Tiny Imperfections
Page 21
“Yeah, I can see that. But I don’t think she’ll be the downer ruining Christmas for all the kids by sharing Santa’s a fraud.”
“I always hate that kid.”
“Me, too. But every class has a holiday downer, plus, our acceptance pile is a growing list of heteros. As you like to remind me, we need a little more Roan fairy dust sprinkled in this place.”
“That we do, Josie. Gracie, welcome to Fairchild Country Day School.” Roan slams Gracie’s application on top of the yes pile and does his version of a touchdown dance which looks more like the closing number of A Chorus Line.
* * *
• • •
LOLA
What are you wearing to Aunt Viv’s ball?
1:02 P.M.
JOSIE
Don’t call it a ball. I have no clue. You want to swap champagne for shopping today?
1:03 P.M.
LOLA
Aren’t you a Cinderella buzzkill. How about I grab two empty water bottles from the sports store that is my front closet, snag a bottle of champagne at the liquor store on my way to get you and we drink while we shop? Now that, my friend, is how you find a dress.
1:03 P.M.
JOSIE
Your brilliance is inspiring.
1:04 P.M.
LOLA
That’s what my first graders say. C U after school.
1:05 P.M.
Lola and I meet at Bloomingdale’s in the Westfield San Francisco Centre mall. If it’s a bust, then Nordstrom is right around the corner.
“Roan’s on call. He doesn’t want either of us to buy anything until we have snapped a picture, sent it to him, and he has given his blessing. And we can’t take a picture under the horrid fluorescent lights in the dressing room. He wants us to go out onto the sales floor and take it. He says more everyday light. Dressing room light is designed to highlight all tragic flaws as well as some we don’t even know we have.”
“I prefer to call them battle scars,” Lola says, craning her neck to see her backside in a three-way mirror.
“My life is littered with those,” I mumble as I attempt to slip on a dress that doesn’t even make it past my rack.
“Josie, when is your body going to drop like the rest of us? I should have had my babies in my early twenties, too. When number three is born at thirty-seven nothing is ever the same again,” Lola says, speaking more to her naked boobs than to me as she attempts to lift them up to her clavicle.
“Maybe if you stopped wearing your saggy nursing bra that is two years past its expiration date your girls would reclaim their proper place. Or at least they might with a little help from a new friend called underwire.”
“You’re so right. I’d forgotten bras are actually supposed to hook in the back, not the front. I suppose if my baby is old enough to crack open a can of Coke it’s time to buy some new bras. Do you think Roan wants final approval on my boulder holders, too?”
In less than two hours we manage to rebuild Lola’s lingerie collection and find her a black sheath dress that skims her thick thighs in all the right places and a pair of black strappy sandals with costume amethyst–encrusted buckles. I swear Roan had a tear in his eye he was so proud of Lola and her ability to purchase something that did not come in denim or was “boyfriend” cut.
Our water bottles of champagne have run dry and so has my patience for finding something for myself. I’m heading home empty-handed. As we walk past Saks Fifth Avenue to meet Nic and the boys for dinner at Sears Fine Foods (the deviled eggs are so delicious even Aunt Viv travels from the comfort of her own kitchen for them), my dress is waving at me from the window. Literally. A saleswoman taking the mannequin down stopped and waved at me as I walked by before she tucked the mannequin under her arm and headed to who knows where. But wherever she was heading she was carrying my dress because you know who looks good in orange? This woman. And I’m not talking the fruit or bad seventies shag carpet orange. I’m talking the orange that is so rich you’ve only seen it in pictures of Tibetan monks in their prayer robes or on jeweled crowns worn by royal families. Black women are who those orange dresses are made for. And when I say black women I mean those like Aunt Viv and me—even with some white blood coursing through our DNA—our black runs so dark it absorbs all the colors of the rainbow and, damn, do we wear it well.
I peel off so quickly Lola’s suddenly standing solo on the corner. I knock on the glass from inside the Saks door as Lola startles then follows me in. My dress is heading up the escalator and we hop on to rescue it. I jump off at the top and sprint to catch the saleswoman. Those quick twitch track muscles occasionally still come in handy.
“Excuse me, miss, where are you taking that dress?” I ask, stopping the saleswoman by pulling the mannequin’s hand.
“Oh, hi, yes, um it’s time to switch out the windows and, frankly, we haven’t had the best luck selling this dress. It’s a rare woman who can pull it off. The cut is quite low in the front, it takes a certain décolletage.”
“Have you met this rare specimen of a woman who I am lucky enough to call my best friend?” Lola chimes in, reaching over my shoulders to cup my breasts. I smile because the best feeling in the world is having someone in your corner, telling the world you are perfect even when you both know you’re not. Though I could have done without the public fondling.
“Do you want to try it on?” the saleswoman asks hopefully.
“What size is it?”
“It’s a size four, but runs quite long.”
“Don’t need to try it on, I’ll take it.”
“Wait. Should we FaceTime Roan before you hand over your credit card?” Lola grabs my arm before I can reach for my wallet.
“No, I got this. I know magic when I see it.”
* * *
• • •
Etta hands me a small envelope at dinner. I shove it in my purse to look at later. It’s probably from Poppy’s mom, who writes me thank-you notes for every minuscule nice thing we do for Poppy. Last month she wrote me four paragraphs on my limitless kindness after I had Poppy spend the weekend with us so her mom could go visit her sister’s new baby. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the girls watched too much Netflix and ate a whole tube of raw cookie dough between dance rehearsals.
Hopping in bed that night I remember the letter and grab it out of my purse. The off-white envelope has no writing on it, nor is there a picture on the front of the card. The handwriting inside is beautiful and I turn it over to see who it’s from before I read the message. Jean Georges. I pause and blow out a huge puff of air. Do I really want to end this successful day on a sour note? I know Etta will ask about the letter in the morning so better to ruin the end of this day than ruin the start of tomorrow.
Dear Josie,
Even though we both work in schools I know we don’t see eye-to-eye on what makes for an exceptional education. I can’t imagine a life without art. You can’t imagine a life without professional success. One thing we can agree on is that Etta is capable of both. Thank you for allowing her to audition for Juilliard and giving a life of art a chance. I’m hoping I’ve misjudged you all these years.
Jean Georges
I’m speechless. I flip the card over a few times looking to see if there’s a passive-aggressive, or plain ol’ aggressive, jab hiding somewhere. Nope. 97 percent sincerity, 3 percent shade. I certainly didn’t see that coming. Maybe the magic of my dress is already spreading good juju from the hanging bag in the corner.
* * *
• • •
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I yell at the doorbell, assuming Aunt Viv’s locked herself out and after all these years I can finally catch her in the act of heading to Allstar Donuts before dawn. A thirteen-year truth about to be revealed.
“Meredith, it’s Wednesday at six-thirty in the morning. WHAT are you doing at
my house? Wait—how do you even know where I live?!?!” I’m standing in front of one of the biggest prospective parents and donors Fairchild has ever known in pajama bottoms with Michelle Obama faces all over them and a skimpy Target tank top. My eyes are crusted over and still half asleep, but at least I have the wherewithal to cross my arms over my chest as my nipples turn hard from the blast of early morning cold air coming through the front door.
Meredith ignores both of my questions. “I need to talk to you, Josie, I’m desperate.” She pushes past me to come inside. Her determination and disregard for social protocol shake me awake. I take in not the Meredith Lawton I have come to know but a Meredith Lawton who more resembles how the other 99.99 percent of mothers live. Her hair is disheveled and her breath is stank. Her pristine white T-shirt has coffee dribbled down the front and I see a hint of leftover red lipstick in the creases of her lips. Imperfect as all get out. This is the first time I feel like we are the same gender let alone that I could possibly, one day, maybe, like this very real person who stands before me.
“Do the three of you actually live in a place this small?” Meredith asks from the center of our living room that I have always described as “oversized” for a two-unit Victorian. And just like that, my capacity to embrace Meredith, flaws and all, has died. I choose not to acknowledge her question with an answer.
“Why are you here, Meredith? We could have met at school in daylight. I always make time for potential parents during working hours.”
“It’s all fallen apart, Josie. Randy gave his two-week notice last night. Harrison’s scores from the educational psychologist came yesterday and they are . . .” Meredith looks like she’s choking, and I grab the back of a chair ready to Heimlich her if I have to, “his scores are in the average range. Can you believe it? The shock of it nearly sent me into a tailspin, but luckily my meditation guru was willing to talk to me from his retreat center in Goa. He’s on a fourteen-day talking cleanse, but for me he was willing to break his vow of silence. He knows an emergency when he hears one. Then, when I finally get off the phone with him once my energy has calmed and my chakras have realigned, Christopher sashays into my sanctuary and flippantly announces he can’t make it to Viv’s party this weekend. He cancels on the party as casually as he cancels his daily session with his trainer. When I lost it he merely shrugged and said, ‘No harm, no foul.’ But I informed him with every decibel I could muster that his actions are indeed harmful to Harrison’s future!” Meredith flops on the couch, grabbing a pillow to her chest. “And if that wasn’t enough to break the strongest of women down to the core, get this, Beatrice hasn’t returned any of my calls, e-mails, texts, or Facebook messages. It’s like the universe is conspiring against me, Josie. And I don’t understand why. I spend countless hours on my yoga mat setting positive intentions and sending healing vibrations out into the world, so that karma will support me when I need it most. But instead, what do I get in return? I get a normal child and a husband who doesn’t seem to care about his future, which, to note, just got increasingly difficult to sort out given his test scores. I don’t understand; we had a tutor for six months working with Harrison to prepare for the exam. What am I going to do with a normal kid, Josie? WHAT?!?!? His social and professional prospects are now so limited!”
As Meredith is talking my mind wanders to contemplating if I could start a new business that provides private school “admissions therapy.” I’m pretty sure I could charge $200 an hour for one-hour phone consults and $350 for in-person consults for the month leading up to March 15, when school decisions go out. If I’m willing to go a month without sleep and be available for twenty-four-hour round-the-clock house calls, I bet I could make enough money to skip working the other eleven months of the year. I think I’m on to something. This would definitely help with the college tuition hurdle.
“Meredith, you know what I think would be most helpful to you?” I’m making up my first official go as an admissions therapist on the fly, ’cause I need to get Meredith off my couch. In the spirit of generosity and wanting to make Meredith not my problem, I decide to make Nan’s day without her even knowing about it. This is a deliberate last move in my “kill Nan with kindness” strategy before it expires Saturday night. “A good sit-down chat with Nan Gooding, that’s what you need. I’m sure she would love to hear the details of your current predicaments. She’s a very good listener and she loves to help Fairchild’s most cherished potential families. I am texting Nan’s assistant, Elsa, right now, even though the sun has yet to come up. She usually gets in around seven-thirty and she will get back to you and I know Nan will want to see you immediately, if not sooner.” I put down my iPhone so I can look intently into Meredith’s eyes and send her ESP signals to leave my house pronto. “Nan will help you feel better about this whole being normal dilemma, I promise.”
There’s no sign on Meredith’s face that she has registered what I have just said or done, and she is making no gestures to get up and leave despite my best efforts. “I—I will just die if Harrison is, Harrison is, well, you know, actually normal. Maybe the tests are wrong, maybe we need to get a second opinion from another educational psychologist.” Meredith scrunches her face up tight, like she was just dared to suck the pulp off a lime. “So, I’ll get a second opinion. Yes, yes that’s what I’ll do, I’m definitely scheduling an appointment for another opinion. And then I’m writing a scathing Yelp review of the doctor who claims Harrison is normal. Pfft—where’d she go to school? UC San Diego? I need a doctor from a real school.”
“I know it must be tough, Meredith, but the good news is billions of us function successfully every day with diagnosed and undiagnosed afflictions of normalcy. It really is remarkable what healthy, normal people can do and how fulfilling their lives can be in this day and age.” The fact that I’m standing here discussing a nonexistent problem, when NOBODY in my community comes to a person’s house this early unless someone is dead, is not lost on me. I also know that if Meredith doesn’t get off my couch soon she’s gonna be that dead somebody.
Meredith smooths her hair back. She doesn’t acknowledge a word I’ve said and, frankly, she may have forgotten I’m in the room. “It’s still several months until Harrison starts school, so I have plenty of time to replace Randy,” Meredith says with an increasing air of confidence and can-do spirit. “A meeting with Nan will be good; this is a situation that may be over your head, Josie, no offense. I’m glad we agree something this important needs to go to the top. And Beatrice is probably on holiday, don’t you think? I’m sure that’s it.” A truthful answer from me is not really what Meredith is looking for.
“Way to go, girl, love your problem-solving initiative!” I give a little attagirl punch in the air and point Meredith to the door before her moment of personal power disintegrates. She picks up some momentum to get off the couch but looks at my phone on the side table when a text dings. I let the rudeness of checking out my electronic personal life go in lieu of her leaving swiftly.
“You know, these are the moments in life that really test who you are in the universe and how you overcome the obstacles of your earthbound and celestial journey. I can’t wait until my yoga teacher gets back from Esalen, so I can tell her how I was able to asana my way through this trial and envision my way out of the darkness and into the light. I’m a survivor, and Harrison will be, too, despite his diagnosis. You know, I’m going to go straight home and vision board about this. By the way, if indeed Harrison has a diagnosis of normal, does that count as diversity?”
This may possibly be the weirdest morning I’ve had since Etta was born. Pre-Etta, I believe it was cartwheeling down the beaches of Nice with a gaggle of Cirque du Soleil drag queens after a private Prada show in a French castle owned by a Russian oligarch. But this, I have to say, is a close second.
TWENTY-TWO
TY
I’ll pick up you all up at 6:50. Looking forward to the party tonight.
&nb
sp; 4:47 P.M.
JOSIE
Why don’t we just meet you and Daniel there?
4:48 P.M.
TY
Is chivalry dead? My sister couldn’t babysit so he’s home with Gracie. Besides, I’m Viv’s date tonight, not Daniel’s.
4:49 P.M.
JOSIE
Etta’s Aunt Viv’s date.
4:50 P.M.
TY
She’s dumping me before the evening has even started?
5:51 P.M.
JOSIE
Not a chance, she’s double-dipping. You were my bargaining chip to get her to come to this par-tay in the first place. That said, she may ask you to check her pulse and her pupils in the car. She’s been a little skittish lately. She thinks all these fancy veggies and grains you’ve been telling her to eat are what’s going to kill her. Maybe bring your tongue depressor, too. Thanks for the ride offer. See you around 6:50.
5:52 P.M.
By 3:00 p.m. the day of Viva la Viv I have taken Aunt Viv to the beauty salon to have her hair—her real hair—lined up and cake-cut. A handful of times a year Aunt Viv decides to go au naturel ’cause she can pull it off; apparently tonight is one of those nights. Then we go to the nail salon for a specific cherries jubilee red that, according to Aunt Viv, only exists at one salon on all of Clemente Street. I start to tell Aunt Viv that any of the twenty nail salons within a twelve-block radius of our house can paint her nails cherry red if she buys the polish herself, but she’s having such a good time bossing me around from the passenger seat of the car I decide not to ruin her one-day dictatorship. While her nails are drying, and gossip is flowing with the other ladies in the salon, I have to run to the tailor’s to pick up her dress. Then I’m off to the shoe repair shop to pick up her beloved beaded purse that is being resurrected from near extinction to match Aunt Viv’s emerald-green dress. Our final stop is Walgreens to buy a pack of tissues small enough to fit in her newly fixed purse and some Epsom salts to soak in, so she will feel loose in the joints all night. I asked Aunt Viv why all this fuss for a party she didn’t want to attend in the first place. She acknowledges my sincere curiosity by ignoring it and begins humming Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind,” her current go-to method to shut me up before our flight tomorrow. How Aunt Viv even knows that song is out of my realm of guessing; Billy Joel is not exactly Zydeco. I run into Starbucks across from Walgreens for a triple espresso and a necessary four minutes of freedom to get me through the rest of this day.