Lemon Sorbet | ✓

EP 03. CASTLE MORNING STAR

WHEN I was a kid, and my stepmother was a fresh addition to our household, she often entertained parties left and right.

It subdue, I think, the alienating experience living in a new country with your new husband and new stepdaughter, and the now sleepy little town you find yourself in after living in the city, on the other side of the ocean, all your life. Parties with neighbours my father and I hardly knew; relatives we merely send out happy thumbs up on social media they understood; dad's coworkers he hardly got on aside from pleasantries when passed; and her new Afternoon Tea/Book/New Mum's Club, where I'm pretty sure she had the oldest charge.

She happily turned our house upside down and opened our doors for them.

"It helps in the long run, Henry." She never calls my father anything else but Henry. Or honey. Sometimes in both her usual ardour of that American accent, Henry honey.

She placed an assuring palm on his pulled eyebrows, smoothing out the lines. You'd be blind not to see the endearment sparkling in her eyes. Henry honey. "It's all psychology, honey. You'll see."

She winked at me as if I understood. She always did that; side-eye me after some thought was given, like us girls, us stepmum-stepdaughter specified class, only knew. I understood hardly 5% of it.

But we saw enough after a while. Neighbours visiting more often, friendlier in their approach; coworkers letting dad into their slew of inside jokes and breakroom gossip; relatives who would send us their shiny Christmas cards. Happy Holidays from Leicester!

Dad and I knew our new family addition was just lonely.

Estelle came from a big Italian family in Boston. And our house, with our silence, could be incredibly stifling. Could even drive you mad if you weren't used to it. Dad and I had our little minds to occupy that silence.

And although I came to understand her, didn't mean I liked the parties and casual splendour of people suddenly filling the spaces of usual silence and dust bunnies. It hurt when it was first hour, and my duty as a daughter was to welcome and lead the guests inside. She always placed a hand on my back and let me introduce myself to every person and to catch up to those I already knew. Always, my cheeks hurt from stretching them. Frozen in that smile that eased up whatever tension holding her down.

Gratefully, I was done after the first hour, and was pleased to do whatever I wanted after as long as I didn't lock myself in my room alone. And so I did.

Without either of their notices, and the notion that I could turn a boring event into something useful, I took it.

Armed with a pen and a notebook, a cheap kind and easily hidden from view, I studied people. Kept track of their psychological idiosyncrasies they weren't aware of. All subconscious and conscious movements were detailed. Their response to each other and to the environment around them. It was easy. The people were rarely new; recycled after every party depending on the theme, but even that usually cycled itself. Relatives, Dad's Coworkers, Neighbours, Afternoon Tea Ladies.

Sometimes, she even mixed them up for fun.

As the parties went, I grew bolder. I started asking questions and engaging with each target. At first the questions and attention pleased them, innocent enough queries that when plied with the right type of attention, could soften them up like a flower. Then I'd eased odder questions into the conversation, having a hilarious time in making note which question would disturbed them enough to wake up from the trance.

When they start to realise how truly odd the questions became, I would steer them back to pleasantries and topics they enthusiastically favoured, excusing myself when coasts were clear, and hunt down my notebook for new findings.