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Prologue
In 1989, at the age of twenty-two, Deb was
enrolled in Embry Riddle Aeronautical University learning to fly commercial
planes. But somewhere between dating her yuppie fiancé and planning their
wedding in Chicago, Deb developed both agoraphobia, a fear of open spaces—and claustrophobia, a fear of closed
spaces.
I blame the
yuppie.
Deb’s life
switched lanes on that flight from Syracuse, New York, to Chicago. The yuppie
placed so much pressure on Deb, what with the wedding arrangements and meeting
his wealthy, stuck-up family, that as the plane sat on the runway, something
came over Deb. Her chest tightened. The sounds of the cabin crew preparing for
takeoff faded, replaced by Deb’s pounding heart. And around the time the
announcements came on, Deb felt trapped, like bait on a fishhook. The Boeing
737 transformed into a metal tin can with wings, and she was locked inside.
Deb peeled her
fingers from the plane’s armrest to take Adam’s hand in a death grip, seeking
comfort. If she could, she would have crawled in his lap. He watched her like a
zoo animal from his wide first-class seat, motionless in his neatly pressed J.
Crew shirt. “Why is your hand so clammy?” Adam winced. His face was freshly
shaven, and he smelled of sex and desire. He looked like a catalogue model,
seductive and pensive. Tall, dark, Italian and handsome... and rich. Deb’s
favorite combination.
The temperature
rose, and Deb sighed loudly as her seatbelt cut into her curvy hips. With one
hand in Adam’s, Deb dug at the offending belt with the other, her entire body
trembling with anxiety. Adam’s eyes narrowed as he watched her place a
manicured finger to her neck to check her racing pulse. Her throat tightened.
Now the yuppie
was openly staring, his lip curled in annoyance. “What are you doing?” Adam
asked. “Just leave it alone.”
But the cabin
seemed to darken, and Deb took deep breaths, exhaling as she fanned herself
with her free hand.
“Deb, stop
that. People are looking at you,” Adam growled as he twisted his hand from
Deb’s clinging death grip. He searched for an unoffending surface to wipe his
hand off. Finding none, he swiped it down the leg of his ironed jeans. “And
where are our hot towels?” he whined. “This is supposed to be first-class.”
Adam hated
scenes and cared deeply about what strangers thought of him. Petulant, he
stared at the wide television screen in front of him. He had become
increasingly annoyed at Deb’s dramatic behavior since they got engaged.
Deb looked over
at the man she was going to marry. “Nope! Not flying today!” she chirped.
I made my way
up the beach, the other woman coming into perfect view. She was an older woman,
and she wore a hot pink rhinestone-encrusted string bikini with the fabric
stretching in vain to cover her enormous round breast implants. They sat like a
hard shelf over her soft potbelly and short, stubby legs. Her skin was dark,
tanned to the color and texture of an old shoe. Her mouse brown and frizzy hair
stood out like a corona around her head, and her lips were overfilled with
collagen, giving her the appearance of a quacking duck.
“Becky, there
you are,” Sally said with relief as I walked up beside her. She grabbed my arm
and shot me a meaningful sideways glance. I looked over at my mother’s new
companion. “This is my daughter, Becky,” Sally told the stranger.
Like a cawing
crow, the woman rasped, “Oh, aren’t you fit!” A thick New Jersey accent shaped
her words. “Tammy! Tammy, look at her!” she shouted, pointing at me with one
long, garish fingernail. “Tammy, doesn’t she look like a yoga instructor in her
trendy little one piece?”
Oh God. I hated
feeling like I was being put on display. This
is just too awkward. Maybe I can hide
under Sally’s pile of crap.
Tammy walked
over, eyeing me up and down. She mirrored the first woman, perhaps younger.
“Oh, yeah!” Tammy squawked. “She looks like Rainbow, the one who teaches yoga
downtown.”
I glanced over
at my mom after making sure the two crows couldn’t hear me. “Why did you do
this to me?” I hissed under my breath.
“Becky, don’t
leave me,” my mother whispered. My arm hurt where she gripped it like a
lifeline, tethering me at her side.
“I’m Agatha,”
the short, round woman informed me. “Agatha Broccoli, but you can call me
Aggie.”
I shook my
head, bewildered. “Your name is Aggie Broccoli?” I asked. “Like the vegetable?”
“Yes,
sweetheart, it is,” she grinned proudly. “Aggie Broccoli from New Jersey, and
this is my sister, Tammy Broccoli. We’re the Broccoli sisters. She’s from
Jersey as well.”
Tammy was a
carbon copy of her sister Aggie, from her thick accent to her potbelly. Though
her rhinestone bikini was turquoise. There must have been a sale. I eyed the
two of them. If I were to sum up New Jersey in one word, it would be Aggie
Broccoli. I squinted into Aggie’s face. Aggie had the longest eyelashes I’d
ever seen—so long that every time she blinked, she struggled to reopen her
eyes.
“Oh gawd, I
can’t see a thing,” Aggie complained. “I got implants.”
I nodded. Her
boobs nearly reached her chin, and I seriously doubted she could see her feet
over them.
She pointed
instead to her eyes. “They took my hair from my head and implanted them as
eyelashes.” Aggie fluttered her eyes, trying to untangle her lashes that had
curled together.
“Wait, your
eyelashes are made from hair on your head?” I asked in disbelief.
“Of course,”
she squawked as she struggled to blink, her thick Jersey accent rounding the
words.
My jaw was on
the ground. Human hair eyelash implants. That was a new one. “What? Why?” I
asked. “Why use your hair for eyelashes?”
Aggie flicked
sand off her long, red fingernails and gingerly pried her lashes apart,
blinking widely to adjust. Sally and I watched in abject horror.
“So they would
look natural,” Aggie boasted. “I wanted my eyelash color to match my hair
color.”
I stepped back
in amazement. ‘Natural’ was not the first word that came to mind when I looked
at Aggie Broccoli.
I dragged a
down pillow from the penthouse’s luxe, fluffy king-size bed over my face to
muffle the sound of my sister’s cries for help, but she was relentless.
“Yoohoo, Becky Boo! Are you out there? I need you!” My sister’s desperate pleas
carried across the hardwood floors from the steaming bathroom.
I moaned and
threw the pillow covering my face to the floor. I must have dozed off. What time was it? “Yoohoo, Becky Boo!” I
heard Deb call. Nope. No luck that she’d give up. I rolled off the bed and
padded across the plush rugs to the bathroom. The shower was still running, and
I figured Deb needed me for something desperately pressing, like getting a
bottle of shampoo out of her overnight bag. I walked into the open bathroom. Why doesn’t Deb shut the door, I
wondered for the thousandth time.
“Deb, you need
something?” I asked, leaning against the granite counter.
With a level of
relief usually reserved for firefighters who just rescued lost or stranded
children, Deb cried, “Oh, Becky, there you are! Yes! I need help.”
I rubbed my
tired eyes, drowsy and confused. “Okay, do you need shampoo?”
“No, Becky, I
need you to come here.”
I blinked.
“Like to the shower?” I could see Deb’s outline on the other side of the white
shower curtain, her tan body in perfect silhouette. What does my sister want now? I wondered. I checked the rings of
the shower curtain to see if they were loose. Nope. Not the shower rings.
Deb stuck her
head out from around the shower curtain, her wet hair plastered to her
shoulders. “Yes, come here! But don’t look at me. I’m naked.” She disappeared
again into the shower.
I shook my head
in bewilderment. “Okay, Deb! Here I am, right outside the shower,” I said,
skittish. What now?
The curtain
moved again, and this time a long, tan leg emerged. A stiletto was strapped to
her foot.
I stared at the
dangling foot in front of me, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. “I
don’t understand, Deb.” I inched a little closer, eyeing the stiletto like a
snake about to strike. “Did you forget
you were wearing shoes when you got in the shower?”
“Oh God, no!”
Deb exclaimed as if I were the one
being ridiculous. “You can’t go barefoot in public showers, Becky. You’ll get
warts. I never shower in hotels without wearing my shoes. I don’t want to catch
athlete’s foot!”
Rather than
point out that this was not a public shower, but actually the most expensive
hotel room I’d ever been in, I sighed. “Why didn’t you just borrow my
flip-flops?” I asked. I weighed leaving and going downstairs, but curiosity got
the best of me. I had to see how this one played out.
“Gross,” she
scoffed. “You know I don’t do flip-flops. Flip-flops are for prisoners and
college freshmen. Becky, listen. I need you to hold out your arm.”
I took a step
back, breaking my stare on her soaking wet stiletto. “For what?” I asked
cautiously.
“I can’t shave
my legs while standing on one foot in these heels,” she huffed. “I’ll fall over
and break my neck! Please, just stick out your arm so I can grab onto it.
Pretty please? I’ll be super-fast.”
I stayed perfectly
still, like an animal hoping to escape detection. My eyes were once again
locked on the wet stiletto. Maybe if I
don’t move she will forget I’m here.
“Becky! Please!
This is an emergency!” She jiggled her soaking high heel in emphasis. “I’m
going to injure myself if you don’t help me. It will only take a minute, I
promise.”
Resigned and
reluctant, I slowly reached my arm inside the shower curtain.
“Becky, make
sure you don’t look, okay?”
I sighed and
rolled my eyes so hard I saw the back of my brain.
“Remember, I’m
naked,” Deb reminded me through the curtain.
“Okay,” I
mumbled instead of pointing out that she was not naked, she was in fact wearing
shoes that cost more than a month of groceries. In the shower.
So there I
stood, a silent human handrail while Deb shaved her legs in six-inch designer
shoes. I briefly wondered who served as Mariah Carey’s hotel shower handrail,
and if she was less trouble to travel with than Deb. Who knew a business trip
to Louisiana would require so much diva maintenance?
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