Rachel Auntie gasped. In all my life, I’d never heard my mother use that word.
“How could you invite Fia to the wedding?” Dolly was coming around fast because she had a tight grip around her sister’s lace collar, pulling them nose to nose.
“Ma!” I tried to pry her fingers away.
“You stay out of it,” Dolly hissed.
“Everything okay over there?” Thomas’s father’s voice boomed from the dining table.
“Yes, George. Dolly’s come around. She’s feeling much better.” Rachel Auntie’s voice was smooth and cheerful, but in the next instant, it turned into a harsh whisper. “Let go of me, Dolly. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong withyou? You know I haven’t talked to Fia in ages.” A scuffle ensued as Dolly and Rachel slapped each other’s hands away. This time, it was Joseph Uncle who interrupted.
“Need any help getting her up?”
“No, no.” Dolly chuckled, letting go of Rachel Auntie’s neck. “I’m fine. See?” She propped herself up and gave everyone a queenly wave. “Just need a moment, that’s all.” She waited until everyone went back to their salads.
“I’m. Never. Talking. To. You. Again.” She accented each word by jabbing Rachel Auntie in the chest.
Great. Joseph Uncle wasn’t talking to Rachel Auntie and Isabelle. And now Rachel Auntie and my mother were going on strike. I stood with my back to the dining table. We were far enough away that no one could hear what was going on, but no way could I shield everyone from what was about to go down between the sisters.
“Dolly, I had no idea you still felt this way.” Thankfully, Rachel Auntie’s tone was reconciliatory. “It’s been years, and besides, it wasn’t my call. It was Isabelle’s. She needed a photographer for the wedding and with Fia being her godmother, things just fell into place.”
“How long has Fia been a photographer?”
“It’s what she does. When was the last time you talked to her?”
Dolly shook her head, the fight seeping out of her. “I wish you’d told me.”
Her vulnerability caught me off-guard—a sad softness I rarely saw. At some point in my life, I’d started thinking of my mother as Dolly. I still called herMa, but she was always Dolly in my head. When I thought of the wordmother, I thought of someone you could go to when you were hurt or hungry or sad or lonely. Someone who loved, nurtured, and cared about you. I didn’t know what Dolly expected of me, but I never seemed to make her happy. Something was broken in our relationship and I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. I wanted her to be somebody else, and she wanted me to be somebody else.
I sat and picked up a pack of playing cards from the side table. Still in their box, they were crisp, clean, and in perfect order.
As Dolly and Rachel Auntie made up in hushed tones, I shuffled the deck and picked a card.
Queen of Diamonds.
I returned it to the deck and picked another card.
Three of Spades.
Better. The Three of Spades was exactly what I needed, given the shit-shoveling day I was having:
1) Getting splashed by some moron on a NASA-fueled motorbike.
2) Losing my room.
3) Choking in front of Nikos. Again.
4) Having Dolly faint. For real.
Wait. That was four. But I liked three. Three was odd. Three was the number haunting my life. Three was the number of thumbs I looked for. Three wasme.
I slipped the Three of Spades into my dress pocket.
“Are you feeling well enough to eat?” Hannah asked Dolly. “Or should I have the chef prepare something light for you?”
“I’m fine. I’ll have what everyone else is having.” Dolly rose and smoothed her hair. “Come, Rachel.” She held her hand out and they walked to the table as if they hadn’t just been clawing at each other like wildcats.
