
a good one. You might have noticed: the outside matches the
inside.”

My mouth fell slightly
open, and I shifted back a step as Drew’s eyes flickered to mine.
They were such a steely cold blue that they nearly knocked me off
my feet. His gaze was shuttered and hard, and his mouth was set in
a firm, unhappy line.

“
Good night,” he said, and
then he walked away, his steps audible as he descended the
stairs.

“
If we couldn’t laugh, we
would all go insane.”

—
Robert Frost

The three of
us stood in place for several beats, and I knew
without a doubt that my face held an expression of stunned
bewilderment. I was still tired, and this day had started out on a
bizarre note and was still circling the drain of strange. Maybe it
was just everything happening all at once, but I couldn’t quite
wrap my mind around what had just occurred.

Therefore, I blurted, “I’m
so confused.”