Chapter 3

Dreaded breakfast with Mother's lawyer. When I get to the hotel dining room the next morning, Chaz is waving at me from a table by the window.

"Mirabelle," Chaz says. "Been a long time."

"It has," I agree. Yet Chaz hasn't changed. Pale violet suit of wrinkled linen. Tanned and emanating a musky cologne. Still standing on ceremony like someone in a French court, which I suppose he sort of is, being Mother's lawyer. When I was younger, he reminded me a little of a perverted Rumpelstiltskin. I'd watch him ogle Mother. Take her in with a twinkly-eyed delight I found obscene, like she was a bowl of bright, erotic candy. Hi, Chaz would say to me. And I'd grip her hand tighter. Shy, Mother would say. And he'd nod sympathetically, though he was obviously annoyed. What did Chaz always say?

I'm your mother's gentleman friend.

Now he looks me up and down as he used to when I was a teenager. Takes me in, so to speak. His face says I've made an impression on him. On his dick. Good for you. He nods a little. Good work. Impressive. Though of course I'm not Mother.

"So good to see you again," he says, giving me what he believes to be the gift of his grin. "Got us a table by the water." He gestures graciously to the seat facing the waves. I take the seat with my back to the ocean and stare at Chaz. I don't say it's good to see him. Mother would have smacked me for this. Manners! she would have snapped, probably even now. But it isn't good to see Chaz. At all. If he looked troll-like to my young eyes, he looks more so now. A hobgoblin with a fake tan, conspicuously brown glossy hair. Though he does seem to be exfoliating.

"I ordered coffee," Chaz says, as if offering condolences. "There's a basket of pastries coming too. Croissants." He tries for a wink. Because I'm from Montreal. And being from Montreal, I love croissants, don't I?

Most mornings, I have what Mother called my skin sludge. A blueberry and spirulina smoothie into which I pour a copious amount of collagen. The smoothie is really just a vessel for the collagen, but I enjoy the ritual, watching the powder dissolve into the blue-green mulch. You drink that? Mother said the last time I visited. I was making one in her kitchen. She watched, looking disgusted but also curious. What's all that white powder you're putting into it there?

Just a little cocaine.

Well, now I'm interested.

"I'm not hungry, thanks," I tell Chaz.

And then his face changes to a performance of recognition, grief. Ah yes, of course I'm not hungry. How could I be? He watches me pour myself some coffee.

"How are you holding up?" Trying for softness. Though I know he doesn't care, his tone does something to me in spite of myself. I feel I could crack like an egg. But I won't. This morning, I applied three layers of an antioxidant serum enriched with Firma-Cell, followed by seven skins of a roaring water kelp essence, followed by the Iso-Placenta Shield to smooth and tighten. Then the White Pearl Pigment Perfector mixed with the Brightening Caviar for Radiance. Then of course the Diamond-Infused Revitalizing Eye Formula, the Superdefense Multi-Correxion Moisturizing Cloud Jelly, and two layers of broad-spectrum Glowscreen, physical and chemical. I did this in the half-dark of the hotel bathroom, while Marva played on the counter, talking softly to me about the benefits of moisturizing cloud jellies. I think about the many layers, the many ingredients, the many sophisticated formulas right now shielding me from oxidizing free radicals while also keeping me hydrated. I shrug and stare at Chaz through Mother's sunglasses. They're huge and dark, that Jackie O style she loved. For those days, she said, when the truth is laid bare. Or for when the Revitalizing Eye Formula goes rogue and bleeds, creating a teary effect. I won't lay the truth bare before Chaz.

"It's hard," Chaz offers.

"I'm fine," I say.

And then he smiles at me with something like understanding. Reaches out and puts his hand on mine. "There, there," he says awkwardly. I look down at his Apple Watch. Nestled there in his hairy wrist. Two fat gold rings on his pudgy fingers, one of which has an insignia of an S. His hand feels heavy on mine. Smothering.

A waiter arrives bearing a tray. "Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon? Pastries?"

"Perfect," Chaz says.

I watch him ravage his eggs, making vapid observations about Mother's death as he chews. "Sho shudden," he says, shaking his head. "I'm as shocked as you must be, honestly." Respectful silence or is he just swallowing? "And so young, too. Well, maybe not so young. She looked it though, that's for sure. Younger looking every time I saw her. Almost like she was moving backward in time rather than forward, you know? Not like us mere mortals, right?"

"I guess so."

You're a fucking freak of nature, I told her once. And Mother just looked at me, touched. I watch Chaz take a knife to the wobbly egg.

"So. You're back in Montreal now, huh?" he asks. Because we have to make a little conversation before he gives me the terrible news, right? Makes it more human. I'm human, says his face.

"Yes."

"No more playing Mulan for you." He smiles. See how he remembers that I used to work at Disney while I was in college? He got the princess wrong, of course, but he remembered she was ethnic. Because I'm ethnic, aren't I? Something other than Mother, anyway. He forgets what exactly. Somewhere from the south and the east. I was Princess Jasmine, I could tell him. The Arab one. Like the father I barely knew. Died of a heart attack when I was five, before I could form a memory beyond the smallest fragments. The closest I ever got to him was lining my eyes with kohl, talking to little kids about how I flew here on my magic carpet. But I just smile at Chaz.

"No more Mulan for me."

"And how is Montreal, anyway?" he asks, like he wants to know. How much did Mother tell him, I wonder, about my leaving here? My daughter deserted me, didn't you know? Barely visits her poor mother except when I beg. Chaz would shake his head at Mother with infinite pity. How terrible. I could tell Chaz that this was only a distorted sliver of the story, that Mother deserted me too once. But he'd never hear me over the fact of his undying lust.

"Well, you know me, Chaz. I love the cold."

He smiles. Of course I would love the cold. "I haven't visited Montreal since the eighties, you know. The old days."

A shiver runs through me. The old days. My childhood days in Montreal. So many I can't remember. So many behind a veil. Fragments until I was nine, and then at the age of ten, a blank. And then? Suddenly I don't live with Mother anymore. I'm living in Grand-Maman's place and Mother's moved away to California. Soon you'll join her there, Grand-Maman said, but not now, not yet. Five years go by in the flash of an eye. Then I'm fifteen and on a plane out west. I'm blinking under an alien sun, beneath a bright blue sky. There are palm trees swaying in my peripheral vision. Aren't they pretty? Mother said, taking my hand, her hair now short and dyed a Hitchcock blond. Isn't this just the life?

"Who needs the dark and the cold when you have all this, am I right?" And here, Chaz gestures to the view of the sea Mother drowned in. "You know they shot Top Gun here? Tom Cruise and all that." Trying to smile. Make this a bit of a nice breakfast. Not just about Mother's finances. We're old friends too, aren't we? Catching up.

I stare at him.

"Look," he says. And I know what's coming. Know what he's going to say. It was when the eggs came that I knew. Hearing him talk is like having déjà vu. "She had some serious debt." Braiding his hairy hands together. Rings gleaming in the light.

"What do you mean?" I say, though of course I know what he means. I think of Mother's voice on the phone lately. Giddy like a leg jiggling under the table.

"She took out three loans over the past year," Chaz says, pouring himself more coffee.

"Three? For how much?"

Chaz takes out a gold pen and dramatically clicks. I watch him scrawl a number onto the back of a bone-white business card and slide it over to me with a somber expression. I look down at the number. All those zeros stopping my heart.

"In total?"

"Each."

My stomach sinks. Heart pounding now. I stare at Chaz, who stares back at me impassively. Just the messenger here. Don't shoot. But I do want to shoot. I want to take aim at something and fire. I have a memory of Mother from about three months ago, the last time I visited. Waiting for her to pick me up at the San Diego airport. Staring at the palm trees swaying in the dark and thinking, Shouldn't have come. The night air was warm like a bath. I was smoking to the performed disapproval of all the people nearby. And then Mother rolled up in a silver Jaguar. The new car didn't surprise me too much—she'd always had her patrons, men who bought toys for their toy. It was her face that struck me. Unsmiling. So pale, it seemed to glow like another moon in the dark. As I approached the car, I noticed her skin was eerily smooth. She looked like she belonged in one of those old Hollywood films she loved, where the actresses' faces are made preternaturally flawless by Vaseline smeared on the camera lens. But more than her face, it was her eyes. Shining and blank. How they looked at me like they didn't know me. Mother, I felt compelled to say, it's me.

And Mother just stared at me through the passenger-side window. Of course it is, she said in a voice I didn't recognize. Get in.

But I just stood there staring at her through the window. Mother, you look—

What?And her tone was suddenly terribly eager. Hungry.

Strange, I should have said. Empty. What's with your face? Your eyes? But I said, Beautiful. As I always had. All my life. She seemed to smile then. Some warmth or recognition bloomed in her face. Like her soul had risen to the surface of her skin and made a light shine there briefly. Her eyes filled with tears. She looked into the ever kind and gentle mirror of me.

I'm so happy you're here, she said. And then we roared off into the dark. I never asked about the car.

"What were the loans for?" I ask Chaz now.

"Window renovation, apparently."

Window renovation?"Well, how much could that cost?"

"Can't say," Chaz says. "But it does look like she spent it all." He shrugs, stirs his coffee. It happens. People take out a loan for one thing, then spend it on other stuff.

Suddenly I can't breathe. I need a cigarette. A shot of something. Anything. Chaz keeps stirring his coffee with a little spoon. He's loving this, I can feel it. My helplessness. My sudden breathlessness, my flushed face, all of it is giving him a hard-on.

"I'd advise you to sell the condo. Use the equity to pay off the loans. You might barely break even if you do that."

"I might break even?" I shout this. Everyone's looking at us now. The waiters, the rich couple at the next table roused from their passion fruit and champagne brunch. I think of my studio apartment in Montreal. Barely decorated but for the skin products lining the walls of my single room. Closet bursting with dresses from work that I never wear. Every day the same black shift. Yet I was content in this little life, I was. In the back of my mind, did I think Mother would somehow save me?

"Well, there's the Jaguar," Chaz offers. "You could sell it, although it's unlikely to be worth much since she dinged it up a bit."

"Dinged it up?"

"Just in a few places. A few little fender kisses here and there. Some scratches." He grins as if recalling some past intimacy. "You know your mother."

Do I?I think of Mother behind the wheel in her dark glasses. Staring at me through the windshield, neither grinning nor frowning because she didn't want to disrupt the planes of her face.

"Fixing it is going to cost a pretty penny, of course. Vintage Jaguars don't grow on trees." He looks at me sadly. "But you might get a buyer as is. Men do love their toys. Especially fixer-uppers."

I think of her entourage of rich, smiling ghouls.

"As for the condo, I can put you in touch with a real estate agent," Chaz is saying. "But you'll want to fix the place up a bit too so you can sell it. It seemed a bit… run-down… last time I visited." He laughs a little. I picture Chaz visiting Mother. Rolling up in his Rolls. Rocking on his elevated heels at her front door. Mother answering with a cigarette between her fingers. Donning a black silk shift or maybe one of her white suits. That pendant of a warped red heart shimmering darkly on her chest. Smilingly entreating, Entrée, entrée.

She'd never let him fuck her, would she?

"Anyway"—he signals to the waiter—"a lot to think about." He looks at his watch and smiles. He's so sorry he doesn't have better news. I hear the rich couple toast each other with a clink of their flutes. Their easy laughter. What am I doing here in this place I can't afford? In my borrowed sack dress? From our little shop, Sylvia said when she handed it to me. I'll always think of it as ours, Belle. Then I remember. The shop.

"Wait! What about her dress shop, Belle of the Ball?" Named after my daughter, Mother would say, gripping the back of my neck. That shop was her consolation prize after her acting career failed spectacularly. Got one of her many gentleman friends to foot the bill. I'll consider it an investment, I imagine he said, winking. Probably dead now.

"I could sell her share of the dress shop, right?"

Chaz looks at me. "She already sold it, Belle."

Inside me, something shatters like glass. "Sold it?"

"A couple of months ago. To her partner. Sylvia Holmes?"

I drop my coffee cup. It makes a crashing sound like the world ending. We watch the spilled coffee gush to the ends of the table and drip, drip to the floor.

"You know the name, of course," Chaz says quietly.

"I know the name."

Another respectful silence. Or maybe he just doesn't know what else to say. Doesn't want to call attention to how little I know about Mother's life. Maybe out of sensitivity or maybe because he doesn't want another scene. The check comes. "All on me," he says magnanimously, though all I had was the coffee. And then I remember that Mother owes him money too.

"Your mother," he says wistfully. I watch the rings gleam on his hairy fingers as he signs the bill. "Bit of a mystery, wasn't she?"