The woman’s hands clasp her narrow hips: “When did you get back?” she barks at Lukas.
He doesn’t answer.
I look from Lukas to the blonde, whom I now recognize as his sister. I struggle to recall her name. Ingrid? Annabel? The last time I saw her she was about fifteen, with a velvet headband and a haughty determination to ignore me at some lame holiday party.
She’s got Lukas’s sharp nose, slender frame, and narrow face. But despite their physical similarity, they couldn’t look less alike—Lukas in his ratty, beach-tourist garb, and his sister in her preppie golf-wear.
“Why are you here?” she snaps.
“Geez. Nice to see you too, Isobel,” says Lukas. His sister’s frown deepens. “I’m here to see Mom. I just got back,” continues Lukas. He shifts from foot to foot. “From, you know, that meditation retreat?”
Isobel’s blue eyes register me and my mom, then dismiss us. She stomps up the steps toward us. “Just listen to that pig!” Her voice is sharp with indignation. “We need to stop it!”
“Isobel?” says my mother.
Isobel’s plucked eyebrows rise in confusion before dipping with annoyance.
“I’m your mom’s friend, Ivy,” explains my mom. “It’s been a long time since we last met.”
I’m sure Isobel knows exactly who we are. How many Asian friends does her mom have? Even as a kid she was rude and snobby.
My mom’s smile never falters. She repeats her story about Daphne’s missed appointment.
Isobel looks my mom up and down. Her thin upper lip curls. “Oh. You’re the fortune teller?” Based on her tone, these last two words could be substituted with any number of insults.
My mom nods. “That’s me.” She sounds resolutely cheerful.
Faced with Isobel Dane’s cold stare, I feel my cheeks redden. I know exactly how this snooty woman views my mom—as a charlatan, out to scam her rich, elderly mother. While I share Isobel’s suspicion of the occult, Daphne Dane is no gullible fool. And my mom’s not dishonest—just delusional. She loves Daphne like a sister.
I’m tempted to defend my mom’s honor. But how? Isobel is looking straight through me.
Isobel’s partner has now joined us on the steps. When he removes his cap, I see he’s almost entirely bald. If it weren’t for the golf wear, he’d look exactly like Alfred Hitchcock.
“Oh, listen to that pig!” he says, in a peevish French accent. “No wonder the neighbors have complained!” He pulls a hankie from his man-bag and mops his brow. “They have telephoned us, saying it is making noises all day! We must shut it up! Where is that woman who works for Daphne? Open the door, Lukas!”
Lukas shrugs. Maybe he’s jet-lagged, or just really laid back, but he’s moving in slow motion. “Geez, chill, Gerard,” he says.
Already red, the Frenchman’s scalp purples. Isobel shoots Lukas a poisonous look and lays a soothing hand on Gerard’s arm. “The neighbors called us,” she tells Lukas, haughtily. “While you’ve been off . . . wherever . . .” She waves a hand. “I’ve been dealing with Mom’s issues.”
The pig emits a particularly piercing squeal. Isobel flinches. “We have to convince Mom to get rid of it. It’s absurd! Just because George Clooney had one!”
While I doubt Isobel and I would agree on much, she has a point. That pig seems like a crazy rich person’s pet, like Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee or Mike Tyson’s tiger.
No sooner has Lukas opened the door when the pig comes barreling out. Miniature, my ass—or rather ten times bigger. Black, white, and hairy, it’s shaped like a barrel on elf legs. It pounds down the front steps, squealing.
On the lawn, its squeals cede to happy oinks. After running in circles, it shoves its snout under the pristine green. Clods of dirt and grass fly. Before Gerard can yell “Merde! Arrete!” it has gauged out a meteor-strike-sized crater.
Isobel shrieks. Gerard tuts. Lukas can’t stop giggling.
While everyone else watches the pig, my mother sticks her head around the front door. “Daphne?” she calls. “Hello? Daphne?” She gasps. “Oh my gosh! Look at this mess!”
I follow my mom into Daphne’s wood-paneled hall. High overhead, an old crystal chandelier glints in the gloom. Beside a coat cupboard, an ornate side-table has been knocked over. An antique brass telephone rests in a puddle on the wooden floor. Nearby, lie a broken vase and a scattering of squished purple chrysanthemums. Soggy magazines litter the hall.
My mom bends to pick up a pink satin shoe, its high heel scoured with tooth marks. She looks around, wide-eyed. “Good gracious. What happened?”
Lukas steps inside and stops. He frowns down the dark hall. “Hey Mom?” he calls. “Hellooooo Moooooom?” He sounds put out. “Hey, it’s me! I’m home, Mom!”
Nobody answers.
Gerard and Isobel step inside too. Isobel gasps. “Grace?” she screeches up the stairs. “Grace?” Again, there’s no reply. “She should be working today,” says Isobel, crossly. Her voice rises: “Grace? Mommy?”
Gerard pouts. “That cochon!” he says. He lowers himself to an uncomfortable-looking squat and runs a finger along a scratched floorboard. “This is mahogany.” He sounds outraged. “You cannot even buy this kind of wood anymore! It is endangered!”
Isobel ventures further down the hall. “Mommy?” Unlike her brother or her husband, she sounds genuinely worried. She turns: “Gerard?” He’s still examining the wooden floor. She returns and tugs at his elbow. “Do . . . do you think the pig made this mess?” she asks him.
“But of course!” says Gerard. He rises, shakily, to his feet. “It is destroying the garden! And now this!” He points at the scratched floor. “I told her. A pig—it is not a suitable pet. She should get a little poodle. Or a cat . . . A Siamese.” When he shakes his head in disgust, multiple chins quiver. “Look at those scratches!” He throws up his hands in the French gesture of outraged surrender.
Peering into the dark house, I’m not sure Kevin is to blame. Yes, he chewed the shoe. But did he knock over that heavy table?
My mom’s already hurrying down the hall, calling for Daphne. Lukas and I follow.
Daphne’s house has a lot of rooms. We search everywhere: main floor, upstairs, and even the basement. Everything is in order.
When it’s clear Daphne’s not here, we follow Lukas into the kitchen. Isobel and Gerard are already there, making tea. They don’t offer us any. A trail of muddy trotter-prints leads to the back door, which contains what looks like a giant cat-flap.
“For the pig,” says my mom, when she sees me examining it. I push on the flap but it won’t budge. “The pig has a microchip that signals it to open,” explains my mother. “Otherwise, burglars could get in.”
“Wow,” I say, wondering how much this contraption must have cost. “Daphne must really love that pig.”
“Oh, she does,” says my mom. “He was just a wee little piglet when she got him.” She raises her hands to show me Kevin’s then size, like a small rabbit. “A teacup pig. It’s just bad luck he got so big.” She shrugs philosophically. “That’s the mystery of genetics.”