Patricia allows herself a small smirk. “It is. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of a closet like this, a big one with windows and a mirror tall and wide enough to show me twirling in my own princess dress.”
Brooklyn runs over to the mirror in question and attempts a twirl. She’s dressed herself in a hot-pink skort, a bright-yellow tank top, and green rain boots with frog faces, but the smile she gives herself suggests she’s very pleased with her work. Patricia has asked the child to leave, but she pauses when she sees Brooklyn’s utter enchantment with the mirror. God, was she ever so young?
She must’ve been, but she doesn’t remember.
The 1970s were a different time. Children had to grow up faster. At five, she was staying home alone and roaming the neighborhood without a second thought. She could vacuum and sweep and make macaroni and scoop cold, slimy Vienna sausages out of their can without cutting her fingers and light a cigarette for her mama. There were no comfortable clothes like the ones Brooklyn wears, bright colors and cheerful, glittery designs of smiling unicorns and pretty cursive saying GIRL POWER and BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. Things were heavy, scratchy, meant to last. There were no tablets, no colorful shows on demand about being sweet to your friends. Just an unreliable black-and-white TV with rabbit ears, and if you were lucky, you might catch Sesame Street or Mister Rogers.
These days, this time…it’s just so soft. So sweet and quiet. No wonder children are helpless and living at home until their thirties. No wonder they can’t get jobs. They’re told that everything is okay, that everything will be fine, that they need to focus on self-care. Ha! They need to focus on being functional humans.
Brooklyn swings her little skirt back and forth, does a clumsy curtsy, sings softly to herself, mesmerized.
Patricia narrows her eyes. It’s up to her to teach this fragile, silly child all the things Chelsea failed to impart. Thanks to the Violence, they no longer live in a soft time. As much as Patricia hates to consider it, her own days of softness and luxuriance are over. She has to go back to being sharp, grasping, cunning.
She won’t be Patty again—she’ll die before she stoops that low—but she can’t just sit here, pretending everything is going to be fine.
Her life won’t be fine until she makes it fine.
She stands behind Brooklyn in the mirror.
“Imagine a string on top of your head, pulling straight.” Patricia reaches over her own head, grasps the imaginary string, and pulls up, her posture naturally elongating. Her chin is up, shoulders back, belly tucked. “This is how a lady stands. Graceful but strong. You try.”
Brooklyn reaches overhead, her forehead wrinkled. She reaches up like she’s tugging on a lamp chain, but nothing changes.
“It didn’t work.”
Patricia chuckles. She reaches down and adjusts the child’s posture. “That’s because you’re the one who has to do the work. Feel that? Like you’re a foot taller.”
“I am?”
“It certainly looks that way when you stand up straight and don’t slouch.”
Brooklyn’s face rumples up as she tries to hold her posture—and her breath.
“You have to breathe, too. And smile. It may not be easy, but you must always make it look easy.”
“Why?”
Patricia bends over, her face beside Brooklyn’s in the mirror. They have a similar smile, she notes with some triumph, glad that her genes have trumped the men who’ve helped bring the child about.
“Because that’s how you become strong,” she whispers. “Confidence is key.”
“I thought it was about being nice. That’s what they say on My Little Pony. That friendship is magic.”
Patricia chucks her chin. “Power is magic, darling. Don’t ever forget it. Now come along. Nana has some work to do downstairs, and as I told you, this closet is forbidden unless I am with you.”
Brooklyn follows her out of the closet and casts a look of exquisite longing as the door closes.
“Why? Do you have guns in there?”
Honestly, the things in this child’s head!
“Of course not. That’s ridiculous. I have coats that cost as much as a car.”
“Why?”
Patricia’s brief moment of connection with her granddaughter is lost as she realizes that Brooklyn will badger her to death with the word why if she allows it.
“Because I said so. No one owes you the answers to everything. Now come.”
Once they’re downstairs, Patricia fixes Brooklyn a peanut butter sandwich and a tin of peaches and sits in her sunroom, her phone in hand. The question isn’t so much who will help her as who can she trick into thinking she’s helping them…while they are helping her. She scrolls through her contacts, nixing this name and that. Some because they’re already out of the country and unreachable, some because of a silly old grudge, some because just talking to them gives her a headache.
She finally lands on the O’Malleys, whose house backs up to theirs. They maintain an appropriately tall wooden fence between the properties, and the O’Malleys were supposed to pay for half the cost of fixing it after a falling branch toppled a tree, damaging a section of the wood. Patricia clicks call and gathers her confidence and calm around her like an ermine-lined cape.
“Hello?”
“Barbara, darling, it’s Patricia Lane from the neighborhood.”
“Yes, of course.” There’s a babble of voices behind Barbara, and she sounds flustered, or at least otherwise engaged. “How are you, dear?”
“As well as can be expected. The auction is ramping up. So many donations coming in.”
A fussy little exhale. “Ah, yes. I did forget to send over a basket, didn’t I? Please forgive me. It’s been such a time.”
“And I thought we might discuss the fence, while we’re chatting.”
Patricia knows that as long as she stays serene and regal and wears her sly, smug smile, she’ll always have a hand up on Barbara, who’s distracted at best and flighty at worst. She needs firm managing, Barbara does.
“The fence. And an auction basket. If you can send me an email, I can handle that when we land in Ontario. Don and I are laid over in New York. The lounge is so crowded you’d think it was Thanksgiving. Honestly.”
Damn.
They’re not even home.
They probably didn’t bring a checkbook.
“That sounds ghastly.”
“Oh, it is. But once we’re settled in, things should calm down. We have tickets to—” Don’s voice babbles in the background. “Oh, that’s our group. Look, Patricia, while I have you, could you be a dear and check the front porch? I’m expecting some important packages, but it was too late to reroute them, and we’ll be here through the end of the summer, and we’re having trouble finding a house sitter. The key is under the mat, and the code is one one one one—for the garage and the security system. Just leave the packages in the mudroom.” Before Patricia can accept this task, Barbara squawks and hurriedly adds, “Thank you, darling! You’re a lifesaver!” And hangs up.