Chapter 12
Penelope
I try to describe the scene to Misha. Even as the memory arouses a horrible dragging feeling in the pit of my stomach.
My ten-year-old self, proudly rocking a red-and-white gingham blouse with snap buttons and an embroidered cowgirl patch on the chest. Paired with a white denim skirt and Keds—laces deliberately removed. I felt effortlessly cool.
Right up until I stepped into the schoolyard and Becky Kennedy laid eyes on me.
“Becky zeroed in like a fly to shit.” I plant my face in my palm as the shame rebounds from way back then. “She pointed—actually pointed— and yelled: ‘That’s my old shirt!’ Her stupid friends jumped in, whispering, pointing. And then the chants started: ‘Penelope’s a dumpster diver! Penelope wears trash clothes!’”
Misha scrunches her face. “God, that’s awful! I never even considered how buying second-hand stuff in a small town means there’s a good chance you might know the person who donated it!”
“And I had no choice,” I explain. “That’s where Mom took me to shop. But I made damn sure nothing I bought could ever be recognized again,” I say, the indignity still swelling inside me.
“I slashed t-shirts, dyed them, ripped yokes off tops and skirts, and pieced them back together with other fabrics. Used offcuts of leather, denim, bias binding—anything to rework the look. I got creative. Really creative. Because no one was ever going to make me feel that small and pathetic again.”
Misha becomes quiet for a moment, then lets out a breath. “Wow. So that’s what started off your whole career? Isn’t it crazy how something traumatic can actually prompt you in a positive direction?” she ponders.
Then she must catch something in my expression because she backtracks instantly.
“Oh, god, Penelope, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to minimize what happened. I’ve just been on this whole kick lately—books about pivoting your outlook, embracing change, accepting stuff. Vivian keeps calling me out on it, like, ‘Misha, stop with the philosophy lessons.’” She sighs. “I may have become unbearable.”
“Seriously, no.” I hesitate. Then admit: “Actually, I rarely share personal stories like that. I just find you easy to talk to, I guess.”
Misha tilts her head. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always felt like the odd one out with other women, like I missed some secret rulebook. The unspoken rankings.”
I pluck at my bracelet. “It always seems like a competition to fit in or excel. Be the skinniest, best-dressed, sexiest, smartest. Even online… especially online, there seems to be all this pressure. Like, be the fastest to lose the baby weight, have the most extravagant wedding, the most impressive career. I never feel at ease even in virtual women groups.” I grimace.
Misha shakes her head. “I would never guess that. You seem so confident and self-assured!”
“It’s an act,” I confess. “You won’t catch me at all-female gym classes, book clubs, or spa sessions. I can’t stand the scrutiny. Guys might check you out physically, that’s a given. But women? They judge everything.”
She studies me for a moment. “Well…if you can stand one more insight I picked up while trying to overhaul my life—”
“Alright, let me have it.” I put aside my napkin and fold my arms on the table.
“I did a lot of digging into my own insecurities, and I realized it’s often a case of projection,” Misha says.
“How so?”
“You ever stop to wonder if people are actually judging you…or if you’re just assuming they are?”
“Trust me, I know when I’m being judged.”
“ Do you ?” she questions. “Or is that just the script you’re used to? Something ingrained in you early on?”
I shrug, tracing my thumb over the floral motif on the tiny porcelain coffee cup, the dregs of coffee muddied in its base.
“For me, it was always about my sister,” Misha shares. “I decided she was the successful one—prettier, smarter, more loved. No matter what I did, I felt like I was in her shadow.”
“And something’s changed?” I wonder.
“Uh-huh.” Misha gives a faint smile. “When she came to see me while I was going through all those medical tests, I finally confessed how I felt. And she was shocked. She’s achieved so much, yet is riddled with insecurities, too! We realized how ridiculously tough we are on ourselves, how exhausting it’s been to hold ourselves to these impossible standards, when, in the end, it was all self-inflicted.”
Misha pauses to check the time on her phone and then waves for the check.
“It’s a trap, Penelope. One you don’t even realize you’re in until you step back.”
I let her words sink in, but it feels like all this emotional dredging has reached its limit for me. Suddenly, I’m restless—eager to move, to do something tangible, to find an outlet for this edgy energy.
We head down the street, looking for the antique store Misha’s been following on Instagram. And I’m pleasantly surprised when its plain, narrow frontage gives way to a crowded bottle-green interior rich with atmosphere.
Every corner is a curated masterpiece. Vibrant wallpaper and textiles juxtaposed with gleaming barware, sailor woolies, and intricately woven lightship baskets.
I drift through the space, drawn to each discovery. Art Deco prints, plush velvet lounges, ornate mirrors, giant porcelain vases, and Persian rugs in bold, swirling hues.
“Holy shit—think it’s too late to switch careers?” I burst out. “I suddenly want to be an interior designer.” I run my fingers over the stained-glass shade of an antique lamp, its delicate panels fanned out like butterfly wings. “Can you imagine having access to pieces like this to redo a whole house?”
Misha’s smile brightens, as if she’s taking extra pleasure in my excitement.
“I actually use places like this to inspire my work,” she says. “You know when your creativity just flatlines? Sometimes staring at more fabric and patterns doesn’t do shit to motivate you. But galleries, museums, antiques…can stretch your imagination in a different way.”
We spend nearly an hour lost in the main room, absorbed in every detail, before I spot a hidden Provencal garden through an open doorway. Sunlight filters over weathered stone, illuminating a series of fountains and moss-softened urns.
Misha nods, eyes alight. “It’s amazing, right?”
“Beyond,” I breathe, trailing my fingers through the cool trickle of a sundial water feature.
“I adore it even more because it’s so unexpected.” Misha drops her oversized Prada bag onto a wrought iron chair, spreading her arms as if gathering the beauty to her. “Contrast makes things more striking—when plainness gives way to something extraordinary, it has even more impact.”
Suddenly, I think about the plainness of my mother’s house. Dull, dark, anchored in the past. And it strikes me how she barely made an imprint on where she lived. No bookshelves, ornaments, or even a bowl of fruit on the counter to break up the emptiness.
And she worked in a boring office setting. Where on earth did my mother find contrast in her life—access something vibrant, special…or uplifting?
Our next stop is a souvenir shop. But instead of mass-produced tourist trinkets, it showcases local artisans’ work: handcrafted jewelry, woodcarvings, paintings, and homewares.
As we pass by a jewelry workshop, Misha abruptly beelines to a display of brooches.
“ Love !” She holds up a vivid red heart with an intricately embroidered eye at its center—surreal and mesmerizing, like something pulled from a Dalí painting.
“Do you actually wear brooches?” I ask, having always associated them with old women. My grandmother had a cameo brooch with an ivory-toned carving of the Virgin Mary that she wore to church.
Misha studies the unusual piece, turning it over thoughtfully in her hand. “You know, brooches can actually be provocative. Designs like this one have an intriguing history.
“Not like your evil-eye bracelet, warding off bad spirits, but as a romantic gesture.” She raises a perfectly pencilled eyebrow. “Back in the 18th century, the Prince of Wales sent a brooch with a painting of his eye to his lover. It even had tiny diamond tears beneath it.”
She gives a rueful smirk. “Didn’t work, though. She was Catholic and wouldn’t marry him. But the whole thing kicked off a trend—people started exchanging lover’s eye miniatures.”
“Really? I had no idea.” I sift through the collection, pausing on a quirky Frida Kahlo piece, complete with monobrow. “I never really thought of jewelry as anything more than, you know, decoration.”
Misha stares at me. “Oh, babe. Jewelry has been a power move for centuries—sending coded messages. Even more recently, with our ex-Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Totally. She had this whole system,” Misha assures me. “When she was dealing with difficult people, out came the crab brooch. And when the State Department found out the Russians had bugged their offices, Albright pinned a huge jeweled insect to her chest for a meeting with the Russian foreign minister. And my favorite—when Saddam Hussein’s regime called her ‘ an unparalleled serpent’, she greeted Iraqi officials wearing a golden snake pin.”
I laugh. “Okay, that’s iconic.”
“Right?” Misha grins. “Some next-level shade.”
She replaces the brooch and picks up a gold dove pin. “That’s the thing about design, whether it’s jewelry, costumes, or everyday wear. The real power isn’t just in how something looks, but in what it says . What it means to the person wearing it.”
She glances at her reflection in the countertop mirror. “That’s why I always dig into a character’s backstory when I’m designing for the stage. If the script is a little light on some characters, I fill in the gaps—imagining the history, the colors, the textures of their life. Because the right detail can give so many unspoken insights.”
I nod, absorbing the thought, mentally cataloging the style of various people in my life.
My usual social scene is all about chic, edgy, or expensively tailored ensembles. But in other walks of life…for people who put much less effort into their appearance, who dress out of necessity or comfort rather than aspiration—even that says something, doesn’t it? It’s a reflection of who they perceive themselves as being.
I suppose Misha’s point is that, with the right perspective, you can trace a person’s story through their clothing. It’s not just clothing. It’s their history, personality, and sometimes, their unspoken truths.
And the simple blue dress Mom chose to be buried in, what does that hint at? It’s unobtrusive. Simple. Perfectly unremarkable. Like something off a mid-range department store rack, never made to leave an impression. Does she want to blend in, even in death?
Yet, she planned a whole funeral. A full-fledged event. Why ? She spent years keeping a low profile in Blue Mountain Lake, even avoiding parent-teacher meetings when there was no real reason she couldn’t go. I knew better than to expect her at my graduation in New York. So I skipped it, too. What was the point of all that ceremony when even my own mother couldn’t be bothered to show up?
But now, a big church service? With barely enough people to fill a pew? The thought is unbearable. Why not just a simple graveside service and be done with it?
I keep browsing, and on a whim, pick out a butterfly pin. It has an antique vibe, and its tiny, intricate details are as weightless and iridescent as the real thing. Meanwhile, Misha gets enthralled with an array of pendants from a brand called The Fifth Element.
“I’m a water sign.” She flashes a silvery-gray triangular design edged with gold. “So I’m going to pair this water symbol with the fire one to represent Steven. You know he’s a firefighter, right?” She grins, holding up the two pendants. “How apt is that?”
We go to make our purchases, and as I step aside for Misha, I notice a poster:
“HELP NEW MOMS & BABIES IN NEED!
Safe Haven Newcombe is collecting donations to support mothers and babies.
Two Ways to Give:
~Shop Online: Scan the QR code below to purchase a New Mom Care Kit or a Baby Essentials Kit from our Amazon Wishlist—items are sent directly to the shelter.
~Drop Off Donations: Bring new baby and maternity essentials to Feldman & Associates [17 Main St. Newcombe] during business hours.
~Every little bit helps!
Thank you for supporting the women and children in our community.”
I stare at the drop-off location: “Feldman & Associates.” Where Mom worked.
That’s…odd. I pull out my phone and scan the code before Misha bustles us outside, suddenly eager to get back to Blue Mountain Lake.
The day has slipped away. Five hours. I can hardly believe we’ve spent that long together, lost in discovering the surprising attractions of Newcombe. And for a fleeting moment, the weight of Mom’s death receded, and I felt lighter…the tightness in my chest lifting.
I’m already imagining getting back to the house and describing my surprisingly not completely unpleasant day to Tuck.
And then it happens.
We crest a tree-lined ridge, the road dipping into a curve before rising again. The bridge comes into view. An incline. A swing to the right —
“ Stop ! Misha, stop the car!”
She slows down, tires skidding slightly, before we lurch to a stop at the side of the road.
“What? What is it?”
I don’t answer. My breath feels trapped in my throat as I sink into the seat, my gaze locking on the tree ahead.
Tall. Elegant. Its branches stretching high above the canopy.
And its wide, solid trunk—strong enough to withstand the impact of a careening sky-blue Toyota Camry, now encased in layers of cellophane wrapped flowers. Hues of dusty white, pink, and yellow, some wilted to dark gray, petals curling inward like warped pages of a well-read book.
Ribbons and handwritten notes peek out between the stems, ink smudged from the damp air. A few bouquets are tied directly to the bark with twine, their plastic wrapping catching the fading light, flickering like wispy ghost fingers.
My voice is barely more than a whisper.
“This is where Mom died.”