Page 9

But no. My sister Emily’s face fills the screen.

In her photo she’s sticking out her tongue and making jazz hands on a beach somewhere in Bali.

I think that’s where she is now, but I’m never sure.

This brilliant woman is five years younger than me and constantly on the go.

Her interest in having a husband or children is less than zero.

All she wants is to be a top anthropologist in the field of matriarchal studies now that she’s finally finished her dissertation.

I had no idea matriarchal studies was something you could focus on or make a career out of. But Emily seems to have always known.

“I have to take this,” I say to my handler. She makes prayer hands and bows slightly in goodbye as she returns to check-in and sets me free on the pool mesa.

As I turn around, I run directly into a statuesque woman staring at her phone.

“I’m so s-sorry,” I stutter to the smoldering brunette, who barely glances up at me.

She’s wearing a red gingham dress that looks like a picnic blanket.

It’s got a sweetheart collar and is cinched at the waist with a massive matching ribbon and bow.

Her hair is pulled into an exquisite French twist. Her makeup is flawless, bronzer accentuating her sharp cheekbones. She’s June Cleaver meets a Kardashian.

“You should watch where you’re going.” Her eyes catch on my orange wristband, which announces Press in bold black letters, and then she softens her tone and reaches out a hand to shake mine.

“I’m Veronica Smith. Who do you write for?”

“ Modern Woman, ” I say, craning my neck to look at her since she’s also wearing four-inch black heels.

“Interesting. I always see that magazine on the newsstand and think, ‘What the heck is a modern woman?’?” When she laughs, I laugh because it feels like the polite thing to do.

I’ve also wondered the same thing. “Maybe we should talk later. I have lots of answers to that question.” She sashays away before I can say a word.

“Right,” I murmur to her back as I walk to the edge of the deck to return the call.

“Hey, Emmy.”

“Could you put my godchild on the phone? I had a dream about Nora where she turned into a purple dragon and I need to tell her about it.” Emily doesn’t even say hello to me.

“I’m not home. I’m on assignment.”

“Where? I thought the magazine didn’t send people on assignments anymore.”

“It’s…I guess it’s a special case.”

I explain MomBomb as best I can. Talking through it sort of feels like explaining the Jurassic Park franchise to an alien, but Emily gets it right away.

She has a fascination with Internet culture, but she claims it’s only from a sociological point of view and she doesn’t keep any of the apps on her phone.

“Will you send me lots of pictures of women taking pictures of themselves?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”

“You’re a really good sister.”

“I know.”

I mention Bex. “Do you remember her?”

“Yeah. When I visited you in college she gave me her Wonderbra and my first joint.” Of course she did.

It amazes me that there is so little information out there about Bex from college given the public’s current intense fascination with her, but she’s managed to bury her wild-child past quite well. All that money must help.

“You were fifteen when you visited me at school!”

“I was mature for my age. I think I still have that bra.”

“I miss you,” I say with a sigh.

“I miss you too. I wish I was with you,” Emily says.

“Me too. The spa here looks incredible. You’d love it. I think they make you eat crystals or something to fix your karma.”

“That sounds right. I’ve gotta run but will you tell Nora about the purple dragon or should I call Peter?”

“You should definitely call Peter,” I tell her, because I love it when my sister annoys my husband.

“Okay. Love you so much.”

“Love you so much too.”

I’d never explained what happened between Bex and me to my family. It didn’t make sense to me so how could it make sense to them? She was a fleeting memory to Emily, just a college girl who gave her a padded bra and some dank weed when she was fifteen.

There’s a crew of ladies waiting by the elevator, four of them in the same flower print beach cover-ups, each holding a Stanley Cup the size of a newborn baby.

Peter has a theory that everyone these days is overhydrated and it’s leading to their brains drowning in idiocy.

“I drank nothing but beer and weak tea for three years in university and I passed all my exams with flying colors,” he says every time a teacher chastises us for forgetting the two water bottles required for each child for day care.

These women clutching their half-gallons of water have clearly been indulging in something else at the pool bar and have lost their ability to use their indoor voices.

“She’s so smug.”

“She thinks she’s better than all of us.”

“I heard she got a boob job and a tummy tuck after that last baby.”

“She’s wearing those sunglasses to hide her eye job. They’ve been looking a little bit droopy lately.”

“So were her boobs.”

The women cackle like crows. One of my favorite facts that Nora tells me on repeat from her animal encyclopedia that she can’t quite read yet is that a group of crows is called a murder. A group of ravens is called an unkindness. Both are fitting here.

Still, I lean in a little closer. I love gossip and shit talk about strangers.

“I’ve heard her marriage is on the rocks.”

“Can you blame that poor husband of hers? She seems like such an ice queen. I don’t understand how she has such a huge audience. She hardly speaks.”

“You heard about him and Veronica…”

“For a while I thought BarefootMamaLove was created by AI.”

As a shadow approaches behind us the murder of cackling crows grows strangely quiet.

When I turn, I realize exactly who they’re shit talking about.

I didn’t think I would feel strangely protective of Bex after all this time.

My mom friends and I have talked enough crap about her Instagram account over the past couple of years even though they don’t know about my direct connection to her.

It’s just one of those cultural things that moms talk about, like whether or not Brad and Angelina really hooked up before he was separated from Jennifer Aniston or whether Ronan Farrow is Frank Sinatra’s kid.

The most recent texts from them had a list of questions they wanted answered and conspiracy theories they wanted laid to rest.

Does she have a nanny?

Does she have an army of nannies?

Will she tell you what that fancy oven in her kitchen cost? If not, get a good picture of it. I’ll figure it out. I have sources.

Has she gotten fillers?

Is she taller than Gray? Does he stand on things in family photos?

And then from Kelly, who is a staunch @BarefootMamaLove defender, the one person on our group text who tells us she falls asleep watching Bex’s videos because they are peaceful and she wishes her life were that simple and easy. Kelly has three questions and a request for me.

What does she smell like, what mascara does she use, what’s her secret meatloaf ball recipe, and can you get me a set of her matching mommy and me gardening aprons that sold out last month. Please and thank you.

When we were in college Bex smelled like Clinique Happy perfume and Parliament Lights. Now I sniff the air for the familiar scent, but only get a nostril of cedar and tangerines from the essential oils being pumped into the lobby.

Seeing her in the flesh and knowing she heard what these crows just said about her, I want to rush over and give her a massive hug and then tell these ladies to fuck off.

My old friend is wearing sunglasses indoors, which is pretty affected, but whatever. She probably just got back from the pool and it sort of gives off some sexy and mysterious Jack Nicholson vibes.

“Hey, Cricket, it’s good to see you,” she says politely to one of the women.

“Hey, Rebecca,” Cricket says too enthusiastically. Despite her nastiness, it’s clear she wants Bex to like her. “You look great. How are things? Is everything great? I’m so happy to be here. Are you? Everything is just so transformative and invigorating and great.”

It’s a lot of great. I would almost feel bad for Cricket if I hadn’t already decided she was a massive bitch.

“So great…Lizzie.” Bex turns to me and she smiles, what looks like a real smile, not the forced one she was giving these women just seconds earlier.

Something swells inside me. It’s not dissimilar to the feeling I get when I’m at the playground with my children and I see any other kid start to cry or get hurt.

My mom instinct creeps in and I want to run to comfort the strange child, even the worst of them, even the ones who are otherwise total little bastards who throw sand in your face and spit in the sandbox.

If one of them is in pain I’m compelled to do my best to help.

That’s what I do now. I wrap Bex in a massive hug and look pointedly at the other women so that they know I know exactly who they were talking about.

“It’s so good to see you,” I say. Even with her sunglasses on she looks grateful and melts into my body with such need that I feel embarrassed for her.

Once we’re alone in the elevator, Bex slumps against the back mirror and takes off her sunglasses to rub her eyes. I notice a light purple bruise under her left eye, the kind that’s impossible to perfectly hide with makeup. I know this because my mom tried for years before my dad passed away.

“There should be a German word for sneaking up on someone just as they’re saying the worst things about you,” she murmurs, instantly flooring me.