Chapter Three
After unpacking my suitcase, hanging up all my clothes, and setting out all my toiletries, I take the longest, warmest, most refreshing shower in my life. I check my phone, knowing my mom has added all our appointments for today into my Google Calendar. My life back home is always empty, but my mom lives off her Google Calendar, and while here, I’m expected to do the same. As foreseen, my calendar for the day is full, yellow for meetings with my mom’s work stuff that she wants me to tag along to, green for meals—guaranteed to include at least one SetCorp employee or lawyer—and red for commute time. Thankfully, most of the meetings are at the hotel with the event planners, so I won’t have to go far today. As much as I’m looking forward to sightseeing, my body is exhausted from traveling, even though I slept most of the time. My mind is wide awake, but my body, as usual lately, isn’t on the same page.
My usually pin-straight hair is waving a little as it air-dries with the sea so close and the humidity of the Mediterranean mixing. I stare at myself in the mirror. Putting on a little sunscreen, I brush my unruly, thick brows, another gift from my mother’s Spanish genetics. I put in eye drops to freshen up my contacts and dot a little blush on my cheeks. I didn’t bring many clothes with me, assuming my mom will force me to shop with her at least three times, so I pull a comfy, oversized pin-striped button-down and white shorts from the closet. I stare at the little blue container on the counter, debating what to do. I had made my mind up before getting on the plane, so now that I’m here, I want to stick to my choice. I won’t spend the rest of my life in a fog; I’m taking control of the time I have left. So I walk away, leaving it be, and find the minibar for some water. Amara’s reminder of how environmentally focused the hotel is becomes more obvious as I open the fridge. There are some sparkling waters, sodas, juices, and more alcohol than any one person needs.
Where on earth is the still water? I look around and find a refillable cup with a little tag on it.
“Please reuse me during your stay. Join us in conserving plastic waste, one bottle at a time,” it says on a little attached tag.
Next to it, there’s a built-in waterspout coming from the wall. As a self-proclaimed water connoisseur, I’m amazed by it. I fill the bottle and drink half of it at once. I refill it. It doesn’t take much to make me happy here, I realize with a smile. Maybe my cynicism and harshness have been products of my environment back in Texas? Unavoidable personality traits caused by loneliness and lack of human interaction. I’m not sure yet, but one thing is clear: Oriah Pera is going to thrive and make final memories in Mallorca.
I don’t have to open it to know what the manila folder on the entry table contains. My mother is thorough with her planning, so I leave her printed-out schedule sitting untouched and head to meet her in the lobby. Amara greets me again, and this time, both of her eyes have liner.
“Seems like you figured it out.” I point to her makeup. “Looks great.”
“Thanks! It took fucking forever, but it does look good, right?” She holds her phone up, using the camera as a mirror even though the entire wall behind her is a mirror.
“You’re American, right?” I ask her. Since she barely has an accent and uses such casual English slang, she must be.
She laughs, that unique sound filling my ears.
“Actually, no. I’m German; a bit of a nomad, really. But I’ve been learning English since I was a kid and watch tons of American shows. I tried to live there once, in New York, but it was not my vibe.” She shudders, speaking a million words a minute. “Have you been there? I bet you’re from LA; you have that West Coast vibe.”
I try to count how many times she’s said the word “vibe,” but laugh instead.
“I’m from Texas, actually. I’ve been to New York once when I was a kid,” I tell her, not wanting to go into detail of why my trip there was anything but a vacation. I spent it hooked up to wires for six days and got to see the Brooklyn Bridge only on our drive back to the airport.
“Texas? I wouldn’t have guessed. But I haven’t met anyone from Texas before. You seem so sweet compared to the news.”
“Everyone seems sweet compared to the news, no matter where they’re from,” I tell her, wondering what the rest of the world is saying about Texas, but it’s easy to guess. The news is the news no matter where you live or what you believe. Hysteria caused by negativity boosts ratings, which in turn boosts money for the mouthpieces in front of the camera.
“True, true. Anyway, I know every inch of this island if you get bored with corporate life.”
“I’m already bored with it,” I admit, looking toward the lobby door and immediately spotting the driver my mom has designated to mildly babysit me this summer. He tips his hat to me, and I politely smile back.
I can’t drive myself, but I’m sure I can figure out the public transportation here. According to the social media research I’ve done, nearly every country in the world has better public transportation than the US. In Dallas, everyone I know drives. It’s impossible to get around without a car or a driver.
“If you want a cure for your boredom, I’m having a few friends here tonight if you want to join us. The garden in the back; we hang there and drink and talk. We all love to meet new people and we’re from all over. Only one of us is a local, but he barely comes around anymore anyway. Blah, blah, blah, I’m probably overwhelming you.” Her bright eyes meet mine.
The very garden that my mom’s suite overlooks, I realize with disappointment. “I… can’t tonight, but rain check?” I should have taken the other room.
“Rain check… like, next time, right?” she clarifies.
“Exactly.”
“Deal. Rain check. Even if you’re not the social type, I know the best food and views, anything you want to do, just ask me. I’m your girl.” She raises her hand to a salute at her forehead and we share a laugh.
“Ry.” My mother’s voice cuts through our cheer.
I spin around to see her with two men in suits and Lena, her robotic executive assistant, at her side. Lena arrived here a week ago to get everything moving. I’ve known her half my life and she’s never missed a beat. Lena hugs me, placing both of her hands on my shoulders and squeezing gently. She smells like bergamot and red wine. She’s less of a machine when it comes to me, but I’m doubtful there’s a warm, flowing human brain in her skull if it were to be cut open.
“Are you settled in? Do you need anything? How’s your room? Did you choose the street view or the garden view?” Lena asks with a comforting smile, trying to remember all the questions she asked.
“Street. I’m totally settled in. Thank you, though. What about you? Are you liking it here so far?”
She nods with enthusiasm, an emotion she rarely shows. “It’s so beautiful here. I love it. We have a lot of work to do, but it’s incredible, even the weather.”
I wouldn’t know…
“Are you ready for today’s schedule?” she asks me.
“Yep. Am I dressed alright? Or should I change?” I ask Lena, but glance at my mom as well.
“Your outfit is perfect.” My mom is the one to respond. As I take her in, she’s wearing nearly the same outfit I am, a striped blue-and-white shirt, but hers is sleeveless and V-neck, and instead of shorts, she’s wearing white pants. On her feet are strappy low heels, almost identical to my brown sandals.
“Thanks,” I tell her, pulling my shorts down a little.
Not that I’m not used to her compliments about my appearance, but sometimes I wish she would praise something about me that wasn’t surface level. I guess something is better than nothing.
“Try to have fun while you’re here, okay?” Lena whispers to me just before she leads us to the banquet room. It’s huge. Bigger than I realized this hotel could hold. The high vaulted ceilings, the floor-length windows, like the ballroom itself were carved out of stone from an ancient fairy tale, yet clean and almost modern. Metals and woodwork pieced together to create a sleek but warm space, full of texture. Plants and trees are scattered throughout the room. There’s so much to look at, but I’m entranced by the plants hanging from the corners of the room, the massive tree in the center. Everything’s immaculate and smells real. I study one of the closest hanging leaves and touch it with my thumb and forefinger. It’s silky and is in fact real. Wow.
As I take it all in, my mom starts rambling off work stuff, telling people where to go and what to do, and I wait for her to ask my opinion on something. It finally happens as one of the event planners lines up six white chairs.
“Eggshell, Bone, Vanilla, Seashell, Snow, Ivory.” She lists them as she walks behind them, her hand running along the edge of the fabric draped over them.
As I step closer, I try my damnedest to find a difference in them. I want to be involved in planning the event, not only because the causes—art and children—are obviously great, but I want to feel like I’m doing something to make a difference here. Not just taking up space while a team of planners line up chairs, and my mom, who’s crankier than ever since landing in her hometown, points and scoffs for hours on end. I want to be part of something important, part of something helpful, but choosing between white and white wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.
“Um, bone?” I say, noticing it has a tinge of gray.
“Bone it is,” my mom agrees, typing furiously on her phone.
It starts to ring but she swipes, ignoring it. Her apple-red thumbnail is chipped, and I take note of it, betting to myself that she’ll have it fixed by the end of the day. Hell or high water, she’s never not polished in every sense of the word.
“Great! Now to the curtains. We will cover all the plants here,” the woman tells my mom, and I politely interrupt.
“Why would we cover them? They’re beautiful.” I look around to the branches and greenery layered through the ballroom. “They’re the best part.” My cheeks heat, not wanting to be rude or make a bad impression. Lord knows what they already think of me, the spoiled daughter of the rich, bossy, clipped-tone woman with the bright red nails and matching heels.
“Most people want them covered or moved for their weddings. To make the room more elegant,” the woman explains, her eyes soft but nervous.
My mom agrees with me. “Let’s keep them. It’s charming.”
“We can incorporate them into the theme. Like a forest at night?” I say as it comes together in my mind.
My love of interior design and putting things together to create something beautiful is blooming at full force. I haven’t felt this way in so long. My imagination has been dormant for months, so I have been taking stock. Numb and nonexistent. Dance, my number one love, is long gone now, only serving as a distant and painful reminder of what I’m no longer able to do. Pushing that thought aside, I try to focus on what I can do, which is visualize a concept and execute it. My sudden confidence and boost of energy surprise me, so I’m running with it.
“This is exactly why I wanted you here,” my mom tells me.
Turning to the small group of planners, she waves her arm toward me. “My daughter led and decorated the entire remodel of SetCorp’s main office in Dallas when she was barely twenty-one. She has remarkable taste, so just follow her opinions and everything will be fine.”
Despite the smile on her face, her tone is mildly aggressive. Since these women don’t know her, they can’t decode that she’s using her fakest of smiles right now. They don’t know that if she waves her hand, they will lose their jobs and she won’t lose a wink of sleep.
“Great,” one of them responds.
We move on to the linens and curtains, which I gently suggest we drape from the ceiling instead of covering the beautiful windows. The event will be held at night, so I suggest small, soft, twinkling, yellow-toned lights to avoid too much reflection from the glass. I’m high off the feeling of doing something, and the day flies by.
My mom, Lena, and I head out for a late lunch. The waitstaff have brought us a table full of dishes I don’t recognize, but my mom’s eyes light up as each one arrives. Despite her Spanish roots, she’s never introduced me to her native food, or any seafood, with the exception of lobster once or twice at a steakhouse. My palate is embarrassingly limited, but I plan on working on that while in Mallorca. I take photos of the food, like I always do, and grab a fork.
I’ve never seen my mother eat as much as she is now, her eyes closing as she inhales the meal. It makes me happy, to see her this way. The chipped paint on her fingernail is now fixed—no surprise. I try not to stare at her too long, so that she doesn’t notice and put her guard back up, but I can barely help it. Lena makes eye contact with me from across the table, and a subtle smile lifts the corner of her mouth. She must notice my mom’s sudden appetite too. She scoops some pasta onto my plate, knowing me well enough that she doesn’t give me any of the seafood, just some bow tie–shaped noodles with a white sauce and peas. I take a bite; it’s creamy and delicious, but the smell coming from the steam off the shrimp in front of me is begging me to at least try it. Hesitantly, I grab a piece of shrimp from the plate and pop it into my mouth. The flavor bursts as I chew, my taste buds dancing as the garlicky, buttery flavor fills my senses. Sometimes my sensitive sensory awareness can be such a burden, but the thick smell of garlic and lemon and spices has me grateful for them. I grab another piece, feeling ridiculously proud of myself for such a small thing, and my mom takes notice.
“You like it?” She seems more surprised than I am.
I nod, chewing and smiling. Her lips twitch at the corners and I can tell she’s keeping herself from smiling back, but even so, I can feel her pleasure at me enjoying the food she grew up eating. It might be ignorant to assume the food is the same here as where she grew up, but I wouldn’t be so na?ve in my thinking if she was open with me about her life. She doesn’t talk much, if ever, about her childhood and teen years, but the few times she has, there’s a passion within that doesn’t exist in her current life. I’m on a mission to find out more about my mom this summer, whether she agrees or not. I’m determined to get to know her before we run out of time.