Smothered Read online

  In my defense, I haven’t really been applying for jobs, so it’s not as though I’m being rejected. I was actually considering applying for a part-time job at your company, but as we learned last summer from my lovely internship at Time Warner, finance quite literally puts me to sleep. I probably shouldn’t pursue anything that involves counting. Bless you and your affinity for numbers, Alberto.

  Anyway, until I have a better sense of what I want to be when I grow up, I’m staying with my parents, which brings me to this email. Is there any way you can send me Mom’s car insurance information? She scraped her bumper on a curb backing out of Bloomingdale’s yesterday and doesn’t want Dad to know. It’s not bad, but this is the third time this year, so she “wants to keep it on the DL.”

  I have to end my correspondence here, because I’ve actually been waiting to pay for Mother’s rosé in the longest checkout line Ralph’s has ever seen. Some old lady is paying for her groceries exclusively with coins. Wish I were kidding.

  Thanks for everything, and undoubtedly I’ll be emailing you again soon.

  Best,

  Lou

  Sent from my iPhone

  MAY 22

  Val

  11:45 P.M.

  * * *

  I finally went over to Theo’s apartment to help him and Jett unpack. You have to trudge up five flights of stairs and wiggle the lock to get to unit 6: a two-bedroom, one-bathroom, charming shithole left in total shambles by the previous tenants. The paint is chipping, the floors are warped in places, and the whole apartment reeks of marijuana thanks to Jett’s three-foot bong. (Apparently, he operates the bottom part of it with his toes. This is equally impressive and horrifying.)

  That being said, I was happy to brave the smell just to spend the day with Theo, who was in such a good mood, he spoke in a bad German accent while he was putting together the furniture.

  “Vhat do you zink, Fraulein Lou? Ze angels must be perfect, jawohl? Ah, ze engineering of zis Swedish Ikea cabinet is inferior to zat of our German cabinets, iz it not??”

  After a full day of building and unpacking, the enclave began to resemble a real place of residence. By the end, I was even fond of it. Because the view consists entirely of tree branches, we’ve started calling it the Treehouse, which is thematically consistent with its exposed wood and lack of working utilities. Once we were satisfied that the Treehouse was well on its way to being presentable, Theo and I escaped to our first postgrad date at a local hole-in-the-wall Thai place called “Thai Restaurant #2.” Once we were eating our fried rice and pad see ew, he hit me with the dreaded question:

  “So, Louie, when do you plan on telling your parents about me?”

  I bit down too hard on my noodles and caught the tip of my tongue. I groaned in pain, and Theo threw his hands up in surrender.

  “All right, all right! Just thought I’d ask, since it’s been six months.”

  He was more hurt than mad, which made me feel even worse. Ugh, why couldn’t he just be mad at me?? I swallowed both my food and my pain, shaking my head furiously from side to side.

  “No, no, no, I bit my tongue! I promise I’m going to tell them. I just wanted to wait a week … you know, to settle in!”

  His annoyance faded into concern as he reached out and grabbed my hand. “Oh, shoot, tongue biting is the worst! Are you okay? Is it bleeding? Here, take some of my ice. It’ll help.”

  He reached a hand into his Thai iced tea and retrieved a few rounded cubes. I plopped them into my mouth, careful not to swallow them whole, before delivering my sad excuses with a slight lisp.

  “Pleesh don’t shink shish ish about you. It’sh not. It’sh about my mosher. She’sh sho protective, and shuper jushmental, and I wanted to be shure we were shtaying togesher before I brought shish up!”

  He smiled and shook his head, amused by my struggle, before bringing my hand up to his mouth for a kiss.

  “I know; we’ve gone over this. And it makes sense that you wanted to wait until graduation. But the great news is: I’m here now! I’ve moved! There’s no need to wait any longer!”

  He reached into his glass and pulled out two more ice cubes, shoving them into his mouth.

  “You shee? We’re in shish togesher!”

  I smiled as much as I could with a numbed mouth, chewed up the remaining ice, and stuffed my face with more rice noodles. As we finished our third order of egg rolls, I realized that Theo was right: there really is no need to wait any longer. The time has come to break/chew up the ice, and the sooner, the better. Hell, I should do it tonight! What’s the worst that could happen?

  * * *

  … On second thought, I’ll wait until Memorial Day. I’ll tell them all about Theo at the Hansen Memorial Day Dinner, with the entire family seated together, surrounded by our amazing friends who will also serve as an emotional/physical buffer. Yes, that seems like the mature decision! Memorial Day it is!

  MAY 23

  10:15 P.M.

  * * *

  If I had to excommunicate one person from the Church of My Life, it would absolutely be Megan Mitchell.

  For my birthday last year, she sent me a tooth-whitening kit and a pair of “baby bump” pajamas from a company that specializes in maternity wear. When I asked for the gift receipt, she shrugged and said she was “just guesstimating my size based on recent pictures.” She’s shallow, she’s catty, she completely lacks substance and possibly a soul.

  And of course she’s Mama Shell’s favorite.

  Mom and Stacey have been best friends since their sorority days at the University of Miami,* so Megan and I were basically brought up as cousins. And much like an annoying and undesired cousin, Megan has been a relevant nuisance in my life only once or twice a year. But of course she just HASSSS to move out to LA because she’s DYYYYINNNGGGG to work in fashion and her AUUUNNTTIEEEE is BESTIESSSS with ELYYSSEEE. UGH UGH UGH.

  Project Murder Megan Mitchell is officially under way. Possible options include: poisoning her via juice cleanse or suffocation via Spanx.

  MAY 24

  Mama Shell

  * * *

  9:50 P.M.

  * * *

  Another entirely useless day. I accomplished exactly zero of the tasks on my graduation goals list … I’m convinced I’ve taken steps backwards. Ugh.

  I’m really missing Theo. He’s been so busy since our date night, we’ve hardly had time to see each other at all. We went from basically living together in college to being virtually long distance in my hometown. At least it feels that way. It’s like we’re regressing. Oh god. My relationship can’t crumble right before I tell my parents about it! What’s happening to me?? I went from the president of three different academic clubs to a sad, soon-to-be-single cat lady living in her childhood room.

  … To be fair, Theo hasn’t even been here a full week, but that’s beside the point!

  The point is, he’s super busy shopping for coffee tables and getting ready for his super awesome job. Valedictorian Richard Chung was offered a full-time position at Google, Tash is studying feminism in India, and I’m watching The Bachelorette with a group of fifty-year-old women who are arguably cooler than me. How is it that all of my friends are off pursuing careers and passions and flights of fancy? How am I supposed to stay sane if even Megan Bitchell has a job while I aimlessly scrub pug pee out of my bedroom drapes like a curvier twisted variation of a pre-1960’s Disney Princess??

  Officially moving my deadline to six months. I’m emailing Dr. Richmanson tomorrow, lest I find myself singing at Baguette and Muffin to put my hair into short pigtails with ribbons.

  PS: Found out today that apparently GOAT means “greatest of all time”? I can’t keep up with this shit.

  * * *

  MAY 25

  Email

  To:

  Dr. Nathaniel Richmanson III, PhD

  From:

  Lou Hansen

  Subject:

  Job Opportunity

  * * *

  Hello,
Dr. Richmanson,

  I hope you have been enjoying your summer vacation thus far! Anything exciting to report? I’ve mostly been taking time for myself before diving headfirst into the myriad exciting opportunities that lie ahead. Yes, sir, there are some really amazing prospects on my metaphorical horizon. I know exactly what I’m doing.

  With that in mind, I wanted to follow up about that job opportunity you mentioned this past spring. I know you said it didn’t seem exactly like my cup of tea, but I firmly believe in considering all of my options. After all, I did graduate summa cum laude with a double major in art history and philosophy—I imagine that qualifies me to do something practical.

  Anyway, please send some information my way when you get the chance. Thanks again for everything those last two semesters. At the risk of sounding corny, I wanted you to know that you’ve always been an intellectual inspiration to me, and your classes were easily the most stimulating. “Time, Time Travel, and the Other Six Dimensions” completely changed the way I look at prisms. Truly, fascinating.

  Best,

  Lou Hansen

  * * *

  Theo

  MAY 27

  2:50 P.M.

  * * *

  As Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat Story won’t let me forget: Megan flies to Europe today on her BFF’s private jet, starting in Italy and ending in Paris. For an entire month, these ladies will be traveling from city to city, “finding themselves” in all of the most Westernized foreign lands, eventually turning the experience into a twentysomething blog that will later be adapted into a bestselling Urban Outfitters coffee table book. Ugh.

  Anyway, with the Memorial Day Dinner fast approaching, I’ve suddenly become aware of a glaring absence in the Hansen home: Rosa.

  Wow, I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to notice! What is wrong with me? I suppose I’ve just been too caught up in my drastically changing universe to even acknowledge the disappearance of our longtime housekeeper. Ugh again.

  Rosa has been working for us since I was six or so. I am pretty much 1,000 percent certain she is an illegal immigrant, and to this day she speaks only ten words of English, but she’s also one of the most loving and hardworking human beings on the face of this earth. Since I’m the only Hansen who speaks any semblance of Spanish, I’m the designated translator por la familia. If you can even call it that.

  “Hola, Rosa! Er … por favor, necessito … uh … tu lleva, no … llevas? Is it llevas? Tu llevas los … windows? Como se dice windows??”

  It’s pretty humiliating, but at least it’s better than Mom’s feeble attempts at communication. For some reason, Mom thinks that speaking louder somehow lowers the language barrier.

  “HI, ROSA! YOU TAKE TWO WEEKS OFF! I STILL PAY! YES?”

  Thankfully, Rosa shrugs off this mild racism with the patience only a woman with seven children could have. She is a part of our family, and even though she has never heard me speak a complete, grammatically correct sentence, I know she loves me dearly.

  “Mom, where’s Rosa? Why hasn’t she been here?” I asked while Mom was on her way out to get a mani-pedi. She walked back into the living room, where I was sitting on the couch sandwiched between the pugs.

  “Oh! She’s visiting her family in Guatemala until July. Apparently there was a family emergency … Or at least I think that’s what she said. I can never be too sure. Anyway, I can’t wait for her to get back! The carpets are starting to smell like dog pee.”

  “Don’t you scrub the pee out?”

  “Of course! But I can do only so much. Remember: hard labor ruins a manicure!”

  She wiggled her fingers at me and I snorted.

  “So if Rosa is gone, who’s going to help with the Memorial Day Dinner?”

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you? We’re canceling the dinner this year!”

  I let out a small gasp. “Wait, what? Why??”

  Mom took a sneak peek at the blacked-out television, using its reflection as a mirror to check her lip gloss.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you! We were invited to a party at the Mattfelds’ family ranch out in Topanga. You remember the Mattfelds, don’t you? You went to preschool with the oldest son, Wolfgang. I did some Facebook stalking, and Wolfgang grew up to be drop … dead … gorgeous. You want to see?”

  Mom thrust her hand into her purse, searching for her phone. I stopped petting the pugs so I could fiddle with my rings.

  “Well, um, actually, Mom, there’s something I—”

  “Here we go!” She pulled the phone from her bag like a sword from a sheath. She flicked her prescription sunglasses from her head to her nose, rapidly scrolling through her photos for a screenshot. “Just give me a second to find it.”

  “Okay, Mom, but I really need to—”

  “Oh my god, look, he is SO CUTE! Look at him, Lulu. Isn’t he cute?”

  She shoved the phone an inch from my face, so I had to lean back on the sofa to focus. There was Wolfgang, topless on a yacht, wearing coral-colored Chubbies and a baseball cap. I sighed and gently took the phone.

  “Yes, he’s very cute, Mom, but I should tell you that—”

  “Oh shoot, you should probably know this before we visit them. His mother, Rita? The one who sells me all my jewelry? She’s recovering from surgery.”

  My mouth froze open. “She … what?”

  “I know. She just posted a picture of herself in bandages with the hashtag bye-bye, boobies. I think she may have had breast cancer? Life is so unpredictable—one day you’re designing diamond-studded nipple rings for Rihanna, and the next you’re taking hospital selfies in awful fluorescent lighting.”

  Baguette pawed longingly at my arm while Muffin started digging into the couch furiously, as though a forgotten bone was waiting on the inside. Mom ignored the destruction and kept on: “But anyway, they’re having a huge party on Memorial Day, and both she and I would just LOVE it if you got to know Wolfie! Would you? Would you at least talk to him?”

  I stared at her for a minute, speechless, before looking down at Wolfie Mattfeld and his six-pack of beer/abs. His mom just had surgery? How do I say no to a woman who’s recovering from breast cancer surgery??

  “Yeah, Mom, of course I’ll get to know him. I just—”

  She snatched her phone from my hand and beamed down at the picture.

  “YES! Eloise Laurent Mattfeld. Rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it? Oh, I have to call Rita!”

  And with that, she danced out of the room through the front door, off to call Rita and discuss the upcoming nuptials. Muffin finally tore a hole through the slipcover, letting loose a flurry of goose feathers, which Baguette started chasing.

  Three more days, Lou. Three more.

  MAY 30

  9:20 P.M.

  * * *

  ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME?!

  We celebrated Memorial Day at the Mattfeld ranch—all seven sprawling acres of it. The ranch itself is tucked away deep in the heart of the Canyon and can be accessed only by a single bumpy, narrow dirt road … as though the Mattfelds didn’t have enough money to pave it. The whole way there, Dad was cursing, reiterating his conviction that our hosts are the perpetrators of an elaborate pyramid scheme. “Five houses? A seven-acre ranch in the Canyon??”

  “They’re very successful, Charlie.”

  “She sells jewelry out of a goddamn trunk! How successful can she be??”

  “She has celebrity clients, Charlie!”

  “So do I! Only I sell them freaking houses, not goddamn bracelets!!”

  “Well, he’s also a filmmaker, Charlie.”

  “He made one film. Back in the seventies. And it tanked! I’m telling you, Shelly, these assholes steal their money. You’re going to see Rita and Mark Mattfeld on the news one of these days in handcuffs, mark my words.”

  This debate raged on until we finally arrived at the parking area, where we were forced to abandon our vehicle and take a VIP shuttle, which brought us to the actual party. There we were greeted
by the alleged criminals themselves—Rita’s bandages visible under her translucent top.

  “Rita, darling!” my mother cooed, tenderly wrapping her arms around her in a squeeze-less hug. “How are you feeling?”

  “So lovely, Shelly dear!” Rita cooed back, her words slightly slurred and her eyes glossed over. “I feel like I’m soaking in Botox!”

  Her husband, Mark, stood beside her with a hand on her back (and also part of her butt). “Sorry about her; she’s a little loopy from the meds. I’m so glad you all could make it!” He leaned over and kissed my mother on both cheeks, then did the same to Val and me. He and Dad exchanged a firm handshake before we all walked toward the rest of the party. “Please, relax and enjoy! If you want to hang by the pool, you’ll have to take one of the golf carts to the West Camp, but the food and booze is all here on the South Side.”

  Dad nodded, shooting Mom a quick glance before his attention landed back on Mark. A drugged-out Rita turned toward me with a goofy smile. Oh boy.

  “Soooo, I hear someone’s a college graduate now!”

  I smiled with teeth, hoping that false confidence might keep her from asking any unwanted questions.

  “Yes, I am! Out in the real world!” I offered, hoping she would move on to Val. She didn’t.

  “Ahhhh, of course! So what are you doing now? What’s the plan??”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “Well, at the moment I’m just getting settled—”

  “She’s living with me!” Mom chimed in, as though this were the pride of her life. I broadened my smile, trying to appear equally joyful.

  Mark stepped in. “Rooming with the old folks, huh? I understand—in this economy, who can afford anything?”

  Dad shot Mom another sharp look. “I was just saying the same thing to Shelly, Mark.”

  “Why don’t you go find Wolfie?” my mom urged, eyes wide with expectation. “Val and I will stay here and chat with Rita.”