“Come with me,” Ivy says.
I do what I’m told. I work for her now.
Lily says she doesn’t think it’s a good idea. “That’s my professional opinion,” she says from across the ocean.
Professional what? Professional pain in my ass.
“I was invited to this thing,” Ivy says. “A charity event. I wasn’t going to go. My therapist doesn’t think I’m ready. But I think I want to. I want you to come with me.”
She says she just wants to make an appearance. She says we won’t be long.
Is it my job to believe her?
This is the makeover part of the story. This is the part when I get turned into someone else. When it becomes clear I wasn’t enough before.
Ivy plucks my eyebrows. She does my hair and makeup. I am her doll. I bend to her.
“Here, wear this,” she says, handing me a shimmery forest-green version of her own sky-blue cocktail dress. I lift my arms over my head and shiver as the fabric falls against my skin. I have never felt anything so soft in my life.
We look at ourselves in the full-length mirror. We could be twins.
“My perfect little doppelganger,” Ivy says.
I am the paler, more transparent version of her.
“Can you believe we’re exactly the same size?” she says. “Even our feet match.”
“Like Cinderella,” I say.
Ivy smiles. “So when do you turn into a pumpkin?”
“Are you nervous?” I say as we climb into the water taxi.
The boat’s engine rumbles and we start moving toward the lights.
“The problem with these water taxis is what they do to your hair,” she says as she ties a scarf over her head.
“Are you going to be okay?” I say.
“Ash is with Tami tonight,” she says, looking out over the water at Seattle.
“Oh,” I say.
“He doesn’t love her.”
“Okay,” I say.
“We’ve been getting reacquainted.” And she smiles and smiles and smiles.
The stars glitter overhead somewhere but we can’t see them. There is a barrier between us. There is a faint smell of smoke.
I don’t know where we’re going. I never know where we’re going.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink anything tonight,” Ivy says. “Can you imagine what people would say? But I can take it or leave it. That’s how you know you’re not an alcoholic.”
There is a red carpet on a sidewalk. There is a cordoned-off area leading to doors. Security guards. Photographers. Long legs extending out of cars and limos.
“Ivy! Ivy!” the paparazzi yell. I recognize some of them as the ones who park outside her gate on Olympic Road. It is their job to stalk her. They get paid to do this.
What is my job? What exactly does it mean to assist someone?
Time speeds up. Our hearts beat faster. The flashes and whispers are their own kind of drug.
Lights and lights and other shimmery dresses. People I’ve seen on so many screens, people I’ve seen in movie theaters with their faces two stories tall. So many cheek kisses. So much posing for photographers. So many limp one-armed hugs. Hands on the smalls of backs. Identical smiles for this picture, that picture. Everyone made two-dimensional. Everyone flattened for consumption.
The captions will say, “Ivy Avila’s first appearance in public since rehab.”
The captions will say she was drinking club soda all night.
The captions will say she was radiant.
They will say nothing of her pale assistant.
The crowd parts for her. Whispers swarm around us like moths.
I don’t speak. No one needs to know who I am.
“Look at you,” she says. “You are my arm candy.”
I start laughing. People look. They raise their eyebrows. So I grab a prawn from a passing waiter and shove it in my mouth to shut up.
I wonder if anyone here actually knows what charity this is for.
Light descends in particles, in waves. Ivy is denser than us all. She absorbs their glow, and the little sequins on her dress turn into their own tiny illuminations, a million mirrors, blinding everyone who looks. And everyone looks.
We move around. Ivy has the same conversation with different people in different places. There are various stations. By this ice sculpture. By this table of silent auction items.
By this couch, but not sitting. By this hors d’oeuvres station, but not eating. By these stairs, but not going anywhere.
I hear Ivy say the same thing a million times: “Oh it’s so good to see you! It’s been forever! I’m doing great, I really am. Self-care is so important, you know? I’ve been meditating. It’s changed my life.”
She is such a good actress. She should win an Academy Award for this party.
Every light turns and points and there are no shadows to hide us.
There’s an older man, potbellied and vein-faced, following us with his rheumy eyes like lasers. I keep my eye on him. I am Ivy’s bodyguard.
Ivy always seems to know where he is, dancing around the party so she’s always as far away from him as possible. But then she makes a mistake. She finally takes a breath, and in that split second we manage to get stuck near the wall, we are cornered, and I feel her heart beating fast in my chest.
Suddenly the lights are too bright. We are too exposed. They are no longer spotlights but searchlights, and we’ve been caught, we’ve been blinded like a deer frozen in the road, just waiting to get hit.
I don’t know who he is, but he is coming, and Ivy is scared. I can feel her panic in my own chest, can see the faint, disjointed shadows of memories, can feel my whole body sick with wrongness. It is my job to protect her, so I grab her hand and pull her to the coat check, I get our things, and we are off, in the car on our way to the water taxi, and my arm is around her, and I say “Who was that man?” and she says “What man?” and I say “The man who scared you?” and she just smiles and says “What are you talking about? I’m not scared of any man.”
She stands up on the boat as we leave the dock, holding on to the edge of the canopy. She closes her eyes as the wind fans out her hair behind her. I stand next to her and feel the wind pass right through me.
She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me close to her side. “That was great,” she says. “Wasn’t it great? We left at just the right time. I made my appearance and I was the first to leave. That’s what you want to do. You have to be mysterious. You have to always leave them wanting more. That’s the thing about making people want you. You can’t let them see you needy.”
“Okay,” I say.
“I didn’t even want to drink. I can’t wait to tell Dr. Chen. I think she’s going to be proud of me. I’m fine. I’m totally fine.”
“That’s good,” I say.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Fern.” She looks me in the eyes and I see the night sky reflected. For a moment I think the city lights are stars. “You make me better.”
“Stay with me,” she says, pouring her third shot.
We are sitting on her bed. She says she is having a nightcap to help her fall asleep. She says everybody does this, no problem.
She lies down and closes her eyes. In a few moments, her lips part and I can hear the faint sound of her breath. I lean in close and breathe with her, smell the sweet and sour coming from inside. I should have reminded her to brush her teeth. It is my job to help her remember these kinds of things.
I take off her shoes and unzip her dress so she’ll be more comfortable. I put the blanket over her and lie next to her on top of the blanket, careful not to touch her. We breathe in and out.
Inhale. Exhale.
Ivy, you made me. My job is to love you.