I quickly folded the smooth parts of the girdle over the scorched parts, and opened the laundry room door just as Sylvia reached the bottom of the stairs. “Oh,” I said, feigning surprise. “I was just going to bring you this.” She was dressed up to go out, wearing a very low-cut Chanel blouse, in a pattern that reminded me of the time I threw up French fries and a chocolate milkshake on my dad’s plaid flannel shirt when I was six.
“Thank you, dear,” she purred, handing me her shiny Prada bag to hold, and then as she pulled the girdle on under her...
