Page 5 of Lessons with the Mothman

Victoria

I suckedin a breath as the back door of my parents' home clicked shut behind me. A beautifully air-conditioned breeze enveloped me, cooling the sweat under my breasts and down my back in an instant. I pinched the loose fabric of my blouse and flapped it for a moment, letting my body adjust after the sweltering heat of high summer. My car's AC had barely made a dent in the temperature, but even the movement of hot air was better than roasting alive.

A head ducked around the corner of the kitchen, with thick gray curls and soft wrinkles around blue eyes. "Victoria."

I sighed, managing a smile for the stalwart housekeeper I'd grown up with. "Rebecca. I would hug you, but I'm disgusting. Is there?—"

"A change of clothes for you in the laundry room. They're a bit old, but they'll do," she said, waving a hand toward the door on the left side of the mudroom. "I'll get you some water. Or would you prefer?—"

"Water is perfect. And all the ice the party can spare," I said.

Rebecca laughed and slipped away. My father was notoriously paranoid about the ice supply of a party. Or heliked to have an excuse to duck out a few times, to leave the oppressively chummy energy of the gatherings my mother organized and grab a moment to himself at the convenience store just a mile away.

Mom always said I took after him too much.

I grimaced at the dress I found, folksy and sweet and covered in flowers, but the round collar came up to my neck and I supposed it was the best Rebecca could do. I hadn't left behind clothes I actuallylikedwhen I'd moved out. At least I was mostly the same size. The zipper fought with me but finished the journey up without threatening to split any seams. I shimmied out of my jeans and left them folded on the top of the washer for when I left.

My body felt too exposed as I walked out of the laundry room and through the hall to the kitchen, my arms bare and the skirt ending higher on my thighs than anything I'd worn in a year or more. When was the last time I had shaved my thighs? At least my hair there was light, a blonder version of my red.

"Vicky, there you are."

My throat tightened and I stopped in the doorway, the high, sunny windows streaking light through my favorite room in the whole house. Were kitchens always the heartbeat of a home, or was it simply because this was Rebecca's domain and she had more warmth than the rest of us combined? But even the glimmering streaks of sunshine and my proxy maternal figure couldn't stand up against the icy slash of energy that ran from me to the older woman standing in the doorway to my left. Had Rebecca summoned my mother, or had she come into the kitchen to add another splash of vodka to her lemonade without the rest of the party watching?

"I can't stay long," I said reflexively, adding for effect, "I have a meeting, actually. That's why I drove out."

My mother arched a brow, lips cutting up at the corners in a sardonic smile. "How lucky for us. Come and say hello to the Grahams, at least."

She turned, her own dress loose and simple, a short silk sheath—it had to be short; she was as petite as I was, and longer styles swallowed us and dragged on the ground—in a shade of blue so refreshing it cooled the heat on my cheeks. Her blonde hair—it should've been gray by now, but my mother was religiously devoted to her colorist appointments—was twisted into a low bun, a few strands brushing against her smooth cheeks.

She let out a soft laugh halfway down the hall, a heady sound that heralded her arrival back to the party. "Look who I found creeping in through the back door."

I straightened my shoulders, and my lips formed a smile that I'd learned from the hostess herself—warm and welcoming, delighted to be here, to see you, to enjoy such a beautiful summer day with such wonderful friends. "As long as there is air-conditioning of course," delivered with a chuckle and a wink.

In the corner of the parlor, curled together on a chair not meant for two, a young couple turned their gazes away from mine.

"I supposesomeone has to be the academic," Wendy, one of my mother's clique from the country club, said with a laugh. "Save the rest of us from our ignorance."

"I'm not personally so confused about my gender that I need a study on it," Wendy's husband, whose name I could never remember, chimed in, before reaching around my back andsqueezing me twice to his side, his fingers groping the side of my breast.

"Oh, Bobby," Wendy huffed.

Bob. Of course. There were at least three Bob's here this afternoon in some variation of Robert.

"It's a wide umbrella of study," I said, my smile growing tired as I ignored the warning glance from my mother. She wouldn't want me getting specific.

"Only really leads back down one road, though, doesn't it? Academia is just feeding itself a work force of the over-educated…"

My mother took my elbow, peeling me away from the group with a gentle excuse that didn't interrupt Bob's great thesis on academia and gender. Neither of which really had much to do with my actual field of study.

"There's some mail for you on our bed. You're leaving soon?" Mom murmured under her breath, her arm looping through mine, head bowed close. We looked cozy like this—a charming mother-daughter relationship. At least she was giving me the opportunity to leave the room. My mask must've started to slip, and she wouldn't want them to see me without it. I glanced at a clock. I had time to spare, but I could always find somewhere to get a coffee on my way.

"Sure, I'll go grab that now," I said, glancing back at the room.

I'd lost track of my sister, Emma, during the conversation with Wendy and her husband, but I searched the room now, hoping to grab a moment before I left. Hopefully, without an audience. Just enough to say hi, to offer the same chance to get coffee or dinner together in the city. She would say yes and then make her excuses with every gently probing text message I sent, but it was worth a shot.

My mother and I parted ways as she caught hold of one of my father's law office friends, and I slipped down the hall and over to the curling set of stairs near the front door. Sunlight was at an angle now, painting the floorboards and well-worn carpet with the stained glass panels of the door. Most of my parents' friends had moved out of the historic district and farther out from the city, giving up the upkeep of a classic home in favor of more space and modern amenities with larger yards. I could see the itch to do the same in my mother's eyes sometimes, but Dad loved Oak Park. He'd grown up here and spoke of the history of his family and the city with pride.

If my parents ever did decide to move, Emma would probably get the house. It was a house for a family, after all, and she was on the right path for that sort of thing. The path I'd almost taken. I paused at the top of the stairs, arrested by a low, familiar rumble.

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