Behind My Back

I heard I might be a lesbian. If I was I certainly wouldn’t try to hide it. But, then again, I also heard I have terrible taste in men. I’m confused. Which is it? Or could I possibly be both? I understand the source of the first lie stems all the way from Chicago. This is where my used-to-be-favorite sister, Charlotte, hails from. The second untruth comes directly from none other than my mama, who thinks she’s a good judge of character, but if that was the case, why has she stuck with Daddy all these years?

I also heard I’m a perfectionist. Which I will admit to: and proud of it. They make it sound like a dirty word. All I have to say is: don’t hate me because I’m organized. Which is exactly why I’m sitting in front of my computer at five-thirty in the morning, lamenting over another episode of the Price Family’s Continuing Saga, when in fact I should be finishing up the final details for a Moroccan birthday party a client is throwing in three weeks for her future husband. I just had to open my big mouth and suggest that she make it exotic, and of course she got so excited picturing her forty guests sitting on the floor, eating with their fingers, then washing them with warm rose-scented towels while two belly dancers swish and swirl their way around them, that now I have exactly four hours to fax the proposed menu and budget.

I’ll make my deadline, because I believe when you make someone a promise you should keep it. Even if you have to break your neck to do it. When people depend on you, you should be reliable. That’s how I run my business. It’s how I try to run my life. Business is often much easier, but, then, who’s complaining?

Right now, I suppose I am. Mama’s in the hospital. In Las Vegas. And my so-called siblings have taken their sweet time calling to let me know what their plans are. She’s just getting out of ICU, which is reason enough for me to hop on a plane to go see her. I’ll bet that Hello Sweet Charlotte won’t be coming—she’ll use that lame-ass excuse about being afraid to fly. But Charlotte’s just cheap. You’d think your mama would be worth more than some new wallpaper.

Lewis, on the other hand, probably doesn’t even know Mama’s in the hospital. He has trouble keeping a phone. He has trouble keeping apartments. He has trouble keeping cars, at least the kind that run. He went out and bought a bike. But then he claimed his so-called arthritis was bothering him so much that he couldn’t ride it, and then somebody stole it, and what was he supposed to do then? Somebody’s always stealing something from Lewis. Last time it was a mattress. How in the world do you steal a damn mattress?

And how about that daddy of ours? He’s the one who should’ve called all four of us in the first damn place. I left three messages and he never bothered to return my calls, which is when my instincts told me to try the hospital. Daddy is not my most favorite person. In fact, I might as well admit it: I don’t like him, mostly because of the high heartbreak rate he has going against Mama. I’ve known about his girlfriends probably longer than she has, but for some reason she’s either blocked it out or—as they say here in California—she’s in denial.