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housewife.
    Dad’s upbringing was a lot different from hers but he doesn’t talk about it much either. His dad made uncanny investments in early technology, almost as if old Gramps had a crystal ball. The Smith family will benefit for generations.
    I’ve gathered, though, that Grandpa Smith liked his whiskey, so things weren’t hunky-dory. Dad tells us money doesn’t buy happiness, but I don’t think Mom agrees, the way she fills space under the Christmas tree every year and has made shopping an aerobic sport.
    I think Mom gives parties to celebrate her good fortune.
    “We won’t say a thing,” Mom is telling Dad. “We have to show Kristina that life goes on...”
    “What about my mom?” he asks.
    “Her Alzheimer’s is too far along to bother her with this,” Mom mumbles.
    “What about your parents?”
    She doesn’t answer him and glances toward the hall where I’m standing, so I slip around the corner toward my bedroom. I consider protesting the party, but it’s way too late to cancel anything now.
    “Kristina! Tess!” Mom yells, and I hurry inside my bedroom as quietly as I can.
    “I want you girls dressed and down to greet our guests,” she calls, but her voice lacks her usual resolve.
    Kristina doesn’t even bother to answer and stays locked in her bedroom. Before long, Mom’s demands turn to pleas and she bangs on Kristina’s door, but Kristina refuses to budge. She doesn’t even bother with me. I’m not the one she usually shows off anyhow.
    I stay in my own room, taking advantage of Kristina’s rebellion and hiding upstairs, away from their friends. I’m grateful not to be forced to mingle with Mom’s party guests, listening to university profs tell me how much I’ve grown and ask how my grades are and if I’m still playing around with art. It’s like asking them if they’re still breathing.
    There’s a light tap on the door. Dad opens it and sticks his head inside.
    “You okay?” he asks.
    I bite my lip and lift my shoulder. Does he actually think I’m going to go along with the pretending and say yes? Does he want my real answer? Why isn’t he in Kristina’s room, talking to her?
    He clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair, then steps inside my room and closes the door behind him. “I heard you in the hallway.”
    I don’t say anything.
    “Your mom just wants to protect all of us,” he says, his voice gruff and uncomfortable. He walks to my bed and stands in front of it as if he’s perched on the high diving board at the swimming pool downtown. He has an extreme fear of heights. I wonder if it’s worse than his fear of expressing his feelings. But he walked into my room. I have to give him that.
    “So she’s throwing a party to keep out the bad news? Pretending it’s not happening is supposed to help?” I’m supposed to make things easier, be on his side. But I can’t.
    “You know your mom and the stiff upper lip. She didn’t want to cancel this party, give Kristina the wrong idea. That life stops. She plugs along. It’s how she copes with things.” He reaches for my hand and then pulls back. “She didn’t have it easy growing up.”
    Mom never talks about her childhood and I long to ask him more but it’s too hard, and he’s already standing up and heading for the door.
    “We’re going to need you to be strong, Tessie. Our rock.”
    My old nickname. He hasn’t called me that in years. Rock, for my own stiff upper lip. Never letting people see the things that scare me, see inside at all. Just like him.
    When the doorbell rings, announcing the first guest, I hear Mom clomp down the stairs, probably in a pair of her high boots. Her voice drifts up as she makes excuses for both of us. I grab my sketch pad and start some warm-up exercises to get my creative juices flowing and my fingers limbered up. My mind feels blocked though, and my attempts at shading are epic fails.
    The living room and attached kitchen fill with noise as more guests arrive