“Monday?” she asks.
“Yes, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are my lab days. As you unfortunately had to overhear, I am not available on Friday.”
“Your mother seems to be a bummer,” she says.
“You can’t imagine,” I say quickly, attempting to navigate the topic elsewhere.
“She’s Esther McKenzie, the neurosurgeon, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You do know what they say, yes?”
“Who says what?”
“The prevalence of narcissism is the highest in surgery professions,” she says. “I’d say you did a good choice not choosing that.”
“You heard that?” I ask because it’s the only thing my brain focuses on.
“Couldn’t not hear it,” she says, “Your mother has quite the presence in her voice.”
I scoff. Nice way to express it.
“See you tomorrow in lecture,” she says, and leaves.
Somehow, she has this ease. Nothing is a problem around her. I am not a problem.
Friday comes,and I am already dreading the afternoon and evening. I don’t simply dislike social gatherings; I absolutely despise them. So when my cab pulls up at the Rockefeller Center, and I get out in my simple black evening dress with slim straps and a scarf over my shoulders, I would have preferred to get back into the cab and give my mother a wild excuse of why I couldn’t attend. But I’d never lie.
The Rainbow Room sign flashes in red, on the black canopy above the entrance to the Comcast Building,
I sigh heavily as I push through the golden door to get inside.
I walk to the elevator bank and get to the mezzanine level, where I intend to switch to the private elevator for the Rainbow Room. My mother loves that room, and it’s not the first event we've celebrated there.
Just as the elevator is about to close, a hand slides between the doors and opens them. I am annoyed because I enjoy elevators without anyone else in them.
That hand looks familiar to me. My eyes follow the arm. I almost don’t recognize her, and my mouth drops open when I do.
“Hi,” she says as if all of this were plannend.
I am so far out of my predictable zone that words don’t form.
“I thought,” she says casually, “Your mother could use a little change of behavior on your end, so she finally sees what a wonderful daughter she has.”
She’s not even looking at me, but standing with her back to me, in a stunningly glittering black sequin high-neck maxi dress with cap sleeves.
“I—what—who—“ I stutter, because my brain doesn’t work, and my T. rex arms shoot up, whether I want them to or not. I am just glad she doesn’t see them.
But then, she turns around.
I am so flabbergasted by her sheer beauty.
Her hair falls in elegant waves to the side.
Not a hair out of place.
Her eyes are dark, with intense black eyeliner, long lashes, and glittering cheeks.
