Play nice, p.3
Play Nice, page 3
part #1 of 2025 Series
Stricken by a sudden, devious curiosity, I crawl over to my bag and dig out my laptop. I open my browser and Google my mother’s name to see if her death has made headlines or if her brief fame was too niche to merit remembrance. I immediately think better of it and snap my laptop shut, slide it under my bed with my foot like its contaminated.
Promise me you girls will never read it. I’m at the kitchen table. It’s 2009, Leda and Daphne to my left, Amy to my right, Dad standing above us, the look on his face terrifying because he was clearly terrified. I’d never seen him like that, so when I promised, it wasn’t with my fingers crossed behind my back, like usual. I meant it. I’ve kept my promise. I thought it was out of virtue, but maybe it was because I’d never really wanted to read Mom’s book. The idea of it always sincerely freaked me out, having to stare at the ugliest part of our lives in print. Holding our domestic horror story in my hands, in paperback.
Part of me figured we’d all come to terms someday, that Mom would get sober and reach out, apologize, and we’d be in each other’s lives again. I’d get any answers I wanted from the source, and so I had little motivation to ever hunt down a copy, though every once in a while I’d find myself in a bookstore or library checking if they had it on hand. They never did, so I never got the opportunity to run my fingers along the spine and see if it would make me feel anything other than sick.
The urge returns. To Google. To seek an answer for this pesky question. Does anyone else care about her death as much as me?
Does anyone care at all?
I resist the pull of the internet, busy my hands by painting my already manicured nails on the patch of already stained carpet. It’s clear polish, so whatever.
It’s a subpar distraction, and the unanswered questions multiply fast, like rabbits, until they fuse, until there’s just one big ugly bunny. Why do I care?
She abused us, abandoned us, so the story goes. But the details are elusive; the ending is unsatisfying. I resent it.
Eventually, Amy knocks on my door and tells me it’s dinner.
“Be down in a minute,” I say, blowing on my nails so they dry faster. Futile, but I appreciate the guise of power. Of control.
4
Everyone’s already seated at the table by the time I arrive, nail polish dry. Only Tommy appears happy to see me, in his wool sweater with elbow patches, in his round tortoiseshell glasses, the lenses cartoonishly thick. He’s not good-looking, not attractive by any measure—Daphne once described him as having the sex appeal of a raisin—but Tommy is beautiful, radiating this sweet and pure innocence, like a golden retriever or adolescent nerd.
“Tommy!” I say as Dad rises to pull out my chair for me. I catch Leda and Daphne exchanging a look.
“How you doing there, Clio?” Tommy asks, reaching across the table for my hand. He gives it a squeeze, which is a comforting gesture in theory but unpleasant in practice since his hand is so clammy.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, smiling.
“And I’m hungry,” Dad says. “Let’s eat.”
“Help yourselves. There’s more of everything,” Amy says. She serves herself some salad and passes the bowl to Leda. Leda will have a small portion of salad and nothing else and no one will say anything about it.
Daphne serves me some chicken without asking. It looks dry, and I’m reacquainted with the frustration of sitting next to my sister, an exceptionally talented chef who has worked at Michelin-star restaurants, who doesn’t cook unless she’s getting paid to do it. Not even for her beloved family.
Both of my sisters’ lives revolve around food, in different ways. This is my mother’s fault, according to them, to my father, to Amy, and I’ve taken their word for it. But now that our mother is dead, I wonder…how? How can she be to blame? She’s not here. She hasn’t been here.
Our family scapegoat is gone. Whose fault will everything be now?
Still Mom’s? A dead woman’s?
The table is quiet, even after everyone’s served and eating. It’s not exactly a comfortable silence. It’s itchy.
“So,” Daphne says, compelled to oust the awkwardness. “Anyone have any vacations planned this year?”
Tommy and Leda are going to Florida to visit his parents, Dad and Amy are going to Big Sur, and I’m going to Paris, London, LA, and Ibiza.
“Paris for fashion week, London for a shoot I’m styling, LA and Ibiza for brand sponsorships,” I say. “For work.”
“Work,” Leda scoffs. She doesn’t take what I do seriously because it’s glamorous. Same with Dad and Amy. Daphne gets it. Tommy doesn’t, but he respects it anyway because that’s who he is. He’s a social worker.
“But before that I’m going to Mom’s funeral,” I say to shake things up.
Dad spits out his sip of water. Amy drops her silverware. Daphne laughs a little, a good sport.
“Where is it, Leeds? Here or in Connecticut?” Mom stuck around for about a year after losing joint custody. She was still permitted visitation, but she’d show up drunk to see us if she showed up at all, and then there was what is known in our family as the infamous “recital incident.” That was the last time I saw her. She put her haunted house on the market and started a new life without us, making no effort to regain any custodial rights, no effort at all, no phone calls or birthday cards, forgoing her mom duties for good. She moved to Connecticut with her demonologist boyfriend, Roy. As far as I know, they’re still together. Or were still together, until yesterday.
Dad clears his throat and says, “Leda.”
“She won’t listen to us,” Leda says. “You have to tell her.”
“You can’t tell me not to go, Dad,” I say. “None of you can. Besides, you’re overreacting. I can handle weirdos. I live in New York City. I work in fashion.”
“We should just let it go. Let her go,” Daphne says, sawing into her chicken. “The more we try to talk her out of it, the more she’s gonna want to do it.”
“What can I say? I’m a rebel.”
“We just worry about you being there by yourself,” Amy says so Dad doesn’t have to. “The people. The narratives…”
“Then I’ll bring someone. A chaperone,” I say, turning my head slowly, until I face directly across from me. “Tommy.”
Tension drops in like an anvil, hard and swift and graceless. Sir Thomas Robert Kowalski turns about as red as a stop sign.
“What do you say? How would you like to finally meet our mother?”
* * *
—
Everyone comes around on the idea except for Leda, who pouts through the rest of dinner until Dad announces that he’s taking us to Dreamies, a soda shop on Main Street that’s been a family staple for years. It’s impossible to be upset at Dreamies, with all its old-world charm—black-and-white tile floors, tin ceilings, sepia-toned photos on the walls, chrome-and-red-vinyl chairs, banana splits the size of an infant.
Leda, Daphne, and I get a banana split, three spoons. We each take a cherry, holding them up by the stems to cheers. It’s the only time Leda ever indulges, so Daphne and I allow her to eat all the strawberry without complaint, though it’s our collective favorite flavor. Chocolate and vanilla just aren’t as special.
Dad and Amy share a float, and Tommy is lactose intolerant, so he just gets a Coke. They sit at another table, speak in hushed tones, likely discussing the funeral.
“He doesn’t know what he’s in for,” Daphne says. “Poor guy.”
“It’s cruel, Clio,” Leda says. “You shouldn’t subject him to it.”
“He’s seen worse at his job. Real-life horrors. He can deal with a bunch of fake psychics and self-proclaimed witches,” I say, mining for hot fudge.
Leda doesn’t argue because she knows I’m right.
“The banana is the least desirable part of the banana split. Don’t you think?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.
“It’s necessary,” Daphne says. “You’d miss it if it were gone.”
“I would never miss a banana,” I say. “Ever.”
“I think you would,” Daphne says. “I think you absolutely would.”
“What are you two even talking about?” Leda asks, scooping up some whipped cream and offering it to Daphne, who eats it off her spoon.
“Why do we keep getting banana splits if you don’t like the banana?” Daffy asks. “Why not just get a strawberry sundae?”
I gasp.
“We always split a banana split,” Leda says.
“Always,” I say.
“It’s tradition,” Leda says.
“Sister tradition.”
“Okay, all right,” Daphne says, holding her hands up in surrender. “Point taken.”
There’s a lull, a moment of silence. Space for me to start a fire in.
“Have you ever read Mom’s book?” I ask.
“Clio!” Leda says, scandalized.
“What?”
“No, I’ve never read that book. I’ve never wanted to read that book. I don’t even think about it,” Leda says.
“I think about it,” Daphne says. “Sometimes. I looked it up on Amazon once. It’s got a few reviews. Not good ones. Just, you know, wackos who believe in all that. I’ve never read it. I don’t want to either.”
“Don’t tell me you have,” Leda says, pointing her spoon at me. “We promised.”
“I kept my promise. I haven’t read it.”
“Good,” Leda says. “It’s a bunch of lies. Lies making bad memories even worse. I know it’s hard to accept.”
“Accept what?” I ask.
“Who she really was,” Daphne says. “And when you go to her funeral, you’re going to hear stories about her that aren’t true. Not for us, anyway. None of those people were there when we were kids. When we were alone in that house with her.”
I nod, swirling the melty remains of the split. “Do you think she really believed? About the demon?”
Leda says “No” at the precise time Daphne says “Yes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Daphne says, shaking her head, “if she believed her delusions or not.”
“She was an alcoholic and a narcissist and a terrible mother,” Leda says, setting her spoon down and sitting up straight, lifting her chin. “And I have to be honest—I’m not sad she’s gone.”
After a moment, Daphne says, “Me either.”
“Wow.” I reach up to my neck and fiddle with my new charm, my diamond-eyed snake.
“It’s good we have each other,” Daphne says, eating some banana mush.
“Yes,” Leda says, revealing a small tube of hand sanitizer that she spritzes into her palm.
Daphne and I both turn our hands over, and Leda sprays us, too. She puts the tube away and for her next trick, materializes some lip balm that she passes around the table. We’ve always been good at sharing, never the types to fight over toys or clothes or the spotlight.
Daphne gathers our napkins and carries them over to the trash.
“I’m sorry I volunteered Tommy without getting your approval first,” I tell Leda. “I’m sorry you don’t want me to go.”
She waves a hand. “It’s fine. Might be for the best. You’ll come back understanding what I tried to save you from.”
I blow a raspberry.
“How many times do I have to prove that I’m right about everything?” she says, standing.
“You’re lucky you found Tommy,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“Ha-ha. Let’s go home. I want to walk off that ice cream before bed.”
We leave Dreamies, Dad chauffeuring us back to the house. Tommy and Leda go for a walk around the neighborhood, Dad and Amy go to bed, and Daphne and I smoke a joint out on the old playset.
We sit on parallel swings passing it back and forth, kicking dirt, pointing out constellations.
“I can’t see trash anymore,” Daphne says, squinting at the sky. “Not without my glasses.”
“Didn’t we used to have a telescope?”
“Yeah. Might be in the basement. I bet Amy sold it, though.”
“Facebook Marketplace?”
“She’s obsessed with Facebook Marketplace.”
“Loves it.”
“I worry she’s gonna get murdered. She’ll tell me about how she went to some random person’s house in the middle of nowhere to pick up, like, junk. Like an old end table or some trash like that.”
“Yeah,” I say. I take a hit and pass the joint back, then start pumping my legs, start to swing.
“Hey, are you serious about going to the funeral, or are you just being…”
“Being what?”
“Difficult.”
“Me?” I ask, feigning shock and indignation.
“Dude.”
“Okay,” I say. “No. I’m serious. I’m going.”
She blows smoke rings, showing off. “Yeah. I was afraid of that.”
“You all need to relax.” I hop off the swing, landing hard on my feet. I raise my arms like a gymnast. “Ta-da!”
“Very good,” she says, unimpressed.
“I’m going in,” I say. “It’s too chilly out here.”
“All right. I’m gonna finish this.”
“Go for it,” I say, turning to head inside. “Night. Love you.”
“Love you.”
I take two steps before she says, “Wait.”
“Mm?”
“Can you just…”
I look over my shoulder at her. It’s dark, and she’s just a shape, a shadow beyond a floating ember.
“They’re gonna talk about how much she loved us. How much she loved you. But she didn’t. What she did to us, it wasn’t out of love. We love you. This, what’s here, this is love. Just remember that, okay? When you’re there?”
“I will. I do,” I say. “I know.”
I keep walking, and as I march up the slight hill toward the house, I wonder what right Daphne has, what right anyone has, to say what is and isn’t love. I wonder if love can be ugly. If it can do the wrong thing. Bad things.
I wonder if it can ever really die.
5
Tommy asked what I wanted to listen to on the ride up, but I could tell he was nervous, so I let him pick the music. It was a lot of nu metal, which I found kind of funny and kind of tragic.
Did u know Tommy listens to Slipknot? I texted Daphne.
Woof, she responded. Maybe he just wants you to think he’s cool.
I replied with a broken heart emoji.
The drive from Jersey to Connecticut was about two and a half hours. Tommy insisted we leave early in case of traffic, which we didn’t encounter, probably because we left so early. We arrived forty-five minutes before the start of the service, so we found a spot in town to get coffee and muffins. Now we sit at a small corner table, eavesdropping on the locals and waiting for our too-hot coffee to cool enough that it won’t burn our tongues.
“How are you feeling?” he asks me as I decapitate my cinnamon muffin, streusel crumbling everywhere.
“I’m not going to cry, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say.
“I’m not worried about that. It’s okay to show emotion,” he says. “To be sad.”
“I know. I don’t cry when I’m sad. I only cry when I want something.” I wink at him as I take a bite of my muffin. It’s a little stale.
“Leda doesn’t cry either,” he says, frowning.
“She did when we were kids, but only in private. She’s too proud.”
His frown deepens, the corners of his mouth practically dripping off his face. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m glad we’re doing this. I wish Leda were here. And Daphne. I think it’s the right thing.”
“Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate you saying that. And for coming with me.” I wipe my muffin fingers on a napkin and raise my coffee cup to him. I take a cautious sip. “Ooh. Good coffee. Thank goodness.”
“Leda got me a Nespresso for my birthday,” he says, then proceeds to tell me all about it with such enthusiasm that I’m tempted to record him so I can watch this whenever I want to experience joy again. After he finishes waxing poetic about the process of frothing milk, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.
I stare at myself in the mirror, brush muffin crumbs off my prized thrifted black Prada minidress. Of everything I packed, it seemed the most appropriate for the occasion, with a modest neckline and flared hem. It wasn’t worth the fuss to badger Leda to ask Aunt Helen about the dress code for the funeral, or to reach out to Helen myself, and while I’m skeptical it’ll be a traditional black attire affair, I figured better safe than sorry. Black Prada dress, black Prada loafers, sheer black stockings, my black cashmere cardigan with the mismatched gold buttons that I got at the Brooklyn Flea for ten bucks, sewed on myself. Black velvet headband. Small, chunky gold hoops, my lucky dice studs, my white gold snake charm necklace that I’ve become inexplicably, incredibly attached to sometime in the last few days.
My reflection betrays what I’m feeling—nothing. No nerves, no sadness. Maybe that will change once we get there, to the place where the service is being held, or maybe it never will. Maybe there’s no right way to mourn someone who hasn’t been in my life for eighteen years.
Of my sisters, I look the most like her. The olive complexion, big dark eyes. The same bone structure, the high cheekbones. The thick arched brows. The long curly hair, inky black. My nose and lips aren’t hers, but they come from her side. That’s why she loved me most, I think. I bear no resemblance to Dad. She could look at me and see none of him. Not have to be reminded of the man who hurt her.
