her happy grin slowly slip downward until her chin trembles and she struggles to keep it together because she will want to be strong for me. I absolutely despise having to do this to the people who love me. Watching their faces go from concern to dread to fear and then struggle to climb back up to the surface. What I would really like to do is keep this little secret all tied up inside and put the next year on fast forward just like my TiVo. Skip right through the battle scene and pick it back up at the victory party.
I punch in my credit card information, hit confirm, then print out my itinerary and shut down my laptop. Flight is booked for Friday morning leaving JFK at 9:45. I will only fly direct flights, especially anything over two hours. I also splurged and booked myself into first class, where the seats are bigger and I can help myself to some sweet bubbly to pass the time and quell my nerves.
Honestly, I can’t stand flying. I feel every little bump, every drop in altitude, every punch of power when the engines accelerate. I can never fall asleep, can’t focus on a book, and anxiously await the pilot’s voice booming through the cabin when we reach our cruising altitude. I need to hear his voice telling me he’s doing just fine, we’re not going down, and he’s got it all under control.
Even on those rare occasions when I’ve been onboard Air Force One with my mother, I still need to have confirmation from the pilot that all is well at the front of the plane. If I don’t hear from the pilot, I swivel frantically in my seat looking for the flight attendants to pop up and begin hoisting their drink carts down the aisle. That’s another signal to me that everything’s okay.
Of course, these days I also find myself scanning the faces of my fellow passengers. I’m looking for potential terrorists and for the thick-muscled men who will jump up and take back our plane if they dare pull out a box cutter or begin muttering under their breath about impending jihad.
It takes a lot of energy for me to get through a flight, and I always end up with a raging migraine once I finally get off the plane. I remind myself to pack some aspirin. As I head to my closet to pull out my suitcase, my cell buzzes from my kitchen counter. It’s my “government issued” phone, so I hustle over without hesitation to see who is calling. Just like Pavlov’s dog, this is how well we’ve been trained. I feel a moment of relief when I notice it’s not my mother’s line or my father’s, but then tense right back up when I recognize the number as Kelby’s. Because she’s calling on this line I feel like I have to pick up, even though she’s burned me before with phony private line calls that are supposed to be strictly reserved for family emergencies. Kelby’s “emergencies” have included a broken zipper on her favorite jeans, and a less than flattering write-up on Perez Hilton’s website.
Why do I trust this time will be any different? I pick up the phone and give her a quick hello.
“El-La, where in the frickin’ world have you been?” she shrieks at me. “You’ve left me with no choice but to call you on this stupid line because I knew you’d pick up.”
I think I hear panic in her voice, but I can’t quite tell yet if it’s real panic, or just Kelby panic.
“Hey, Kel, been busy, what’s up?” I keep my tone light but firm to discourage any dramatic prelude leading up to the purpose of her call.
“Seriously?” she begins. “Seriously, El-La?” Kelby tends to separate my name into two syllables when she’s got a bone to pick. “You are sooooo inconsiderate to not even think for a moment that I might neeeeed you,” she whines, stretching out every other word like an immature brat who thinks the world has just let her down again. My fault for indulging her for far too long, yet I step right back into the role of her personal enabler. I curse myself for having a weak moment and actually answering her call. I try to maintain my patience as I ask her what’s wrong.
“Well, Jesus Christ, El-La, what do you think is wrong?” I shuffle through a mental list of the possible disasters that have just unfolded and I zero in on something I suspect might be spinning her out of control.
“Uh,” I start, “is it your dress for the state dinner?”
I hope I got it in one guess because I think I can disentangle from this conversation fairly easily. The dinner is still over two months away but Kelby’s wardrobe selection process is already well underway.
I lose focus for a moment, figuring by then I’ll be totally bald. What color dress goes best with bald?
My mind snaps back when Kelby’s voice wails on.
“El-La, don’t you get it?” she brays. “They will never let me bring Harris to the White House, and he’ll be pissed at me if he can’t come. Like, what the fuck am I supposed to tell him that won’t feel like I’m pulling off his dick with my tweezers?”
Hmm, the image of that certainly gives me a chuckle. Harris is Kelby’s professor-slash-lover, and it’s not going over very well with my parents. They consider it highly undesirable for Kelby to be dating someone related to the university, and they refuse to acknowledge the relationship. In fact, the university has already censured Harris for taking up with a student. They both insist that because Kelby is of legal age of consent, there is no conflict of university policy but that’s not completely true. Harris is crossing the line and no one is fooled that the attraction is strictly due to Kelby’s charming personality and intellectual prowess.
Hardly!
He thinks she’s hot, and she’s the daughter of the vice president and he’s ready for his fifteen minutes to start ticking.
Unfortunately for all of us, Kelby doesn’t quite get this yet and she’s doing all she can to insert him into our family landscape like a thorny rose bush.
Sweet Jesus. Like I need this now.
The call turns out to be much more complicated than I had hoped, leaving me no easy way to get out of this without tackling it head on. I remind Kelby that we are advised not to bring guests to White House events and she can easily blame it on protocol.
Kelby is usually able to weed through the wannabes who sniff around her like horny giggling hyenas, but for some reason Harris has her fooled. Even Kass hasn’t been able to unlock the strange hold he has over her, not that she’s more apt to listen to him over me. We both know Kass likes just about everyone. You have to be a serial killer, child molester, or a left tackle that can’t block for him not to give you the benefit of the doubt. My parents are no help either. By not approving, they’ve pretty much given her a green light to enter the rabbit hole that is paved with velvet. She just can’t help but slide right down into the abyss.
Kelby is giving me good practice for the day, if it ever comes, when I have to deal with a petulant child who is always one “no” away from a meltdown. Chances are my uterus will be nuked dry by my impending radiation. My kids could come out with one eye and three arms. Truth is, they probably won’t come out at all.
I move on to try a new tactic with my persistent sister. I remind her that Harris is under administrative watch and he really shouldn’t be flaunting their relationship. I spin it to make the point that it is for Harris’ own professional good to stay away. Not that Kelby gives too much thought to what’s best for someone else, but at least she may take a bit of responsibility for helping him keep his job. If Harris went from simply being unsavory in the eyes of my family, to downright unemployable, well then she’d have no choice but to cut him loose.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It just sucks that this has to be so hard for me. I mean seriously, El-La. Kass can show up with whatever skank he’s banging at the time. Tell me how that’s fair? Not that you can relate,
