So Much More

by Kim Holden

  She thinks it over and then answers, “A long time.”

  “One year? Five years? How long is a long time?” I press.

  “I came when I was eighteen.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Forty.”

  Shocker. I would’ve guessed her ten years older. I want to tell her about dermabrasion, and chemical peels, and Botox, but I don’t think those words are in her vocabulary. And then I have an idea and run to the bathroom to retrieve my bag of tricks.

  When I return, I hand her a hair elastic. “Put your hair up.”

  She’s good with commands. I like that. She gathers back her long, tangled blond hair into a ponytail.

  I do the same with mine.

  Then I turn on the hot water in the sink until it’s steaming and wet two washcloths and wring them out. “Now tip your head back. I’m going to put this on your face. It’s hot, it will open up your pores.”

  “Pores?” she questions.

  “Just do it. Your skin is screaming for attention like a middle-aged woman in the front row at a Bon Jovi concert.” After I put the washcloth on her face, I do the same with mine. When it starts to noticeably cool, I remove them and set them on the counter. Hope flinches when I smear the mask on her face. “Sorry, I know it’s cold.”

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “It’s a mask. It contains lactic acid and beta glucan.”

  “Huh?” I’ve lost her.

  “It’s going to make your skin feel and look younger. You haven’t been good to your skin. It shows. You have to be friends with it if you want it to treat you well in the long run. Skin care is a marathon, not a sprint.” I’m not putting her down, I’m being honest. And I think she’s the type of person who can take it.

  “Oh. It will make me pretty. When do we take it off?” See? She can take it.

  “Twenty minutes,” I say as I slather a coat on my face.

  I walk in on the most bizarre sight I think I’ve ever seen. Miranda and Hope are sitting at the kitchen table with green shit all over their faces, drinking orange juice, amongst a plethora of dirty baking utensils filling the sink and counter. Never mind that the entire apartment smells like heaven. When I reach for the oven handle, Miranda swats my hand away in a protective gesture that would put a riled up tomcat to shame. “It’s not done yet. Leave it alone.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  No answer.

  The kids all walk in behind me. “Hi, Hope,” Kira says.

  “Hi, Kira,” Hope says.

  “Hi, Hope,” Kai says.

  “Hi, Kai,” Hope says.

  The kids and Hope only met each other once and that was months ago, I’m surprised they remember each other’s names. It’s like a sitcom where everyone is oblivious to, or is choosing to ignore the weirdness.

  Until Rory enters and keeps it real. “What smells so good? And why do you have that crap all over your faces? You look like freaks.”

  I’m about to tone him down when Hope answers, “It’s a mask. It’s gonna make me look pretty. Me and my skin are gonna be friends.”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “O-kay.” And he leaves.

  Just then, the timer sounds on the oven and Miranda jumps out of her chair like she’s been stung on the ass and she shoos us away. “Everyone out.”

  Ten minutes later Miranda and Hope enter the living room with clean faces and a plate piled with something sticky and doughy and sweet. Miranda is beaming. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile so wide. A toothy grin happens when joy can’t be contained.

  And the monkey bread is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

  You used to be nice

  present

  You know those stories of demonic possession? The movies or books that depict a human taken over by an evil spirit?

  Can they happen the other way around? An evil person gets possessed by a good spirit?

  Because what’s happening with Miranda lately defies logic.

  She gets up early and makes breakfast for the kids. She packs their lunches. She takes them to school. She cleans the apartment. She tries to cook dinner, which she usually fails at but I give her credit for trying. She’s friends with Hope and even gets her out of her apartment during the day. She talks to the kids and listens to their answers.

  And even though I know I should just be thankful for the effort she’s making, it all makes me suspicious instead. I lived with my head in the sand for years overlooking. They say love is blind—it sure as hell is, either that or I had embarrassingly low expectations, because I loved her through the worst.

  Being a good person is partially subjective, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. It’s whatever we deem acceptable, whatever we find ourselves worthy of. I always held myself to one set of criteria—being kind and supportive was the man I always wanted to be. Because my father wasn’t. He was in my life, in our home, but never present, and always, without fail, oppressive. His sentences, when he chose to speak to me, usually began with you can’t, you don’t, or you won’t. I know human beings are made up of cells, but I’m convinced my father was made up of negativity. It festered within him like a poison and made him incapable of love.

  I vowed to never be like him. I married someone like him, instead. Granted, Miranda was more refined than my father. She played games with lies and manipulation, while he favored spewing blunt hatred. And the difference between the two is stark; I blindly loved one and with eyes open resented the other.

  The root deep maliciousness is what keeps me from believing Miranda. It’s that little wounded voice in the back of my head warning me that people don’t change. Which is strange, because I’m a counselor, I’ve always had faith that people can change for the better. That sometimes all they need is someone who cares and some resources to aid them. I thought my father was the only person who would ever dodge that feeling of optimism in me. It seems Miranda is the second. My heart can only endure so much brutality before it shuts off and starts to hold a grudge. A lifelong grudge.

  I think that’s why I’m so pissed. She’s stifled optimism in me. I have to work at it harder than ever.

  Never was that more apparent than today when she walked into my office at lunch. She’s never, in all the years I’ve worked here, stepped foot inside this school. So, hearing the knock on my open office door accompanied by Miranda, momentarily puts me into self-preservation mode.

  Instead of saying hello, I say, “What are you doing here?” God, I ask that question of her a lot lately.

  My desk phone rings before she can answer. I lift the receiver, and Janet is whispering in my ear, “Seamus, your ex-wife is headed your way. Do I need to call someone to remove her from the premises?”

  I look at Miranda and the brown, deli lunch sack in her hand, and answer, “Yup, she’s here. And no. Thank you, Janet.”

  “Okay. Call me if you need anything,” she replies.

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  When I hang up, Miranda is settling in the chair across the desk from me, and she’s amused. “The office secretary hates me, Seamus. She’s a pit bull.”

  I plan on commenting, but I’m speechless as I watch her take two sandwiches and napkins out of the bag and then she hands me one. She does it like it’s natural and has been done a million times before. It hasn’t. I search my memory, and I never remember her doing anything like this. I’m more convinced now than ever she’s possessed. I unwrap my sandwich and lift the top roll to peek inside, it’s roast beef with spicy mustard and banana peppers. “How did you know I like this? This is my favorite.” It sounds accusatory instead of grateful.

  She shrugs, untouched by my cynicism, as she takes a bite of her sandwich. “I asked Mrs. Lipokowski. Weird woman, but nice enough I suppose. And she loves you, Seamus. You should’ve seen the sparkle in her eye when I mentioned your name, it was like some sort of magical Peter Pan pixie dust shit.”

  “She is nice,” I defend. Not that Miranda was degrading her, but I still
feel like I need to say something. I look at her, basking in nonchalance like she was born that way—which I damn well know she wasn’t—eating her sandwich I’m more dumbfounded than ever. “Why are you here? Am I about to be poisoned? Did you put something in this sandwich?”

  “Can’t I just do something nice for you?” she says offhandedly like nice is all she’s ever been to me.

  I shake my head. “No. You never have before.”

  She huffs, but it sounds more like a slightly amused laugh. “I deserved that.” Then she’s serious and whispers, “I’m trying, Seamus.”

  I give in to the mouthwatering aroma of the sandwich under my nose and take a bite. “Thank you.” Giving thanks should never feel forced. These past two weeks with her, it has. The words feel disloyal somehow and get stuck in my throat. “For the sandwich,” I clarify. “Now, tell me what it is you want.” I know she wants something. She wouldn’t be here otherwise.

  “You used to be nice, Seamus.”

  “I used to be blissfully unaware. That played well into being nice. There’s a difference. You fucked me over, that changed me.”

  “Time changed you. MS changed you. It wasn’t just me.”

  She’s right. But I won’t let on. “What do you want?” I repeat the question.

  “Fine,” she says. “I need to use you as a reference.”

  My mind is confounded by her, and partially by the magnificence of my sandwich because it’s so damn good. I consider her request and find that an explanation is needed. “A reference for what?”

  She looks down at the empty sandwich wrapper in front of her on my desk. It’s the first time she’s looked away the whole time she’s been sitting here. It screams mortification. “A job.”

  I laugh. It’s not humorous, and it’s not degrading, I don’t know what it is, but I don’t know what else to do. “You want to use me as a reference?”

  She nods, eyes still downcast.

  “Why don’t use past employers or colleagues?”

  Her eyes draw up to mine, and she smirks. “Does the term ‘burned bridges’ mean anything?”

  The same laugh escapes my lips for the second time in twenty seconds. “Are you seriously asking me that, Miranda?”

  She just stares at me. She’s seriously asking me that. Sometimes I think she assumes that because I loved her once, she can do whatever she wants to me and there are no consequences. Love negates or counteracts bad behavior, it’s a screwed up scale. She piles up shit on one side, and I’m supposed to balance it with unconditional love on the other. It doesn’t work that way. Not anymore.

  “So, burning bridges professionally means you have the dignity to acknowledge wrongdoing on your part and not ask them for favors because that would be in poor taste?”

  She shrugs. “Pretty much. I overstepped my bounds. The business world is cutthroat. They take pleasure in exacting revenge.”

  “What makes you think I wouldn’t?” As I ask it, I realize I wouldn’t do it. As much as I don’t like her, I wouldn’t sabotage her. I couldn’t live with that on my conscience.

  She looks me in the eye and doesn’t hesitate. “Because, you’re a saint, Seamus.”

  I shake my head to disagree. “Saints don’t have hateful thoughts like I do.”

  “Will you do it? Be my reference?” She’s all but begging.

  “Yes. But only because you need a job, and I need you out of my apartment,” I add.

  She stands to leave and gathers her trash, satisfied that she got what she came here for.

  “What’s the job you’re applying for?”

  “It’s a director position.” Her answer is vague.

  “What’s the company?”

  She sighs. “It’s not important.” The sigh tells me it is important.

  “Why won’t you tell me?” I press.

  She turns at the door and says, “Because you’ll judge me.”

  “Since when have you ever been worried about that?” This conversation is almost comical.

  “Since now.” She sighs again and closes her eyes. “It’s a non-profit, a homeless shelter.”

  Stunned. I’m stunned. So stunned that a chuckle escapes me. A stunned chuckle.

  She opens her eyes and raises her eyebrows as if she’s calling me out.

  “What? You can’t expect me to not be surprised?” I ask.

  “Surprised is judging, Seamus.” She sounds hurt and leaves.

  She’s right.

  How is she right?

  How did this get turned around on me?

  I always have a choice

  present

  There have been times in my life I prayed for change.

  For rescue.

  For strength.

  For answers.

  There have been times in my life I blamed others for everything that went wrong, bypassing accepting responsibility, because it was easier.

  And didn’t require self-analysis.

  Or growth.

  Or maturity.

  And there was a time in my life I hit rock bottom, like a boulder dropped from the top of the Empire State Building. It was ugly.

  And soul-splintering.

  Like the darkest death.

  Death that I survived.

  Even though I shouldn’t have.

  It shed perspective.

  And in time, it led to research because, at that point, I had nothing to lose.

  Everything, and anything, to gain.

  Going to Kansas City again felt like a necessity, like picking a scab or scratching a mosquito bite, because in the end I knew it would only serve as an antagonist. An aggressive antagonist that’s selfish and unconcerned about others. When I arrived I intended to stay, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t think I had a choice.

  Claudette reminded me I always have a choice.

  And she bought me a bus ticket.

  Back home to the only place that’s ever felt like it accepted me— imperfections and all.

  The air, when I step off the bus, is warm. The warmth of an old friend I’ve missed, even though I’ve only been gone for a few weeks. I can’t resist taking deep breaths, filling my lungs with California, someplace I thought would always remain a memory.

  The month is almost up, Mrs. Lipokowski will be renting my apartment to a new tenant. I don’t have the money to pay next month’s rent and renew the lease, but at least I’ll have a roof over my head for a few days. My heart explodes into a riot thinking about Seamus. I think about him every day, but knowing he’s just miles away is so tempting.

  I’m good about not giving into temptation. It’s not an option. Temptation leads down a path of destruction.

  But Seamus is so damn hard to resist.

  It’s late when I reach the apartment on foot. I only have fifty dollars to my name, and I wasn’t about to spend any of that on a cab, so I walked the eight miles to my apartment.

  My scooter is sitting in front of Hope’s apartment where I left it. I gave it to her though I doubt she’ll ever learn how to ride it. I hope she does. It would make life easier for her and might encourage her to get out.

  The lights are out in all of the apartments. The neighborhood is sleeping.

  When I unlock the door of apartment two, it smells musty, like it’s been locked up for eternity and not allowed to breathe. I open the windows, change into my nightshirt, and sleep comes for me when my head lands on the pillow.

  I wake to the sound of children talking. Even freshly roused from deep sleep I know those voices, Seamus’s kids. Kira is singing, and Rory is complaining about not liking celery packed in his lunch—it doesn’t sound right in an American accent. I lay there a few seconds and listen because it makes me smile—Seamus got his kids back. And then I crawl to the window and peek between the curtains hoping to catch a glimpse of Seamus and his kids leaving for school.

  It’s not Seamus. It’s his ex-wife.

  My heart drops initially, but then it backpedals because partial custody
is better than visitation out of state any day of the week. They’re obviously going to school—the kids all have on their backpacks and are carrying lunch sacks. Maybe she moved back to California with them. Or maybe she’s visiting during the week, rather than the weekend. So many possibilities, but all of them work in Seamus’s favor. I’m happy for him. I’m happy for his kids.

  Before I tuck away back under the blanket, I see movement on the stairs. Cautious movement. A cane and a beat up pair of Doc Martens. Then dark denim. Followed by a navy blue sweater. And finally the back of a head covered in hair so dark and so soft. Seamus. Goddamn. How is it possible that he looks better than I remember?

  And what I remember was breathtaking.

  I want to open the door.

  I want to invite him in.

  I want to take off his clothes.

  I want him to take off mine.

  And I want to feel us again.

  So badly.

  But I can’t.

  He’s headed to work. I don’t know the whole story yet on his kids and their custody, and I would never jeopardize any of that.

  So I stay hidden away.

  At lunchtime, I venture over to Hope’s.

  “You’re back.” She sounds surprised. Happy surprised, which isn’t like her.

  “For a few days, yeah. How’ve you been?” I don’t know how to describe it, but she looks different, healthier. She was always so pale before, but she’s has some color like her skin’s seen the sun. Her hair has been washed and is pulled back in a ponytail.

  “I been good,” she says, and I know she means it.

  She asks me to stay and watch her favorite movie. I do. Just like we’ve done dozens of times before. We eat toast and applesauce and play a board game afterward.

  But at four o’clock she announces, “I gotta go. You wanna come with me?” and walks to the door and slips on her flip-flops.

  I’m puzzled because she never leaves during the day. “Where are you going?”