Lila and I hit all the boutiques on Fillmore. It was my birthday present. Lila was excited about a surprise she’d planned for that night too. I could tell she was excited, because she was shopping as much for herself as for me. She was looking for something special. I’ll know it when I see it. That’s how I felt too, but not about clothes.
Right here, you can picture the scene in any of those movies where, well, it’s usually some rich guy dressing up some less fortunate woman like she’s a Barbie. She tries on various things for him to see, twirling and smiling shyly as he nods his approval or shakes his head to indicate it’s not the outfit for her. He showers her with extravagance so she experiences the joy of feeling good about herself, all the while being the big man with money who gets to make sure she’s up to his standards when she’s on his arm.
This time, though, it was Lila and me, and maybe the same things applied. She talked me into this short white dress I’d never normally wear because it was way out of my comfort zone, all the while saying stuff like, You gotta get out of your comfort zone. Mostly, at home, I wore jeans and T-shirts like everyone else, crew gear, leggings and a sweatshirt. Now, same as those men in the movies, Lila nodded or shook her head.
But we left with lots of bags like in those movies too, stacked up along our arms. And it was not unfun to buy bunches of really expensive clothes that they wrapped individually in tissue paper and put into their own shiny bags with rope handles. It was not unfun to go anywhere with Lila. I remembered why I was excited to see her. And how great it could be when it was the two of us. She was spending time with me, and noticing me, and approving of me, and laughing at the things I said, and it sounds stupid to say this, but it was like she loved me. Then again, 95 percent of anything we do is probably to get that feeling.
Even though I preferred my comfort zone, I kind of liked her pressing me out of it too. Like she had confidence that I could be more than I was—sexier, prettier, shinier. More seemed like it would get me closer to my fated destination, whatever that was. Primarily, not where I was right then.
We went to Joie and then Alice + Olivia, and we got a few shirts and found Lila’s something special—a short dress of silver sequins—and then went on to Paige, where I got a flowered sundress and a plain one, a pair of shorts, and two tees. They were the kind of places where there’s a small amount of clothing in a very white, elegant space, nothing like the jam-packed H&M at University Village, where I usually went. Lila always said that you could tell the difference between a three-hundred-dollar T-shirt and a twelve-dollar one, but Edwina thought that was nonsense. Honestly, if you put two T-shirts next to each other and ripped off the tags, I doubt I could tell.
Lila loved the moment when she slid her credit card across the counter and the saleswoman recognized her name and made a fuss. I could see how my mother always held her shoulders back and pursed her lips in a waiting smile when it was time. At Paige, though, it didn’t happen. The girl was a little older than me, and… nothing. She didn’t recognize the name. She didn’t recognize Lila. She rang up my clothes like Lila was anyone.
I could see Lila’s mood turn. Her energy just kind of slipped, like a car downshifting.
“Done?” Lila asked.
“Done,” I said. “Thanks. That was great.”
It was late afternoon. We’d just split a salad at the Progress. It wasn’t really that great and the service was slow, but then something awful happened. The waitress came back with the black padded folder. She leaned down as if whispering a terrible secret. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Shore. There seems to be a problem with your card.”
Holy shit. And on top of that, the waitress had called her “Mrs. Shore.”
Lila huffed and took out her wallet and gave the waitress another card, but in a few moments, the waitress was back again. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a bit louder and more reprimanding. “Perhaps you have cash?”
I reached for my own bag, which only made things worse. “No, no, no,” Lila snapped. “Put it away! There’s something wrong with their fucking machine.” She was making a big show of being upset, exhaling, rolling her eyes, like, How could they treat me like this? My stomach knotted. I had a horrible feeling in my chest. Horrible.
Something was very wrong. I was embarrassed, too. People were looking at us. Lila tossed a wad of cash on the table and the waitress had to gather it. In those movies, you never see that happen. No one’s card gets denied. You never witness the guilt you feel afterward, bringing home the bags of stuff no one in their right mind should afford. There’s only some song from the 1970s playing and the girl coming out from the dressing room in various outfits as the guy grins like his steak just arrived exactly how he likes it cooked.
“I’m glad that’s over,” Lila said when we got in the car. “Never going back there again.” She made her voice bright and cheerful, but all of a sudden, her face looked a little tired. I mean, like, for two seconds. I saw maybe that she was under stress. A lot of stress. Her makeup, her foundation, had little cracks in it around her mouth. I felt sorry for her. I saw the burden she carried too, taking care of all of us—herself, me, Edwina.
I started to worry—about Lila and money. About us. I didn’t know if we were okay. I wished I could make things better. I wanted to fix it for her. She was my mother, you know. That’s how it works. You hate them sometimes, but then you’d do anything so they won’t be sad. Anything. As a kid, you need your parent to be happy, or otherwise, God, the weight is huge. You feel anxious, as if you’ve failed. It’s hard to deserve anything then.
The worry—it rattled me. It was that dread again. At first, it was like the unsettling chiming of crystals on a swinging chandelier, and then more like the clatter of teacups and china in a shuddering cupboard. Worse and worse. Getting stronger.
Tremors before the quake.