A Week at the Lake by Wendy Wax Page B

and wake up.” It’s Mackenzie’s voice. Nervous but clear. “You know, so we can head on out to the lake like we planned.”
    â€œThat’s right, Mom.” Zoe’s voice wobbles. “We’re all packed and everything. We’re just waiting for you.”
    â€œNow there’s an understatement.” Mackenzie again. “Serena has packed everything she owns as usual. Her things are spread all over the family lounge.”
    â€œIt’s true. You should see all the stuff she brought.” Zoe’s voice catches.
    There’s a flash of light. The words fade. Somehow it’s 1986. I’m coming out the door of my apartment building on Bleecker Street, watching Serena Stockton move in. She’s tall and big boobed with smooth white skin and elegant features, and whatever she’s saying has the cabdriver smiling despite the huge pile of luggage and boxes that he’s pulling out of the cab. Everything about her is curvy and slightly oversized: the red-lipsticked mouth that seems to be constantly moving, the long dark curls she tosses over a shoulder.
    She says something—using a whole lot of syllables that don’t seem to have anything to do with each other. She peers at me and I’m afraid she’s going to recognize me. But she pats me on the shoulder and repeats herself as if I’m a little slow and she’s not the one speaking a foreign language.
    â€œI say-a-d,”—almost four syllables there—“Ah’m goin’ to need some muscle. Do y’all have any frie-nds”—two syllables—“in the building? You know. Anyone who might like to help?” She motions to her possessions, which have eaten up the entire sidewalk. She sighs, long and put upon. “I guess I should have listened to Mama about the movers. Or maybe let Daddy pay so I could get a place with a doorman.” There’s a satisfied smile as she flashes her left hand; a diamond sparkles on her ring finger. “But my fiancé and I are absolutely determined to make our own way.” She turns her charms on the driver who can’t seem to take his eyes off her chest but who in the end is not willing to leave his cab to carry her stuff upstairs.
    â€œWell, I neveh . . .” She huffs as he drives off still watching her in his rearview mirror. But in less than a minute she’s stopped two guys who are walking by. I watch with amazement as they start lifting the boxes and suitcases. She rounds up a third and his friend. And the next thing she’s herding them toward the door saying all kinds of complimentary things about how strong they are, how gentlemanly, how she’d had no ideathey had such good-looking men in the North (two syllables). I don’t think they have any idea what she’s talking about but it doesn’t seem to matter. She has them under some sort of spell and I can see in her eyes that she is not about to let go of them until her things are in her apartment.
    â€œThat’s right, gentlemen,” she calls gaily. “I believe I’m on the fifth floor and to the left.” She’s smiling and fanning herself with a plane ticket as if she’s Scarlett O’Hara eating barbecue surrounded by admiring men in those opening scenes of
Gone with the Wind
, one of Gran’s all-time favorite movies even though she was no fan of Vivien Leigh. I can see the hint of perspiration on the southern belle’s upper lip, but there is not a hair out of place and her makeup is still perfect. She smiles and places her hand in mine. “I’m Serena. Serena Stockton. Formerly of Charleston, South Carolina.”
    â€œEm . . . Amelia,” I say, almost forgetting the name I’ve adopted and all I’ve done to disguise myself. “Amelia Maclaine. I’m on the fifth floor, too.” I have no intention of telling anyone my real name or where I really came