“You got any iced tea?”
Her incorrect grammar makes me my teeth grit and my eyes squint. “Do I have any iced tea?” I correct.
“Yeah, you got any iced tea?” She missed the correction.
“No. I have orange juice, Pellegrino, milk, or Coors Light.” I don’t care if she did just potentially save my ass, I’m not offering her my wine.
“Orange juice.”
I pour her a glass and then sit at the table with her. She fidgets like a child. Her mannerisms are all childlike. I wonder what her story is. I’m usually not interested in people personally, but she’s odd and it’s intriguing. “How long have you lived here, in your apartment?”
She thinks it over and then answers, “A long time.”
“One year? Five years? How long is a long time?” I press.
“I came when I was eighteen.”
“How old are you now?”
“Forty.”
Shocker. I would’ve guessed her ten years older. I want to tell her about dermabrasion, and chemical peels, and Botox, but I don’t think those words are in her vocabulary. And then I have an idea and run to the bathroom to retrieve my bag of tricks.
When I return, I hand her a hair elastic. “Put your hair up.”
She’s good with commands. I like that. She gathers back her long, tangled blond hair into a ponytail.
I do the same with mine.
Then I turn on the hot water in the sink until it’s steaming and wet two washcloths and wring them out. “Now tip your head back. I’m going to put this on your face. It’s hot, it will open up your pores.”
“Pores?” she questions.
“Just do it. Your skin is screaming for attention like a middle-aged woman in the front row at a Bon Jovi concert.” After I put the washcloth on her face, I do the same with mine. When it starts to noticeably cool, I remove them and set them on the counter. Hope flinches when I smear the mask on her face. “Sorry, I know it’s cold.”
“What is it?” she asks.
“It’s a mask. It contains lactic acid and beta glucan.”
“Huh?” I’ve lost her.
“It’s going to make your skin feel and look younger. You haven’t been good to your skin. It shows. You have to be friends with it if you want it to treat you well in the long run. Skin care is a marathon, not a sprint.” I’m not putting her down, I’m being honest. And I think she’s the type of person who can take it.
“Oh. It will make me pretty. When do we take it off?” See? She can take it.
“Twenty minutes,” I say as I slather a coat on my face.
I walk in on the most bizarre sight I think I’ve ever seen. Miranda and Hope are sitting at the kitchen table with green shit all over their faces, drinking orange juice, amongst a plethora of dirty baking utensils filling the sink and counter. Never mind that the entire apartment smells like heaven. When I reach for the oven handle, Miranda swats my hand away in a protective gesture that would put a riled up tomcat to shame. “It’s not done yet. Leave it alone.”
“What is it?” I ask.
No answer.
The kids all walk in behind me. “Hi, Hope,” Kira says.
“Hi, Kira,” Hope says.
“Hi, Hope,” Kai says.
“Hi, Kai,” Hope says.
The kids and Hope only met each other once and that was months ago, I’m surprised they remember each other’s names. It’s like a sitcom where everyone is oblivious to, or is choosing to ignore the weirdness.
Until Rory enters and keeps it real. “What smells so good? And why do you have that crap all over your faces? You look like freaks.”
I’m about to tone him down when Hope answers, “It’s a mask. It’s gonna make me look pretty. Me and my skin are gonna be friends.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “O-kay.” And he leaves.
Just then, the timer sounds on the oven and Miranda jumps out of her chair like she’s been stung on the ass and she shoos us away. “Everyone out.”
Ten minutes later Miranda and Hope enter the living room with clean faces and a plate piled with something sticky and doughy and sweet. Miranda is beaming. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile so wide. A toothy grin happens when joy can’t be contained.
And the monkey bread is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
You used to be nice
present
You know those stories of demonic possession? The movies or books that depict a human taken over by an evil spirit?
Can they happen the other way around? An evil person gets possessed by a good spirit?
Because what’s happening with Miranda lately defies logic.