Page 4 of Play Nice

Everyone’s already seated at the table by the time I arrive, nail polish dry.

Only Tommy appears happy to see me, in his wool sweater with elbow patches, in his round tortoiseshell glasses, the lenses cartoonishly thick.

He’s not good-looking, not attractive by any measure—Daphne once described him as having the sex appeal of a raisin—but Tommy is beautiful, radiating this sweet and pure innocence, like a golden retriever or adolescent nerd.

“Tommy!” I say as Dad rises to pull out my chair for me. I catch Leda and Daphne exchanging a look.

“How you doing there, Clio?” Tommy asks, reaching across the table for my hand. He gives it a squeeze, which is a comforting gesture in theory but unpleasant in practice since his hand is so clammy.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, smiling.

“And I’m hungry,” Dad says. “Let’s eat.”

“Help yourselves. There’s more of everything,” Amy says. She serves herself some salad and passes the bowl to Leda. Leda will have a small portion of salad and nothing else and no one will say anything about it.

Daphne serves me some chicken without asking. It looks dry, and I’m reacquainted with the frustration of sitting next to my sister, an exceptionally talented chef who has worked at Michelin-star restaurants, who doesn’t cook unless she’s getting paid to do it. Not even for her beloved family.

Both of my sisters’ lives revolve around food, in different ways. This is my mother’s fault, according to them, to my father, to Amy, and I’ve taken their word for it. But now that our mother is dead, I wonder…how? How can she be to blame? She’s not here. She hasn’t been here.

Our family scapegoat is gone. Whose fault will everything be now?

Still Mom’s? A dead woman’s?

The table is quiet, even after everyone’s served and eating. It’s not exactly a comfortable silence. It’s itchy.

“So,” Daphne says, compelled to oust the awkwardness. “Anyone have any vacations planned this year?”

Tommy and Leda are going to Florida to visit his parents, Dad and Amy are going to Big Sur, and I’m going to Paris, London, LA, and Ibiza.

“Paris for fashion week, London for a shoot I’m styling, LA and Ibiza for brand sponsorships,” I say. “For work.”

“Work,” Leda scoffs. She doesn’t take what I do seriously because it’s glamorous. Same with Dad and Amy. Daphne gets it. Tommy doesn’t, but he respects it anyway because that’s who he is. He’s a social worker.

“But before that I’m going to Mom’s funeral,” I say to shake things up.

Dad spits out his sip of water. Amy drops her silverware. Daphne laughs a little, a good sport.

“Where is it, Leeds? Here or in Connecticut?” Mom stuck around for about a year after losing joint custody.

She was still permitted visitation, but she’d show up drunk to see us if she showed up at all, and then there was what is known in our family as the infamous “recital incident.” That was the last time I saw her.

She put her haunted house on the market and started a new life without us, making no effort to regain any custodial rights, no effort at all, no phone calls or birthday cards, forgoing her mom duties for good.

She moved to Connecticut with her demonologist boyfriend, Roy.

As far as I know, they’re still together.

Or were still together, until yesterday.

Dad clears his throat and says, “Leda.”

“She won’t listen to us,” Leda says. “You have to tell her.”

“You can’t tell me not to go, Dad,” I say. “None of you can. Besides, you’re overreacting. I can handle weirdos. I live in New York City. I work in fashion.”

“We should just let it go. Let her go,” Daphne says, sawing into her chicken. “The more we try to talk her out of it, the more she’s gonna want to do it.”

“What can I say? I’m a rebel.”

“We just worry about you being there by yourself,” Amy says so Dad doesn’t have to. “The people. The narratives…”

“Then I’ll bring someone. A chaperone,” I say, turning my head slowly, until I face directly across from me. “Tommy.”

Tension drops in like an anvil, hard and swift and graceless. Sir Thomas Robert Kowalski turns about as red as a stop sign.

“What do you say? How would you like to finally meet our mother?”

—

Everyone comes around on the idea except for Leda, who pouts through the rest of dinner until Dad announces that he’s taking us to Dreamies, a soda shop on Main Street that’s been a family staple for years.

It’s impossible to be upset at Dreamies, with all its old-world charm—black-and-white tile floors, tin ceilings, sepia-toned photos on the walls, chrome-and-red-vinyl chairs, banana splits the size of an infant.

Leda, Daphne, and I get a banana split, three spoons.

We each take a cherry, holding them up by the stems to cheers.

It’s the only time Leda ever indulges, so Daphne and I allow her to eat all the strawberry without complaint, though it’s our collective favorite flavor.

Chocolate and vanilla just aren’t as special.

Dad and Amy share a float, and Tommy is lactose intolerant, so he just gets a Coke. They sit at another table, speak in hushed tones, likely discussing the funeral.

“He doesn’t know what he’s in for,” Daphne says. “Poor guy.”

“It’s cruel, Clio,” Leda says. “You shouldn’t subject him to it.”

“He’s seen worse at his job. Real-life horrors. He can deal with a bunch of fake psychics and self-proclaimed witches,” I say, mining for hot fudge.

Leda doesn’t argue because she knows I’m right.

“The banana is the least desirable part of the banana split. Don’t you think?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

“It’s necessary,” Daphne says. “You’d miss it if it were gone.”

“I would never miss a banana,” I say. “Ever.”

“I think you would,” Daphne says. “I think you absolutely would.”

“What are you two even talking about?” Leda asks, scooping up some whipped cream and offering it to Daphne, who eats it off her spoon.

“Why do we keep getting banana splits if you don’t like the banana?” Daffy asks. “Why not just get a strawberry sundae?”

I gasp.

“We always split a banana split,” Leda says.

“Always,” I say.

“It’s tradition,” Leda says.

“Sister tradition.”

“Okay, all right,” Daphne says, holding her hands up in surrender. “Point taken.”

There’s a lull, a moment of silence. Space for me to start a fire in.

“Have you ever read Mom’s book?” I ask.

“Clio!” Leda says, scandalized.

“What?”

“No, I’ve never read that book. I’ve never wanted to read that book. I don’t even think about it,” Leda says.

“I think about it,” Daphne says. “Sometimes. I looked it up on Amazon once. It’s got a few reviews. Not good ones. Just, you know, wackos who believe in all that. I’ve never read it. I don’t want to either.”

“Don’t tell me you have,” Leda says, pointing her spoon at me. “We promised.”

“I kept my promise. I haven’t read it.”

“Good,” Leda says. “It’s a bunch of lies. Lies making bad memories even worse. I know it’s hard to accept.”

“Accept what?” I ask.

“Who she really was,” Daphne says. “And when you go to her funeral, you’re going to hear stories about her that aren’t true. Not for us, anyway. None of those people were there when we were kids. When we were alone in that house with her.”

I nod, swirling the melty remains of the split. “Do you think she really believed? About the demon?”

Leda says “No” at the precise time Daphne says “Yes.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Daphne says, shaking her head, “if she believed her delusions or not.”

“She was an alcoholic and a narcissist and a terrible mother,” Leda says, setting her spoon down and sitting up straight, lifting her chin. “And I have to be honest—I’m not sad she’s gone.”

After a moment, Daphne says, “Me either.”

“Wow.” I reach up to my neck and fiddle with my new charm, my diamond-eyed snake.

“It’s good we have each other,” Daphne says, eating some banana mush.

“Yes,” Leda says, revealing a small tube of hand sanitizer that she spritzes into her palm.

Daphne and I both turn our hands over, and Leda sprays us, too. She puts the tube away and for her next trick, materializes some lip balm that she passes around the table. We’ve always been good at sharing, never the types to fight over toys or clothes or the spotlight.

Daphne gathers our napkins and carries them over to the trash.

“I’m sorry I volunteered Tommy without getting your approval first,” I tell Leda. “I’m sorry you don’t want me to go.”

She waves a hand. “It’s fine. Might be for the best. You’ll come back understanding what I tried to save you from.”

I blow a raspberry.

“How many times do I have to prove that I’m right about everything?” she says, standing.

“You’re lucky you found Tommy,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

“Ha-ha. Let’s go home. I want to walk off that ice cream before bed.”

We leave Dreamies, Dad chauffeuring us back to the house. Tommy and Leda go for a walk around the neighborhood, Dad and Amy go to bed, and Daphne and I smoke a joint out on the old playset.

We sit on parallel swings passing it back and forth, kicking dirt, pointing out constellations.

“I can’t see shit anymore,” Daphne says, squinting at the sky. “Not without my glasses.”

“Didn’t we used to have a telescope?”

“Yeah. Might be in the basement. I bet Amy sold it, though.”

“Facebook Marketplace?”

“She’s obsessed with Facebook Marketplace.”

“Loves it.”

“I worry she’s gonna get murdered. She’ll tell me about how she went to some random person’s house in the middle of nowhere to pick up, like, junk. Like an old end table or some shit like that.”

“Yeah,” I say. I take a hit and pass the joint back, then start pumping my legs, start to swing.

“Hey, are you serious about going to the funeral, or are you just being…”

“Being what?”

“Difficult.”

“Me?” I ask, feigning shock and indignation.

“Dude.”

“Okay,” I say. “No. I’m serious. I’m going.”

She blows smoke rings, showing off. “Yeah. I was afraid of that.”

“You all need to relax.” I hop off the swing, landing hard on my feet. I raise my arms like a gymnast. “Ta-da!”

“Very good,” she says, unimpressed.

“I’m going in,” I say. “It’s too chilly out here.”

“All right. I’m gonna finish this.”

“Go for it,” I say, turning to head inside. “Night. Love you.”

“Love you.”

I take two steps before she says, “Wait.”

“Mm?”

“Can you just…”

I look over my shoulder at her. It’s dark, and she’s just a shape, a shadow beyond a floating ember.

“They’re gonna talk about how much she loved us. How much she loved you. But she didn’t. What she did to us, it wasn’t out of love. We love you. This, what’s here, this is love. Just remember that, okay? When you’re there?”

“I will. I do,” I say. “I know.”

I keep walking, and as I march up the slight hill toward the house, I wonder what right Daphne has, what right anyone has, to say what is and isn’t love. I wonder if love can be ugly. If it can do the wrong thing. Bad things.

I wonder if it can ever really die.