Beauty and the Mustache by Penny Reid

said.
    Then she pulled me into a
wrap-and-hold hug.
    Elizabeth was shorter than
me by about four inches, but she was also curvy and soft, and her
hugs felt like being surrounded by a warm, beautiful cloud. Adding
to this affect was the paleness of her skin, the golden blonde of
her hair, and the ethereal blue of her irises. We gave and received
comfort for a short moment before we were interrupted by Sandra’s
voice, which was closer than I’d expected.
    “ Ashley
Winston.”
    Sandra was standing next
to us, staring at me. She was smiling—from her big green eyes to
her flaming red hair to her large white teeth—but it wasn’t at all
sympathetic. It was just a big, old, happy smile.
    She launched herself at
us, her arms coming around both Elizabeth and me, and kissed me on
my cheek and then my chin.
    “ It is so good to smell
your hair right now,” Sandra said. Of course this made us both
laugh, because who says that?
    She squeezed us, causing
Elizabeth to squeak. “Sandra…I…can’t…breathe….”
    “ No matter.” Sandra
released her vice grip and reached for my hand. “Where is your
room? We have some sharing to do.”
    I glanced over her
shoulder at my brothers. Duane gave me a taut smile.
    Bizarre.
    “ Sandra, I don’t want to
cry. Please don’t make me cry.”
    She shook her head,
wrinkling her nose as though my request were silly. It was not
silly. She had this superpower where people were absolutely compelled to spill their
guts, myself included. She made burdens lighter, but she did this
by forcing people to face truths, which usually resulted in
crying.
    I didn’t want to face
truths. I wanted to steal a few moments with my friends, saturate
myself in the promise of my comfortable, contented life back in
Chicago, and wrap my brain and heart in the bliss of
distraction.
    Truth was overrated and
smelled like onions.
    Bliss was underappreciated
and smelled like chloroform.
    “ We don’t have to talk
about anything you don’t want to talk about.” She grumbled this
statement and tugged on my hand. “Come on, where is your room? We
brought you presents.”
    I hesitated only
briefly.
    “ It’s
upstairs.”
    Sandra and Elizabeth followed me after a
detour to the front door. I saw Elizabeth grab a duffle bag and
Sandra a gift sack, purple tissue paper spilling out the top. Once
inside my room, I sat on my bed and turned to face them.
    Elizabeth took a seat on
the bed, placed the duffle bag between us, and unzipped it. “We
brought you some things—just some essentials and—and some other
things.”
    Sandra hovered by the
door. She was surveying the room, I could tell. Maybe she was
making a mental tally of my dysfunctions based on the number of
ceramic unicorn figurines on my bookshelf. (FYI, there were four of
them.)
    “ You didn’t have to bring
me anything.” I gave Elizabeth a reassuring smile. “I’m really
fine.”
    “ No, you’re not. You’re in
shock, and you haven’t yet processed the fact that your mother is
dying.” Sandra leveled me with a sensible, matter-of-fact
gaze.
    I braced myself for the truths .
    Instead, she surprised me
by sparing me. “But that’s okay. You’ll adjust. You’ll figure it
out. Or you won’t. If you can’t do it on your own, we’ll help you
figure it out. Either way you’re covered.”
    My eyes lifted to the
ceiling then lowered back to her; I was confused. “Then why did you
instigate a therapy session with my brothers?”
    She shrugged. “Because I
don’t know if they have an adequate support system in place to help
them work through their grief, especially since your father….”
Sandra paused when she saw my shoulders stiffen at the mention of
my father.
    When you have a despicable
person as a parent, I truly believe you can’t escape hating any
part of yourself that resembles him or her. Whether it’s a physical
similarity, a talent, a propensity, or an inclination that you
share, all commonalities are abhorrent to you.
    I look