“They do, actually. Fifty dollars a pop.” She takes the bottle from Patricia’s long, slender fingers, re-caps it, and places it back in the cabinet. “It’s our most popular product. And it’s why none of us got the flu this winter. They say it helps Covid long-haulers, too.”
Patricia’s nose is all wrinkled up, making her look like a French bulldog. “Well. It’s not something I would count on, but I suppose you Millennials like to believe in false hope and woo-woo snake oil instead of hard work.” She picks up her cup again and sips, gazing into the backyard like she’s in a commercial and they’re about to have a misty-eyed heart-to-heart about feeling not so fresh. Chelsea is very glad the yard crew came earlier this morning to pick up the fallen branches. “You know, Chel, I worry about you. You have everything you need here, but you’re always fiddling around with some little…enterprise. There was the internet university, which you dropped out of, I believe, long ago. The blogging. You tried to write a book once, and that went nowhere. You sewed face masks. And now the oils. I sincerely worry about you setting yourself up for disappointment. A woman is nourished by her family, not her…experiments.”
Chelsea loosens her fingers from her fists before that, too, comes under scrutiny. If family was what nourished women, her mother would be a dancing skeleton; she wrote off her entire family when Chelsea was born, probably out of embarrassment, and she only shows up here when she has an agenda or needs to whet her claws.
“I need something to do, Mom. Both girls are in school. I get restless.”
Patricia’s face attempts something similar to pity, and she sets down her coffee cup and stands before Chelsea, reaching out to arrange her daughter’s hair over her shoulders and sighing when it won’t cooperate. Chelsea’s skin crawls, but she knows better than to flinch.
“If you’re so restless, perhaps that energy could be directed inward. A new hairstyle. A Peloton or yoga. Some time at the spa. Get a little work done.” She taps Chelsea’s forehead with one cold finger. “My doctor is a genius. And diet shakes these days might as well be milkshakes. So rich!”
Rage runs red up Chelsea’s neck, heating her cheeks and forehead. She briefly envisions snatching her mother’s finger and breaking it in her hands like a pencil. Words tumble through her head a mile a minute, ranging from If we’re the same size, why do I need more exercise? to Independence is more important than pretending I’m half my age, not that you’d understand that to If I’d married an older man to get rich, perhaps I’d be that complacent, too. But the thing about her mother’s pronouncements is that they are in no way about Chelsea, and Chelsea knows that. Like most things in her life, fighting back only makes things infinitely worse.
“Maybe I will,” she says. “The yoga, I mean. Thanks for caring, Mom.”
Patricia’s eyes close, and she does a sinuous little shoulder shimmy, as if eating compliments could sustain her. The funny thing is that Chelsea remembers how her mother spoke when she was poor, before she set her sights on marrying rich and dropped her southern accent and habit of screaming at people who didn’t do what she wanted. This current version of Patricia is a creation, her mother’s own little…experiment. And it worked, damn her.
“I only want what’s best for you, dear. I always have. You must take care of yourself. For the children.” Patricia glances at the family calendar, bright with pictures of Ella and Brooklyn at the beach, and frowns. “When was that trip? I don’t remember being invited.”
But before Chelsea can answer, Patricia has snatched up the overdraft notice from the counter and is reading it as avidly as one of those gossip magazines she hides under her bathroom sink but pretends to hate. She gasps, a hand to her chest.
“Chelsea, what is this? Overdrawn?”
Teeth grinding so hard she’s worried she’ll bust open a crown, Chelsea snatches the page back and folds it decisively, stuffing it in the back pocket of her skinny jeans. “Nothing. A mistake. David will handle it.”
Patricia licks her lips like a fox and steps forward, a bony hand on each of Chelsea’s shoulders. Her signature scent invades Chelsea’s nose and mouth, lilies and poisonous white flowers, and she wants to turn away and retch.
“Darling,” her mother says, weighty and pitying, her eyes innocently wide. “If you’re in trouble, you can tell me.”
Not I’ll help you, Chelsea notes, but You can tell me.
“We’re fine, Mom.” Chelsea shrugs and tries to grin. “Look around you. We’re doing fine.”
Patricia does look around, but almost as if she’s afraid the house will fall down on her.
“Then I’m certain David knows what he’s doing. But I should run. So busy. You know how it is.”
As her mother swiftly sashays back to the front door, running a finger along the top of the wainscoting and frowning at it, Chelsea wonders if she would even know if she was having a heart attack. Tight throat, aching chest, hot forehead, numb fingers—these are the symptoms of being around Patricia Lane for any amount of time. Thank heavens her mother takes off to her condo in the Outer Banks for major holidays, claiming the children give her migraines. Chelsea wonders if it makes her sad and lonely, celebrating Christmas in a beautifully appointed but empty beach house while her latest husband golfs, but she would never ask such a thing. Her mother might actually tell her the answer.
“Thanks for stopping by,” she says at the door.
Patricia turns around, forehead wearing one elegant and rebellious crease. “There was something I wanted to tell you, but I can’t remember what it was. Never get old, darling. I swear, my mind is a sieve.”
Chelsea smile-grimaces in understanding and opens the door. “Well, you can always text me.”
Patricia steps outside, washed over by the sun’s glare, her hand shielding her eyes. “Texting is just so cold. I don’t understand how the younger generations can eschew real connection.”
There is no satisfactory answer to that, so Chelsea cheerfully says, “Bye, Mom!”
Patricia nods once, turns on her kitten-heeled sandal, and marches down the sidewalk before stopping halfway to her car.
“No, I remember!” she calls, not troubling herself to take any further steps back toward her daughter. “There’s a news story going around. Some sort of new virus? Not like Covid. People are acting funny. Violent. There was an incident at some value store. Someone died. Beaten to death with off-brand Thousand Island dressing, if you can believe it!”
Chelsea fights for control; her mother is almost gone, and she doesn’t want to give Patricia any reason to stay.
“Okay, so check the news and don’t go to the store. Got it. Thanks, Mom!”
Patricia takes a single step closer, her eyes pleading. “No, dear. Don’t go to that store. You can look it up on the internet. Find out more. Maybe wear a mask. Just be careful. For the children.”