by Gigi Blume
But that’s LA for you. And so after deciding that hitting every all-night donut shop in greater Los Angeles was a bad idea, I ended up at my parents’ house.
“What’s wrong? What happened now?”
My mother patted me down, making sure I wasn’t what? Bloody? Had missing limbs? I didn’t even realize how late it was until Dad came out of his study wearing his smoking coat and carrying his brandy snifter. It was his nightly ritual right after the eleven o'clock news. A classic novel, usually Dickens or Tolstoy, a dram of brandy, and a cigar. He’d abandoned the cigar a few years ago—doctor’s orders—but replaced it with a monthly subscription to See’s candy. Who knew that was a thing? I could see the chocolate on the side of his mouth. When Mom confronted him about it, he’d protested it was healthy for him because it was dark chocolate. Another thing about his nightly routine was that he wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was an emergency. I supposed my mother's hysterics were enough cause for alarm because he ran into the living room upon my arrival.
“Nothing happened, Mom.” I shooed her hands away. “Can’t I come visit my family?”
“At midnight?” Dad said.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late. Go back to War and Peace, and I’ll make myself a sandwich.”
“You really shouldn’t eat this late, dear,” said my mother. “It will make you fat.”
Dad narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
“Let’s go in the kitchen together, Lizzie. I’ve been craving that Italian salami ever since your mother brought it home from Costco.”
Score! Mom made a Costco run. That meant there were giant value packs of toilet paper, bottled water, instant mac and cheese, and all sorts of snacks in the garage pantry. I’d have to raid their stash before I left for home.
As I followed Dad into the kitchen, Mom hollered after us, “Don’t eat the kettle chips. Those are for Mary’s lunches.”
The salami was glorious. Dad pulled out the sourdough, provolone, and brown mustard and made each of us a deli masterpiece. Then he opened two ice-cold glass bottles of Coke, and we ate in heavenly silence for five minutes, just enjoying the midnight snack. I may have moaned with pleasure when the bread hit my lips. Sometimes it’s the simplest things that taste the best.
I let out a breath I’d been holding the entire day and exhaled into the afterglow of meat, bread, and liquid sugar. The bubbles from the Coke sat in my chest, threatening to release the sting of carbonation through my nose from drinking it too fast.
Dad wagged his brows. “Fancy some kettle chips?”
“Heck yeah!”
He reached into the cupboard while I retrieved two more bottles of Coke. Mexicans made the best Coke, but it was too expensive in the supermarkets. God bless Costco.
“So,” Dad began as he tore open the bag of kettle chips. I immediately snatched a handful and bit into the crunchy goodness.
“So?” I shrugged.
Dad likewise gathered a handful of chips in his hand, popping two at a time in his mouth.
“You just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
I wasn’t there for any particular reason. I didn’t need to go running home every time something upset me. I just didn’t feel like going back to the apartment. So I told him just that.
“Why not?” he asked, taking a long swig of his drink.
“My roommates. They’re driving me crazy.”
His chin folded back into his neck, and he blinked. “Even Jane? She strikes me as the easiest person in the world to live with.”
“She is usually. But she broke up with her boyfriend and—”
“Jane broke up with Bing?” My little sister was at the kitchen door, standing dumbstruck in her long flannel nightgown. “Why?”
“Mary, what are you doing up at this hour?” Dad wasn’t one to reprimand either one of us, so his question came off as more of an “Oh, you silly girl,” sort of remark, so she didn’t consider it necessary to answer.
“Bing was perfect for her,” she cried. “Why would she do that?”
“He’s the one who broke it off, not her.”
This information changed her expression from confused to enraged in a matter of seconds. “What? Why?”
I did my best at the twitter version of the story, trying to keep the particulars at 280 characters or less. Subsequently, I left out a lot, but they still got the gist of it.
“Well,” said my father, “Good for her.”
“How so?’
“Oh, everybody needs a little heartbreak at least once in their lives. It provides a small distinction apart from their peers and gives them something to talk about. Good she got it out of the way now.”
“Daddy!”
“When are you going to let some man come along and break your heart, Lizzie? You can’t let Jane have all the fun.”
“Very funny, but I have no such plans.”
“What about that young man you brought over for dinner?”
“Jorge,” Mary offered.
“Yes, Jorge,” he said with a grin. “He’d jilt you credibly.”
“I don’t think he’s capable of that,” I said. “He’s been jilted enough himself.”
My father and Mary’s interest in the subject piqued. I knew Dad was joking, but he did seem to like Jorge. And if I didn’t know Mary better, I’d believe the little blushes on her face the few times he spoke directly to her were indications of a little crush. Of course Mary, with her nose constantly in Tony Robbins books, rarely took notice of anything else.
I didn’t know how much of Jorge’s story I wanted to tell my family. If he were to visit again, how comfortable would he feel if they knew so much? Still, I could give them another twitter version. In the end, the only thing I’d left out was the particulars about his mom. I figured that was sensitive material.
At length, my father sat back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s an incredible story if it’s true.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
“Have you heard both sides of the story?”
“You sound like Jane.”
“She might have a point there.”
“Well, if you knew Will Darcy, you wouldn’t doubt it. He’s the most arrogant, vain, prideful man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”
“Pride,” offered Mary, “is different from vanity. Pride can have a lot to do with one’s accomplishments. For example, I’m proud of my grades.”
“And we’re all proud of you, dear,” Dad appeased with a nod.
“But vanity,” she continued, “that has more to do with one’s preoccupation of what other people’s opinions of them are. So like I want Mom and Dad to be proud of me, that’s fine. But I shouldn’t care what the popular girls at school think about me. That’s vanity.”
“Thank you, Mary,” I deadpanned. “So very helpful.”
“Oh, yes,” my father winked at me. “Your sister is a young lady of deep reflection.”
“And she quotes great books,” I agreed.
“In any case,” said Dad. “If Will Darcy really is the devil Jorge paints him to be, there’s nothing we can very well do about it. Just don’t tell your mother.”
“Don’t tell your mother what, exactly?” Mom had her phone in her hand and entered the kitchen with her war face.
Mary, always seeking approval from either one of my parents, couldn’t keep anything from them and blurted, “Will Darcy is a jerk-face.”
My mouth fell open. “Mary!”
Also—jerk-face? She was adorably juvenile.
“Oh, I knew that,” said my mother with a wave of her hand. “Everybody knows that. Don’t you people read?”
That was an ironic statement coming from Mom because the only reading she did was on gossip sites. Dad and I stared at her for a few seconds because all this time we thought her celebrity crush on Martin Darcy extended toward his son. I surmised by her candid dismissal of Mary’s statement that Mom had found some dirt on Will in t
he tabloids, and apparently, it didn’t bother her much.
“Then what are you so bent out of shape about?” Dad asked. “I know you didn’t come in here for a cup of tea.”
Dad knew Mom so well, it was scary. Or rather, Mom was scary and Dad knew that so well. Or something.
Mom held up her phone and shook it for emphasis. “You’ll never guess what I saw on Facebook.”
“You’re right,” said Dad. “I’ll never guess.”
“Well, don’t you want to know?”
“I know you want to tell me. And where am I to go at this time of night to avoid hearing it?”
“Fine,” she exclaimed. “I won’t even tell you.”
“If that’s what you want.” He smiled.
Mom huffed, stomped one foot, and turned toward the door but changed her mind and immediately spun back around.
“It’s Mrs. Lucas. She had the nerve to post this on Facebook.”
She unlocked her screen and handed me the phone. I glanced at it with amusement. It was a video of a monkey playing the accordion.
“That’s funny,” I said, laughing.
She bent her head to see what was so funny.
“Oh, wait.” She grabbed the phone from my hands and tapped around to find what she was looking for. “Here.”
I accepted the phone, again assaulted by Mrs. Lucas’ newsfeed. It was mostly political nonsense and photos of her garden. But one post in particular stood out in bold lettering on a bright pink background.
“SO PROUD OF MY DAUGHTER AND HER NEW BOYFRIEND”
All caps. Somebody needed to inform that woman of internet etiquette.
I looked up at Mom. “So?”
“I did a little digging. That so-called new boyfriend is the same man who wants to date you, Lizzie. That choreographer.”
My sister took her turn with the phone and scrolled to the comments where there was a photo of Colin taken off the internet.
“I knew the Lucases were jealous of us, but I didn’t think they’d go so far as to lie.” Mom paced the small space of the kitchen. “It makes me so angry to have neighbors who only think about themselves.”
“What do you care who their daughter is dating?” Dad questioned.
“Because that famous choreographer is sweet on Lizzie!”
Mom was practically screaming by now. Any more excitement, and we’d have to give her a paper bag to breathe.
“I don’t like him, Mom,” I said, trying to calm her. “I told you that.”
Her face morphed into a scowl that Maleficent would envy.
“I didn’t put you through college so you can just throw every opportunity out the window. You are going back there to tell that man you’ve changed your mind.”
“What are you talking about?” I cried. “One, I don’t know where he is right this second, and two, he’s dating Charlotte.”
“Lizzie, don’t you realize you are committing career suicide? Call him on the phone and apologize. I’m sure you can salvage something out of this fiasco.”
“What part of ‘he’s dating Charlotte’ don’t you understand?”
“I am still paying for your bachelor’s degree,” she growled. “I wanted you to be a lawyer, but noooooo! You had to be an actress. You swore to me that you would work hard and make it all worth it.”
“I am working hard.”
“This man could give you the push your career needs. Charlotte stole him from you. So, go steal him back.”
“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s boyfriend,” said Mary.
“Go to bed, Mary.” Mom was almost ready for that paper bag. “Tell her, John. Tell her what she has to do.”
Dad arched his brow and let go of a deep breath. He glanced at me, glanced back at Mom, and back at me again, and when he spoke, his calm, soft voice was almost a whisper.
“Well, Lizzie, it seems your mother has some strong opinions about this.”
“I’ll pay you back for college,” I said. I was so tired of Mom bringing it up whenever she wanted to throw something in my face.
“Tell her she has to call that choreographer,” she demanded.
Dad looked from Mom to me. This was ridiculous.
“He’s not even that famous, Mom.”
“Tell her, John. If she doesn’t call that man…” She paused for a moment to think of a good ultimatum. When I was sixteen, it took her an entire weekend to decide my punishment for staying late at a party. Finally, she grounded me—for the entire weekend. My sentence was over before it began. I didn’t have that kind of time to hear what she had to say.
“If she doesn’t call him,” she decided. “I’m taking back the Volvo.”
The Volvo that had been sitting in the garage with no engine for ten years--which I paid to fix.
“Hmmm.” Dad got up and cleared the empty Coke bottles. “You have a tough choice, Lizzie. Your mom will take away the Volvo if you don’t call Charlotte’s boyfriend.” He put the bottles in the sink and rinsed them. “So I’ll just buy you a new one.”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. That was Dad for you: always messing around. Mom wasn’t happy about it one bit. Dad blew her a kiss, and she stormed out of the kitchen. She’d get over it eventually.
“Can we make it a Honda?” I joked.
Dad winked. “You got it, kiddo.”
Mary, who hadn’t gone to bed as she was ordered, watched with eyes as big as saucers while Mom left the room. I half-expected her to offer another one of her insightful, philosophical extracts, but she waited until Mom was completely gone and looked between me and Dad, silently asking if this was all a bad joke. I just shrugged and picked up the plates to join Dad at the sink, and that’s when Mary shouted at the top of her lungs, “You ate all my kettle chips!”
Oops.
16
At Common Sense She Gaily Mocks
Beth
If I were the type of person to hold a grudge like some people who will remain anonymous (whose name rhymes with kill), my friendship with Charlotte could have suffered damage of momentous proportions. But as I wasn’t like a certain someone (whose name rhymes with kill), Charlotte and I were on good terms by the following morning. I don’t remember who called who, but I can tell you we both stretched out the proverbial olive branch and laughed about it.
Over the course of our conversation, I gathered that she did indeed like Colin, although I couldn’t imagine why. As far as I knew, he’d won her over by a little tactic used by men called the wounded lover syndrome, or the old but rather effective victim of unrequited love schtick.
After I left the lodge on Thanksgiving, a moment I care not to remember as I was covered in yams and stripped of my pride, Sir William Lucas offered Colin a meal on the house and an open invitation to return any time he desired. Colin, being quite respectable and overly grateful, sat at the bar, letting out all his woes to Charlotte, the receptive bartender—and we all know bartenders are a poor man’s shrink. Charlotte listened intently, poured him more Shirley Temples, and offered her sage advice as was her Charlotte way. Then, as I already knew, he spent the evening at the Lucas house, whereas Mrs. Lucas referred to him as Boy George.
It must have had a profound effect on him because he returned the following day, unbeknownst to me, to seek the company of Charlotte and her serene ability to listen to hours of nonsensical yammering. And if there was one thing Colin was good at, it was nonsensical yammering. In short, it appeared to be a match made in heaven. He couldn’t stop talking, and she had no reservations to listen all day.
And so, although I couldn’t understand the mystery that was Colin/Charlotte, I was happy they both found a partner in this big, scary world.
My mother would take a little more convincing, but for the time being, I felt it was best to just avoid her calls and incessant Facebook messaging.
When I arrived home from my parents’ house, it was close to two in the morning. Not that avoiding my roommates by staying away was successful at all. After the d
rama with Mom, I could face anything. As it turned out, Jane was awake, checking online trade magazines.
All I wanted to do was lie my weary body down on my bed, but my legs betrayed me and sent me to the couch to sit by Jane. She smiled at me from behind her laptop screen and asked me how my day went in the gentlest of fashions. Her tone of voice was calm and… dare I say content. It was almost as if her heart hadn’t been put through a meat grinder less than two weeks before.
Although Charlotte had been my longest and dearest friend, Jane was more like a sister. Someone I could confide in. I supposed by telling her all about the Colin loves Charlotte story, it would bring her a welcome distraction. I still couldn’t help but think she was sweeping her feelings about Bing under the rug. Or had the telenovelas helped her cope? She’d gone cold turkey, so I was a wee bit concerned.
When I was done blabbering about Colin and Charlotte and then Mom’s reaction, she was able to find humor where I hadn’t before, and in seeing it through her eyes, it made me laugh. It was quite ridiculous and silly when I thought about it.
But then in a tone a little more somber, she said, “I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll be fine, and everything will be the same as before.” She must have read the disbelief in my features because she added, “You don’t believe me. I’ll always remember Bing as the nicest man I’d ever met, but that’s all he’ll ever be to me. I read more into it than there was in the relationship. I’ll get over it.”
“Jane, I’d have to be blind to not see how much he liked you. You didn’t ‘read into’ anything he wasn’t writing all over the place. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s him.”
“I don’t blame him for anything,” she said. “We were never official.”
“We’re not in high school. Guys don’t ask girls to go steady. Besides, the whole theatre company was taking bets on the wedding date.”
A wash of pink spread over her face, and she shrunk behind a throw pillow to hide it.
“Okay, maybe not a wedding date,” I amended, “but still. You just think too well of people in general to let me say anything against them. But you’re the only person I know that’s even close to perfect. It’s true. And as you know, I don’t think well of anybody. Not even myself. The more I see of the world, the more I think everyone in it are psychos.”
