Flo

My Aunt Florine greets me at the door with theatrical flair, arms akimbo, gold and fuchsia caftan billowing with the breeze. 

“Hello darling!” 

She cups my chin, inspecting my face, then hugs me close and pats my bum.

“Hey! You put on a few since I last saw you…” She turns me around with her wiry arms to inspect my back side. “Your ass is huge! You can’t carry that weight.” 

I ignore her critique. “Aunt Flo you look incredible as always!” 

This is the truth. 

“I am so glad to be here!” 

This is a lie. 

She pulls me through the door, her grip vice-like and her grin, wide and toothy. She seems genuinely happy to see me, in a wolf and prey kind of way. Her hair is cut into a razor-sharp bob, her skin tawny and wrinkle-free due to daily swipes of Crisco, the only moisturizer she has ever used. Aunt Florine has just celebrated her 90th birthday, and after 45 years living abroad, her only wish is to return to the states to be around family. Ironically, she is not on speaking terms with most of the family. 

Fueled by an unrelenting mean streak and an eagle eye for weakness, Flo’s character assaults were standard at family gatherings and always peppered with expletives. The first time I ever heard a woman say the word “fuck” was when it came out of her mouth. 

It was during Easter at my grandmother’s house, right after the lasagna but before the lamb. Flo was at the center of a loud family clash, dropping the phrase “fucking gadabout” to describe a certain cousin who owed her money. I was in awe, staring at Flo as if she’d just parted the waters with her silver salad fork. At six years old, I knew she was different, loud and volatile, and she drew me in like a moth to a flame.

During that time, I became a regular at Flo’s dress shop on Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village, back when the Village was still vanguard and not a beige extension of NYU. Her designs, as unique and colorful as her tirades, were showcased in the windows of Bonwit Teller and Bergdorf Goodman, and her private clientele included the likes of Barbara Streisand and Sara Vaughn. She traveled the world purchasing rare silks and crystal beads, buttons made of abalone and inky black feathers that turned a deep teal blue in the sunlight. 

“It’s all about the details!” She’d say while admiring her work. She was always her own best audience.  

I loved to explore her tiny slice of a store, fingering the jewel-colored dresses while Kahlua, her massive German Shepard, watched me from the door. Flo would take my small fingers and run them over long swaths of fabric, telling me to close my eyes and feel the difference in textures over the raised brocades and buttery velvets. I’d nod, looking very serious in an effort to please her. She’d laugh, seeing right through my childish attempts, pull a pin from the side of her mouth, then push it into waiting fabric, a mesmerizing blur of movement.  

I had a perch in the back of the store, a step-stool where I’d study her with clients, watching as she silently measured up their arms, their waist and bust. She was firm, often raising her voice and sometimes refusing to alter something if she felt it compromised the silhouette. She was small, just under five feet, but her voice filled up the room and her laugh was deep and loud, like a booming echo in a hollow cave. 

Back then, her hair was black and sleek like patent leather that curled into apostrophes around her ears. She looked like a gypsy fairy—a look she enhanced with long, flowing head scarves, hoop earrings and huge golden baubles on each of her fingers. Oversized, tinted glasses sat on the end of her tiny nose, which was more suited for a mouse than a person. 

“I was always the ugly one in the family,” she’d whisper to me, “the only one with black hair.” She was referring to her four sisters, the oldest one being my grandmother, Christina. All of them were blond, blue eyed and a total contrast to her onyx coloring. 

“My name “Fiorina” means little flower in Italian. But that was the big joke you see…” Her eyes were focused on the silk thread looping through her nimble fingers. “I wasn’t anything like a flower. Little monkey was what they called me. A schiemetta!” She spit the Italian phrase like a curse. “Hairy monkey…” she cut the thread on her teeth, “Hairy fucking monkey.” 

Flo worked hard and made more money than she could spend or lend. She invested wisely and by the time I turned nine, she’d sold her shop, took up golf and made her way to Spain where she became a writer, hob-knobbing with the European elite. 

Over the years, I saw her at weddings and funerals, and once, when I was twelve years old, I spent three weeks at her home in Spain with my cousin Patrice. I can’t imagine what our parents were thinking. I suppose they thought of it as a coming of age trip with an Auntie Mame kind of character. But it turned out to be an experience that left more than a few scars, most of them faded but still visible if you squint hard enough. 

On our first morning, Flo introduced us to milk with clotted cream on top. It was pretty gross, but I didn’t mind it as much as Patrice. She’d sit with a glass of clumpy milk for hours, choking down micro sips and gagging until finally Flo, tired of watching her suffer, would excuse her from the table. 

Eventually, Patrice arrived at every meal with a flesh-colored nose plug strapped to her face. Flo tried to embarrass her into submission, snapping the plastic straps, yelling about what ungrateful rubes we were. It was at this time when she started commenting on my body, and more specifically, the curves of my body. Always too big – she would say this about my portion sizes and my ass. Every meal, every day. 

“Chocolate is like depression sweethahht, sure it’s fine in small doses, but too much? You wind up fat and stuck to the couch.” She’d toss these twisted Forest Gump-isms around as some kind of salve, but there was no escaping her cruelty, even when she served it with whipped cream. It was the longest three weeks of my life and I vowed to never return. 

Yet, here I am.  

As she pulls me inside, I tell her how elegant her villa looks. I don’t mention the missing stones along the walkway or the cracked clay pots sitting empty in the yard.

The house is dark and chilly, and Flo offers to light a fire. I move toward the fireplace, a massive marble affair that takes up an entire wall in the living room.

“Oh not there lovey...” Flo is heading to the back of the house, to her master bathroom where a rickety kerosene heater is set up in the bathtub. It looks like something salvaged from the set of Mad Max, with orange blooms of rust and sooty remains in its belly. She flips open a Zippo lighter, ignites the end of a rolled newspaper when I finally find my voice. 

“Flo stop! This can’t be legal! We’ll die from the fumes, seriously, stop!”

She ignores me and the heap of metal jumps to life just as the newspaper disintegrates into black flakes.

“When did you become such a pussy?” She asks, expecting me to answer with an exact date. 

I follow her to the guest room, which doubles as her sewing room. Flo’s dress mannequin, a form made in her own image 70 years ago, stands in the corner. The closet is stacked with reams of fabrics and glass bottles filled with buttons, pins and clasps of all kinds. An industrial-grade sewing machine anchors the room, its heft taking up more space than a car. My bed is a skinny cot topped with boiled wool blankets the color of dirt.  

“Get some rest,” she says. “Tomorrow we work!” 

I’m starving but too tired to argue. Instead, I bury my head in the scratchy wool but the moldy stink coming off the blankets is suffocating. I search my bag, grab a Vogue magazine and rip out a sticky scent strip. I fold it into a little tee-pee, place it over my nose and sniff up Ralph Lauren’s latest take on romance. With the dress mannequin watching over me, I drift off, my arrival complete. 

***

The next morning, I shuffle into the kitchen and pour steaming black coffee from a dented demitasse pot. I drink the bitter liquid and in the light of day, look around the house as if for the first time. 

The marble floors are yellowed and stained with grey spills, red wine maybe? Blood? The stucco walls are dissected with floor to ceiling cracks, smudged with the shadowy ghosts of picture frames. The white wrap-around couch that I used to think was so hip has turned a sickly gray as if rotting from the inside out. 

I spy Florine on the terrace, hunched over a box, talking to herself. As I get closer, I hear a man's voice from behind the garden wall. It sounds like a song compared to Florine’s growling comebacks. Their conversation may have been an argument. I can’t be sure. Flo always sounds as if she’s arguing. 

“You’re up!” She pauses only for a second then goes right back to wiping off an oversized ashtray that says “Reid’s Palace” in the center.  

“Who are you talking to?” 

“Oh, that’s Henry. Been trying to get in my pants for years,” she rolls her eyes for effect. “He wants to take us to dinner tonight.”

“Hola!” Henry’s face appears over the garden hedge. He’s a ringer for Antonio Banderas but older, with silver hair and tortoise shell glasses. 

“My niece is taking me back to New York tomorrow,” she points her thumb at me. “We’re very busy Henry.” 

“Your niece? No!” The man mocks fake astonishment, about to compliment Flo on her ageless features.

“Yes Henry, she looks older than her years because she doesn’t know how to do makeup and has clearly left her hairbrush back in the states."

“Senora Molinari I insist, please! You must eat, what about your favorite paella eh? Maybe some sangria?”

“That sounds amazing,” I’m suddenly famished and my mouth waters just thinking about food. 

“Are you crazy?!” Flo’s voice rises as she takes aim at me. “I’ve got to get this place packed up, there’s a million things to do! Jesus Christ how can you be thinking about food. No wonder you’re obese!”

I wasn’t obese. But still. Her words left me feeling like an ox standing next to a bird. A very small, very loud annoying bird. 

I head back inside and trip over a raggedy cardboard box. Flo yells at me for being clumsy then tells me to toss the box in the garbage. 

It’s surprisingly heavy, stacked with yellowed pages that I quickly recognize as Flo’s design sketches. Some are faded and nearing disintegration, but others are in pristine shape with fabric swatches still stapled to their corners. 

“Flo, this isn’t garbage. These are your dress designs.” 

She looks over my shoulder and shrugs. 

“I love this…” I’m holding a pen and ink sketch of a model wearing a cocktail dress and matching topcoat. 

The dress skims the model’s curves, landing just below the knee. Her arm rests at an angle on her hip, revealing a long glove tucked beneath the coat sleeve.

Flo pushes her glasses up, squinting to focus. “Oh sure! That’s my Balenciaga knock off. I was trying to capture his draping, that lift just under the ass. Brilliant man…” She rubs the fabric swatch between her fingers, “Bonwits sold 300 of these, couture honey! All hand stitched. Kept one in their window for a month!” 

I continue flipping through the pages, while Flo narrates over my shoulder. 

“Those buttons came all the way from Morocco, I had them made from shells…” Her bony brown finger runs over a button that clasps a Peter Pan collar. “Purple tweed with a mustard lining. Smart, very smart.” She’s pointing to the next sketch, a suit that evokes Jackie O and the Camelot years. 

We shuffle through pages until the end of the stack, Flo reliving her design days in bits and pieces, hems and bows. 

“These are coming with us.” I declare, clipping a neat stack of about thirty pages.

Flo eyes me from across the room. She’s suspicious but swallows back a full insult. “When you’re done lollygagging, get over here and help me with these dishes, would you?”

We pack for hours, stacking boxes by the door for the movers, and marking bigger items for auction. I’m feeling woozy from jet lag and announce that I’m going to take “a little siesta,” smiling despite my terrible Spanish accent. 

“But I need help girl!” 

“Give me an hour Flo,” I rip out a scent strip and place it over my nose when Flo bursts into the room. 

“You are one lazy fucking broad you know that?”

“Flo relax, I’m ……”

She can’t hear me. 

She’s shaking her knobby fists, jabbing them in the air to punctuate her words. “The minute you told me about that bullshit job of yours, I knew! What the hell is a copywriter? You couldn’t write yourself out of a wet paper bag sweethaaht. You don’t have the balls! You’re so full of fear, you’re choking on it.”

Her voice gets louder as she walks toward me. She’s shaking with emotion, spittle flying from her mouth as she bends over my cot. “You’re nothing but a cog in a machine, a worthless tout!”

Instinctively, I wrap my arms around my belly. “Step back Flo, right now before I rip your fucking throat out.” The words fall out of my mouth and I’m just as shocked as she is when I hear them hit.

Her face morphs into a smile, a slow crack in her angry mask. “Well then. You do have some fire. I wasn’t sure, you know. The whole book mouse/ugly duckling thing you have going…”

My chest is thumping, not quite believing I just threatened to wring her skinny, wrinkle-free neck. Tears sting my eyes. It had happened. Flo had turned on me. When I finally speak, my voice cracks. 

“I’m exhausted because I’m pregnant.” Tears fall as I say the words aloud. 

Flo’s mouth gapes. “Jesus Christ! That explains the size of your ass anyway…” 

I’m just past the 8-week mark and besides my husband John, Flo is the only person who knows.  

“Why the hell did you come then? You can’t help me, you’re basically useless to me now…”

Her voice starts to rise again but I cut her off at the pass.

“Because no one else would come Flo.” I let the words sink in. “Nobody else volunteered. Just me.” 

She nods slowly, then shuffles to the door. “I’ll wake you in an hour,” she says as the door closes behind her. 

***

When my eyes open, Flo is standing over me, a cloudy glass of water in her hands. 

“Poison?” I ask, shaking myself awake. 

“Not today honey, I still need you. Now get up.”

We spend the afternoon piling clothes into colorful haystacks. She’s trying to wrap a white leather money belt around her waist when she mentions my grandmother. 

“You’re not like her, are you?” 

This is a trap I’m unsure how to sidestep.

“What do you mean?”

“Honey your grandmother spit nails and pissed vinegar. Nobody fucked with her. She was the only reason I survived in that house.”

“Well” I say rolling the last of her silk scarves. “I’m tough enough to put up with you’re crazy ass.” 

“What the hell did you just say?” Her neck snaps around, fire about to roll from her open mouth.  

I don’t repeat myself, but I do get up to help her fasten the money belt. “You can’t wear this on the plane Flo, security is a nightmare. Carry your money in your purse.”

“Sweet cheeks this isn’t for money!”

“No?”

“It’s for diamonds and jewels.” She spins around with what looks like a bullet proof vest in her hands. 

“This is for my money.”

I burst out laughing. It feels good to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re not getting on the plane with either of those,” I say, gasping. “Trust me.”

“What the hell do you know?” She unzips a vest pocket. “Oh look! A Greek Drachma!” Her eyes glow as she tucks the golden coin in her bra. 

***

Over a dinner of cold sandwiches, Flo tells me how much she’ll miss Spain, her little home, the life she’s made. 

“Then why are you so keen on going back to the states?” 

“I want to die among my people!” She states as if she is the leader of a small country.

“That’s pretty dramatic even for you,” I say. “Besides, you’ve got a few good years left Flo, at least!”  

“I never thought I’d live this long. My mother tried to kill me so many times, I lost count!”

“You’re exaggerating,” I reply, which she translates as a challenge.

“I missed curfew once, just the one time but my mother beat me for hours. She used a shoe, then a belt, then her fists. I was in bed for three days recovering. Three fuckin days! That’s not exaggerating, that’s the fucked up truth!"

I’m shocked but equally suspect. “Jesus, how late were you?”

Flo shrugs.

“How late?”

Her voice returns to its standard bark. “Ok so it was morning, the precise moment my mother was buying vegetables on the street. Can you imagine?”

I could. I know this story. My Aunt Fran, who was just a kid at the time, was standing at the vegetable cart, cradling tomatoes in her apron when Flo turned the corner from the subway. She was unsteady, holding up the walls, using her arms to balance when Fran spotted her. She was still drunk from the evening’s festivities, disheveled and reeking of booze. Quite the scandal, Fran told me, plus the shame it cast over the family. They had to buy vegetables from another cart just to avoid contact with eyewitnesses. 

“It was worth it,” she whispers now. “I can still see her face, that fury. She had real hatred in her heart that woman.”

I’m not sure how to respond, like handling a wounded racoon. I back away and watch as she drapes herself over the couch.

“I’m going to finish up the last of the dining room,” I say cautiously. “Why don’t you relax. Tell me some more stories.”

“Stories?” Her head pops up from the couch. “These aren’t stories, little girl! This is my life! I’m telling you about my goddamn life!” 

“OK, OK, calm down. I just meant, you can keep talking while I organize.” She glares at me but starts to talk and within minutes, we are in the midst of another colorful scene from her childhood. 

Hours have passed when I realize that it’s early morning and neither one of us has slept. Flo’s words have formed a quilt of characters and timelines. Strangers are now fully realized in my mind, her memories inflating them into full form. Perhaps, this was why I made the trip to begin with. The storyteller in me believes this anyway. 

I check my watch. 

The driver will be arriving in half an hour to take us to the airport. Movers will come the next day to take the boxes of clothes, trunks of antiques and art. Some will go to auction, but everything else will be tossed, including her dress mannequin which I’d grown fond of as a roommate. A strange feeling overcomes me, compassion maybe? Looking around at her life, her glorious fuck-filled life, now reduced to a few boxes and a cleaning bill. I’m trying to decide whether I should act on this feeling or shove it down when I see her coming out of the bedroom. 

“Flo what the hell are you wearing?”

Layers of creamy fur twirl around her tiny body as she moves. From across the room, I can see she has on at least one fur jacket, a vest and a wrap she’s clasped with massive diamond broach in the shape of a dragon. She raises her white cashmere slacks to reveal socks, bulging with earrings, bracelets and “just a few extras…” 

I don’t know where to begin. 

“Please don’t tell me the money vest is under all that!”

“Of course it is, and my jewelry belt because I know what the hell I’m doing. Some of us are sophisticated travelers, some of us don’t look like silly Americans with big asses and cheap shoes!” 

We’re screaming at each other when we hear pounding on the front door.

The driver is red-faced and furious that we’re not ready. He threatens to leave if we’re not in the car in 15 minutes. 

Pure panic ensues. 

I turn to Flo and start peeling off clothes, which she immediately replaces with something out of her carry-on bag. After five minutes, I’m winded and she’s wearing two more layers than before we started. And then, at the very same moment, we hear the distinct roar of an engine followed by tires crunching on gravel.

“No!” I run outside to catch the red lights of our limo shrinking down the hill. 

“What happened?” Flo is looking in a mirror, pinning a white fur hat on her head. 

“The driver left us!” 

“Fucking cocksucker!” Florine starts to yell then swallows it when she sees my shoulders slump, face in hands.

“Don’t panic pussycat. I know just what to do!” Flo exclaims with glee.

Within minutes we’re at the door of Henry aka the silver Antonio Banderas. Of course he will drive us to the airport! But as soon as I see our mountain of luggage next to his gleaming two-seater Porsche, I realize we are, in no uncertain terms, fucked. 

Antonio remains calm as Flo and I resume our fight from earlier, blaming each other while volleying insults. I don’t realize that Antonio has called his landscaper, who drives a truck. “A big truck,” he assures me, “that will get you to the airport, I promise."

But as it turns out, the truck is not quite big enough.

I’m swearing under my breath, as I hoist myself into the back of the open pick-up. Flo is settled in front with the landscaper, arguing about the fastest route. 

I keep my head covered with a plastic tarp for most of the ride, trying to protect my face from flying sand but it does no good. My teeth are gritty and my nose runs with dirt as we speed down a Spanish highway. When we finally arrive at the seaside airport, we load the baggage onto a trolley, creating a leaning tower of suitcases and duffels. 

I catch my reflection in the glass wall of windows and don’t recognize the savage looking back at me. My lips are white with road dust and my long brown hair looks like a dirty wig. 

“Good grief girl. How do you live with yourself?” Flo is standing next to the trolly, refreshing her lipstick in a jeweled compact. 

I leave her to run ahead to check in. When I get to the ticket counter, I’m told, with not an ounce of sympathy, that the flight is closed, we missed it. And, to add to the devastation, we won’t be able to get on another flight for at least two days. 

I refuse to leave. 

I beg for help, hysterical tears carving white lines down my dirty face, when a security guard takes my arm and leads me to a small office. The woman sitting there is already annoyed, tapping her long, skinny cigar into an overloaded ashtray. My gag reflex kicks in and it takes every ounce of my concentration not to puke all over her. 

“What is the problem?” Her desk plate reads Director of Public Relations in chipped gold letters. I launch into my story, holding my non-existent belly the entire time. “Did I mention I’m pregnant?”

“Yes” she nods, “about ten times already. So where is your Aunt now?” she asks, stubbing out her cigar. 

“There...”

I point through the glass door to where Florine is pushing our trolley in circles. Layers of fur swirl around her knees at different angles and she’s limping, probably because her loaded socks are starting to slip. She has two different hats on her head, stacked one on top of the other, and she’s talking to herself with animated delight. 

The PR woman’s face registers my reality as her eyes widen and her mouth goes slack. 

“Please help me,” I whisper. 

And with that, we’re on the next flight to Madrid. 

I don’t really have a seat on the plane. It’s more of a shelf with a ribbon seatbelt. But I’m one flight closer home and the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life. 

***

When we land in Madrid, we have just under an hour to make our connection. There’s a map involved, miles of walking and a shuttle, if it’s in service. 

I spy a golf-cart with a word that looks like “security” on its side and hail him down. I ask, in very broken Spanish, if he can take us to the shuttle. He says something and Flo responds from behind me. I’m convinced she is insulting him and that he will soon slap her when suddenly, he grabs our bags and helps Flo into the back seat. 

“100 to get us to the gate,” she says with the confidence of a cat.

“How’s that possible? We have to take the shuttle to another terminal.”

Flo ignores me, holding tight as the driver peels out into the crowd. We speed through the airport, and maneuver into a dark hallway, littered with tools and debris. The driver hops out and opens a garage door, flooding the passage with sunlight. In seconds, we’re out of the building, hugging the side of the terminal, dodging baggage trains and other security carts. My throat clenches as we pass the shuttle, packed like a rush hour subway. Flo is basking in the sun, looking positively serene. 

“You’re way too uptight for such a young person,” she yells over the deafening wind.

“I’m not that bad.”

She peers over her sunglasses, one eyebrow raised. “Doll face, you let all the small shit get to you.”

“Shit like catching our flights?”

“The flight is the big shit,” she says leaning into me, holding her hats from flying off. “Getting to the gate? That’s the small shit.”

“Flo, that’s all the same shit!” 

We’re finally swallowed by another garage door and land back inside the airport. My ears buzz in the sudden silence and people are staring as we roll into the security area. I grab our bags while Flo peels off bills for the driver. He takes off while we line up for the first security check of the trip. We got lucky in Marbella—they shuffled us right through, willing to risk any kind of threat just to see us leave. But here, Flo triggers lights and buzzers like a pinball machine.

She starts yelling and refuses to undress, crossing her arms and spitting on the ground for effect. I insist on a private screening room and Flo relents, glaring at the security guards, swearing at them in a combination of Spanish and Italian. 

After ten minutes of peeling off layers, Flo’s loot covers the length of a table. 

“That’s all of it!” she barks.

The guards scan Florine again while I bag up the heaps of jewelry. 

“Count the cash,” she whispers, zipping open the pockets of her money vest. “It’s only ten thousand,” she says casually. “But I don’t want these shitheels taking a dime!”

“Are you serious?” I say under my breath. “Why would you bring that much cash? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Will you shut up already? This is exactly what I’m talking about. This is the small shit!”

“Flo, I am so tired of all of your shit,” I say, as we head over to the boarding area. 

I grab two green bottles of Coke from a machine, chilled to perfection, and we sit in silence waiting for the flight to be called. 

I exhale, trying to release the stress that has turned my neck to cement. 

“I can’t believe we made it.”

“I knew we would. You’re capable peachface, you just need to believe it,” she drains the last of her soda, then releases a delicate burp.

“Is that all Flo?” I ask dismissively, “Is that the secret?”

“It will make you more likeable, trust me.”

“I’m not likeable?” 

“No, not really,” she leans in to land her next punch. “Difficult people usually aren’t.” 

“Now I’m difficult?”

“I speak the truth. Nothing wrong with that.” Her black eyes stare into mine, like stones, reflecting nothing back. I refuse to take the bait.

“I’m getting you to New York Flo. After that, you don’t have to see me again.”

“Oh don’t be such a bore. All I’m saying is that you could do with a little moxie. Stop worrying so much. Dive in for Christ sakes. What the hell are you waiting for?”

I open my mouth to tell her to shut up but the flight attendant interrupts, calling us to board. 

She sleeps for most of the flight, waking only to eat and use the restroom. Our last conversation has slammed a door between us. I feel nothing looking at her except for anger—at her for saying such wicked things; at myself for believing them.

We don’t speak for the rest of the trip except for the exchange of information as we move through customs. I finally pass her off to my father, who’s waiting with John. 

“Goodbye my darling,” she reaches up to smooth my hair. “Take care.”

She never says thank you. 

A few weeks later, a packing crate arrives at my door. It’s Flo’s dress mannequin. The note attached reads “I thought you might like to have this.” 

***

Seven years have passed since my trip to Marbella when I get a call from my cousin Anita. Flo has been living in a nursing home, one that accommodates Alzheimer patients.

“Look, if you want to see her before she dies, now is the time.” 

I’m sitting in my dining room looking at Flo’s mannequin in the corner. It’s wearing a vintage blue tweed suit and mink hat. My daughter Ruby, now 6-years old, changes the outfit seasonally. 

I’m about to answer Anita when she adds, “You know, she stopped talking shit about you years ago. She’s heavily medicated and nice, actually.” 

Similar stories have been making their way through the family. One cousin told me that instead of using a fork to stab you in the neck, she now uses a spoon. But she still goes for the jugular. 

When I get to the nursing home, I’m surprisingly relaxed. The warm colors, soft music and bubbling of a fish tank ease any nerves I may have had. I find Florine sitting in the lounge, a dog-eared magazine in her lap. Her hair is neatly combed and pinned with a small plastic butterfly barrette. 

She smiles as soon as she sees me. “Is it lunch time?”

“It might be.” I smile back, waiting for her to comment on my plump rump. 

“I’m Alexis. I’m Christina’s granddaughter.” 

Flo looks me up from top to bottom. “I know you?” the question is almost accusatory. “You’re my sister?” 

“No, no. She’s my grandma. You’re my Great Aunt.” 

“Ahhhh…” Flo nods, satisfied. Her golden blond hair gleams like satin. How ironic that instead of turning grey, her hair has aged into a gorgeous honey blonde, the color she always coveted. She is no longer the black sheep among her fair sisters. But it no longer matters. She’s the only one still living. 

“I know you…” She’s whispering to me, not posing a question, but making a statement. The cogs of her brain click and whir as she tries to summon information.

“Flo! Are your hearing aids in?” A nurse bends toward Florine, her voice too loud. Flo eyes the nurse sideways and shrugs. After confirming they’re not in her ears, the nurse leaves, shaking her head in defeat. 

“I brought you something Aunt Flo.” 

“For me?” Her face lights up like a child. 

I take out the book of her sketches. I had them reduced and bound for her to flip through. The reproductions are much less detailed, but the pen and ink lines still look crisp against the white pages. She gazes at the first page. It’s the Balenciaga knock-off I first saw back in Marbella, the one that drapes like heaven, the one that finally put her on the map. 

When she gets to the third page, she looks up at me and says, “You’re very talented!”

I laugh then realize she’s serious.

“These aren’t mine Florine. They’re yours. You sketched these.”

Her eyes widen and she flips back to the first page. “Well of course they’re mine!” She waves her hand in the air, “I’m a very gifted designer. This is one of my most popular pieces. Bonwits put it in their window!” She continues through the pages, stopping frequently to comment on a button or a cuff.

“This was done in a gorgeous aubergine tweed. The liner was a mustard silk. People went mad for it. Just mad!” 

The sketch is of a model wearing a balloon topcoat with oversized buttons. The coat skims just below her knee creating that angular, ubiquitous silhouette of the early 60s. A leash wraps her wrist and a toy poodle sits at her feet, a detail that fits this woman, this design, perfectly. 

Flo’s face turns to mine. “Did we grow up together…?” 

“No, but we’re family,” I answer.

I don’t remind her of our trip or the fights. Instead, I peel an orange and put slices into her cupped hand. I prop the book in my lap and we look through the sketches one by one. I describe each drawing, trying to recall the nuances, the details that she shared with me all those years ago. 

When I look up, she’s staring at me, her eyes shiny with tears. 

“It’s so frustrating,” she says “I can feel the connection just stop. Like a cord that can’t reach the plug…” 

“Come on Aunt Flo, there are plenty of things here to keep your brain busy. It looks like they’re playing bingo over there…”

“Bingo? I fucking hate bingo!” A smile cracks her face. “Honey, my thoughts keep me more entertained than anything going on around here.” She opens her hand to reveal two blue hearing aids the size of peanuts. 

I nod, accepting her secret and tap the sketch pad. “Would you like to look at some more designs?”

“I would love to! You’re very talented. I can see that…” She traces the long line of an evening gown with her finger, the ribbon cascading down the graceful curve of the models back.

“I know you…” she says quietly, looking into my eyes. 

“Yes you do,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “Better than I know myself.”