Brooke (5 page)

P
amela had me sit beside her at her vanity table. It was designed so that the mirrors weren't only in front of her. They followed the curve of the wall and surrounded her. She could glance to the right or left and see her profile without moving her head. She said it was important that she know how she appeared from every angle, every side, and especially the rear. “When they see how fabulous I look from behind,” she explained, “they'll be dying to see my face.”

She spoke to me in the mirror instead of turning to look at me directly. It was as if we were looking at each other through windows.

“Always call me Pamela,” she told me. “It's nice to have a daughter, and I want to be known as your mother, but I'd rather people thought we looked more like sisters, wouldn't you?” she asked.

I nodded even though I wasn't sure. I had friends
at the orphanage, girls who were so much like me we could have been sisters. We shared clothes, did schoolwork together, sometimes talked about boys and other girls at school who often snubbed us because we were from the orphanage. Together we battled, and together we suffered. For the first time, I thought of the life I'd left behind and how I would miss it.

But what I never had was someone older, someone motherly to whom I felt I could turn, not with complaints but with questions, more intimate questions, questions I didn't feel comfortable asking my counselors or teachers. Not being able to have someone like that left me feeling even more alone, listening to the echo of my own thoughts.

“These women who have children early get to look so matronly even when they're barely out of their twenties. It's all about attitude, and attitude is very important, Brooke. It will have a direct effect on your appearance. If you think of yourself as older, you'll look older. I think of myself as becoming even more beautiful, just blossoming,” she said, smiling at her image in the mirror. She looked at me.

“I don't want you to think I didn't want children. I just couldn't have them while I was in competition and while I was a model. Having children changes your shape. Now,” she said, smiling, “I still have my shape, and I have a daughter.”

She wiped the thin layer of brown facial mud off gingerly with a dampened sponge and then stared harder for a moment and leaned in toward the
glass. Her right fore finger shot up to the crest of her left cheek as if she had just been bitten by a bug. She touched it and then turned to me.

“Do you see a small redness here?” she said, pointing to the spot.

I looked. “No,” I said.

She returned to the mirror, studied herself again, and then nodded.

“It's not something an untrained eye would see,” she said, “but there's a dry spot here. Every time I go out of this house, I come home with something bad.”

She looked over the rows of jars filled with skin creams and lotions. Her eyes turned a bit frantic when she lifted one and realized it was empty.

“Damn that girl. I told her to keep this table stocked, to check every day and replace anything that was empty or even near empty,” she said, rising. She went to the closet on her right and opened the door.

When she stepped to the side, I saw the shelves and shelves filled with cosmetic supplies. It looked as if she had her own drugstore. She plucked a jar off a shelf and returned to her table.

“This has special herbal ingredients,” she began. “It replenishes the body's natural oils.” She dipped her fingers into the jar and smeared the gooey-looking, chalky fluid over her cheek, gently rubbing it into her skin. Then she wiped off the residue and looked at herself again.

“There,” she said, turning to me. “See the difference?”

I saw no changes, but I nodded anyway.

“Your skin is very sensitive to atmospheric changes, my dermatologist says. It was so hot in that orphanage, for example, and then we went to that air-conditioned department store, but they don't filter their air conditioners enough, and there are particles floating around that stick to your skin and begin to break down the texture.

“The water in this house is specially filtered,” she continued. “Harsh minerals are removed so you don't have to worry about baths and showers.”

It had never occurred to me ever to worry about such a thing, anyway.

“Our air conditioners, heaters, everything is filtered. Other people's homes are filled with dust. Sometimes I feel like wearing a surgical mask when we're invited to someone's house, even Peter's wealthiest clients. They just don't know, or they just don't care about the beauty regimen,” she railed.

She sighed as she began to brush out her hair.

“These ends are splitting again. I told my stylist he wasn't trimming it right. Damn,” she said, and then stopped. “See that, see?” she said, pointing at her face. “Whenever I get upset, that persistent wrinkle shows itself just under my right eye. There, see?”

There was a very tiny crease in her skin, but I would never call it a wrinkle.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and sat there quietly for a moment. I waited until she opened her eyes again.

“Anxiety, aggravation, worry, and stress hasten the aging process. My meditation instructor has taught me how to prevent it. I must chant and tell myself I will not be upset. But it's so hard sometimes,” she moaned.

She stared at me.

“You shouldn't squint like that, Brooke. See how your forehead wrinkles? It's never too early to think about it. Do you need glasses?”

“I don't think so,” I said.

“Don't worry about it if you do. We'll get you the best contact lenses. Peter wears contact lenses.”

“He does?”

“He's a good-looking man, your new father, isn't he?” she asked with a proud smile. “I didn't just marry for money and position. I married a handsome man.”

“Yes, he is handsome,” I agreed.

“And he's a good lover, too, a considerate lover. He won't even think of kissing me until he's shaven. A man's beard can play havoc with your complexion. If a man is selfish, if all he cares about is his own sexual gratification, you'll feel used. I'm nobody's possession. I'm nobody's toy,” she declared hotly as if someone had just accused her of being so. Whenever anger flashed across her face, her nostrils widened and her eyes looked as if tiny candle flames were burning behind them.

She paused and looked at me hard again. “How much do you know about sex? I know you're a virgin. You told me so, and I believe you. I hope we'll never lie to each other,” she added firmly.

“How close have you come? Did you have one steady boyfriend?” She fired her questions in shotgun fashion.

“I've never had a boyfriend,” I said.

Disbelief filled her face. “From what I saw, the living quarters were quite close. Boys and girls shared so much, and there wasn't all that much supervision, was there? I mean, there must have been plenty of opportunities for hanky-panky. You can be honest with me, Brooke. I'm your mother now, or your mentor, I mean,” she quickly corrected.

“I never had a boyfriend. Really,” I said.

“But you know things, don't you?” she asked, nodding. “You know what they want, what they always want, no matter how they present themselves or what they promise. Men see you as one thing and one thing only, whether you're a prom queen or a member of the Supreme Court, Brooke, and you know what that is?”

I shook my head.

“A vessel of pleasure into which they can dip.”

She returned to her makeup. “Satisfying their little telescopes,” she muttered.

“Their what?”

She laughed. “Telescopes.” She looked at me. “Don't tell me you've never seen one of those.”

“I've seen them,” I said, recalling different occasions when I had caught sight of one of the boys in the bathroom.

“So you know they come out like a telescope when they are aroused. At least, that's how I always
think of them,” she said, laughing. “Oh”–she squealed with delight–“isn't it going to be fun for me to experience everything again through you? That,” she said, growing serious, “is why it's so important you do everything I tell you and benefit from my knowledge, especially when it comes to men. What else is more important, anyway?” She shrugged. She gazed at her large, rich surroundings. “After all, my knowledge got all this.

“And,” she added, turning back to me, this time with her eyes so intense she scared me, “with my help, you will get everything, too.”

Peter was sitting quietly in the dining room, waiting for us. The moment we came through the door, he rose, his face lighting up with happiness.

“You can do wonders, Pamela,” he declared. “Look at her. She really is a younger version of you.”

Pamela's look of satisfaction grew icy instantly. “Not so much younger, Peter,” she admonished.

“No, no, of course not. It's just that she came into the house a little girl, and you've turned her into a young lady in a matter of hours,” he quickly explained. He hurried to pull the chair out for her, and she sat. Then he did the same for me. I sat across from Pamela on Peter's left, and she sat on his right. There was still so much table left, I felt silly.

“I have a lot to teach her,” Pamela explained.

“I told her so, and I told her there was no better
woman for the job, didn't I?” he asked me. I nodded.

Pamela seemed placated. She relaxed and smiled. Seemingly out of the walls, music flowed, soft, pleasant sounds. Sacket came in with a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and set it down beside Peter.

“Have you ever had champagne before, Brooke?” Peter asked me.

“No,” I said. “I had a sip of beer once.”

He laughed.

Pamela made a small smile with her lips. She looked as if she could orchestrate every tiny movement in her face, every feature to move independently of the others.

Peter nodded at Sacket, and he poured just as much in my glass as he did in Peter's and Pamela's. Then he placed it back in the bucket and left. Peter raised his glass slowly.

“Shall we make a toast, Pamela?”

“Yes,” she said.

“To our new daughter, our new family, and the beautiful women in my life,” he added.

We all touched our glasses. I had seen this only in the movies, so I was very excited. I sipped my champagne a little too fast and started to cough.

“You took in too much,” Pamela said. “Just let your lips touch the liquid, and permit only the tiniest amounts into your mouth. Everything you do from now on must be feminine, and to be feminine you need to be dainty, graceful.”

I crunched the napkin in my hand and wiped my mouth.

“No, no, no,” she cried. “You dab your mouth, Brooke. This isn't a hot dog stand, and even if it was, you wouldn't do that. It looks too manly, gross.” She shook her head to rid herself of the feeling. “Go on,” she insisted. “I want to see you do it right. That's it,” she said when I dabbed my lips so gently I hardly touched the napkin. “Perfect. See?” She looked at Peter.

“Yes,” he said. “She's going to do just fine. How do you like your champagne?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “I thought it would be sweeter.”

“It's not a Coke,” Pamela said. “Besides, sugar is terrible for your complexion. You'll see that we have no candy in our house and that our desserts are all gourmet when we have them. We're both very conscious of calories normally, but tonight, being it's so special, we're indulging ourselves,” Pamela explained.

Joline came in with our salad. I watched Pamela to see which fork to use because there were three. Peter saw how I was studying their every move and smiled.

“Every moment of your life in this house will be a learning experience,” he promised. “Just follow Pamela's instructions, and you'll do fine.”

Our salad was followed by a lobster dinner. Sacket brought out wine, and I was permitted some of that as well. Everything was delicious. The dessert was something called crème brûlèe. I hadn't
even heard of it, much less ever tasted it, but it was wonderful. Everything was.

Afterward, we went into the family room to talk, but Pamela seemed very fidgety. She excused herself and went upstairs. I wondered what was wrong, and when Peter was called to the phone, I decided to look in on her. I hurried up the stairs and knocked on her door. She didn't answer, but I heard what sounded like someone vomiting. I opened the door and looked in.

“Pamela?” I called. “Are you all right?”

The sounds of regurgitating grew louder and then stopped abruptly. I heard water running, and a moment later, she stepped out of the bathroom. Her face was crimson.

“Are you all right?”

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“I thought I heard you being sick.”

“I'm fine,” she said. “Did Peter send you up?”

“No.”

“I'm fine,” she insisted. “Just go back downstairs and continue to enjoy your evening. I'll be right there. Go on,” she ordered.

I left, closing the door quietly behind me.

If she was sick, why was she so ashamed? I wondered.

Minutes later, she rejoined Peter and me, and she looked as perfect as she had when she had come downstairs for dinner. She was certainly not sick, I thought, not the way I knew sick people to be. Peter didn't notice anything wrong, either.

He asked me lots of questions about my life at the orphanage. Pamela was more interested in what I remembered about my mother.

“Nothing, really,” I said. “All I have is a faded pink ribbon that I was told was in my hair when she left me.”

“You still have it? Where? I didn't see it when you came here,” Pamela said quickly. She looked at Peter fearfully.

“It was in the pocket of my jeans,” I said. “I put it in my dresser drawer.”

“Why would you want to keep something like that?”