And Then Everything Unraveled (3 page)

For a few seconds the next morning I forgot where I was. All of my dreams had been set in Palo Alto, and I could smell bacon, which happens a lot in the morning at home. While T.K. doesn’t have any of the standard vices like smoking or gambling, she does have a serious bacon habit. So with my eyes shut and the bacon-scented air, it was easy to imagine I was in my own bed. But once I opened my eyes it was immediately clear I was somewhere else entirely.

My room at home mostly reflects my mother’s taste, which means the palette is white on white, with the occasional splash of white to keep things interesting. I’d raised the possibility of alternative color schemes on several occasions, but T.K. believes that “a monochromatic environment promotes focus and intellectual rigor.”

If that was true, then I might as well say farewell to focus and intellectual rigor while I was at Charley’s. Here the paint on the walls was a glimmering silver, and brightly colored silks hung at the windows. The rich blues and greens of the curtains should have clashed with the pinks and purples on the bed, but somehow it worked.

Charley had told me the previous night that she had the curtains and bedspread made from material she found in a store in Jackson Heights, a neighborhood where a lot of South Asians live. She’d redone the room just for me, which was incredibly nice on such short notice, but I had the feeling she’d thought I’d be more exotic, or at least a bit more in touch with my father’s Indian roots. I guess she had no way of knowing that every other person in Silicon Valley is of Indian descent or related to an Internet tycoon, and that frequently they’re both. I’m actually considered pretty mainstream.

Between the hour and the fact that she was supposed to be coproducing, starring in, and serving as the casting director, location manager, and production designer for the movie being shot on the roof, we hadn’t had much time to talk the night before. Charley had told me about Jackson Heights and also a bunch of stuff about Dieter’s brilliant creative vision before promising we’d catch up in the morning and rushing back upstairs.

I’d thought I’d be too wired to sleep, but as soon as I’d seen the cozy-looking bed, a wave of exhaustion broke over me. It took all of the energy I had left to drag a toothbrush across my teeth and change into pajamas. The only reason I’d bothered with the toothbrush was that T.K. has done such a good job scaring me about gum disease.

Now the clock on the bedside table said it was after ten, and the bacon smell reminded me that it had been a long time since
I’d last eaten. My pajamas consisted of a tank top and sweat-pants, but Charley seemed like the informal type—she wouldn’t even let anyone call her Charity (“I mean, do I look like a Victorian spinster?” she’d said when I asked)—so I decided it would be okay not to get more dressed and went in search of food.

The loft took up the whole fifth floor of the building, and most of it was a huge open space. My room was down a short hallway, and Charley’s room was down another, but just about everything else was in the main room, including a kitchen area at one end, a big round table in the middle, and a mismatched collection of sofas and chairs at the other end. A long row of oversized windows framed a view of the buildings across the street.

The kitchen counter was piled with grocery bags, and Charley was at the stove, trying to turn bacon with tongs that still had a price tag dangling from them.

“Delia, hi,” she said, looking up with a cheery smile. “I hope you’re hungry.” She gestured casually with the tongs, as if trying to imply that she cooked all the time, but just then a drop of sizzling fat flew up from the pan and nailed the inside of her wrist, and she let loose with a few words that neatly proved how wrong T.K. was about swearing and a lack of imagination.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“Everything’s under control,” she assured me, apparently
unaware that the pan was starting to smoke. She chattered on as I tried to remember if I knew anything about putting out grease fires.

I shouldn’t have worried about the pan, but it would be a while before I realized that just about everything Charley did turned out all right, no matter how inevitably disaster seemed to loom. I learned much more quickly that she liked to talk. A lot.

“There’s fresh orange juice—do you like orange juice?” she asked. “Some people like grapefruit juice better, and I know it’s supposed to be really good for you, but it makes my mouth feel all puckered. I also picked up bagels and cream cheese. I wanted your first meal here to be authentically New York, so it was either bagels or ordering in from the taco place, and since the taco place doesn’t open for another hour, bagels won. And everyone likes bagels. Except for people on a low-carb diet. But even they like bagels, they just don’t eat them. You’re not on a low-carb diet, are you?”

I wasn’t sure which question to answer first, but it didn’t matter, because Charley was already on to the next series of topics, which included: her love of carbs, how her love of carbs almost made training for a marathon seem appealing except for what it would do to her toenails, how important toenails were for open-toed shoes, not to mention peep-toes and sandals, and how sore her feet were from standing around the previous night while Dieter shot the same scene over and over again.

By now, we were at the table with enough food for a small team of sumo wrestlers and Charley took a big bite of bagel, which gave me my first opportunity to say much of anything. And what I most wanted to know was how she and my C-Span-watching, loafer-wearing mother could possibly be sisters, but asking which one was adopted didn’t seem like the most polite way to start a conversation. So since all of the other adults I knew liked talking about their work, I asked about her movie career instead.

She laughed. “Don’t let Dieter or Gertrude hear you call it a ‘movie,’ whatever you do. It’s an independent
film,
darling,” she said in a mock-affected way. “And I wouldn’t call it a career, either. It’s just something I’m doing right now.”

“Oh,” I said, lacking context for this. In Silicon Valley, people tend to define themselves by their profession. It’s not about money, either—T.K. has a trust fund from her great-great-grandparents or something like that, and she’s made plenty on her own, but it still hasn’t stopped her from being a total workaholic. “Then what do you usually do?” I asked Charley.

“Usually?” she repeated, as if the word was foreign to her. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had a ‘usually.’ That sounds sort of…bleak.”

“Well, what did you do first?”

“You mean after Brown?”

“You went to Brown? But don’t Truesdales get disowned if they don’t go to Princeton?”

“No, your mother was kind enough to break that mold. At least as far as college. You should have seen the fit your grandparents threw when I told them about the Peace Corps. Then I almost did get cut off.”

“No way,” I said, impressed. “You were in the Peace Corps?”

“Sure,” she said, as if everyone joined the Peace Corps, and as if the Betsey Johnson dress she was wearing was standard issue for Peace Corps alums. “I spent a few years in Ghana, teaching HIV and AIDS prevention. Then I traveled around Africa for a while. The different cultures and climates were fascinating, and I liked the animals so much that I decided to go back to school to be a zoologist. But it turns out they make you study every single kind. Giraffes and elephants are one thing, but who can get excited about mollusks, except maybe the French? And they’ll eat anything.”

“So then came the movies? I mean, films?”

“Oh, no. There was a lot of stuff in between. Let’s see,” she said, using her fingers to tick off occupations. “Africa, and then grad school. Then I got interested in Eastern medicine, but it turns out that I’m a bit squeamish about needles so acupuncture class was a problem. What else? There was the magazine. And the gallery, of course. But the only people buying art back then were Wall Street types. I can’t even begin to describe what stiffs those hedge-fund goons were. Their idea of a good time was
golf.
” She shuddered. “It’s like the crash was some sort of divine punishment for bad taste.”

“And then what?” I asked. She still had a few fingers left.

“And then the film, I guess. Unless I kill Gertrude first. Don’t you think Gertrude looks more like a Helga than a Gertrude?”

As if on cue, a cell phone began ringing from somewhere under the bags on the counter. “Speak of the devil,” said Charley. “That’s probably her, even though we’re supposed to be taking the day off.”

She found the phone and checked the caller ID. “Ack!”

“Helga?” I asked.

“Even worse. I think I’ll let voice mail pick this up.”

“What’s worse than Helga?”

“The Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. Though maybe you should forget I said that. I don’t want to scare you before you’ve even met her. But it does seem only fair to warn you. The Flying Monkeys are pretty special, too.”

“Who’s the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side? And who’re the Flying Monkeys?”

“Your other aunt and her kids,” said Charley. “Patty’s twins, Gwyneth and Grey. That’s Grey with an
E
—they went for the British spelling, just in case the name itself wasn’t pretentious enough. But don’t worry. We’re safe for now. I never give out my home number, and especially not to family.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the landline phone on a side table started to ring. Charley jumped, startled, then she snatched up the receiver and checked the
screen. “How?” she cried. “How does she do it? Nobody has this number. It’s unlisted. I’m not even sure
I
know what it is.”

There was a click as the answering machine picked up the call, and a moment later a voice began streaming from the speaker. It could’ve just been distortion from the machine, but the woman who spoke sounded like she was sucking on something sour:

Charity, are you there? Are you there? Are you screening your calls again? Are you? You know, it’s really very rude to screen your own sister like this
—

“What does she expect when this is the sort of thing she calls to say?” asked Charley, sinking back into her chair.

—
and the voice mail on your mobile phone is full, which is very irresponsible. What if somebody needed to reach you urgently? I don’t know what Temperance was thinking. As we all know, you can’t even manage to raise a Chia Pet
—

“She’ll never let me forget that, will she?” said Charley.

—
much less a child. And there are several important things we need to discuss about Cordelia. First, I’ve called Prescott, and they’re expecting you both in the headmaster’s office first thing Tuesday morning. Tuesday as in tomorrow. Now,
Jeremy and I had to pull a lot of strings to get a place for Cordelia at such late notice
—

“Jeremy’s her husband,” Charley explained. “They’re perfect for each other. Which should tell you a lot.”

—
fortunately, the Paulson girl had to enter a long-term treatment facility for her eating disorder, so a space opened up in the junior class. Now, I expect you to be punctual, and I expect you to wear something appropriate. And you know what I mean by appropriate. I haven’t bought Cordelia’s uniform yet since I didn’t know her size, but she can wear one of Gwyneth’s old ones in the meantime. Though we may have to let it out. Gwyneth’s so willowy—she takes after me that way. Second, we’ll expect you at the beach house in Southampton
—

“No!” said Charley, a look of terror on her face.

—
this weekend. That includes you as well as Cordelia, and given the circumstances, I don’t think anybody will have any patience for one of your excuses. I suggest you be there, and I suggest you be on time. You know, there’s a reason why we keep giving you watches for Christmas. You might want to start wearing them. The gold Patek Philippe from last year is a beautiful piece. And it was certainly
a more appropriate gift than the rug-hooking kit you gave me
—

At this point, Charley had her head in her hands and was moaning softly.

—
Third, I’ve made an appointment for Cordelia with Dr. Chiswick. I hardly think you’re qualified to provide the sort of support that a girl needs during such a traumatic time, and he’s considered to be the finest child psych
—

Charley leaped up and hit the
OFF
button on the answering machine. “And that,” she said, “is your aunt Patience.”

I didn’t think it was a coincidence that she’d stopped the message playing when she did. “Look,” I said, “there’s no need to send me to a shrink.” I pushed my chair back and began clearing the table.

“Why don’t we figure that out later?” Charley said after a moment. “Once you’ve settled in a bit.”

“Really. It’s a waste of time,” I said.

“Delia,” Charley began awkwardly, “I hate to agree with Patty about anything, but it might not be such a bad idea. The death of a par—well, it’s a hard thing to deal with.”

“But I don’t have anything to deal with.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is only temporary. T.K. will be back.”

Charley was silent, clearly trying to figure out what to say to that. I should’ve been surprised to see her at a loss for words, but I was too focused on making my point. “You must think I’m crazy or in denial or something,” I said, after I’d explained about the label maker and the lack of proof and everything. “Everyone at home does, too. But it’s all a mistake.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” said Charley, even though her tone suggested she wasn’t sure but was trying not to show it. “But are you sure you don’t want to talk to someone more…skilled in this area? It might help.”

“What I really want is to find my mother, and I don’t see how a doctor’s going to do that.”

She hesitated, but then she nodded. “Okay. If that’s what you want. But you should let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” I said.

She came to join me in the kitchen, loading the plates I rinsed into the dishwasher. “Now, more importantly, what are you going to wear for your first day tomorrow?”