Chapter 22 Lee
Lee
Lee and the girls entered a coffee shop called Café Yiasemi, a stucco building along a street called Mnisikleous, near Regan’s apartment.
The door of the cozy café was surrounded by potted plants and flowers, the walls lined with wrought-iron lanterns.
Above the doorway, the Greek word for jasmine—Γιασεμ?—was painted in gold script.
The girls settled into the dim interior space, and—in astonishingly fluent Greek—ordered cold frappés, French fries, and slabs of some sort of tomato tart.
Lee asked Flora to order her a strong black coffee, then marveled as Flora asked, “I theia mou den tis aresei o stigmiaios kafes, echete kati allo?”
Markos arrived, smelling of cigarettes, and introduced himself.
As the girls answered his questions about Regan, Lee got to work on her phone trying to sort out where she could access her medications in Greece.
She knew from experience that coming off bipolar meds could be a rough ride, and without her mood stabilizer, Lee would soon feel the familiar edge of hypomania creeping in.
Walgreens, Lee discovered, did not exist in Greece—maybe they could transfer her prescriptions to another pharmacy.
Isabelle stood as soon as she finished her tomato tart. She said she was leaving; she had plans. “What plans?” said Lee.
“Like you care,” Isabelle responded. Lee sighed, remembering her conversation with Isabelle’s teacher about the bad-news heiress named Anastasia.
“I certainly do care, Isabelle,” said Lee.
Isabelle acted as if she hadn’t heard her aunt and exited the café, leaving her bill for Lee.
“I’m sorry my sister was rude. She’s upset,” said Flora. “Would you like to see the spreadsheets I made showing my mom’s money transfers?”
“I certainly would,” said Markos.
Lee watched Flora pull a laptop from her backpack, log into it with her face, and open an Excel document featuring highlighted columns and detailed notes.
“I’m saving up to build a Framework Laptop 13,” she told Markos earnestly.
“I only need like fifty more euro. This school Chromebook is fine for display but I can’t do anything cool on it. ”
Lee was proud of Flora, but the information in her spreadsheets was disquieting. Regan appeared to be sending every cent of Matt’s generous child support to something called BBB Investments.
Markos said, “Can you email me these documents, please?”
“Yes, sir,” said Flora.
Lee noted that Flora seemed to crave adult admiration, and felt uneasy.
Flora’s overzealous competence was too familiar—suddenly Lee was a teen again, sitting at the kitchen table with her father’s insurance papers spread before her, creating a filing system while Charlotte stared into space and sipped her chardonnay, useless.
Lee had made spreadsheets too—one for bills, one for grocery lists, one for Regan’s and Cord’s school schedules.
Everyone had been impressed by how “together” she was, how “mature for her age.”
Flora explained financial transfers to Markos with the same forced calm Lee had once used to explain death benefits to her mother.
Depression said, Flora is becoming you.
Lee tried her best to ignore this horrible, if true, realization, stammering, “Well, good work, Flora! I’m sure you’ve given Officer Papadoulos plenty to work with.”
“Have you considered a press conference, Ms. Perkins?” said Markos.
“We’ll wait on that, but thank you.” Lee stood to signal her farewell.
As they walked back to the apartment, Flora peered at her aunt. “You do know what those numbers mean, right, Aunt Lee?” said Flora. “Mom’s been sending our child support to the scammer.”
“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Lee, with (she heard it!) an unhinged air of gaiety.
Ugh, and Flora’s face—that careful, patient expression as she waited for Lee to stop pretending! How many adults had Lee watched deny obvious truths while she stood there, sixteen and exhausted, knowing she’d have to fix everything anyway?
“Aunt Lee—”
“That’s enough,” said Lee. “We’re going to find your mom and everything will be fine!” In her own ears, Lee sounded deranged.
Lee knew how destabilizing it was when someone pretended the truth wasn’t happening.
She hated bullshit, which was a rough character trait in the entertainment industry.
Lee had learned to feign excitement as someone told her about a project that was almost certainly doomed; insisted they loved her show when they may have never watched it; or planned an elaborate fête that was never going to leave the group chat.
But being fake hurt, it did. Every time Lee told a falsehood or agreed to believe one, it felt like opening the wound of having had to lie for decades about her father’s suicide, promising Charlotte she would say Winston had had a heart attack.
Flora looked away, obviously disappointed in her aunt. Lee couldn’t blame her: She was disappointed in herself.