I place my hands on my waist and admire its small span before practically kissing my unblemished thighs good-bye. I swing my arm around, reveling in my elbow’s freedom of movement. Then I do a back walkover, just because I still can.
I won’t lie—I’m going to miss the package that seventeen-year-old Lissy Ryder came in, because gravity takes no prisoners. Yet I’m equally excited to find out where thirty-seven-year-old Lissy comes out, not just with Duke, but in all aspects of my life—professionally and with my friends and family, too. I accomplished everything Deva told me to do, and now I’m ready to go back to the future.
I drift off to sleep feeling an overwhelming sense of clarity, purpose, and inner peace.
(Note to self: Send Deva a fruit basket upon reentry.) (Organic, if possible.)
As I nod off, my last thought is . . . Here I go again.
CHAPTER NINE
Back in Black
First thing I see when I open my eyes is a bare chest.
And this time it doesn’t belong to David Coverdale.
In the pale pink predawn light, my eyes trail up from the six-pack to the face, which belongs to Duke.
Whew.
I tiptoe out of bed and try to get my bearings in this entirely strange place. I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been. (Yeah, Whitesnake lyric; I went there.) I can say with certainty that this is not my parents’ house or my old condo. Outside of that? No clue.
I wander into the first open door and I find myself standing in a walk-in closet. It’s not quite a Carrie-marries-Big closet, but it’s still pretty damn swanky.
I ease the door shut behind me and flip the light switch and when I do, I see that I’m surrounded by racks of neatly stored, highly polished shoes and row after row of suits and dresses, all of which are in shades of gray and black. Really? Not even a hint of fuchsia? That’s not like me. Still, these garments are high-quality; that’s patently obvious.
I peek at the label on a severe black dress. Armani.
Very nice.
Then I see it’s a size four.
Very nice!
I continue my tour of the closet, dismayed to see a dearth of denim. I grew rather fond of my ol’ high-waisters and I’ll need to rectify this situation immediately. I wonder if I have credit cards that aren’t maxed.
Judging from an overall lack of casual clothing, I have the feeling I spend a lot of time in an office. Where do I work? Considering all the somber colors in my wardrobe, I hope it’s not a funeral home. Or a law firm. Ugh, what if I’m my dad’s secretary?
I run across a mountain of exercise gear, which explains not only the size-four wardrobe but also how I spend my free time.
Am I a humorless fitness Nazi now?
I step out of my teenage cotton nightgown and throw on yoga pants, a tank, and a zipped fleece before I continue the tour. Everything fits beautifully.
Oh, Lululemon, let’s never fight again.
I’m just about to pass into the bathroom when I spot something that takes my breath away—a Birkin bag! No! Could it possibly be real? Holding the bag to the light, I give it the ten-point inspection and it checks out everywhere, from the perfect seams to the interior chèvre leather. The zipper, the accent over the E in Hermès, the impeccable skin of the outside—this is the genuine article!
Ohmigod!
A real live Birkin bag! And if it’s in here, that means it’s mine! I hug it to my chest and say a little thanks to my mom, because how else would I own one?
I walk into the attached bath and flip on the lights. Holy cats, this is the bathroom of my dreams! Everything seems ultramodern and hip, although that may be due to my having spent the last three weeks in bathrooms that were stylish twenty years ago. (Mauve, you shan’t be missed.) Even without the comparison, this room’s pretty spectacular—the tub’s a massive freestanding unit in the center of the room and it’s both deep and wide enough to seat two, boxed off in a rich, wide-plank mahogany that matches the cabinets.
The shower’s across from the bath and you could wash a minivan in this stall! Two ginormous rain showers extend from the ceiling, and a dozen different body sprays are located in key points up and down the sage green, sand, and pale powder blue glass-tiled walls. The commode is enclosed in its own frosted-glass booth and it’s next to a bidet. Heh. I could give myself an ass bath in here.
I’m surprised to see there’s only one sink . . . and then I notice the mirror image of this bathroom out the door. Sweet child o’ mine! I thought that was a mirror, but no! This is a real his-and-hers set of baths. Duke’s doesn’t have a tub, but, hey, he’s welcome to use mine!
At this point, I figure I’d better check out the damage to myself, but when I pull up a lighted makeup mirror, I’m delighted to see how much better I’ve been at fending off the ravages of time. I was hyperconscious of engaging in antiaging rituals once I turned thirty, but maybe starting to use UVA blockers at seventeen made a big difference. Sunscreen! Genius! Kurt Vonnegut was right!
I run my fingers through my hair and I’m thrilled with the color, even though the cut’s a bit short and severe for my liking. Since when do I opt for a chin-length bob? Who am I, Anna Wintour? How am I supposed to give my high pony a condescending toss when someone says something stupid?
Oh, wait. I kind of don’t do that now. My bad.
Walking through a sitting area, I get to the main hallway. I close the bedroom door behind me so as not to wake Duke before thoroughly inspecting the massive corridor. The hall leads to a landing where I find staircases made of metal and mahogany, and they go down at least two flights and up one. Not only is this a single-family home—it’s monolithic, to boot.
Holy moly, Duke is rich!
I wonder if my boosting his self-esteem at the big game is what spurred his success? In my past-future (I assume that’s what I should call it), he was a midlevel processed foods sales executive. He must have gotten a serious promotion!
I run up the stairs first to find a professional-grade home gym. This area’s a mini West End Club, encompassing everything from treadmills to rowing machines to weight machines to a Pilates bench!
Maybe Duke invented Pilates!
The glass walls of the gym open onto a huge roof deck surrounded by boxwood hedges, but they’re not so high that they obscure the skyline. Judging my proximity to the Sears Tower and the Hancock Center, I’m in the dead center of Old Town, which borders the Gold Coast. The Gold Coast is a little trendier, but hey, the view’s a lot better here than in my La Grange bedroom, amirite or amirite?
I inspect every inch of the deck, from the Sunbrella-cushioned teak couches to the outdoor shower. Outdoor shower! I live for an outdoor shower! It’s so nice to have access to one when sunning myself. I glance down at my skin, which seems awfully pale. Huh. Looks like I don’t tan too often. Well, I’ll fix that next summer!
I correct myself—in moderation, of course.
I scope out the scenery from the roof deck. The weather’s still decent, although the leaves are starting to come down, so I must be back in time at the exact point Deva promised I’d go. Was the reunion last night? If so, did we go?
The gym’s across from a media room that boasts a seventy-two inch television. That thing is the size of a bay window! Sleek leather chairs line up in front of the screen, and there’s a complicated system of speakers and sound bars and subwoofers. Yet even with all the tasteful decor, the room feels a bit unlived-in. Don’t you worry, Mr. Gigantor TV, I’ma have me a film festival very soon with everything Reese, Jennifer G., and Sandy B. ever starred in. Girls’ night in! (Do I have any girls for a night in?)
I chug past the master bedroom’s floor and down to the next level. There’s an en suite guest room and a couple of bedrooms set up as offices. One of them must be mine, so I’ll come back to it. I imagine that’s where I’ll find the most clues to my life right now.
I’m blown away when I see the floor-to-ceiling glass window on the main floor,
which showcases perfectly appointed living and dining rooms comprised of sharp angles and shiny metal and white leather. White, huh? Never really fancied myself as someone who’d buy white furniture. Not sure how or why I went all J. Lo, but the look is chic, albeit chilly. I congratulate myself on my interesting new taste. I’d been much more into squashy couches, pretty patterned rugs, and an overall feeling of warmth in my past-future, but I guess circumstances have led me here. Nothing about this place says “hearth and home.”
Rather, it says Architectural Digest.
But that’s cool, too.
The kitchen is past another bath and a butler’s pantry, where I notice we own an unholy amount of crystal barware. We must do a lot of entertaining. Perhaps we’re drunks?
The kitchen’s done up in the same style as the front of the house, only with tons of open shelving and white subway tile. Would a little accent of red kill me? The stools pulled up to the breakfast bar are the same silver Seats of Shame the bottom three on American Idol have to sit on before they sing for their lives. They look as comfortable here as they do onstage, which is to say not at all.
I open the fridge to find all kinds of healthy items, like fat-free milk, Greek yogurt, a crisper full of vegetables I don’t recognize, and—seriously? Spirulina powder? I must be friends with Deva.
Off the back deck, there’s a decent-size yard, especially for the city. The area contains lots of Buddhas and shiny rocks in tidy formations. It looks very Zen. And like it might be improved upon with a few flowers—geraniums, maybe. But otherwise, very Zen. There’s a garage beyond that. Fingers crossed my old Infiniti’s in there!
Off the breakfast nook are the stairs to the basement—that’s where I find the house’s mechanicals, the laundry area, and tons of storage. Okay, this is weird. I think I just unearthed some of our old furniture. Here’s a big Crate & Barrel chair-and-a-half next to a matching couch, and there’s a gorgeous red Persian rug rolled up on top of it. Actually, I’d hoped to redo our den in pieces like this before Duke and I broke up—why aren’t we using them now? They’re too . . . comfortable? I get why we’d want the living room to be a showpiece, but even the TV room? Why are we so formal?
I have much to learn about the past twenty-one years, so I can’t dwell down here. Fortunately, I spot a bin labeled Melissa’s Journals on my way back up the stairs.
Melissa? Who the fuck is Melissa and why is she— Oh. Heh. I grab the plastic tub and haul the whole thing up to my office.
Once in my office, I’m not sure where to begin. It’s still pretty early, so I’m hoping to figure out the basics before Duke wakes up. Otherwise? Awkward!
Clues abound in here already, though. The framed wedding invitation tells me we’ve been married for—I do the math, using the fingers on both hands as well as a couple of toes—fourteen years!? I was married at twenty-four? Child bride alert!
As I poke through the cabinets, I find our wedding photo album. Holy puffballs, Batman! I imagine my newfound taste in minimalism stems directly from having worn this hoop-skirted, mutton-sleeved, is-anyone-buying-it-that-I’m-still-a-virgin monstrosity. And my bridesmaids are . . . Nicole (yay!) and three girls who are definitely not the Belles. Ha! Bite me, Tammy!
My office is slightly less forbidding than the rest of the house, even if my desk is mostly glass. A glass desk—who buys a glass desk? I wonder if Duke works for the Windex people?
I notice all kinds of music memorabilia on the shelf across from my desk. Backstage passes and drumsticks and guitar picks and a crazy platform shoe that looks like something Elton John might have worn in the seventies all fight for space on the shelf. I peruse the photos of me with people who look like they’re in a band, but I don’t recognize any of them. You know what? Duke must do something in the music industry. Maybe he’s an exec for the Allstate Arena or the United Center. That’s way more badass than when he peddled oatmeal for a living.
As I scan the shelves, I see a superhuggy photo of a college-era Nicole and me and the girls who were in my wedding. We’re in matching Greek sweatshirts. Hey! I got into a college with a Greek system! And I was in a sorority! Take that, Cousin Augusta! And screw you and the sloth you rode in on, UCI! Next to that, I see my diploma from Indiana University. That’s where Nicole went. I love that we experienced college together. Oh, I can’t wait to dig into these journals now!
Seeing these pictures makes me so happy. Aw, there’re Duke and me somewhere tropical. And look at how I fill out that bikini top. I peer at the shot more closely and then I look down at myself. Um . . . I press my hands to my chest and give myself a tentative squeeze. Unless gravity’s no longer a factor in this century, I had a boob lift! I lift my shirt to get a closer look. Oh, yeah. Those are way perkier. (And yay, me, for not getting implants, because I’m pretty sure I’m not a stripper in my new and improved present.)
Tons more pictures hang on the wall next to the shelves. Look, there’s Mamma and me with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Here I am with Cousin Gussie and we’re in matching dresses. Bridesmaids, I guess? Whose wedding? Cousin Lydia? Oh, this one’s cute. Look at that little girl with her hoodie and her hair in her face. How do I know an adorable little lesbian? Yay, diversity! It gets better! Wait, no . . . WHY AM I HUGGING JUSTIN FRIGGING BIEBER?
I need answers and quick. I sit down at my computer and use the touch pad to bring it to life. Password protected?! Shit!
I try the most obvious ones, like “Belle” and “Lululemon” and all the permutations of my mom’s maiden name. No luck. I input variations of my social security number and my parents’ phone number. Nada. Then I just type everything that’s at the front of my mind.
“DukeofHurl.”
“IkatRobe.”
“Jägermeister.”
“TaterTot.”
“Beemer.”
“NoSexCake.”
“TammySucks.”
Damn it! Think, self, think! What would stay with me for twenty years? What’s a constant in my life? What’s the one word or phrase that I simply can’t forget? I snap my fingers. I’ve got it!
“Coverdale.”
I’m in!
Let’s learn a little bit more about me.
* * *
In the words of Jerry Garcia, what a long, strange trip it’s been.
The most interesting part?
Duke’s not rich.
I am.
Not because I invented Facebook, though.
Condensed version? After high school, I went to IU to study communications, and while I was there, I took some music theory classes. Moved to L.A. when I graduated (four years, bitches!) and did publicity for a couple of record labels. Duke came with me and worked for a tech company. After 9/11, we wanted to be closer to family, so we came back to Chicago. Duke did sales for Kraft Foods whereas I started my own PR firm . . . only not in my parents’ garage this time.
Ten years later, MCPR (Melissa Connor Public Relations) is a full-service public relations firm, although my personal specialty is working as a music publicist. (I know, right?!) I oversee satellite offices in New York, L.A., Nashville, and Atlanta and dozens of employees. Best part? David Coverdale sends me Christmas cards, because apparently I helped him on a project in ’09.
Eight years ago, Nicole quit her job and now she’s my number two in the Chicago office. She says managing a bunch of twenty-five-year-old PR girls isn’t that different from teaching second grade. Pretty much she’s still refereeing equal amounts of petty playground antics, like crying and hair pulling.
I’ve been in the swing of my awesome new life for about a week. Between my journals and Facebook and Google, I quickly came up to speed on my past. I wish I could access all the best parts in my memory (especially Coverdale), but just being in this life now is pretty damn spectacular. I keep making the most awesome discoveries, like when I realized the impeccable vintage Jag in the garage was mine.
I could not have plotted out a more perfect future for myself if I tried. Profe
ssionally, I’m at the top of my field, and that’s without having to beg a bunch of old high school classmates for their business. Personally, Duke and I seem happy and the tables are all turned now—he’s dependent on me. I like that. A lot. And did I mention I was rich? I couldn’t remember who won any games, so I didn’t do Sportsbook, but I did make a couple of wise investments.
Oh, please.
It’s not technically insider trading, and it’s not like the SEC could prove that time travel’s why I invested in Apple and Cisco. Like Warren Buffett wouldn’t have done the same, given the opportunity. Plus, I spent lots of the money I earned, so really, I’ve been helping the global economy. I’m kind of a hero, if you think about it.
Most important? I look really, really good. I guess because I didn’t endure the stress of what happened in my past-future, I didn’t live through three months of the second coming of Paula Deen at my parents’ house. If I had any Rock & Republic jeans now, they’d fit great!
(Note to self: Take a day to go shopping, like, immediately.)
Plus, people seem to enjoy my company. They don’t fear me like they did in high school, but that’s really okay.
I must bring Deva up to speed, but when I call her shop, I find out she’s at her place in Hawaii. Her employee gives me a contact number, so I text her instead.
Me: hey, deva! lissy here! back in the future, baby!
Deva: outhouse, lassie roadhouse! everything worked out for yoo-hoo?
I quickly realize that texting is not Deva’s forte. Big fingers.
Here I Go Again: A Novel Page 12
