by Kaira Rouda
“Well, yes, that’s looking on the positive side.”
“You know me, I’ve always loved a challenge,” Charlotte said. “Girls, let’s go to Aunt Kelly’s!”
“YOU KNOW, KELLY, YOU REALLY DO HAVE EXQUISITE taste,” Charlotte remarked as she walked through my kitchen door, acting as if she hadn’t been here a million times before this moment. Perhaps compared to the empty house for sale across the street where a family was being ripped apart, any house would look exquisite. It was still a home, after all.
A home in Grandville to be exact: a beautiful community of twenty thousand people otherwise known satirically as Uppityville or Upper Wonderful because most of the town sits on a hill. Mature trees, winding streets with sidewalks, good schools, and European revival style homes were everywhere. We’re all lucky here, at least in terms of lifestyle—the fortunate few. Yet holding onto this position, this luck, causes restless nights and many arguments behind closed doors. Some of us are drawn to misfortune like moths to a flame: one of my neighbors calls herself a disaster whore. If something bad happens—a car accident, a robbery—she is the first on the scene, the first in the know. In our suburban collective subconscious, others’ misfortune makes our fortune feel more secure. That’s why I was so interested in Bob and Heidi’s implosion, I suppose.
“Maybe you should become an interior decorator?” Charlotte suggested as she walked around my kitchen and the adjoining great room. She picked up a picture frame holding a portrait of the four of us taken a couple years ago in our backyard. I’d forced all the males in the family to wear emerald green shirts; even Oreo had a green collar on for the occasion. It wasn’t a good choice, considering the grassy backdrop. We looked like we’d fallen into Oz. “You could do it, you know!”
Patrick and I had lived in a series of houses since we married seventeen years ago. I was in charge of the decorating and the life inside the home. Patrick, as an attorney and business guy, was in charge of the finances, the mortgage, and the like. Truly, we were a 1950s couple in that respect, although my lack of financial savvy sometimes bothered me.
I still had our community college’s fall semester catalog open on my desk in the kitchen, as a matter of fact. I’d marked a class called “Becoming Your Family’s CFO.” I would make it a goal to understand finances better and then take over for Patrick. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but I hadn’t signed up yet. Maybe I’d call as soon as Charlotte and the girls left.
“Thanks for the compliment, Charlotte, but that still doesn’t make up for the stroke comment.” I pulled the cork out of a semi-classy bottle of chardonnay. “Actually, I have been thinking about going back to work in some way. I know I couldn’t break back into the public relations world after sitting out these past fifteen years, but something part-time could be just what I need. Or maybe I’ll take a class?”
“That’s how I got into real estate,” Charlotte said. “I just sort of decided to do it. I went to real estate school and really liked it. My timing could have been a little better, though. I got my license right before the housing bubble burst.”
Charlotte had decided to go for it, to try something new. And she was becoming successful. Maybe I’d been over-thinking, over-chewing things for too long. Maybe I needed to do something. I would start a list of things to change. It would be the first step on the road to self-fulfillment, or at least to doing instead of just thinking. Number One on my list: capitalize on decorating prowess. Number Two: minimize visits to the dentist. Number Three: buy a Suze Orman book/take a class at community college to understand more about our finances and worry less. Change was in the air for me; maybe I did have talent. I was feeling energized, and the feeling was coming back in my mouth. All in all, the day was ending much better than it started.
We decided to celebrate Charlotte’s new listing outside on my porch, my favorite place in the house. I was in charge of carrying the wine and the two glasses. I needed some pain relief now that the Novocain had worn off. It was five o’clock somewhere, as the saying went. As we headed through the living room and outside, Charlotte yelled up to the twins who were playing upstairs with my beloved, unconditional love-filled mutt, Oreo, whom I still call my puppy even though he turned nine in February.
“Are you sure the girls are OKAY up there?” Charlotte asked. “They won’t mess up any of the boys’ game settings or anything, will they?” It was a good point. The boys guarded their video games and the levels achieved like buried treasure.
“Well, if anything happens, I’ll play innocent. It will give them something to work on when they’re home from camp and bored,” I said leading Charlotte to my favorite couch, made of wicker and sporting thick cushions for comfort. Here we could sit and overlook my little slice of paradise. I was proud of my flower garden this year, especially my periwinkle-blue hydrangeas in full bloom.
“So, how much are you working, Charlotte? It seems like the real estate gig is more than just a part-time deal for you these days.”
“It’s more than part-time, that’s for sure. This listing—the Thompsons’ house—was just lucky. Bob and I have known each other for a while, and he used to play tennis with Jim once a week. It’s my highest priced listing. I have a couple others on the fruit streets,” Charlotte said, referring to the traditional starter home streets in Grandville that all have names like Peach, Pear, and Cherry. “This is my first in the uppity, most wonderful side of town,” she added, winking at me.
“Please. You live a block away,” I said.
“Yes, I do consider my house part of the uppity,” she laughed. “It keeps me calmer as I’ve watched our real estate values plummet in the last couple of years.”
“Is that why your sign says, ‘Make an Offer’?”
“Yes, well, Bob needs money quick. He’s hoping to settle with Heidi and move on. He knows he’ll take a bath, but the way he’s looking at it, he can grab another house at a fraction of what it would’ve sold for a couple of years ago. It’s a wash that way,” Charlotte said, filling up our wine glasses.
I looked across the yard, noticed the sun was drooping a little, and realized this was the first time I’d stopped and watched the sunset since June 12, Drop-Off Day at camp in Maine. After helping our sons unpack their trunks and move into their lodges, and after much hugging, Patrick and I had climbed back into the rental car, me with tears in my eyes and Patrick looking away so I wouldn’t see the tears in his. Every year, the night of Drop-Off Day, we stayed at a rustic lodge just down a winding dirt road from them. The lodge overlooks Webb Lake, the same lake the camp borders. On the balcony where we sat, we could hear the dinner bell ringing, the sound of laughter, and the campers yelling to each other. Beyond the lake, the mountains were beginning to turn purple and magenta at the start of another spectacular sunset, marking the start of another camp season for them and another long summer for me. Looking out over my backyard, I smiled, thinking of my boys and how much fun they were having.
“What about Bob’s kids?” I asked.
“He’s keeping them, for now. Actually, they’re staying at Bob’s mom’s house.”
“Oh, my. That’s a handful,” I said, and Charlotte nodded. Both of Bob’s teenage boys had what can only be described as a bad reputation, complete with suburban rap sheets for underage drinking, pot smoking, pranks, and more.
“What’re ya gonna do?” Charlotte asked, and I suddenly noticed she’d taken over the slurring duty and I could actually feel my top lip as I took a sip.
“Let me go get us a snack and some water,” I said. Wine on an empty stomach was never a good idea. Given Charlotte’s birdlike frame, she might topple over if she drank any more. Come to think about it, I hadn’t had much to eat today either. “When was the last time you ate, Charlotte? Last week? You’re a toothpick—well, comparatively speaking.”
“Food sounds great. Yeah, I don’t eat when I’m stressed. Always been that way.”
I remembered that, and wondered what was going on. I ho
ped she wasn’t on the path to her too-thin phase again.
“What’s up? Do you need to talk?” I stood up and put my hand on her shoulder. Our relationship was close, but we’d always kept a little distance. I guess it’s because she was my sister’s friend first. And even though Charlotte and Sally don’t talk much anymore, I’m still a bit guarded. I don’t want Sally knowing anything about me that I haven’t told her myself. Ergo, Charlotte probably doesn’t share all with me, either. Maybe she was having trouble with Jim?
“No, I’m fine. Great, actually,” Charlotte answered, gazing out at my yard instead of making eye contact with me. “How are the boys, by the way? Don’t you just miss them to death? I could never send my girls away. You’re brave.”
I felt the tears well up, and I shook my head to push them down as I hurried inside. The telephone started to ring. My home phone never rings unless it’s someone selling something. I almost didn’t answer, but then I recognized a few digits of the number. I used my gruff, salesperson-hating voice as a precaution, though, just in case.
“Kelly! Oh my gosh, so glad I got you,” said a woman in a rushed, shaky voice.
“Kathryn? What’s up? Are you okay?” No fooling my friend Kathryn with my fake telesalesperson off-putting voice; we’d known each other since Ohio State. Back then she was a fun-loving, although driven, small-town girl with dimples and long, auburn hair. Now she was a stunningly glamorous, high-powered businesswoman. Not to mention being the mother of a stunning daughter and the wife of a stunning man. And usually too busy to talk to me unless it’s a dinner we plan in order to get caught up.
“Everything is fine, but, well …”
“Kathryn, talk to me,” I said, knowing she was crying. I looked down at my cell phone. I’d left it on the kitchen counter, and I saw three missed calls. I checked. All Kathryn. “Where are you?”
“In your driveway,” she wailed. I dropped the phone on the counter and rushed outside.
“THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING,” KATHRYN SOBBED, SITTING IN THE front seat of her car. I’d walked around and slipped into the passenger side. Her BMW smelled like new car and had so many electronic gadgets I felt like I was in a private jet. She could fly us out of here, right? Maybe that’s what we both needed. I’d whisper that to her car, later.
“What’s embarrassing? Crying? No, that’s healthy. I just did it on the way home from the dentist,” I said, not mentioning that I’d almost started to cry again just before she’d called.
“I wondered what was wrong with your face but didn’t want to say anything.” Kathryn blew her nose into a tissue she pulled from some secret compartment. Clearly, even in moments of distress, my friends and enemies alike noticed the puffy left cheek where the tooth repair had occurred. I am a lopsided chipmunk, I thought. I hate dentists.
“How about coming inside for a glass of wine, to relax and talk?” I ignored her face comment; she was my friend, after all. I made a mental note to get her back later.
Kathryn and I had clicked instantly as newly minted Kappa Alpha Theta sisters. Standing together on the front yard of the sorority, we’d both chugged the obligatory shot of tequila. Then, much to the horror of many of the other new pledges, we each had another. Not that our friendship required alcohol, but it certainly cemented it back in those days.
“Is anyone else around? I don’t want Patrick to see me like this,” Kathryn said, sliding her oversized, bejeweled Bulgari sunglasses down her nose to look in the mirror of the driver’s-side visor. “Argh.”
“Patrick’s golfing, and he’ll be hitting the stag bar at the country club after that, so it’s just me and Charlotte. Come on in.”
“Charlotte??”
I knew what she was thinking. It’s hard to be around Charlotte even when looking your best. After a crying jag or dental procedures, it was a true ego setback. It was akin to my experience at an exclusive spa where Patrick had taken me in March. He knew I’d needed a break and surprised me with the weekend trip. While receiving our couple’s massage, my masseuse leaned forward and asked if she could ask a personal question. “Sure,” I whispered.
“Are you pregnant?” she murmured.
“No,” I said, my relaxed mood instantly replaced by angered tension.
“Oh, you looked like it in your robe,” she said.
Grrrr. I’d almost bounded up and out of there, but Patrick appeared to be enjoying his massage so much, I just stuck my face back into the headrest and tuned her out.
“Look, I handled Charlotte with my mouth looking like this. You can do it. Besides, you look beautiful in that dress—Prada, right? It shows off your figure. So what if your eyes are red and puffy? Just keep your sunglasses on.”
Just then it struck me that I should practice what I’d just preached. This mini-lecture should go on my life-change list. Number Four: don’t compare yourself to others. I wasn’t convinced I could hold myself to this one, though, so I was reluctant to assign it a number.
As we walked in the back door, Charlotte was busy arranging a great-looking cheese plate and making some macaroni and cheese from a box for Abigail and Alexandra. It looked like dinner would be at my house tonight, and that idea made me smile. I didn’t realize how lonely I’d been. When did I forget about the literal care and feeding of friends? Somewhere between driving to soccer and football practice, overseeing homework, and sitting through guitar lessons, I suppose. Life-change list Number Five: Don’t forget the care and feeding of friends. I needed to start writing these down.
“We have another guest for our cocktail party,” I announced in a chipper voice as Charlotte looked up and smiled at Kathryn.
“Hi there,” Charlotte said, intent on cutting the cheese—literally, not figuratively. “It’s been so long; you’re like, never in the burb, are you?”
At that, Kathryn choked up again and hightailed it for the powder room, walking impressively well in three-inch Manolos. I can spot ’em, but I can’t walk in them.
Charlotte and I stood in my kitchen looking at each other while the macaroni water boiled over on my stove, leaving that signature white film over everything.
“Oops, let me get that,” Charlotte said, and wiped up the mess. She served up two plastic bowls for the girls and then headed upstairs. I took the moment to locate a pack of yellow Post-it notes. My life-change list would materialize here and now. “Things to Change,” I wrote at the top. Too long. “T2C,” I wrote on the second note, and smiled when I realized my boys would be proud of me; this was like my own special text message code. I hurried and wrote numbers one through three and number five, each on its own T2C Post-it. (I couldn’t quite commit to writing Number Four just yet.) I hid them under the community college catalog. I wasn’t ready to advertise my change.
Next, I rummaged in my non-kid-friendly refrigerator for something other than cheese and chocolate to feed my friends. I guess it wasn’t really an adult-friendly refrigerator either. With the boys at camp, I didn’t grocery shop. Two reasons: avoidance of the judging acquaintances who would ask if the boys were away again for the entire summer, and the misplaced hope that without a stocked pantry and refrigerator, I’d manage to not gain the yearly six camp pounds. It never worked, neither the avoidance of judging folks—they were everywhere—nor the food plan. Food was everywhere too.
After managing to retrieve a chorizo and a summer sausage from my cold vegetable drawer and checking their impossibly far-into-the-future expiration dates, I set forth to complement the cheese plate with salted and cured meat. Whenever I feel bad, bacon calls me. Well, actually, bacon calls me when I’m happy, too, but I knew Kathryn needed some feel-good meat.
“I’m a mess,” Kathryn said, walking slowly back into my kitchen right on cue, her shoes dangling from her left hand.
“Come here,” I said, draping an arm around the shoulder of my suddenly three-inch shorter friend. “Let’s go out on the porch. It’s relaxing and I’ve made a plate of our favorite comfort foods.”
“Than
ks, Kelly. I’m a wreck. And now, along with everything else, I’m really worried about Melanie.” Kathryn settled into a chair on the porch and looked at my hydrangeas. “She’s stopped eating. The school counselor called me to report that Melanie has been kicked off the volleyball team because she showed up too weak to practice. I just don’t understand what is happening. She’s always been my perfect girl, my little star.”
“Is Melanie anorexic? I haven’t seen her in so long. She’s fifteen now, right?”
“Right. Fifteen and weighs about a hundred pounds. If she doesn’t start eating again we’re going to need to admit her to an in-patient facility. At least that’s what the pediatrician says. I just don’t know what to do. We’ve been to family counseling, she’s been to counseling. Nothing is working. She’s killing herself.” Kathryn took a sip of her chardonnay and then released a huge sob.
My image of Melanie was the happy kid I’d always known. Since she’d begun high school last year, I hadn’t seen much of her—or her mom. I missed them both.
“Bruce is no help,” Kathryn said. “He’s gone most every week, all week. You’d think with the growth of his company, he could send the people who work for him on location, but no, he always goes. He likes to be away. And I think I like it that he’s away. Actually, we aren’t doing well.” Kathryn sobbed, drank more chardonnay, and ate some cured meat.
I grabbed a big piece of the summer sausage, chewing it slowly so I couldn’t say anything. I agreed that it would be better for everyone if Bruce stayed away. I hadn’t liked him from the moment Kathryn brought him to our sorority house the night of their first date, and the feeling has stayed with me no matter how hard I’ve tried to shake it. Even while I was standing up as maid of honor in their wedding, I kept expecting him to run from the altar in some dramatic, last-minute escape and thus prove himself to be the fraud he was. It didn’t happen then, but maybe it had now.
