Free The First Affair by Emma McLaughlin Page B

hate these postwar apartment buildings.” Erica unbuckled herself.
    “Doesn’t it feel claustrophobic?” Mom asked as we got out. “Being squashed in by so many people?”
    “No more than your office does,” I answered. Mom worked in the city for Midwest Mutual, where she’d been the assistant to one mid-level manager but eventually served seven of them, making their days go smoother. Watching her, the fatigue, the need to vent at night what she’d kept herself from snapping all day, made me want to grow up to have an assistant, not be one.
    “Dad, follow the driveway around to the garage—Gail has a space assigned to her apartment. It’s 8K.”
    “Got it.”
    “I didn’t think of that,” Mom considered as Erica unloaded the bags.
    “You hair looks nice,” I complimented Mom as we walked to the brass elevator bank. She had darkened it from her usual box red.
    “I don’t know who I think I’m fooling with all these freckles, but what if I was a brunette for a bit? I could wear pink.” She gestured to her cardigan.
    “I have a standing appointment every three months for lasering,” Erica responded as the door opened. “I am going out like Nicole Kidman.”
    I looked at my very speckled arm.
    “Well, some guys think they’re cute.” Mom wrapped her own speckled arms around our waists and squeezed us. “And they’ll want to kiss every one.”
    Erica wriggled out of Mom’s embrace. “My head hasn’t fullycleared from the flight.” The wheels of their overnight bags made a soft purr against the tan carpet. As I pulled out my keys, I watched my sister do this thing she does, her eyes dropping momentarily to the middle-distance as she performs what I think of as a full-body inventory. It’s always followed by a pronouncement. “I need coffee.” Like that.
    I can’t imagine being so in tune with myself. At that moment I needed a job—and occasionally I remembered to floss. I could have lived on Frosted Mini-Wheats until someone was actually trailing behind me with a hacksaw, begging to take my diabetic leg.
    Stepping inside, my eyes landed on the annoyingly steady red light of the answering machine. Not that he’d have left a message. But then it didn’t occur to me that he ever would have called in the first place. Or bent me over a sink.
    “Okay!” Snapping myself back to the present, I started talking with the animation of a campus tour guide. “This is the place!” I actually walked backward across the living room, arms outstretched. While I objectively knew I was just borrowing Gail’s high-thread-count life, I was still proud of where I’d momentarily landed. “Isn’t it amazing?” I pulled back the drapes to reveal the White House, my money shot.
    Erica threw her palm against the glare. “I’m seriously getting a headache.”
    “How about some water, hon?” Mom asked. “Jamie, can you get her water?”
    “I, um, of course.” I turned to the kitchen, but Erica helped herself to one of Gail’s Fijis from the glass-front mini-fridge. She sat on the couch, placing her manicured fingers to her temple. Her sleeves dropped back and I noticed she really didn’t have freckles anymore.
    Mom sat beside her, face drawn in concern. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.
    “Ma, I’m fine, I don’t need anything. I just need coffee, and could you—” Erica’s arm thrust out.
    I leapt to redraw the curtain, the room dimming.
    “Fucking asshole!” Dad blew in, slamming the door. “The parking guy was a total prick. Why are we sitting in the dark?”
    “I’m so sorry,” I said. “What happened?”
    “If I ask you where the spot is, obviously I don’t know.” My father jabbed his fingers repeatedly between his chest and the floor. “If I knew, I wouldn’t need to fucking ask now, would I?”
    Erica kept her head tucked to her knees.
    “Would you like a drink?” I offered.
    “Always.” His usual line.
    “I got your favorite!” I pulled out a liter of Irish lemon