“I think this is good for now,” Dad says. “We’ll add to it as we figure out what else we need.”
“Yes, it’s enough to get us started,” Mom agrees.
Whatever is on the list, I hope it includes food, because yesterday, when we were told we lost everything, it included my appetite. Now that I’ve had time to sleep on it, my stomach feels like it’s going to implode.
“Can you bring me back some egg-white frittata bites?” I call out from under my sleeping bag. “I have such a craving.”
When the front door slams shut, I pop my head out of the sleeping bag. “Mom? Dad? What about my frittatas?” When I look around, my worst fear is confirmed: Not only did they leave, but they left me behind with demon spawn.
“What?” I hiss at Gavin, who is staring down at me from the kitchen.
“You’re unbelievable.” He shakes his head.
“Thank you,” I say, only to annoy him. Which I’m successful in doing, since he disappears into the other room, closing the door behind him. I’m not sure how we’re going to make it through the next two weeks if we can barely last a minute together before needing our own space.
As much as I’d like to sleep through the two weeks here, my body betrays me with the sudden urge to pee. My sleeping bag is the only safe surface I will allow my bare skin to touch. Thankfully I had enough sense to pack a pair of indoor slippers. I carefully get out of the sleeping bag and into my slippers by the time Gavin emerges from the room, dressed like he’s going out.
“Where are you going?” I ask. As delightful as his company is, it’s our first day here, and I’m not trying to get murdered. I’d rather not be left behind in this crime scene waiting to happen.
“To prune the herb garden,” he says.
I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”
“Why do you care?” he says instead of answering my question.
I don’t. But if I’m being honest, it does strike me as odd that without the business, the three of them are able to find something to work on together here. And it’s farming, of all things. “Can I ask you something?”
Gavin’s head pops up from tying his shoes, eyeing me from head to toe. “The answer is yes. Your satin two-piece pajama set and furry slippers make you seem completely out of touch with reality.”
I groan angrily at him. Gavin makes it impossible to have a serious conversation with him. “You’re the one who’s out of touch with reality, going along with Mom and Dad’s delusional plans of being farmers when I’ve never seen you grow anything, not even a sense of humor.”
“Elena.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just getthrough this, okay? Then you can go back to doing whatever you want.”
“Fine,” I say. That’s one thing I can agree with him on.
After he leaves to go “prune the herb garden,” which I’m still not fully convinced about, I go to the bathroom. With my slippers on, I take great care to step only on the lighter parts of the shag carpet, since my slippers are 100-percent suede-lined with shearling. As soon as I close the door to the bathroom, however, I realize I can’t pee. At least not inhere. Brown stains around the faucet fixtures, a ragged shower curtain barely hanging up by three rings on a rusty rod, dust balls in the corners, and, not to mention, grime on every square inch of the place. My body shivers from a mix of disgust and claustrophobia.
Despite being in a bathroom with this level of grossness for the first time, I find myself in familiar territory. Turning something deemed undesirable into something of worth is, after all, my specialty. And this bathroom qualifies as just that.
Cracking my metaphorical knuckles, I unzip my toiletry bag sitting on the sink counter. My mom once hosted a charity event with Martha Stewart where I witnessed that woman use Chantilly lace trim and a glue gun to turn a plain wicker basket into a bassinet. It went from Hobby Lobby to haute couture in mere minutes. There must be something in my bag I can work with to improve the place.
Channeling my inner Martha, I rummage through my things. First I find a bottle of toner. On the bottle I read that the toner contains alcohol, which could be used as a disinfectant. But it’s only half full, and even though it was gifted to me by the product’s company when their new skincare line was launched, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to replenish my stock. I tuck it back into the bag, deeming it too precious of a commodity to waste.
Next I find a packet of lavender-scented bath salts. I wouldn’t mind a relaxing bath now, but not until the tub is up to my standards. Then my eye lands on something that can help. A bottle of hand sanitizer. I spray it around the tub first and then the sink. By the time I get to the floor, I’m spritzing the last remaining droplets. Thank God I can’t say no to a deal and purchased the large scented bottle. After I finish cleaning, the room is not only bacteria-free but it smells like rain after a storm. Or at least that’s what the description on the bottle suggests. And it’s a marked improvement, if I do say so myself.
Now that the fear of catching tetanus or some kind of fungal infection is significantly reduced, I’m finally able to use the restroom. And just in time too. I was already doing a dance only kindergarteners and old people do. I was seconds away from having an accident that would make me have to disinfect the bathroom all over again.
When I’m done I wash my hands and face and start applying my seven-step skincare regimen. As I emerge from the bathroom feeling cleaner than I did when I entered it, a feat no one would have believed was possible before I took matters into my own hands, I can’t help feeling a sense of major accomplishment. Now everyone can thank me for turning this bathroom from useless to usable. Except when I look around, I’m the only one here. A reminder that I’m alone in this family.
Who am I kidding? No one will thank me for a germ-free bathroom. They won’t care about something they can’t see. Like with the invisible germs, my parents can’t seem to see the value in my work as an influencer. I used to think that if I could prove myself to them in terms they could understand—money, power, fame—then I’d finally be worthy of their praise. But I’ve become successful in my own right. I’ve become a bigger name than Gavin. And yethis future is still the only one they care about. I’m starting to think that no amount of success will make my parents proud of me, which is a bigger problem than I can handle. Because that means it’s the person, not the achievement, they care about.
Of course I know my family loves me in that obligatory way. But liking me is a different story. As it was, our house manager, Carolina, used to do everything my parents didn’t want to do, including spending time with me. And I’m good at finding solutions for all sorts of problems, but this isn’t one of them. Even if Martha Stewart herself helped me, I couldn’t fashion myself into someone I’m not.
Thinking about my family always gets my nerves riled up. Every part of my body is tense. While I look for a muscle relaxer, I find the lavender bath salts sitting on top of my toiletry bag. I decide to skip the muscle relaxer and draw a bath instead. Since no one else is here to enjoy it, I may as well take advantage of the now-clean bathtub.
Opening the packet, I pour a scant amount in the tub. The water is blessedly warm when I slip in, and the fragrant floral scent instantly boosts my mood. With my eyes closed, I’m able to forget where I am. Thirty minutes later, when my fingers and toes turn into shriveled raisins, I unclog the drain and dry myself off. Before putting the bath salts away, I read on the back of the packet that lavender is known for its calming effect. I’m surprised at how effective it is, considering how much my mood has changed even though my circumstances haven’t. I tuck the rest of the packet into my toiletry bag like it’s a precious commodity. With two weeks to go, I know I’ll likely need it at least a handful more times.
Excerpt
