“People around here don’t like change,” Annie said. Except for a coat of paint, her flea-market finds on the walls, more local baked goods, a new refrigerator, and replacements for the chipped mugs, she and Sam have hardly tinkered with the original Doughboys template—a policy that food reviewers, local businesses, customers, and tourists applaud.
“We’re not talking about adding piped-in Buddhist chants. Or orchids and candles and serving, you know, like, caviar and fifty shades of kale,” Megan said.
Annie switched the subject. “Sam reports you’re doing a great job.”
Megan filled the urn with water and plugged it in. “Annie, I owe you and Sam big-time for hiring me. I was way, way sick of school.”
“You may think that now; however …”
“Mom only agreed to the gap year because I’m the youngest in my class.”
“Because you’re so smart. Because you skipped a grade.”
“As if smart counts in high school.” Megan rolled her eyes. “Right. Okay. I promised Mom I’d go back in the fall. But working here is way more real.” She turned to the man who’d just sidled up to the counter, Ray Beaulieu, one of the indistinguishable regulars in anorak and work boots who can extend two cups of coffee into a six-hour marathon. “I’ll have a fresh pot up and going in a minute, Ray,” she said.
“Best decision you made, Annie, was to hire this kid here.”
Annie remembered a newspaper piece about a group of senior citizens who hung out all day at a burger joint in Queens, nursing cold coffee and free water, monopolizing the tables and causing lost revenue. The owners wanted to find a way to kick them out without being labeled ageists. She gazed at Ray Beaulieu chuckling with his cohorts. Not that you could ever kick anybody out in Maine, except for the drunk and disorderly.
“We’re not Queens,” Sam had pointed out when she showed him the article. “Besides, the old-timers give us local color.”
Back in the sandwich shop, Megan pushed a mug of hot coffee across the counter.
“No, thanks,” Annie said, “I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Take the afternoon off. That cough sounds nasty. I’ve already started the sandwiches. We’re in awesome shape. I’m working the whole shift today.”
“Won’t Sam need …?”
“He’ll be fine with it. Any problem, he can blame me.” Megan paused, brightened. “Hey, how about this for a proposal? A date night here at Annie’s?”
* * *
Now Annie turns on her computer. There’s nothing wrong with thinking ahead, Megan argued. But, let’s face it, how far ahead is Annie going to be able to think? She opens Microsoft Word. She can’t dwell on the bad stuff. She’s going to write the manual today. She’s postponed her appointment with Dr. Buckley to start it. As with most dreaded tasks, once she gets to work, she’s sure she’ll feel better. She’s been scribbling notes on Post-its, which she’s stuck in the pockets of her jeans, in her purse, in her jewelry box—ideas for the list she’s about to compose. But when she gathers them all together, arranges and smooths them out, they’re as indecipherable as one of Longfellow Clark’s rhymed couplets. Handwriting may be a lost art for those who grew up in the digital age, yet these smears of black ink are Rorschach tests of her mental state, a testament to a tangled mess of tangled thoughts.
No matter. She’ll write without a safety net, the way she’s been living ever since the diagnosis. Lucky she’s not in school anymore. No need to structure a formal outline indexed with Roman numerals and subsidiary letters. Or perhaps she should, to add verisimilitude. The important thing is to set it all down on the page. She can refine it later if she needs to.
And so she starts:
LIFE MINUS ME: A USER’S GUIDE (In no particular order)
I. DOMESTIC: All the instructions for the machines are in the right-hand drawer in the kitchen under the microwave. Follow the directions for each appliance even though you prefer to wing it. (And we both remember how that turned out!) Repairmen’s contact info is in the red notebook next to the telephone. Vacuum and dust weekly. Clean out the refrigerator every other week—use baking soda to get rid of smells. That fuzzy white and black stuff is mold = no good! Get sprayed for carpenter ants twice a year. If you feel overwhelmed, call Rachel for help.
A. Dry-cleaning: Only open until noon on Saturdays. Indicate stains with masking tape. Get your clothes tailored—Michelle, Fred’s wife, is excellent. Have sweaters cleaned; don’t put in washing machine. Get jacket sleeves shortened. And have pants legs hemmed but not cuffed (old fogy). Don’t let anyone talk you into leopard-print underwear.
B. Hair: Don’t allow the barber to cut it too short around the ears to save money. Makes you look nerdy. Plus it makes your ears stick out (it seemed too cruel to tell you this every time, after the fact). You could also try the new unisex salon on Main Street. Okay, scratch that, you don’t have to.
C. Décor: In the back of my closet is that bunch of old maps of Passamaquoddy we found at the Union Antiques Fair. (We got such a great price—you were really quite the bargainer! And remember how that dealer followed us and wanted to buy them as we were lugging them to our car? And remember the fun we had in that seedy motel? How we … well, who could forget?) Take them to the framers on Pearl Street, not the cheapo place downtown. Make sure they’re matted on archival paper; otherwise they’ll turn brown and disintegrate. I think plain oak frames would suit them. Or dark walnut. Ask Mr. Robineau for advice. You could hang them in the study. Just move the bicycle posters to the wall next to the window. Or bring them to the shop. They’ll add that bit of artiness Megan is so wild about.
D. Food: My recipe box—wooden, battered, painted with purple grapes and green vines (the latch is a little iffy)—is on the second shelf over the sink. I never got around to alphabetizing the recipes, but your favorites are bunched toward the front. I know you’ll be tempted just to bring stuff home from the shop. But don’t. You can check out my ancient copy of The Joy of Cooking—spotted with remains of a thousand meals, alas—I always meant to get a new one. YOU get a new one! And Mark Bittman’s basics will fill in the gaps. Even better, there’s an Adult Ed cooking class at the high school—you’ll learn tricks of the trade and meet new people. I’ve heard you get to take home what you make. How great is that!
II. BUSINESS
A. Annie’s Samwich: After I’m gone, maybe you DO want to update. Expand. Think about annexing the junk shop next door. Mr. Aherne has got to be close to a hundred. Does anyone ever buy any of his stuff? He should be on that program about hoarders. I bet you could make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. I realize we talked about keeping everything the way it is, but the world moves on. (And the fact that it’s moving on without me makes me really pissed!) Listen to Megan. A cappuccino machine would be excellent. (But compare prices and check Consumer Reports.) You could have a poetry night—maybe call the English teacher at the high school for suggestions. Or the librarian? (I suggest Longfellow Clark not be invited, though he’ll probably show up anyway.)
Consider live music. A lot of our customers seem to perform in those bands in the bars down by the river. How about a sing-along! And Megan is clued in to the music scene, such as it is.
Date night? Not a bad idea. It may be good for you, too, since you’ll get a chance to practice rusty boy/girl skills. You can learn—when I think of all the fun we had, the trips to Bar Harbor, those drive-in double features we barely watched, our walks, the bad food we didn’t even notice, that time when we were up to our knees in snow. (Amazing how we could sense what the other wanted.) I’m sure it will all come back.
Most important: DO NOT MESS WITH THE PAUL BUNYAN. That should remain as ever, no matter how cool the updates of everything else are. I know you agree with me on this, that you would never change as much as a single peppercorn, but I think, for the record, I should mention it anyway just in case a top chef (or new cooking class) wants you to go all gourmet.
B.
Ursula: Feel free to ask Ursula for a loan. As you know, I always refused to take any money from my mother, even when we were first buying the place from the Doughboys and she offered it. Don’t think I didn’t appreciate you agreeing to try the bank when a check really would have helped! (One thing that was so great about you was when it came to me and Ursula, you always took my side.) But now—ha-ha—I won’t know, will I? Besides, what does she have to spend it on—Botox and Tiffany? And if she insists you put that picture of her—taken thirty years ago with her boobs falling out of that disco dress—on the wall, well, why not? Most people in town like to claim her as their own. Better Ursula than that other native son who invented the ratchet thingamabob. Rachel will help you find a good place to hang it.
III. SOCIAL: It’s important you have a social life. No, a weekend watching the Red Sox on TV with a pizza and beer does not count. Yes, you and I had a blast, but it was always just the two of us. I’m afraid we were both too insular for our own good. Too dependent on each other. Maybe because we couldn’t have a family of our own, we shut everybody else out—our little unit was enough. You even let old friendships lapse when we got married—more a guy thing, I think. Women need other women to confide in. And tell them when they have lipstick on their teeth. Make yourself get out. You don’t have to sign up for the bowling league, but you could have coffee with some of the geezers just to shoot the breeze. Excellent practice for cocktail parties and other social events plus date night at the sandwich shop. Join some clubs—Toastmasters, local Democrats, book club (Rachel belongs to a co-ed one. They do not read chick lit!). Join the temple in Bangor and reclaim your roots. Yes, I get that you hated Hebrew school, but it’s only a forty-five-minute drive, and you’ll meet new people. Go to the gym to keep that perfect body perfect and reduce stress.
A: Find old friends on Facebook. DATE!!! Enroll in Match.com and JDate. Have Rachel show you how. Better, ask Rachel herself out. An obvious choice, as you’re already buddies and don’t have to deal with the getting-to-know-a-stranger angst. (This subcategory could also go under other headers, but you get my point.) Thank God our AP English teacher is not grading this!
IV. TRAVEL: You and I stayed home and never saw Paree and I did not regret a single minute of it. Well, maybe a little—I always thought one of the Greek islands would have been so romantic for our honeymoon—not that I minded Acadia, cuddled up in that sleeping bag with you even though it rained 24/7 and our discount L.L.Bean tent leaked—I told you we should have paid full price! We were young, it didn’t matter then—later, we were pregnant most of the time, or trying to get pregnant, or becoming unpregnant or far too depressed after, well, I hardly have to tell YOU. Go to the Greek islands and toast me with a retsina (which I never liked, so maybe an ouzo). Megan will be able to handle everything at the shop—she’s really competent. Consult Rachel. She loves to travel. She honeymooned in Paris (with the dentist adulterer, so maybe we were right to stay close to home). And she’s a whiz with a map.
V. SEX and LOVE: I want you to enjoy lots of both. I want you to find love again. To get married again. Have kids. With my blessing. You will make a fabulous dad. This is my biggest regret (my only one—almost my only one—as far as life with you is concerned)—that we couldn’t produce little Sams and Annies. And I want you to move on (but never forgetting me, of course—I am not THAT self-sacrificing).
A: Now, the details. Not that I haven’t adored every moment of our lovemaking, not that you aren’t wonderful, ardent, a virtuoso in the boudoir, as Ursula would say, and not that we’ve haven’t got it down pat and arrived at our well-perfected routine. BUT you might want to investigate some new moves. Who knows what couples are up to these days. Remember before we were married, that time fooling around at Ursula’s Park Avenue apartment while she was away getting a new nose and I decided to model some of her naughty French lingerie for you? We snooped inside her underwear drawer and found that Swedish sex book. The one with all the drawings—blue for women, red for men—and proceeded to experiment until you threw out your back. Maybe you could order that book on Amazon.
Let me stress that I have been thrilled and comforted by our sex life, all these seventeen plus years. But new people, new things. And let’s face it, everybody’s technique could use a tune-up.
VI. MY STUFF: Dispose of it as you will, but please return any jewelry Ursula ever gave me. Give my big gold hoop earrings and silver bangles to Rachel, and to Megan all my hippie-looking beads. Anything else to whoever wants it. Don’t sell my car. Have it painted with an image of Paul Bunyan (and maybe the blue ox)—cheerful primary colors would work great—and use it for advertising and delivery. Please save my wedding ring and store it with yours in a safe place. Don’t feel you have to wear your ring, but I want you to keep both of them, as a symbol of what we had.
My clothes should go to Goodwill except for a few black items in the closet, dresses from Ursula, which Megan might like and even, oh Gawd, regard as vintage.
VII. Though you know I am not spiritual in any way and do not believe in an afterlife and hated Sunday school as much as you hated Hebrew school and wish to be cremated rather than have you spend all that money on a plot in Mt. Faith cemetery—I still hope (don’t think I’m nuts) that maybe in some way I will be reunited with our baby girl.
All of which leads me to the next …
VIII. MY MEMORIAL SERVICE: Work on it with Rachel. Either you or she should deliver the eulogy, though if that’s too much for you, everyone will understand (especially me!). No way are you to let my mother take over. I don’t want Elizabeth Barrett Browning or Ozymandias or some Shakespeare soliloquy. (As Ursula will no doubt point out, she played Ophelia when she was seventeen.) A little music would be nice. You know what I like. But under no circumstances is Ursula allowed to sing. She’ll be carrying on in the wings anyway. Assign Dr. Buckley to distract her. I think he’s got a crush on her, like half the men in town. Beats me. Display our wedding picture somewhere. I love that photo of us, we look so happy, were so happy, even though my hairstyle was totally unflattering. Do serve Paul Bunyans afterwards. And a decent wine. As for flowers, I can’t stand lilies or chrysanthemums. Too funereal. (Ha!) You could play “our song,” if that’s not too painful for you.
Addendum: RACHEL: As I’ve pointed out, she’s very fond of you, and Megan is already part of the family. Rachel is six months older than I am. She could still have a baby. Enough said. No pressure.
And don’t forget, my darling, dearest husband, my soul mate, I love you. Have always loved you. Will always love you.
xoxo ME
By the time she writes the final xs and os, Annie is choked with sobs. She can only imagine the impact this will have on Sam, Sam who cries at a sunset, at sappy movies, at the awarding of sports trophies, at the national anthem no matter how warbling the rendition. Will he once more end up in the hospital diagnosed with “exhaustion,” “a depressive episode”? Is there any way to make this easier for him?
Chapter Eight
Annie drives down Main Street. No wonder she’s having a hard time catching her breath—what a horrible morning. She’s just spent hours in the community hospital named after a family of founding fathers who summer in the richest part of the state and whose highly privileged portraits sneer down from the walls. It offends her to see those Marie Antoinette smiles. She never voted for any of them, and she blames them for Passamaquoddy’s disappearing social programs and high unemployment rate.
She never should have gone. Especially since she’s got the big-cheese oncologist marked in her calendar. Talk about overkill. She only did so because Dr. Buckley threatened to send Sam a reminder that Ms. Arabella Ursula Stevens-Strauss’s appointment had been ignored.
“HIPAA,” Annie warned.
“Not when your behavior is putting your health at risk.”
“I could sue you for medical malpractice.”
“Be my guest.” He sighed. “Or stop this nonsense and come
in for the tests.”
She’d changed into a robe that could have fit both Paul Bunyan and his blue ox. The cat’s cradle of tabs and ties was so daunting that a nurse had to help her do them up. She felt small, incompetent, helpless. Maybe this kind of diminution happens to everyone who is forced to enter the uncharted geography of the sick.
She took an elevator down to LOWER 3 and followed a trail of colored arrows that looked like a larger version of the board games she’d played as a child. Stretchers, with and without patients, lined the maze of corridors. Medical staff, badges dangling over white coats, rushed by. She kept her eyes pinned to the floor. No way would she join this club she was too young to be a member of.
In the basement room—freezing, overly bright, and smelling of bleach—she stretched out on a table. While menacing X-ray machines and CAT scans clicked and buzzed above her chest, she struggled to read the impassive faces of the technicians who called her honey and dear. Was the woman whose lab coat bore an embroidered Melissa shaking her head?
“What do you see?” she asked.
“We’re not allowed to comment,” Melissa reproved. “This is information that can be conveyed solely by your own physician.”
Back at Dr. Buckley’s office, she sat good-girl-style, hands folded, knees crossed, as he read her films. “No change,” he said.
“That’s hopeful, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer right away. He stared out the window, and then at last replied, “Please keep your next appointment.”
* * *
Now she slows her car and pulls into the parking lot next to the new unisex salon. Over the entrance, Cutting Edge unscrolls, its curlicued letters painted flamingo pink. A banner, flapping in the February wind, proclaims GRAND OPENING. Silhouettes of scissors adorn the plate-glass windows, which also showcase a bouquet of red roses so big and perfect that Annie assumes they must be fake. She touches her hair, shoulder length, the same style she’s worn since seventh grade, except for the tendriled and misguided high-rise edifice Ursula talked her into for her wedding day and one bad perm when she was twelve. Should she get her hair cut?
Minus Me Page 6
