American Babe (5 page)

Knox was wearing an all-black sweatsuit that was either Yeezy for Adidas or just some ordinary sweats that he'd bought at a mall and then intentionally destroyed enough to make them look expensive as fuck. Either way it was fucking fabulous, and I was living for it. His hair was slicked back and gelled. He looked ummmmmmazing. I was overcome by an emotion with which I don't have that much experience: pride. I mean, I've been proud of myself many times, and I'm proud of my friends when they do something incredible, like get a promotion at work or settle out of court when they're trying to sue their parents for more inheritance. But that inevitably comes with the accompanying emotion: jealousy. This was different. I was just proud of him. I wanted the best for him. He was clearly very talented and he was clearly very much my relative, and for that he should enjoy all the happiness in the world.

“I think it looks perfect out here. I couldn't have done it better myself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Wow. Babe Walker likes my party planning. Okay. Let me just digest that. I need to run into the kitchen to check on my gluten-free option. It's almost ready to be plated.”

“What is it?”

“Salmon sashimi lettuce cup with tamari dipping sauce. And yes, it's low-sodium tamari.”

“Love.”

He disappeared, and I walked to a small table in the corner where the alcohol was. I poured myself a glass of rosé (very thoughtful of Knox to have made sure they had my drink), downed it quickly, and poured myself a second. No one, and I mean no one, at this party was looking at me. It was just a weird feeling, so I thought I would mention it.

Then I saw something that freaked me out: a man on the other side of the yard who was sitting by himself. It was the man from the picture in the dream I'd had last night. It was him. At least, it looked a lot like him.

“Who are you?” I asked as I walked up to him.

“I'm Joe.”

Joe was wearing a simple washed-out blue oxford and khakis. He was handsome in a Kurt Russell way but older, much older. It hit me that this man was probably
my grandfather. If it makes you uncomfortable that I just called my own maybe-grandfather handsome, then please remind yourself that I'd never met/seen/heard anything about this man until this very moment. He was a completely stranger. Relax. And BTW, ew. I would never. I'm not Genevieve.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Donna's daughter. Babe. Babe Walker.”

He looked at me.

“I see. Of course you are. Well, in that case, it's nice to see you again.”

“Well, we've never met before, Joe. I've never been here before.”

“I know that. But we met in California. When you were born.”

“We did?” I was kinda creeped out at this point.

“Of course we did. You think I would miss the birth of my first grandchild?”

“Oh. Wow. You're my grandfather.”

“Yup.”

“That makes a lot of sense. I need a drink.”

“Me too.”

“Happy birthday?”

“Thanks. Mind getting me a drink?”

I went and got us a bottle of tequila (Joe's signature
drink, apparently) and we sat together and got acquainted. He was tall, handsome, and so calm. I mean, yes, we were there celebrating his eightieth year so I wasn't expecting him to be jumping around, but his energy was gentle and strong. I liked being around him. Had I seen that picture of Joe and me somewhere? I must have. Maybe at Tai Tai's?

“So where is your mother?” Joe asked, sipping on a shot of tequila.

“I was wondering the same thing. But really I think a better question to ask is, where is your daughter?”

“That's true, but I learned a long time ago that Donna does what Donna wants to do. Always has, always will.”

“That took me about twenty-six years to figure out. Actually, I think I'm still figuring it out.”

“Look, dear. You really got a raw deal. Your mother is really no mother at all.”

“It's fine, Joe. I fuckin' get that. She wasn't there for me my whole life, but I'm still here and I'm gonna prove to everyone that my life does have purpose, and that family does mean something to me.”

“She hasn't been there for either of you kids.”

“Well, it's just me,” I reminded him. I guess he was just the teensiest bit senile. That's fine.

“Not exactly.” Joe lowered his voice to a whisper.

“What do you mean?” I perked up.

“Oh, I don't mean anything by it, darlin'. When she was young, I thought Donna would grow out of her selfishness and become a little more of a responsible, caring individual, ya know what I mean? But there is only so much that you can do to shape a child. You do your best. You put in the work. Veronica over here turned out to be the good egg. A really good egg. She's my shining star. She is one of the most hardworking, thoughtful women I know. And I tell her every chance I get.”

“Yeah. She seems really nice. And very different from Donna.”

“You have no idea how different she really is from Donna. She's been cleaning up every mess Donna makes since they were little girls.”

Joe was slurring his words, slightly, at this point. He'd had at least five shots of tequila, which I think is way more than five in old-people years. But I wasn't quite sure what he was getting at.

“Well, I'm glad I came, even if my deadbeat mom never shows up. It's nice to meet this side of the family. Knox is adorable.”

“You think so, huh? Yeah, he's a pretty amazing kid. Makes a great steak.”

“I'm sure he does. Seems like he's very talented in the culinary arts.”

“Fucking Donna. Couldn't even show up for her old man's eightieth. I mean, that I can live with. It's that she missed all of Knox's cooking and planning that makes me angry.”

“Are they close?”

“No. I wouldn't say that. Donna's never around enough to be close to any of us. But I think she's done a marginally better job with Knox than she did with you.”

“Exsqueeze me, what are you talking about?”

“Knox isn't your cousin, darlin'.”

Just at that moment, Cara, Knox, and Veronica burst raucously out of the house carrying a birthday cake, singing “Happy Birthday.” But I couldn't escape the moment Joe and I were having. I was in shock. Was this man, my grandfather, who I just met an hour ago, trying to tell me that Knox was Donna's kid? Did I have a fucking brother? I mouthed the words to the fucking song like a robot, eyes glazed, took a few swigs of tequila, and walked up into the house. I hated Donna more and more by the minute, and it seemed like almost everyone else in this family did, too.

How could she have not shown up to this? I was drunk, tired, and sad. I never went back down to the party. I just got into bed, watched
Transparent
on my iPad, and fell asleep.

About four hours later at 3 a.m. I was awake again. My phone was buzzing. It was a text from Donna.

Donna
Turn the light on. I'm in this room with you right now

Babe
What are you talking about?

Donna
Vee says we should share this bed

I looked up and there she was standing by the door. What a fucking psycho.

U
gh. Okay. I was going to have to deal with this if I wanted to get any sleep, which I did.

“This is some kind of sick joke she's playing on us, right?”

“I don't fucking know, Babe,” Donna said, dumping her oxblood overstuffed Balenciaga Papier tote onto the floor.

I was suddenly sure Veronica was mad at me for coming and mad at my mom for being a cunt for basically her entire life, and now we were being punished by having to share a room with each other. I hadn't shared a room with someone I wasn't fucking, even on vacation, in thirty years, and I'm not even thirty yet.

“Veronica must be mad at us,” I suggested. “But we both know sharing a room isn't gonna work . . . for me.”

“I know.”

“And when things don't work for me, they tend to not work for the people around me.”

“I know, Babe. We've met,” Donna said, the last part sliding out slightly under her breath, which I could tell smelled like an American Spirit Blue—that's what my mom smoked. I'll never understand those cigarettes. They take twice as long to smoke as Marlboro Lights and honestly who has the time? Not to mention the fact that they're adorned with Native American–themed art, which just isn't nearly agreeable enough an aesthetic to accessorize with
every single d
—

“I'll go talk to her,” Donna said, cutting off my train of thought.

“Do what you want. But please figure it out.”

She held her look at me; it was a loaded stare.

“Are you trying to tell me something with your eyes?”

“I'm just exhausted, Babe. My flight from Idaho was two hours delayed, they ran out of red wine literally halfway over Colorado, and I forgot to pack Xanax, which meant I sat up sober and miserable for the next four hours of the flight.”

“Idaho?” I inquired.

“Sun Valley. Friend's house out there. Gay wedding.”

“Chic.”

“I'm gonna go deal with this. I'll stay at a hotel if I need to.”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, pulling the sheets back over my head.

T
he blinds in that bedroom were literally useless. They were beige with the weight of a thin crepe—I didn't even understand the point of having them there hanging from the top of the windows. In my opinion, blackout curtains are the only option. Otherwise, just sleep outside and be an animal. I should've taken a pill like I had the night before. That was clearly the only way to get any sleep around here. So I was up at 6 or 9 a.m. or something heinous like that. I rolled myself out of bed, threw on a floor-length cashmere cape (black of course), covered my face in an awakening raw coconut, raw cocaine, raw pear mask, and made my way down to the house's public quarters. Luckily, no one was up so the living room/kitchen area (it was one room . . . not clear) was empty. I made myself a cup of tea, and by tea I mean hot water and lemon, and went out to the porch with my breakfast, and by breakfast I mean a Marlboro Light.

The air smelled completely different in Maryland. In LA, our air smells like old gasoline cooking on hot rocks with a slight splash of Chloé Eau de Parfum; here the breeze pas
de bourrée'd across my face smelling like trees. I have to say I didn't hate the feeling it gave me. I didn't hate it at all. I wouldn't even be lying if I told you that in that
very
brief moment, I was happy to be in Shithole, MD. I lit my cigarette and closed my eyes for a moment.

“You can't smoke out here.”

It was Cara.

“I'll wait for your mom to tell me that. It's her house.” I sucked in another drag. “I'm not sure if you realize this, but you're ten years old,” I said without turning to face her. She was deliberately fucking up my moment, so she deserved nothing more than my back.

“I'm fourteen,” Cara bit back.

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Knox is ten.”

“Cute.”

“And my mom
will
tell you to stop smoking on her property,” Cara assured me.

“Is your mom out here?”

“I'll wake her up.”

I spun around quickly and looked right at her. I shit you not, she was wearing a Snuggie.

“You would never.”

“You're right, I wouldn't. I'm not a fuckin' snitch,” Cara said.

I couldn't help but laugh. She said it with such conviction, I thought I was watching
Mob Wives
or some other ratchet television program.

“So can I have a drag?” she asked, stepping toward me.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I started smoking two months ago. My mom doesn't know, so obviously don't tell her.”

“Hmmmmm,” I shrugged. Maybe I had more in common with this little bitch than I had first thought. “Sure,” I said, “get over here.”

I held out my cigarette to the minor standing before me, and she took a long, professional drag. I wondered if Cara had given a blow job yet, and what about penis-in-vagina sex? I have a strict no-children-around-me rule so I didn't really have anyone to compare her to, but she certainly seemed to be very adult for fourteen years old. Cara handed the cigarette back to me, I took a last drag, and threw the butt underneath the porch.

“Thanks, Babe,” she said before turning quickly and running back into the house, presumably to wash the cigarette smell off her hands. Before she made it to the screen door, I called out—

“Don't wear Snuggies anymore.”

I walked down to the yard but was reminded on contact that I loathe the feeling of wet grass between my toes, so I gasped and ran back up and into the house.

It was still so quiet in there. I could hear the faint tumble of Cara shuffling around in the upstairs bathroom, which reminded me of the first time that my dad caught me smoking. I was at my Tai Tai's house, and she'd given me a casual smoke to accompany our cucumber water and sunbathing on a Saturday afternoon. He picked me up earlier than planned and caught me in the back garden wearing a pair of Tai Tai's XL Balenciaga sunglasses and puffing away on a powder-blue Nat Sherman cigarette. The drama of it all must've been too much for my poor dad to handle. He was furious, which I didn't understand at the time because he smokes cigars and weed. It all felt a bit hypocritical. Of course I had to get caught my very first time at the rodeo. That is just so typically me. Looking back, though, I guess it was pretty crazy of my Tai Tai to give a cigarette to a seven-year-old.

I helped myself to some of the almond milk that Knox had made for his party cookies from the fridge. He'd added a dash of cinnamon. Genius.