four-thousand-square-foot apartment. Even though I was naïve about the Winslows’ money, I already understood that what summed up their status resided not in their mahogany furnishings or priceless art but, rather, in the Central Park vistas offered from nearly every one of the apartment’s windows: a pastoral view in the middle of an overpopulated city, something seemingly impossible and yet effortlessly achieved.
I could only imagine how luxurious their summer estate would be.
At the phone’s second bleating, Ev answered in a voice like polished glass, “Winslow residence,” looked confused for an instant, then regained her composure. “Mrs. Dagmar,” she enthused in her voice reserved for adults. “How wonderful to hear from you.” She held the phone to me, then flopped onto the bed, burying herself in the latest
Vanity Fair
.
“Mom?” I lifted the receiver to my ear.
“Honey-bell.”
Instantly, I could smell my mother’s pistachio breath, but any longing was pushed down by the memory of how these phone calls usually ended.
“Your father says tomorrow’s the big day.”
“Yup.”
“Honey-bell,” she repeated. “Your father’s set the whole thing up with Mr. Winslow, and I don’t need to remind you that they’re being very generous.”
“Yup,” I replied, feeling myself bristle. Who knew what Birch had finally said to get my reluctant, sullen father to agree to let me miss three months of punishing labor, but whatever it was, it had worked, and thank god for it. Still, I found it borderline insulting to suggest my father had had anything to do with “setting the whole thing up” when he’d barely tolerated it, and was reminded of how my mother always sided with him, even when (especially when) her face held the pink imprint of his hand. My eyes scanned the intricate pattern of Ev’s rug.
“Do you have a hostess gift? Candles maybe? Soap?”
“Mom.”
Ev glanced up at the sharpness in my voice. She smiled and shook her head before drifting back into the magazine.
“Mr. Winslow told your father they don’t have service up there.”
“Service?”
“You know, cell phone, Internet.” My mother sounded flustered. “It’s one of the family rules.”
“Okay,” I said. “Look, I’ve got to—”
“So we’ll write then.”
“Great. Bye, Mom.”
“Wait.” Her voice became bold. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”
I absentmindedly eyed a long, thick bolt on the inside of Ev’s bedroom door. In the two weeks I’d slept in that room, I’d never given it much thought, but now, examining how sturdy it looked, I was struck with wondering: why on earth would a girl like Ev want to lock out any part of her perfect life? “Yes?”
“It’s not too late.”
“For what?”
“To change your mind. We’d love to have you home. You know that, don’t you?”
I almost burst out laughing. But then I thought of her burned meat loaf, sitting, lonely, in the middle of the table, with just my father to share it. Microwaved green beans, limp, in their brown juices. Rum and Cokes. No point in rubbing my freedom in. “I need to go.”
“Just one more thing.”
It was all I could do not to slam the receiver down. I’d been perfectly warm, hadn’t I? And listened plenty? How could I ever make her understand that this very conversation with her, laden with everything I was trying to escape, made Winloch, with no cell phones or Internet, sound like heaven?
I could feel her trying to figure out how to put it, her exhalations flushing into the receiver as she formulated the words. “Be sweet,” she said finally.
“Sweet?” I felt a lump rise in my throat. I turned from Ev.
“Be yourself, I mean. You’re so sweet, Honey-bell. That’s what Mr. Winslow told your dad. You’re a ‘gem,’ he said. And, well”—she paused, and, despite myself, I hung on her words—“I just want you to know I think so too.”
How could she still make me hate myself so