Watch Me Disappear

want this to look natural,” she says, balancing the filter between her fingertips and bringing it up to her lips.
    I think the hat is too much, but Missy is in love with it. That’s the thing about Missy; she doesn’t take herself too seriously. I mean, take away the hat and she looks like Nicole Kidman going to the Oscars. Add the hat and she looks like a cross between a celebrity and a lunatic. Missy tries to dress me up, too, but I only wear the wacky bits of apparel long enough to humor her, and then I put them back into the boxes where she found them.
    “Come on! Live a little!” she says, when I take off the bowler hat she placed on my head.
    I roll my eyes.
    She pretends to pout. “You’re no fun,” she says.
    She’s right. I’m not much fun. I put the hat back on. “There. Happy now?”
    She smiles. “You should wear hats. You look good.”
    “Yeah, sure,” I say. But I am flattered by the compliment. Actually I do think I look good in hats, but I’m not brave enough to wear them because I’m afraid people will think I’m trying to look cool or be too stylish or something. Even in the winter or at the beach, I resist wearing hats, which I realize is foolish—think how much warmer my ears would be, how much less sunburned my face and neck. I just don’t want to draw attention to myself.
    We eat lunch with Anna in the small backyard. It is all fenced in, but the landscaping is a crazy, overgrown tangle of flowers and leafy plants. The picnic table on the patio is under a pergola covered in climbing roses. It’s magical, and I say so.
    “We’re lucky,” Anna says. “I’m not much of a green thumb, but this garden was a major factor in choosing this house. I can’t tell weed from flower, so it’s getting out of control, but I like it.”
    We eat chicken fajitas and drink limeade and breathe in the scent of roses. I never want to leave.
    “So Missy tells me there was some excitement at the concert the other week,” Anna says after we eat. She leans back in her chair and rests her hands on the shelf of her stomach.
    “Uh, yeah,” I say. Of course Missy told her mother about Maura and that whole affair. She probably tells her mother everything. Missy and Anna actually have the relationship my mother wants with me and Mrs. Morgan wants with Maura.
    “I have to say, I can’t understand why you two want to go to that girl’s party,” she says.
    “Mom,” Missy says, half-whining, “everybody is going.”
    “My parents are making me go,” I say.
    “Ah, yes. And I hear your parents are also eager to meet us.”
    “Yeah, it’s a policy they have. I had to beg to come over here today. They want to know my friends’ parents.”
    “Well, that’s smart,” Anna says. “We love to know Missy’s friends’ parents. Besides, that’s the only way old geezers like us meet new people. You become a parent and suddenly all of your friends are the parents of your kid’s friends. That’s how it works.” She laughs.
    “I guess soon you’ll be making a whole new round of friends, then,” I say, nodding toward her belly.
    “We’ll be the old folks at all the kiddie birthday parties and school events. All the young couples will seek out our sage advice,” she says, laughing some more.
    “Oh please,” Missy says. “No one will believe you’re old enough to have a seventeen-year-old at home. And then they’ll be jealous. You have a built-in babysitter.” Missy turns to me. “Everyone always thinks we’re sisters.”
    Anna does look young, until you look closely around her eyes and mouth. Besides, the age difference between Anna and Missy is only slightly greater than the age difference between Missy and her new sibling will be. It isn’t hard to imagine them passing as sisters.
    “I don’t know, Mis. I feel old.”
    “Well, then,” Missy answers, “we’ll take care of cleaning up and you go rest.” She starts gathering plates, and I happily assist.
    Back inside, I finally get a chance to look around. The entire house is as enchanting as Anna’s studio and the backyard. Over the kitchen sink is a beautiful stained glass window. Houseplants and knick-knacks from their world travels decorate every corner and cubby. Books line shelves, nest in piles by the sofa, and cover the coffee table. It is my dream house.
    After cleaning up, Missy and I settle in on the couch in the living room. It’s soft, worn-in, old brown leather. We sink into the cushions and Missy talks about