Page 2 of Rosie and the Dreamboat
“Good morning. Welcome to Kintsugi Day Spa, and happy Valentine’s Day.” She flicks her eyes down to the two iPads she’s holding, then our joined hands, and then back up with a beaming smile. “Mrs. and Mrs. Whittaker, you are so very welcome to enjoy this romantic day with us.”
“We’re sisters,” we say in unison and let go of each other.
It seems to disappoint her, but she rallies. “Oh! My apologies. Well, it’s Galentine’s Day, then. You’re in for afantastic day of perfect bliss, and the package you’ve booked will take you on quite a journey. I’m Dionne, and I am the manager here. My team is ready to pamper you.”
“I can’t even remember what we’re doing,” Bree says as we are given the iPads to fill out our new-client-information forms. It’s administrative opulence, given that there’s a cup of pens on the counter. “I hope there’s a massage. My shoulders feel like they’re broken.”
“We’ll fix that,” Dionne assures her. “I’ll run you through your itinerary.”
I’ve got problems of my own. Am I being recruited for the beauty army? “My vitamin and supplement regime? My retinol percentage? What day of my cycle?” I blink up at Dionne. “What’s a Fitzpatrick skin type?”
“Just do your best,” Dionne advises in a kind way that somehow also hurts my feelings. I tug my cardigan around myself and find that I’m missing a button.
I write “N/A” or put a question mark against almost everything. My perfect, organized sister is able to document her grown-adult level of self-care, and her pink tweed blazer is Button Central. I’m starting to feel like I’m five years old, here with my elegant mommy.
“There are eight treatments.” Dionne counts them off on her fingers after we complete our check-in. “Infrared sauna. Vichy shower. Flotation tank. Mud body wrap. Our signature hot-oil stone massage. An oxygen facial, LED lights, and finishing off with mani-pedis. You’re going to be different people when you leave here.”
“I hope so,” I say, and they both look at me.
Dionne’s probably thinking that they’re not miracle workers here. I need a haircut, and my nail polish is more like graffiti. It’s impossible to stay manicured when you work in an indoor plant store. Imagine if they scraped out dirtfrom under my nails. I file the joke away to tell Bree, even as I wonder,Can I leave here different? Will I be a polished, refreshed lady—a little more like my sister?
We are led deep into the bowels of the day spa, and I grapple with the sudden, deep certainty that I’m shabby. But I’ve paid good money, and I have every right to this space. Anyway, who cares about me? This is all about Bree.
Our first stop is the infrared sauna. Dionne turns to us with a new thought dawning on her. “This package has been designed to be a romantic experience, so there were some assumptions made on our part. This sauna is for two people. Do you mind sharing together?”
We reply together, “It’s fine.”
After our introduction to the controls, we are left alone and strip off back-to-back. “I’m wearing my bikini already,” Bree says to me. “I figure with the shower thingy and the float tank, I’ll just stay in it.”
Needless to say, she looks fantastic in it. “I didn’t bring anything.”
“Rosie the Nudist, Rosie the Nudist!”
I have to wear a towel the size of a bath mat that won’t stay closed on my hip. I deserve the indignity of nudity for being so disorganized. We spend the entire thirty-five-minute sauna laughing and sweating and being absolute menaces to each other.
We emerge and commence the next leg of this elegant obstacle course.
It’s something called a Vichy shower. I envy Bree’s strategic practicality with her bikini. I explain to the staff that we’re not a couple and am provided with a disposable brief resembling a surgical mask. I hold it up on one finger to my sister, and she turns red and cries, laughing.
We lie face down on treatment benches, and it turns into a car-wash situation,fast. As I’m pummeled by the relentless jets of water, hot then cold, I beg myself to enjoy this expensive pain. If Bree loves this day, and it becomes a memory of us together, it’s all that matters.
When it’s all over, I’m missing an earring. The staff tell me it is probably gone forever.
“A tribute to the Vichy gods,” Bree observes, her pretty face sympathetic. “I’ll buy you a new pair.”
“It’s always me,” I grouch.
“Have either of you been in a flotation tank?” Dionne asks us as we stand, dripping, in our robes. Bree looks like a nineties supermodel with her wet hair scraped back. I’m in my sea otter era. We shake our heads, and she takes us into a room with two enormous, open clamshells in it. “These are brand new to the salon. The install last night was a rush so they’d be ready for Valentine’s Day. They’re absolutely top-of-the-line, all the way from Japan. You are the first clients to use them. Even I haven’t had the chance.”
“Nice clean water, then,” Bree says in satisfaction.
“They look like big toilets,” I say in wonder, and they both pretend to not hear me.
Dionne’s got a different iPad now. “Everything is controlled via an app, so we’ll create your settings first. Next time you visit, all these will be uploaded automatically.”
I choose the default settings, because I will never afford a return visit. Bree curates a sunset-sunrise lighting sequence, with twinkling stars and ocean sounds. Dionne’s deeply impressed by the concept.
I see how everyone looks at Bree. When I say my sister is the entire package, I mean it. Looks, brains, career, humor, taste level. Our parents say she’s the daughter they’ve never worried about. She’s never fallen into a bucket. All my almost-husbands out in the wild have met my gaze, then looked over at her. I would, too.
