Hazel
This is the face of an eighteen year old, I think as I look in the mirror.
It doesn’t feel any different, today versus yesterday, but while I may look and feel the same, I’m not. Something changed overnight. At the stroke of midnight I transformed from a child to a woman. Age of majority. It’s just a number, but it carries a lot of weight.
Tonight, for my birthday, Xavier is taking me out to one of the best restaurants in Vancouver. My friend Christine can’t believe I’m grounded for my eighteenth birthday, and I feel like I should be more upset than I am, but truthfully, I’d much rather have a fancy dinner with Xavier than spend a drunken night at the beach with kids. The prospect of dressing up and and being seen on Xavier’s arm doesn’t make me feel like I am missing anything at all.
People will think we’re a couple, I think.
I wonder what it’s like to be on a real date with a man like Xavier-to have him pick you up in his Jaguar, impeccably dressed in a suit, perfectly trimmed beard and perfectly mussed hair. How he would know exactly what to do, how to pull out the chair for you in the restaurant, how to listen to you like you were the only woman in the world. How charmed the wait staff would be by him, how he would know exactly the best thing to order and just the right wine to drink…
I have no idea if Xavier is currently dating. Occasionally he has late night meetings, or he goes out with clients or friends. I’ve never wondered if any of these clients or friends were women, but the idea that they might be makes my stomach churn.
If Xavier were dating, I could imagine the kind of women he would be interested in: beautiful women, probably much younger than him, with long legs in slinky dresses and sky-high heels.
Women like my mother. She’s actually close in age to Xavier but she’s always looked much younger. She must have seemed so fun and vivacious to him when they met. It makes me wonder if he ever misses her.
At least when he was with my mother, Xavier still always had eyes for me. I was his special little girl. Another woman, someone new, might not understand the bond between us. Another woman might think she had something to offer Xavier that I don’t. The idea makes me sick.
With a sigh, I turn to the bathroom mirror and pin a stray curl back into my chignon. My hair is the feature that is most like my mother’s, yet somehow with it pulled back off my face I look even more like her. I know she’s beautiful, but even seeing the resemblance I don’t see her beauty in me. I don’t have the same almond tilt to my eyes, the same sharp boniness of her nose, or the same lively charisma. Everything that’s soft about me is all that’s left of my father-whoever he is. Melanie’s always refused to acknowledge he even exists, deflecting anyone with questions by making wild declarations like, ‘Hazel sprung fully formed from the earth.’ It’s the kind of inanity only Melanie gets away with. Stepping back from the mirror to look at myself, I wonder in passing-as I often do-about this man who preceded Xavier, the man who made me.
Turning sideways and tilting my head, I have to admit that I like what I see, even if I’m not the great beauty my mother is. I lift my chin. I’m wearing a fitted white sheath dress with textured fabric that belongs to Melanie. It had been hanging in my closet at the apartment and I’d packed it with my things. It’s nicer than anything I’ve ever owned, and I’m surprised I can fit in it.
I could almost pass for a grown woman who gets taken out to fancy restaurants, I think, admiring the way the fabric clings to my hips and the way my legs look in my only high heel shoes. I spritz on a bit of Melanie’s perfume, adjust my new necklace, and head downstairs with excitement and anticipation.
Xavier gave me my gift this morning when I woke up, after a goofy show of singing Happy Birthday and presenting my breakfast to me with a candle on top.
Sitting on the kitchen stool with a ridiculous smile on my face, I felt shy but pleased about the attention. I yawned as he lit the candle, hugging my arms against the morning chill.
“You’re cold,” he’d observed, coming up behind me to wrap strong, warm arms around me and rest his chin on the top of my head. I placed my hands on his forearms and pulled him closer around me, feeling sleepy and affectionate, and he kissed my hair just above my ear, murmuring, “Blow out your candle.”