Sisters. Nancy Thompson Robards
slipped away…if she’s not already dead.
“It’s too early to tell,” Raul says. “She is in a coma. So you should get here pretty fast.”
I can’t believe this. Mama. In a coma? Ginny, hippie mother earth—the eternal free spirit who collected love children like genetic souvenirs. But in all fairness, Summer and I are twins. So technically, Mama only got pregnant twice. Still, no matter how you slice it, there’s nothing normal about having two different men father your children when you have no idea of one man’s identity. Last time I asked, she had it narrowed down to a list of about ten or fifteen candidates.
“After all, the sixties was the era of free love,” she always said. “At least I gave you life.”
But that’s not the issue right now. All of that and the upheaval it’s caused seem so insignificant in the face of…this.
I realize Raul just said something and is waiting for me to answer.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Can you telephone your sisters? I cannot find their numbers. The doctor said the next twenty-four hours are critical. So if you are coming, you should get here as fast as possible.”
Summer
I haven’t been back to Dahlia Springs in twenty-two years. Frankly, I haven’t had the time, money or the inclination. But when my sister, Skye, calls to inform me that our mother’s in a coma… Oh God.
What choice do I have? And it couldn’t come at a worse time.
I suppose if I were completely honest, I’d admit I don’t want to go home. Because Dahlia Springs isn’t home. Never was.
My home is here in New York. My job is here, my friends are here.
Who was it that said friends are the family you choose?
Whoever it was hit it dead on. I wouldn’t choose my family if I had the choice. But for some masochistic reason, I can’t cast them off, either. Despite the fact that my sister and I don’t see eye-to-eye on most issues. And our mother, Ginny, has had long-standing differences with Skye and me over the years.
Still, she’s my mother. That’s why I decide to purchase a plane ticket I can’t afford and travel to a place I don’t care to visit. Because the woman with whom relations have been strained at the best times and worse on other occasions is lying in a hospital bed in a coma.
“It might be a couple of days before I can get there. I may have to work a couple of days to give Gerard time to make arrangements. He’s behind schedule with the spring collection and—”
“Summer, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.” Skye’s pitch veers into a sharp upper register and she’s slipped into that drawl she uses when she’s irritated, which is more often than not when we talk. “Mama may not last a couple of days.”
My stomach clenches, and I take a deep breath.
“Look, I’ll get there as fast as I can. I’d be there now if I could. But I can’t just drop everything. I have a job. I need to make arrangements for Gerard to get someone in here to fill in for me.”
I don’t have a husband to support me.
“What about Jane?” Skye asks. “Don’t you think we owe it to her to tell her about Mama?”
The irony of Skye’s words makes me laugh, but it sounds brittle. Even to my own ears. “Isn’t that the story of her life? The whole damn world owes Jane, the one who’s had everything.”
Jane is our younger sister. Half sister, to be exact. We share the same mother. Ginny married Chester Hamby, Jane’s father, after she got pregnant. Skye and I were nineteen and out of the house. So really it was a different chapter in Ginny’s life. A chapter from which we were largely absent.
Our little sister’s had all the advantages we didn’t have growing up—a father for one. And a wealthy father to boot.
Before Chester met Ginny, he made millions off an invention—something to do with farming. I was never clear on what the gadget was, but it brought in a boatload of money.
Jane’s twenty-one and to say she’s a handful is an understatement. She ran away from home the first time when she was fourteen, about six months after her father died. She stayed away about a month. Of course, Ginny welcomed her home like the prodigal daughter. I can understand that. Jane was upset over losing her dad. Ginny was glad to have one of her daughters back.
But then Jane did it again when she was sixteen. Said she was going downtown. Three days later she called Ginny from New Orleans to tell her she’d gone on the road with her boyfriend, Rad Farley, and his band, Flaming Skeleton, to be the “wardrobe mistress.”
Ha. It didn’t take a genius to conclude that “wardrobe mistress” was really just code for glorified rock-and-roll groupie.
Ginny was beside herself and called begging me to do something. When I wouldn’t go rushing down to New Orleans to whisk Jane back to Florida, my mother took all her anger out on me. I was in New York, for God’s sake. And to be honest, if Ginny was even half the mother to Jane that she was to Skye and me, I didn’t blame Jane for wanting to get the hell away from her.
Even though I want to be irritated with Skye for pressuring me to drop everything and come, a pang of guilt needles me. The truth is, it won’t be that difficult for my boss to replace me while I’m away.
For the past seventeen years, I’ve been a house model for the designer Gerard Geandeau. The oh-so-glamorous job boils down to serving as a human mannequin on whom he fits his samples. It requires spending hours a day, nearly naked on my aching feet. Not a plum modeling job by any standard. Still, there’s plenty of fresh meat clamoring for my position.
Gerard was not very compassionate about my asking for time off. He had no time to listen to my reasons.
Accident-smaccident. He had no sympathy.
It’s the studio’s busiest time of year, planning the spring collections. Work cannot come to a screeching halt because I must take personal leave for something so trivial as my mother being in a coma.
He didn’t say it that way, but he might as well have. He’s always been the temperamental creative type, prone to temper tantrums and flippant remarks, but he’s never thrown a flaming arrow at me.
His lack of understanding hurt.
As a compromise, I stay so he can finish the piece he’s fitted to me. It’s two days later before I get to Dahlia Springs.
I hope once I get back, he won’t have decided to keep my replacement on permanently, leaving me out in the cold.
Sometimes when the spotlight hits just right, all the style and beauty can’t disguise that the under-belly of the fashion world is a very ugly place.
I’m reminded daily that I am a forty-year-old woman competing with fresh-faced babies. Just the other day, I was talking to an eighteen-year-old who came into the studio for a fashion-shoot fitting. She couldn’t believe I was still modeling at my age.
“How have you managed to work so long?” It was all she could do to keep her mouth from gaping. “I’m not half as old as you and my agency’s telling me to lie about my age.”
She hasn’t even hit her stride as a woman and already she’s over the hill. Where does that put me?
“That’s why you’re doing the print work and they fit samples on me in the back room,” I told her. “Just don’t get fat and you’ll get work.”
And don’t get old.
I didn’t say that. But it’s the truth. I was young and hot once. To be working at forty, I’m the exception, not the rule. I have no idea how I’ve managed to pull it off this long. Every day I wake up fearing the other Manolo will drop.
Sometimes I detest this business.