Sisterchicks in Sombreros (6 page)

“Oh.”

All the fire went from my belly. My skin continued to smolder.

“You really need to hurry to make it on deck for the drill,” the receptionist said. “I’ll be happy to schedule you for another treatment, if you come back later.”

Joanne turned to go, but I called out to her to wait a moment. I dashed down the hallway and found Shannon with a mound of towels in her arms.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I didn’t understand what you were saying about the half price being applied to a different treatment.”

With professional calm, and I’m sure a pinch of Irish wit, she said, “Well, then. I’ll need to be improving my skills with the English language, won’t I?”

“And I’ll select a different treatment that doesn’t involve fruit next time.”

She grinned, and I couldn’t help but think she probably viewed me as the real “fruit” in this fiasco.

The whistle for the drill sounded before Joanne and I entered the elevator to take us to our deck. We opted for the stairs, moving like two salmon going downstream while swarms of better-prepared salmon were moving upstream. All of them were wearing their bright orange life jackets around their necks.

Joanne fiddled with her room key in the unreceptive door slot while I fished for mine in my purse. More groups of prepared passengers streamed past us in the narrow hallway.

One large man said, “You can’t hide in your room. They’ll come find you and drag you out for the drill.”

We ignored him and tried our best to comply with the ship’s regulations.

By the time Joanne and I unlocked our door, donned the jackets, and literally ran to our assigned station, we were tardy.

Breezing out onto the deck, my sister and I had to pass in front of hundreds of standing passengers lined up two deep all the way down the deck. We hurried past them with our heads down, trying to make it to our places at the end of the line, all the while aware of the many eyes that followed us. In the evening air I was aware that my hair was still wet, uncombed, and most certainly sticking out in every direction.

A crewman stepped in front of us just as we sighted the end of the line where we needed to stand. “Madame,” he said with a French accent. “Your vest is not right.”

He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder and gave a short
tweet
on the silver whistle hung around his neck. Speaking loudly enough to gain the interest of the entire viewing audience, he said, “Attention, please. You will see now how to properly attach your life vest.”

He proceeded to remove my life jacket, turn it around, and place it back over my head in the correct position. My sister and the rest of our thoroughly entertained deck mates took
note. He then put both his arms around my middle and cinched the straps at the waist.

I let out another peep. This one sounded more like a bird that had fallen head first into an iced-over birdbath. The last thing my skin needed was more agitation.

“Too tight?” He worked with the straps in the back, loosening them.

I caught my sister’s eye where she stood with obnoxiously straight posture at the end of the line. Her lips were pressed together, and she looked like the perpetually good student who snuck past the truant officer unnoticed. I knew she was dying to let that huge laugh of hers come rolling down the deck and knock me over like a bowling pin.

The ship’s captain came on the loudspeaker and gave a few instructions before sounding the all clear. I stood to the side while the other passengers broke ranks.

“Teacher’s pet,” Joanne muttered, coming alongside and tugging mischievously on the strap of my life vest.

I responded with a low growl.

Not intimidated in the slightest, my sister confidently linked her arm in mine, and with our orange life vests bumping together as we walked, we returned to our room.

“Did you bring something nice to wear to dinner?” Joanne asked, as she unfastened her vest and tossed it on the love seat.

“I brought a dress, but I want to wear the loosest, most free-flowing clothes I have so this rash doesn’t get more irritated.”

“Good idea. Do you remember when I told you on the phone the other night about my friend Sandy?”

“Was she the one who went on the cruise to the Bahamas a couple of years ago?”

“Yes. She said we have to be on time or else they close the doors, and they won’t seat us for dinner.”

“I’m not going to miss dinner, if I can help it!” I said. “What do they do with the people who don’t make it in time? Seat them at the eight-thirty dinner?”

“I guess. Or else they go to one of the other restaurants on the ship. Have you noticed how food is an important part of this cruise?”

“Actually, no. I’m still looking forward to experiencing some food on this cruise.” I glanced in the mirror above the built-in dresser drawers and squawked, “Joanne, why didn’t you tell me my hair was this hilarious? I stood out there on deck with my wet hair flipping around in the breeze, and look how it dried! How come you didn’t say something?”

“Because I thought you’d get upset.”

“Upset?”

“You used to always get upset if I made any comment about your hair or clothes needing adjustment.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. You can’t tell me you don’t remember the fights we used to have over your hair.”

“My hair? What fights?”

Joanne looked incredulous. “You seriously don’t remember?”

I shook my mangled mane. “Name one time I got upset about my hair.”

“Okay,” Joanne said. “How about the morning before school pictures in sixth grade, when I told you to put your hair behind your ears when they took your picture? You decked me with a pillow and broke my turquoise necklace.”

“No, no, no. You told me
not
to put my hair behind my ears because of the funny way my ears stick out. You said I had deformed ears, and I should get an operation.”

“I never said that.”

“Yes you did!”

“You don’t have deformed ears,” Joanne said with a wry grin. “At least you better not because you and I have the same ears.”

“No, it’s our noses that are the same.” I knew our dispute was at an impasse. I scrunched up my nose, and we both looked in the mirror together, Joanne mimicking my scrunch.

“They are the same, aren’t they?” Joanne said. “I always wanted your eyes. Mine are too wide. So is my mouth. You got Mom’s mouth. I got Dad’s big cavern.” She opened wide, and I laughed because it made me feel as if I were back at the dentist’s office and some patient was trying to tell me, the front desk receptionist, which tooth was bothering her.

“But you inherited the personality,” I told her. “Not to mention the perfect skin that doesn’t break out all the time.” I stretched up my chin to examine the receding bumps on my neck.

Joanne pulled back and looked at me. “Miss Personality. Thanks a lot. That’s like being the runner-up, I guess. Miss Big Mouth with the nice skin and the great personality.”

If I’d realized I was going to touch such a sensitive area in Joanne’s psyche, I never would have said anything about my hair or our noses or anything. We hadn’t been together for two hours yet, and here we were, back in our old habit of tearing ourselves down in front of the other in high hopes that the other sister would build us back up. Joanne had tossed out the invitation for me to boost her, and I had given her nothing more uplifting than “you have a great personality.” Bad choice.

I didn’t know what to say to elevate the down-turned mood.

Joanne was the one who buoyed up the conversation. “We better scoot along, or they’ll lock the dining room doors on us, like Sandy said.”

“I need to take another shower.” I glanced at my watch. “A quick shower. Then will you rub this lotion on my back?”

I realized the beauty of being sisters meant that we could walk away from a potential pity party with all the telltale streamers suspended in midair and return any time we wanted. It also meant I could ask her to touch my afflicted skin without wondering if she was really grossed out by the thought but willing to do it to be nice.

That’s the beauty of sisterhood. Our relationship didn’t require extra maintenance to ensure that we always would be
connected with each other, the way a friendship did. Joanne and I were bonded for life.

So, if that’s true, why haven’t I ever asked her about Russell?

I stepped into the steaming shower and decided tonight would be the ultimate slumber party after dinner. At long last Joanne would tell all.

Or I’d pulverize her with all the extra bath towels.

T
wenty-five minutes later
, we trotted down the hall to the elevator with Joanne wearing a semiformal, sequined-bodice gown she had borrowed from Sandy, her friend who had cruised the Bahamas and had invested in a proper wardrobe for such a journey.

I tagged behind Joanne looking much less elegant. My white button-up shirt was freshly ironed but untucked, hanging casually over my nicest pair of black pants. The rash had been arrested, but the itch factor was still at large, and I was trying to keep my clothes loose and breezy. I gave up on wearing any jewelry because even the silver necklace I brought felt itchy on the back of my neck.

Entering the large dining room, we were shown to a table in the center area that was set for six people. Four others already were seated. Most of the people in the dining room
were dressed casually, I noticed. No one was as dressed up as Joanne.

Joanne turned to me and muttered, “Apparently this short cruise has a different dress code than Sandy’s Bahamian cruise.”

“You look lovely this evening,” the wine steward said diplomatically, as he filled Joanne’s glass with water. “Most of our guests save their formal wear for our dinner on the final evening.”

“Oh, I see.” To her credit, Joanne seemed to shake off the discomfort of being ahead of the rest of the ship on the evening dress code. Instead, she entered into the introductions around the table as warmly as if she were wearing jeans and a T-shirt like the woman on her right. That was the strength of Joanne’s personality. She could flex much better than I could.

The couple on our right was from Montana and celebrating their fifteenth anniversary. The couple across from us was from Newport Beach, California, and said this was their second trip to Mexico on this cruise line.

“We had such a great time, we decided to come again. The food is exceptional.” The friendly man from California was in his late fifties or early sixties with what looked like a burn scar running up the side of his neck and ear. His eyes twinkled as he said, “I can personally recommend every one of their desserts. Especially the ones they serve at the mid-night buffet.”

“One meal at a time, Robert!” his demure wife, Marti, said, as she received the menu being handed to her.

“My sister and I have never been on a cruise before,” Joanne said, nodding to me. “Any advice you have will be greatly appreciated.”

“The evening shows are entertaining,” Marti said, laying aside her menu. “However, the shopping tomorrow in Ensenada isn’t much to speak of, unless you’re in the market for clay pots. I personally enjoy the ice sculptures at the midnight buffets. They are beautifully done.”

The ship seemed to let out a long groan, a sort of wide-mouthed yawn. The floor gave off a low vibration.

“Ahoy!” Robert called out. “We’re on our way out to sea.”

So it wasn’t my imagination; we were moving. The movement was a strangely subtle sensation. I had pictured our departure from the harbor to be something from the movies, complete with streamers and confetti and people on the shore waving to us as we glided out to sea.

Instead, we were seated in a fancy dining room listening to Natalia, our waitress, as she ran through the details of the feast we were about to enjoy. She was darling and sparkly and spoke with a heavy accent.

When she stepped away from the table with the order for our appetizers, Joanne said, “Now I can see why Sandy gained ten pounds on her cruise! They make all the food sound so good you want to try everything.”

“I made sure I tried every dessert offered on our last cruise,” Robert said.

“I have a solution for the weight gain,” Marti interjected.
“Don’t take the elevators the entire cruise. Always take the stairs.”

Just then a young man dressed as a pirate came over to our table with a stuffed parrot. A photographer joined him, and before we could pose, the pirate positioned himself between Joanne and me and placed his parrot puppet on my shoulder.

“Arrrgh, maties!” the pirate growled as the camera flashed. “Ye can pick up your photos at the lower level of the lobby after dinner. Arrrgh.”

We laughed as the pirate made his way around the table, and our appetizers were delivered with a flourish. My daring sister had ordered escargot, which was served in rounded pewter dishes with small, sunken pockets for each of the garlic- and butter-saturated curlycues.

“You’re going to share this with me aren’t you?” Joanne asked.

Robert also ordered the escargot, and he dove in with great verbal admiration for the tenderness and quality of the delicacy.