“Josie will make whatever you want,” Lola offers in an unnaturally deep voice. I roll my eyes, pained by Lola’s attempt to sound sultry. Good thing Dr. Golden is gay because right now Lola is proving herself a subpar wing-woman.
“Don’t let her near my kitchen, she’ll burn the whole place down!” Aunt Viv scolds Dr. Golden with a wink. When thirty of my almost forty years of living have been spent in the same house as Aunt Viv, one would think I’d have picked up a skill or two in the kitchen, but all I’ve picked up is a great appreciation for having someone else do the cooking. In the Bordelon household no one is allowed to go hungry. Call it a knee-jerk reaction to Aunt Viv’s childhood of too many mouths to feed and not enough food, but for whatever reason she overcooks and overstuffs us. I don’t complain, though my skirts don’t exactly fit, either.
Etta buries her head in Aunt Viv’s pillow thoroughly mortified by this display of two grown women falling all over themselves to win the favor of the good gay doctor.
“You women are the best thing to happen to me this week. The view is not usually this lovely in the hospital.” Golden Boy chuckles. “You let me know when it’s time to whip up some of those quiches. I’m actually pretty good with a knife. Prosciutto is a meat, right?” This guy clearly spends way too much time eating hospital grub and food truck fare if he lives in the foodiest city in America and he’s questioning if prosciutto is a meat.
Opening the door, Dr. Golden leans over and whispers in my ear, “And, Josie, you’re hands down my favorite director of admissions so far. Trust me, Daniel’s made me meet them all.” His lips are so close to my earlobe he could easily take a nibble. The idea of it makes me shudder and then stifle a snicker knowing Roan will get a real laugh when I tell him we’re both turned on by the same eye candy.
“We ARE the best things to happen to you!” Lola shouts after him, clumsily punching the air and kicking her foot to close the door behind him. Yet again, she’s momentarily lost control of her limbs and her self-respect.
“What was that?” I ask Lola, horrified by her display of uninhibited dorkiness. “And where did it come from?”
“God, I have no idea,” Lola groans, mortified, burying her head in her hands.
“You may be able to handle your liquor, Lola, but you sure can’t handle yourself in front of men,” Aunt Viv chimes in before laying her head back and closing her eyes to rest.
“Good thing I have a rich fantasy life, because I’ve completely lost my mojo in the real world. But maybe he has a straight doctor friend for you? Gay or straight, you know good-looking guys always hang together,” Lola whispers to me, hoping if we stay quiet enough Aunt Viv will sleep a little. She digs her elbow into my ribs, making sure she’s been heard.
“Welcome to my no mojo world, Lo,” I say, reaching for Lola’s hand. “Now you know why there are dust bunnies rolling through my lady parts.”
“Awww, Mama, that’s disgusting!” Etta scrunches her face up as if the idea of her mother having sex is akin to taking a big whiff of foul milk. “Just get a man already so I don’t have to hear you and Lola talkin’ about your dried-up lady parts.”
“Etta baby, when your mama was your age she could stop traffic when she crossed the street, she was that beautiful. Problem is, she ain’t been out walkin’ much since Michael left,” Aunt Viv mutters, turning on her left side to get more comfortable. Lola nods her head in complete agreement. Though she has never once said it out loud, I know Aunt Viv still pines for the days of having Michael around the house. I don’t know if it’s Michael I pine for or if it’s for some sign from a man—an employed, attentive, intelligent man—that I’m still in the game, that I’m worthy of love. I know the early morning, twenty-year-old barista at my local café would Mrs. Robinson all over me, but I’m not looking for man-filler. I’m holding out for a winner. Only thing is, I don’t know if a winner will be able to find me behind the emotional fortress I’ve built around myself, brick by brick, over the past eighteen years.
“I think it’s time you hit the streets again, Josie. What’s the worst thing that could happen to you?” Aunt Viv’s words fade as she falls into much-needed sleep.
“I could get hit by a car.”
NINE
“Pick your poison. On the table I have a selection of vegan donut holes, Skittles, blueberries, dark chocolate–covered espresso beans, corn chips, and sparkling water.” I have worked hard to create a stress-eating buffet that expresses to Roan that I choose to stand in solidarity with him when it comes to his finicky vegan eating habits.
“I’m off gluten, corn, and sugar,” Roan smugly announces, reaching for the blueberries as if there’s an audience of health zealots in the conference room ready to give him a standing O. I peg him dead center in the forehead with a powdered donut hole. Take that, you clean-eating buzzkill. “You should try an elimination diet sometime, Josie—it would do wonders for your mood swings.”
I remind myself to fire Roan after we get through reading five hundred applications comprised of four essays each, over the next few months. That’s two thousand answers attempting to convey how ultimately perfect each family is for the Fairchild community. I would never make it through them all without Roan reading every couple essays or so with an accent to match the applicant—Irish, Indian, Texan, and Southern Californian are his strong suits. Something has to make the time pass, and nothing does the trick quite like espresso beans and tasteless humor.
“Uh-oh here we go, Roan. Oh, yes, one of our favorite genres has risen to the top: the perfection is my child’s greatest weakness category. An oldie, but oh so good and overplayed. Remember the parents last year, or was it the year before, who claimed their child’s weakness was struggling to make friends because her perfectionistical tendencies intimidate other children. Perfectionistical isn’t even a real word. THAT was one of my favorites.”
“Really? I liked the year of the parents who said their child was genetically predisposed to genius, since he had dominant traits from both sides of the family. Remember they wanted to know if we are a West Coast testing center for Mensa and complete assurance that their child wouldn’t be penalized by the school or by his peers for the intellectually superior gifts he had inherited. Then they spent the next two pages sharing the details of Albert Einstein’s miserable, or was it misunderstood, childhood. A failed analogy complete with endless typos. That one belongs in some What Not to Do When You’re Applying to Kindergarten guidebook.”
“I don’t remember that one.”
“Yes you do, I’m pretty sure it was from my first year. Before I learned to pace myself on the snacks? I almost threw up from a Sour Patch Kids and kettle chip overdose.”