advantage and crossed a fairly serious line. And with all of this on her plate Emma has been very successful at avoiding Stephie’s notion of “her own damn party.”
“No wonder your mother was glad to get away from you for a week, Ms. Stephie,” Emma not-so-jokingly says from behind a tangle of weeds that are threatening to take over her yard.
“Me?” Stephie feigns shock. “What’s wrong with me? I just made that one little mistake. I thought we decided days ago that everyone was crazy but us.”
“That was before everything you put me through this week. I’ll be lucky if I even know who I am by the time you leave tomorrow night. Who’s got time to wish they were someone else?”
“Is that a no then?”
Periodically Emma has wished to be everyone but herself. A very long time ago she wanted to be her mother. That was before her father became ill. She remembers her yearning when she would watch her mother get dressed in a silky dress, or a pair of sleek pants, or a flowing skirt that was so absolutely beautiful Emma had to touch the fabric while her mother walked from the bedroom into the kitchen. Sometimes when her mother put on lipstick—because if you wore lipstick it did not matter what else you had on, you were cleared to go anywhere—Emma so wantedto be her, to be able to wear lipstick and to go anywhere that might be a place her sisters had not already been.
When she got older there was a very short period of time, maybe two weeks, when she wanted to be just like her three big, and mostly annoying, older sisters. Debra, who during a sweet moment actually let Emma use her makeup and try on her nylons and who was kind enough to tell her that “yes, sister, you will get breasts just like mine someday.” Joy, who was always busy sneaking out of windows and hiding things in the bushes that were most likely discovered by their father, who near as Emma can recall never said a word, although occasionally Joy would ask Emma to help her. “Hold open the window, rugrat,” or “If you promise not to tell Mom you can have some of this beer” were two of Joy’s more endearing remarks that sometimes made Emma actually adore her. And even as a young girl Emma knew Erika was filled with quiet grace. She did not take to yelling like her other sisters, had a habit of flinging her long blonde hair over her shoulders that made her look like a runway model, and Emma tried to fling her own hair the exact same way until she was at least eighteen.
After that in junior high there was not a young girl alive in Higgins, South Carolina, who did not want to be Bridget Cantina. Bridget, so it seemed, had been born wearing a training bra and things just got bigger from that point on. Ms. Cantina, who Emma found out later had breast reduction surgery in her junior year of college, went on to achieve even more local fame by marrying a man twenty-five years older than she was and then claiming, even now, to still be madly in love with him.
The years following high school were beyond a wash in the female heroine department. When Emma tries to remember events from those years it is as if they have all been magically erased from her mind. She knows she surely didn’t want to be herself most of the time. Marty was suffering from empty-nest syndrome andphoned her at college daily and showed up unexpectedly so often that it was embarrassing.
After that, in an honest moment, Emma might admit that she sometimes wanted to be one of the many girlfriends who called to tell her about an upcoming marriage or an old friend who announced that she had taken a job in Paris. Emma sometimes wanted to be her sister Erika who had the guts to move out of South Carolina and detach herself in a sort of loving yet distant way from the Gilford family madness, and now, just now, she thinks it would be wonderful to be Stephie Gilford and to have a semi-clean palette and rainbows of colors to choose from.
Emma tells all of this to Stephie as they
“No wonder your mother was glad to get away from you for a week, Ms. Stephie,” Emma not-so-jokingly says from behind a tangle of weeds that are threatening to take over her yard.
“Me?” Stephie feigns shock. “What’s wrong with me? I just made that one little mistake. I thought we decided days ago that everyone was crazy but us.”
“That was before everything you put me through this week. I’ll be lucky if I even know who I am by the time you leave tomorrow night. Who’s got time to wish they were someone else?”
“Is that a no then?”
Periodically Emma has wished to be everyone but herself. A very long time ago she wanted to be her mother. That was before her father became ill. She remembers her yearning when she would watch her mother get dressed in a silky dress, or a pair of sleek pants, or a flowing skirt that was so absolutely beautiful Emma had to touch the fabric while her mother walked from the bedroom into the kitchen. Sometimes when her mother put on lipstick—because if you wore lipstick it did not matter what else you had on, you were cleared to go anywhere—Emma so wantedto be her, to be able to wear lipstick and to go anywhere that might be a place her sisters had not already been.
When she got older there was a very short period of time, maybe two weeks, when she wanted to be just like her three big, and mostly annoying, older sisters. Debra, who during a sweet moment actually let Emma use her makeup and try on her nylons and who was kind enough to tell her that “yes, sister, you will get breasts just like mine someday.” Joy, who was always busy sneaking out of windows and hiding things in the bushes that were most likely discovered by their father, who near as Emma can recall never said a word, although occasionally Joy would ask Emma to help her. “Hold open the window, rugrat,” or “If you promise not to tell Mom you can have some of this beer” were two of Joy’s more endearing remarks that sometimes made Emma actually adore her. And even as a young girl Emma knew Erika was filled with quiet grace. She did not take to yelling like her other sisters, had a habit of flinging her long blonde hair over her shoulders that made her look like a runway model, and Emma tried to fling her own hair the exact same way until she was at least eighteen.
After that in junior high there was not a young girl alive in Higgins, South Carolina, who did not want to be Bridget Cantina. Bridget, so it seemed, had been born wearing a training bra and things just got bigger from that point on. Ms. Cantina, who Emma found out later had breast reduction surgery in her junior year of college, went on to achieve even more local fame by marrying a man twenty-five years older than she was and then claiming, even now, to still be madly in love with him.
The years following high school were beyond a wash in the female heroine department. When Emma tries to remember events from those years it is as if they have all been magically erased from her mind. She knows she surely didn’t want to be herself most of the time. Marty was suffering from empty-nest syndrome andphoned her at college daily and showed up unexpectedly so often that it was embarrassing.
After that, in an honest moment, Emma might admit that she sometimes wanted to be one of the many girlfriends who called to tell her about an upcoming marriage or an old friend who announced that she had taken a job in Paris. Emma sometimes wanted to be her sister Erika who had the guts to move out of South Carolina and detach herself in a sort of loving yet distant way from the Gilford family madness, and now, just now, she thinks it would be wonderful to be Stephie Gilford and to have a semi-clean palette and rainbows of colors to choose from.
Emma tells all of this to Stephie as they
Similar Books
