'You tel her I said hi, okay?'
'Sure.'
We chatted for a while after that. The party got louder.
Stela reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming
Stela reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming
to stil be only twenty-nine. When it came time to open the
gifts, I thought about slipping out, but forced myself to
stay.
Stela sat in the big rocking chair in the living room, her
presents arranged at her feet and her closest girlfriend
beside her getting ready to write down the name of every
gift and its giver. Stela opened gift cards, packages of
bath salts, certificates for spa treatments. Sweaters.
Slippers. A new silk robe someone had brought from a
trip to Japan. She oohed and aahed over each gift
appropriately.
By the time she got to mine, my stomach had begun to eat
itself. The harsh sting of acid rose in my throat, burning.
My heart thudded sickly. I had to turn away to pop
another couple antacids and sip from a glass of ginger ale,
even though I knew the soda would ruin the effects of the
medicine.
It's sily to hold on to the past, but we al do it. I was
almost ten the first year I'd been invited to Stela's birthday
party. The paint had been barely dry in their new house.
Gretchen and Steven were living one week with their
mother and one week with my dad and Stela. I, of course,
mother and one week with my dad and Stela. I, of course,
lived ful-time with my mom and saw my dad on an
occasional weekend or holiday, a practice he'd only
started after leaving his first wife.
I'd picked out Stela's present myself that year, using my
alowance to pay for it. I'd bought her a silky red tank top
with a lacy hem. It was the sort of shirt my mom would've
loved and wore often, and she said nothing when she
helped me fold it and wrap it in some pretty paper that had
come free in the mail to solicit money for a charity.
I'd been so proud of that present. I'd been sure Stela,
who wasn't nearly as pretty as my mom but who tried
hard, anyway, would open it and put it on right away.
Then she'd smile at me, and my dad would smile at me,
and we'd al be happy.
Instead, she'd opened the box and puled out the shirt. Her
gaze had gone immediately to my father's, but men don't
know anything about fashion beyond what they like and
what they don't. She didn't put it on. She fingered the red
satiny fabric and peeked at the label, her eyes going a little
wider at what she saw. Then she put the shirt back in the
box with a thank-you even a nine-year-old could tel was
