Chapter Twenty-Nine
In which we learn that apparently, some women just never got the maternal instinct.
Violet…
I'm failing my sisters.
I lie awake most of the night, trying to find something I might be missing. A way out. Starting a fire. Stealing a car. But they aren't new to this and I am. Everything is locked down tight.
Fuck! I scream silently, biting a hole in the pillow.
We're startled awake as the sun is rising with a round of aggressive knocking before the door flies open.
"Your stylists are here."
Cruise Director bustles into the room, five women following her, along with a couple of guards. She puts down a tray holding three tall glasses filled with greenish sludge.
"Protein smoothies," she says. "You'll drink these while you're getting ready."
"Could I get some toast?" Rose asks.
The look of disgust Cruise Director gives her would be more appropriate if Rose had asked to cut out her liver and eat it raw. "You don't want anything destroying the lines of these dresses. A bulging stomach would be inexcusable. You must look perfect."
"What are they paying you?" It spills from my lips, a torrent of fury. "Really, for you to be this loathsome, keeping girls and women captive. It's got to be a lot, right? Or do you just get off on the power of making other women suffer?"
Her thin lips curl, making her look like an opossum I'd seen by the side of the road once, rearing up with a hiss, its black, glittering eyes radiating malice.
"Stupid, entitled girl," she snarls. "You're not bright enough to see what an honor this is."
The stylists have been busy, setting up a rack of dresses and spreading cosmetics over the large table, adding a full-length mirror. They're pretending that they're not listening.
"She's the kind of woman," I tell Rose and Iris, "who doesn't mind having to sit in the back seat, as long as she knows there's other women stuffed in the trunk." They shake their heads, staring at her reddening face.
"I'm always amazed that women like you exist," I say quietly, watching her little black eyes glitter. "You disgust me even more than the men. When they're caught and their asses are sent to jail, I'm going to make sure your bony one is right there with them."
Her hand curls into a fist, the skin drawn tight on her cheekbones like a living skull.
"The gentleman will stay here to make sure you follow instructions." It takes a visible effort for her to get the words out before leaving the room.
Rose and Iris gaze at me uncertainly, they look so young, holding hands like they used to on the first day of school and they were worried about the unknown.
"Let's get ready." I force a smile.
I probe the stylists as much as I can with the two dickheads standing there, trying to see if I can find any pity or sympathy in them.
Sadly, they're bulletproof. Any question that's not related to what shade of eyeshadow is good with cream silk bounces off them.
They curl our hair, and slap on so much mascara that I can barely lift my eyelids.
It gets worse. They've made Iris and Rose look even younger with dewy, pale makeup and soft pink lips, and my stomach turns at the sight.
When it comes time to get into the gowns, I can see the guard's anticipation, straightening up and watching more closely. The head stylist opens the first garment bag. "This gown is for you, Miss Violet," she intones, not meeting my eyes.
It's not hideous. A simple white satin floor-length sheath with a train that extends out the back.
Shit. It's strapless. I'm picturing trying to run in it as it slips down to my waist. Fine, I'll happily flash half the wedding guests if I can get us out of here.
Glaring at the guards, I ask Rose and Iris to hold up my robe to cover me while I pull the dress on.
Aw, the guards are disappointed, poor babies.
However, since we're obeying the stylist, there's nothing they can do.
Rose and Iris have identical gowns, of course. How precious.
"These are from Monique Lhuillier's spring collection," the head stylist gushes.
The dresses are vile, more like something you'd find in the prom gown section at Forever 21. They look at each other and then at the gowns, dismayed at the ruffles and aggressive array of silk flowers. I help them dress, shielding them with my robe before picking up my noxious smoothie glass.
"Where are you going? Turn around." One of the guards barks orders at me like I'm a labrador retriever.
"I'm going to pee," I say, "and possibly vomit. I have a very weak stomach. Do you want to come in and hold my hair?" His thick eyebrows crunch into a scowl. It seems the threat of vomit removes his incentive to catch a glimpse of my ass.
"Be careful with the dress!" the head stylist calls as they go back to fussing over Rose's corset, lacing it tight enough to make her ribs creak.
In the bathroom, I slam the door shut, turning on the water full blast as I wrap the smoothie glass in a towel.
It's my first potential weapon. I freeze after the first soft crunch as the glass breaks, but no one tries to break down the door.
I find ways to wrap the shards of glass, awkwardly tearing strips from a washcloth before I slip them under my garters.
The two most promising pieces, long and jagged, fit under my gown after I slice in some little pockets.
Standing back to make sure nothing shows, I release a shaky breath. It's not much but I have to start somewhere. As I'm leaving the bathroom, the door opens again. It's not the demonic Cruise Director.
It's fucking Poppy.
Our mother is wearing a bright red dress and matching lipstick, her blonde hair enameled into place and she's looking us over with a critical little frown.
"Can you do something about Iris's hair?" she asks a stylist. "Something softer that would suit the gown?" My mouth drops as the woman hurries over to shove Iris back into the seat at the dressing table.
No. I'm not getting this right.
"That's what you came here for?" I ask incredulously.
"To make sure your daughters look as underage as possible?
" I expect something, I don't know, not shame because I'm pretty sure Poppy doesn't have any.
Surely, even a flash of disquiet, maybe shifting her gaze away from me because eye contact is too uncomfortable?
But no.
Poppy looks me right in the eye. "You have an incredible opportunity here that I had to struggle for my entire life," she glows with self-satisfied certainty.
"Jack wasn't sure about it, but I knew we were doing the right thing for you.
Instead of being grateful, you're choosing to make this as difficult as possible.
" She shakes her head, so deeply disappointed with me.
"For the sake of your sisters, I hope you'll remember that your actions reflect on theirs. "
That disgusting protein smoothie is threatening to make a reappearance.
I press my hand against my stomach. "You know what they threatened us with, don't you?
" I whisper. "You're our mother." My voice is rising and the stylists tense.
“You gave birth to us. You watched us take our first steps!
You're handing us over to these twisted fucks who will torture one sister to punish the other?
" I surge forward, inches from her as the guards step closer.
"Look me in the fucking eye and tell me that you know this and you do not care. "
Iris and Rose are staring at her too, jaws dropped.
"I do care," Poppy says, brushing an invisible bit of lint from her sleeve. "That's why I wanted the best opportunities in life for you."
"I'm going to believe that Poppy was taken over by- by demonic possession," Iris says, shoulders sagging.
"She's not human," Rose agrees.
"You're not a mother," I say softly, forcing down the scream that wants to burst from my throat. "You're not even a human being and you are disgusting. They've made a joke of you and you've embraced it."
Her hand flies up, then pauses. Poppy never hit us. She didn't believe in corporal punishment. We weren't spanked once as kids.
"Oh dear, you don't want to damage the merchandise, do you?" I spit the words out. "Do you have to give them a discount if one of us is slightly damaged?"
"You're not our mother. You can't be here," Iris says as she and Rose join me, their expressions set and cold in a way that breaks my heart.
They're eighteen. Disillusionment ages you.
At this moment, they look twenty years older, painfully aware of how badly they can be betrayed by someone who should love them.
Poppy's mouth opens and closes again. "I'll go tell your father and the others you're ready."
"The only parent we have," Rose says viciously, "is dead."
Her fury bounces off Poppy's polished shell and she walks out without a single glance back. The stylists buzz around us like hyperactive bees in a pollen bath, adjusting here, brushing there until I want to slap their hands away and scream, "Enough!"
But if I do that, maybe Rose gets hit in the ribs, where it won't show, or Iris is locked in a room for the next two days.
It's brilliant, I think bitterly. We are the perfect interdependent circle.