Glass Cages

California feels like it’s moving a million times a second. There are businessmen shouting into phones, tiny angry dogs on leashes, women stomping along in high heels, kids in strollers, advertisements scrolling by, car horns, bird wings, ringtones. So many things to fill my brain with. I love this place.

“--you’re kidding me!” Jamie is on the other side of my phone, sounding just as incredulous as I needed him to. Truly, I don’t think he was ever actually upset with me.

“Yes, thank you. No warning, he just tossed me into the water.” I beat an old man to the crosswalk button and he stands next to me and glares.

“Who is this mysterious, hot, and dangerous man?” Jamie all but croons.

The crosswalk symbol changes to ‘walk’ and I power-walk past the grumpy old man, overtaking two people with blue hair and coffees while I’m at it. “He’s off the table, that’s what he is.”

Jamie does not give up so easily. “But crazy is kinda hot. I mean, look at you.”

I reach the other side of the road and keep my eyes on the traffic. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” I deadpan.

“It was a compliment,” Jamie insists.

I roll my eyes and hail a cab, briefly leaning forward to give the driver the address before replying. “Hot or not, I’m not going anywhere near him.”

Jamie’s laugh is a familiar high-pitched trill that reminds me of bird chatter. “I don’t believe you, but ok.”

My gaze catches on the familiar skyline outside the cab window: a steady stream of rectangular buildings with copy-and-paste windows. Then I close my eyes, push back the feeling of water rushing into my mouth, and remember the expressions on Bram and Mariana’s faces when they’d looked up at me from the bottom of the stairs. Jamie’s my best friend, sure, but I don’t really feel like telling him about that.

I must have been silent for too long, because Jamie sighs a really long sigh and then concedes. “Fine. Then tell me more about this blonde bookseller instead.”

“Ugh, Jamie,” I groan, eyes popping open. “Nothing on it. He’s kind of surfer-hot, but isn’t interested.”

Jamie laughs again. “You act like this is so distressing. Masie, you now have three--no, four, including Bram--attractive, young, and seemingly single men to hang out with? That’s insane?” He’s clearly jealous.

“Whatever, it’s not like I’ll see them ever again. Barring Bram, who is a constant thorn in my side.” The cab makes a sudden stop at a crosswalk, and I have to brace myself against the seat in front of me. I meet the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror and glare daggers.

“A thorn with perfect hair and beautiful blue eyes,” is Jamie’s reply.

I settle back in my seat. The scenery is finally beginning to change from urban to residential. “I’m not having this conversation. Anyway, I’ve gotta go.” Jamie begins to protest but I hang up on him with a “sorry”.

From the front, the house doesn’t look like it’s four stories. It’s because it’s built into the side of a cliff, so the side facing the beach is the part that really makes it look like a multi-million dollar house. The side facing the road looks more like a million dollar house, I guess.

In typical Mom fashion, she’s purchased new additions to her property since the last time I saw it, which, if I’m being honest, was probably a year ago anyway. There’s a big ugly statue of an abstract face to the right of the driveway, and a new fountain past the sunset-mosaic concrete bench on the left.

None of that really catches my eye. Not the sandstone pillars, not the perfectly-manicured potted hedges, not even the line of cars in the driveway. No, what makes me stop in place is the figure of a skinny white girl with perfect blonde waves getting out of a Porsche. For a moment I’m eleven years old again, and my sister is coming home from one of her shows, and my heart swells with excitement. But this girl is too old to be fifteen and too young to be however old Rachael is now--thirty-three. It’s an idiotic thought. And she’s wearing a hideous, gaudy, purple ruched dress.

If I hadn’t been so distracted by the terrible dress, I might have found it suspicious that Graham had texted me that my sick mother is here, the obvious site of some kind of party. As it is, I follow Not-Rachael up the drive, and she smiles at me with a big gap in her front teeth and holds the door open for me. Definitely not anything like my sister.

I wander into the house, take in the strangers and their martinis and the way they stop and stare at the paintings on the wall like it’s an art gallery--which is exactly what it is. I don't think Mom even likes most of them, they're just expensive. Immediately my urge is to make myself invisible; stand in the corner and let the grown-ups talk and drink and laugh. Fetch a rag when someone inevitably trips and spills wine all over the sheepskin rug imported from Iceland. Instead I snatch a martini from the table in the lounge and stomp upstairs.

Even during a party Mom’s always in her office. It’s a hexagonal room that’s half made of windows, and it overlooks the courtyard in between this house section and the next. It’s the best place to watch partygoers, like balcony seats at an opera.

When I storm through the door my martini is empty and I’m itching for another one. “I’m home,” I announce loudly to the room.

Graham’s head jerks to the side in surprise. He’s seated in a corner in the leather chair that Mom always assigns to her current boyfriend. I’ve told Jamie before that the chair smells like desperation, because it’s true. Mom doesn’t move an inch, just stands there in her ruby-red gown, a wine glass resting lightly in her grasp and her eyes firmly affixed to the courtyard below. I’d always thought she looked like a queen addressing a crowd, the way she stands at the window. But now it feels more like a zookeeper admiring her pets.

“Oh, that’s lovely. Isn’t it, Graham?” Graham nods. “Oh, by the way, I’m not really sick,” she tells me without even turning around. She takes a sip of her wine.

I roll the stem of the martini glass between my fingers and don’t bother keeping the anger out of my voice. At least we cut to the chase. “Oh really? I hadn’t figured that out.”

“Mm. Well, you were never really top-of-the-charts in the brain department, it’s true. But! It was the only way, sorry, dear.” When she moves, the soft light of her office chandelier makes all the gemstones on the back of her dress twinkle. It’s nauseating.

I’m such a goddamn fool, coming all this way. When I knew it was a lie. How did any part of me ever believe it? I resist the urge to shatter this martini glass on the floor. But god, I want to. “You want to tell me what’s so important, then? Hm? Why am I here?”

Mom turns, and even I’m stunned by how good she still looks in her plunge-neckline dress. It makes me--in my trench coat, bodysuit, and slacks combo--look frumpy and underdressed. “Masie,” she says like she’s explaining something to a simpleton, “You needed to come home from that horrible place.” Mom drifts to her desk and pours another glass of wine, pushing it towards me.

I’m still a few feet away from the desk, closer to the door than to her. “You tricked me into coming here,” I remind her. “You told me you were in the hospital. That’s--that’s, like, maniac behavior! To say things like that when they’re not true.” I’m waving my arms too much when I talk, which is something Mom does too, so I clamp them to my sides.

She laughs and tilts her head at me. “Maniac behavior is not lying, dear. People lie every minute of every day. Throwing people down ancient hotel stairs is maniac behavior, if we want to be semantic.”

“I don’t think that’s ‘semantic’.”

She sits on the edge of her desk and looks at me from underneath her bangs. It’s a familiar look: disappointment.

“Whatever. I’m leaving,” I say, turning around.

Mom’s tone is nonchalant with a twinge of whininess. “Oh, but you can’t yet. I’ve brought you a therapist.”

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(next chapter)

pt 20: https://www.theprose.com/post/794456/selling-lies

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(previous chapter)

pt 18: https://www.theprose.com/post/784816/fanatic-and-dramatic