The man sighs again and starts talking into some sort of earpiece. He lifts a finger and tells us to wait there while he walks into a little booth-like building and picks up a phone.
When Mom finally looks at me, it’s with a smirk I know too well. She gets it when one of our former neighbors comes to the door after ten o’clock at night and says he needs to borrow something. She thinks I don’t know what they really do when she lets him in, but I know a lot. More than I want to.
She reaches out and brushes a loose piece of hair behind my ear and caresses my cheek like she used to do when I was little. I can’t help but lean into her touch and absorb the few seconds of warmth her palm offers because I don’t know when I’ll get the comfort again. “Today is a big day for the both of us, sweetie.”
Sweetie. When was the last time she called me that? It’s usually just Leighton, sometimes Lenny if she’s in a good mood. Oftentimes, it’s nothing. She’ll tell me what to do, maybe ask me how my day is, and otherwise not address me at all. The thing is, I don’t mind. I’ve never thought that maybe I should.
“Why is it a big day?” I find myself asking, pushing away the nerves that creep up my spine. They’re the same ones I get when she tells me about a new guy. Bill was the first who always looked at me funny, then there was Mike, who I actually didn’t mind until he started drinking and saying weird things to me when Mom wasn’t around. I’m not sure where she found them, but they all seemed to be the same.
Before she can answer, the man begrudgingly says, “Mr. Bishop will see you. He has a busy day ahead of him, so…”
I swallow when the gates begin opening inward after the man waves at something on the other side, and Mom’s lips stretch into a scary looking smile. One of victory. She flips her hair, wiggles her fingers at the man, and drives down the wide paved driveway that circles around a huge flower garden and fountain leading to the house’s entrance.
“Mom, I’m not so sure—”
“Hush, Leighton,” she chides, putting the car in park. It looks so out of place considering what’s surrounding us, and I know we do too. I look down at myself, my cheap Walmart jeans that are too short since I’ve hit a growth spurt, and the t-shirt that I love but suddenly feel self-conscious about. My feet are covered with knockoff clearance rack moccasins that are about a year old, and the soles have started coming undone.
Mom, of course, looks beautiful. She always dresses to impress, which she says is force of habit because of her former career as an actress. Though this is my first time in California, it’s not hers. She did commercials as a teenager, and eventually did a few small acting gigs in B-rated indie films in her early twenties that led her to Hollywood. She never talks about the career she misses so much because it involves me as the sole reason for it failing, something I wonder if she resents me for when she stays out and leaves me alone more than I like. She got pregnant at twenty-three, abandoned by my father by the time I was born, and left to care for me with no help from her family.
I should have known that something big was happening when Mom put on her skintight shirt with the deep V-neck and her extra slim jeans that hugged her hips. They’re the same black jeans that have men catcalling her when we’re walking somewhere. She’s next level pretty, something I aspire to be, because her confidence makes her glow.
I examine the way her dark brown hair lands in loose waves past her shoulders. It’s only a shade or so lighter than mine, more a dark brown than black, and I can only imagine my curls come from the other person I share my DNA with. She rarely wears her hair down because of the Arizona heat this time of year, but it’s styled to make sure not one frizzy strand is out of place. The makeup on her face isn’t so different than any other day, contoured with skill I don’t have, lipstick bright red, cheeks a pretty pink, and brown eyes shaped with black liner and mascara to make her already long lashes look longer.
It makes me touch my hair, split into two fluffy pigtails that rest over my shoulders, and itch to pull down the visor to look at my naked face. Sometimes I’ll put on cherry Chapstick and a little eyeliner, but I always manage to make one eye darker than the other, and by the time the day is done, the makeup melts off me from the awful heat anyway.
Mom takes the keys out of the ignition and grabs her purse from the floor by my feet. It’s one of her expensive ones, the ones she tells me she gets at thrift shops even though the price and brand logo clearly states where she really bought it. It makes me wonder why she keeps it on the dirty floor even though it cost more than our utility bills combined, but I never ask.
“Our lives are about to change,” she says, excitement in her tone. Setting the purse on her lap and digging through it until she produces a tube of Ruby Red lipstick, she applies it carefully while checking herself out in the rearview mirror. She caps it, rubs her lips together, tosses it in her purse, and turns to me. Her eyes look almost like the milk chocolate candy I keep stashed away, firm and steady. “I need you to be on your best behavior. Do you understand?”
When am I not? I nod. “I understand.”
She opens the door. “Come on.”
I wet my lips. “Who is Harry Bishop?” She gets out of the car, leaving me sweating a little. Not knowing what else to do, I get out too and walk around the front. “Mom? Who is Harry Bishop?”
When she stops, I nearly plow into her. “I don’t want you asking a million questions, Leighton. Just follow me. You’ll know soon enough.” Her change of tone is one I’m used to, like those Sour Patch commercials, except she’s sweet and then sour instead of the other way around. One of her ex-boyfriends told her it was why he was leaving. He couldn’t handle her mood swings.
My stomach hurts as we near the house. Fidgeting with my shirt, I notice the cameras by the big white door, then the summery flower planters lining the sides full of pink, purple, and white plants. Mom doesn’t have to lift her hand before the door swings open. I jerk back from the abrupt motion and almost trip over the mat on the ground. It doesn’t say “welcome” it says “Bishop” in fancy script letters.
The middle-aged man standing in front of Mom has a stoic expression painted across his face. Thin lips pressed flat, narrowed eyes that look dark, and a squared jaw that’s clean-shaven and set like he’s unamused. Swallowing, I look at Mom to see her unfazed by his lack of welcome, taking it in stride in a weirdly smug way like she’s not sorry at all to barge into his life.
When I start to shift in obvious discomfort, the man’s eyes dart to me, pinning me to the cobblestone beneath my dirty shoes. For a microsecond there’s a change in his features. His eyes widen and his lips part and I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but something tells me it isn’t good. Before I can even blink, his face goes slack of emotion again. It’s…unnerving.
Mom says, “Hello again, Harry.”
The man, Harry Bishop I presume, huffs under his breath. Not a good sign. “Can’t say I expected to see you after all these years. A bit surprised by it, actually.” Definitely not a good sign. I swallow.
A soft hum rises from Mom’s throat, as if to say, I bet you are. “Are you going to let us in to discuss things?”
I part my lips to tell Mom maybe we should go, when Harry says, “I guess we should get this settled.”