Margaux walked around the kitchen counter and faced me. She was wearing shiny red shoes and a black dress; she looked lovely, as always.
“I am going in to the office. I trust that you will be able to occupy your time in a respectable manner until I return. I have made reservations for this evening at eight for Providence. I will have my assistant pull back a dress from the new fall line for you to wear.”
“Sure,” was all I could manage to say to her. I stood up to head back to the guest bedroom and she gave me a cold, tight-lipped smile. As I passed my grandmother, I noticed a ghastly burn on the top of her hand. The skin there was broken, red and raw looking. I was alarmed by the injury but quickly shook aside the feeling, not really caring what had happened to her. I silently hoped that it hurt.
Locking myself away in Margaux’s chic guest bedroom, I turned my favorite Radiohead album up loud and worked hard on pushing back the tears that threatened to spill out on to my cheeks. I concentrated on the frilly, white lace that outlined the bedspread and the pale pink flowered wallpaper that lined the walls. I reminded myself to breathe and worked hard on the task of letting oxygen fill my lungs and then allowing it to leave again.
The nightmares that were set in motion by my mother’s death had troubled my sleep seven times so far. I pulled a worn piece of paper from my overnight bag and added to it a seventh tally mark.
I sat alone in the guest room for the entire day, until Margaux returned from work. When she rapped on the door, I stood up. My joints were stiff and popped from my long inactivity. Margaux handed me a baio dress that she had designed for her fall line and a pair of dangerously high and pointy shoes. I took the clothes and met her downstairs an hour later.
At Providence, Margaux was greeted by the staff with warm hellos and we were seated immediately at a private booth near the back of the restaurant. Our table was covered with a nice, white linen cloth and wine glasses for four. The host took the additional glasses away and wished us a nice evening. Our waiter approached moments later and before I could glance at my menu, Margaux ordered.
“My granddaughter and I will each be having the River King Salmon. I will take a glass of your finest Sauvignon Blanc and Ava will have a glass of water, please – no ice.”
Handing my menu off to the waiter, I huffed and stared down at my linen napkin. How could a woman who has spent so little personal time with me know so much about me? I don’t use ice. Typically, ice is made from tap water, which is unfiltered; eventually ice melts in my drink and causes impurities to mix with my filtered water. I realize that this statement makes me sound nutty and annoying and slightly silver-spoonish, but I can’t really help it; I am obsessive.
As we waited for our meal, several people came up to the table to say hello to Margaux and she politely introduced me to each of them as her “favorite granddaughter,” which made me want to gag – I am Margaux’s only granddaughter.
I paid very little attention to her admirers until a man approached whom Margaux seemed genuinely happy to see.
“Margaux!” he beamed.
“Ah, Jason,” she smiled back. “It’s been too long.”
“Indeed it has.” The man clasped Margaux’s hand in his. They spoke briefly and then he looked over to me, squinted his eyes and cocked his head to the side in thought.
When Jason said, “This must be Adrian Moirai’s daughter,” Margaux’s pleasant face turned beet red and a big vein throbbed at the temple of her forehead.
“This,” my grandmother said sweetly, “is my granddaughter, Ava Zae Baio.” She put a little too much emphasis on the Baio and I knew immediately that this Adrian Moirai person was my father. I had never known the name of my father. In fact, when my mother died, I had been directed to her bank so that her assets could be signed into my name. I saw then that my father had also left a sizeable amount of money to me, but that every space that he presumably had signed had been obliterated by white-out.
I tried to give the appearance that I had not been listening to the conversation between Jason and Margaux and had not noticed that change in her demeanor, but in the back of my head I said the name over and over again – Adrian Moirai was a name I intend not to forget, ever.
Our waiter arrived then with our salmon and Margaux’s friend made his way back to his table on the other side of the restaurant.
Margaux and I ate in an uncomfortable silence. After dinner she turned to me and spoke.
“Ava, I have taken the liberty of purchasing a car for you to use while you stay here in California. That way you won’t have to ask me to arrange transportation for you. I have also set you up with a spending account. You will have a weekly allowance for gas, food and whatever it is that you do; if the amount doesn’t work for you, please contact my assistant so we can adjust it accordingly.”
“I’m pretty sure I will be okay with that,” I said as diplomatically as I could, knowing that I would just be donating the money to charity anyway. “And, um, thanks, for the car. That was very nice of you.”
“The car is just a convenience to me, Ava. I am busy; I don’t have time to raise a seventeen-year-old girl. Let’s get through this year and then we will both be free to go our own ways.”
She continued down her list.
“You will need to check in with the Dana Point Institute tomorrow. The drive from here is about an hour, so I suggest you leave fairly early in the morning. You’ll check in at admissions. Your belongings have already been sent to your dorm room. I expect you to catch up on classwork quickly. You have missed only one week of the school year so keeping pace shouldn’t be a problem for you. I will be checking on your progress from time to time with the dean; if you get anything less than an A on any form of schoolwork, Ava, there will be hell to pay.”
I looked down at my knotted fingers.
“Well?” She snapped.
“Yes. I understand.”
My voice was small. I felt pathetic.
Margaux waved for the check, passed the waiter a black credit card and once he returned, we left. We rode together in the back of her car while her driver moved smoothly though the heavy L.A. traffic. I wondered idly if she had ever driven herself anywhere – not likely, I decided.
When we got back to Margaux’s, I noticed her magnificent baby grand in the entryway. I pointed at it.
“May I?”
She took a seat and allowed me to play. I have played the piano since I was small child. Back in Chicago, I used to give lessons on week nights for my spending money. I know all of Margaux’s favorites. I played them until I cleared my head enough that I thought I could sleep, excused myself and headed upstairs.