Dana Davis - Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

“It wasn’t my place to tell you.”

“Yes, it was!” My eyes burn as hot tears form. “You had no right to keep this from me. I feel totally blindsided.” I wipe a tear. What did I expect? That Anthony Stone would be sitting in a giant empty house waiting for me all by himself, feeling the way I’ve felt for all these years—incomplete? How could he possibly feel incomplete with a wife and four daughters? And how will he feel when he discovers I may not be his? With four daughters and a wife, my guess is...relieved.

As I’m pacing, the door to the house across the cul-de-sac swings open and a teenage boy steps out onto the neighboring driveway. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled low, concealing his face.

“Tiffany,” Grams says with a tired sigh. “Get to know your father. It’s his job to tell you the truth. The whole truth. You deserve it.”

“Grams—” I’m distracted as the boy looks up and our eyes meet. The sight of his face literally takes my breath away. It’s covered in some sort of heavy white makeup, pasty and drawn, his green eyes almost glowing under the light of the full moon.

“Yes, Tiffany? What’s going on? You all right?”

“Look... I’m here. I made it safely.”

“Please don’t be mad at me. I’m already hurting so much. I can’t have you mad at me.”

“I’m not mad. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up before she has a chance to respond, my heart pounding, my mind a jumble of confusion.

The boy with the white face is still standing there, staring. He smiles and raises a gloved hand to wave at me. More than a bit spooked, I timidly wave back, then spin around and run inside the house.

3

Something’s attached itself to me.

I look down to see tiny hands wrapped around my leg and enough wild, curly hair to open up an exclusive wig store. “Um, excuse me? Hi.”

An adorable face emerges from the mass of auburn-tinted curls. She’s got pouty full lips, light brown skin and the same pale blue eyes as Heaven and Nevaeh.

“I Pumpkin. I two! Birthday, December 19.”

“Hi there, Pumpkin,” I say weakly as I realize Pumpkin wasn’t a nickname for London and there actually are four sisters. “I’m Tiffany.” Pumpkin’s wearing a pretty pink dress with lots of ruffles. She looks like a porcelain doll. Like she should be on sale at Toys R Us.

“I Pumpkin. I two years old.”

“Oh. Okay. I’m Tiffany. Again. I’m sixteen.”

“I Pumpkin! I two!”

“I’m sorry. She’ll do that all night.” A woman has emerged from around the corner. She quickly peels the little tyke from my leg and scoops her up. “Tiffany. Oh, it’s so nice you’re here!” she gushes. “I’m Margaret Stone. Anthony’s wife.” She leans forward to embrace me warmly and when she pulls away Pumpkin is attached to my hair, her tiny fingers gripping a handful of braids gleefully.

“Pumpkin! Let go! Sweetie, it’s not nice to pull hair,” Margaret scolds, and Pumpkin releases my hair. “Say sorry.”

“It’s okay. Didn’t hurt.” I fold my arms under my chest and hunch over, wishing for a moment I could be swallowed up by the shiny white marble floor of this massive foyer. I look around in awe, taking in the splendor of the mansion. There is a curved staircase, a stunning, three-tiered crystal chandelier as big as me and ceilings so high not even a long ladder on top of another long ladder could help you get anywhere close to the top.

“Pumpkin, say sorry,” Margaret says again, this time more sternly.

“I sorry!” Pumpkin shouts with a smile.

“Inside voice, Pumpkin.” Margaret gives me an apologetic tilt of the head. “I’m sorry, too.”

“No worries. It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“No, no. Please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel a hundred years old. Call me Margaret.”

Margaret’s white and maybe in her forties. She’s not really pretty as much as she is very put together. Conservative and classy looking with the kind of clothes that look expensive and meticulously tailored. A pearl-white, high-waist pencil skirt, silky black blouse and matching heels. Certainly not the kind of lady you’d find in my neighborhood back in Chicago. She’s got brown shoulder-length hair and dark eyes. Wait—dark eyes? Shouldn’t they be blue, like all the girls?

“Are you my sister?” Pumpkin screams.

“Pumpkin, not so loud! Inside voice.” Margaret turns back toward me. “This is Pumpkin. We call her Pumpkin because she was born with this wild auburn hair. Some sort of recessive gene, I guess.” She laughs nervously. Actually, nervous is an understatement. Margaret is literally shaking. “Your dad just called. Surgery went well. He should be home soon.” She sets the squirmy two-year-old down and Pumpkin races off around a corner like a magical gnome. “We’re going to eat on the terrace to celebrate. Made a cake from scratch. Got the fancy dishes out and everything.” I notice Margaret eyeing my attire.

“I didn’t know about the dinner. Sorry. I would’ve worn something nicer. I swear.”

“Oh, it’s fine. We bought you some beautiful dresses.”

“You guys bought me dresses? You didn’t have to do that.”

“Are you kidding? It’s so our pleasure. Do you like Anthropologie?”

I look into Margaret’s eyes. Stretched wide, furrowed brows, pained expression. Crazy eyes for sure. There’s also something about her that comes off as not quite genuine. She’s got a syrupy sweet voice and that polite tilt of the head. I imagine she’s one of those “nice” people that have a special way of getting on my nerves. Disgustingly polite, when you know, somewhere deep inside, they’re screaming, Fuck this shit!

“Never trust a person who’s always smiling,” Mom used to say when I was small.

“How come?” I’d reply in confusion.

“Because, Tiffany,” Mom said seriously. “Smiling is the easiest way to lie. And nobody, not even Jesus Christ himself, was always walking around happy and smiling.”

I shift, suddenly uneasy in Margaret’s presence. “Anthropology? Isn’t that the study of humans?”

Margaret smiles. “Oh, my goodness. How cute are you? No, no. The clothing store.”

“Oh!” My cheek starts to twitch and I scratch at it to hide the tremble. “Yeah, yeah. No doubt.” I make a quick mental note to Google Anthropology the clothing store.

“Can I get you anything to drink before dinner?”

“Pop? That’d be cool.”

“Pop?” Margaret gives me another polite tilt of the head. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s how they say soda in Chicago.” Nevaeh appears on top of the long, curving staircase, leaning casually over the railing, her voice echoing in the giant space. “But we don’t drink soda, Tiffany. Mom says it’s too much sugar.”

“It’s Pumpkin,” Margaret explains. “She’s on the autism spectrum and the sugar...it makes her a bit off balance.”

“It makes her crazy,” Nevaeh explains seriously. “I mean, she’s already crazy but sugar makes it worse.”

“Nevaeh, don’t say that. Please don’t refer to Pumpkin as crazy.”

Nevaeh shrugs. “Come up, Tiff! I can give you a tour of the house.”

“Sweetheart, I actually need you to help me set the table out back. Besides, Tiffany needs a chance to breathe and settle in. Right, Tiffany?”

A chance to breathe and settle in. I exhale appreciatively. “Yeah. That’s cool.”

“How about a tea? We have herbal tea,” Margaret offers. “It’s a rooibos and chamomile blend. It’s very nice.”

“Mom,” Nevaeh declares with an exasperated sigh as she moves down the staircase. “You think she wants a hot cup of herbal tea? She’s moving in, not retiring.”