The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  “Ugh, why’d you have to go and remind me about Thanksgiving?”

  “Speaking of daily grind stuff,” Tara says. “Don’t forget my dinner party this weekend. Be there at six. I’ve got to go. See you later. Give me a call, Cally. Bye.”

  “Bye Tara,” Cally says.

  Jordan gently touches my arm, says goodbye, then follows Tara out the door.

  “Honestly, Cally, do I look that bad?”

  “Of course you don’t. I can’t believe you’re even listening to them. They’re walking, talking synthetic twigs with big tits.” We both laugh out loud. Geez, I wonder what she says about me when I’m not around.

  “I don’t remember a party invitation. Are you going?” I say.

  “I don’t have a choice. It’s another one of her Botox parties. Why do you think she’s been telling you that you look so bad? If she gets at least three people there to pay for the shots, I think she gets a free one. She’s so tacky. Believe me, if it weren’t for our husbands being in the same business, we would not still be friends. But you’re all right now, aren’t you? It’s so dry here. I get bloody noses all the time. Let’s get some coffee. I’ve still got that great news to tell you.”

  * * *

  When I get to the coffee shop, Cally is seated at a table for two in an area surrounded by empty ones. Two paper cups are atop a little round granite table, steam rising from their mouth holes. “Thanks for the coffee,” I say.

  “It’s nothing. Caramel Macchiato, right?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Great. Now, have a seat.”

  I sit down and get a sip in before she starts talking. Cally is at the edge of her chair about to explode into what I imagine will be her most impressive pitch to me yet.

  “All right what is it?” I say.

  “Geez, I don’t know where to begin. You should’ve stayed last night so you could hear Tara talk about it. But okay, you did look tired. So anyways, Paul’s good friend is one of the higher ups in the production company that does those Housewives of Wherever shows. And he contacted Tara about doing one in Vegas. They want her to pick some women for them to interview. But there’s another producer who also has friends in Vegas who’s rounding women up, too. Which is a total bummer, but then after they make their selections, they’ll film a test pilot or whatever, to see if it flies. And if it does—which I’m sure it will, come on it is Vegas—then they’ll start up a show, and we’ll all be famous. Oh my God, I’m so excited.” She grabs my hand and squeezes hard.

  Cally looks like she’s on the verge of a heart attack. “Breathe. Really, I’ve never seen you like this before. You’re absolutely wild.”

  “And I should be. And so should you. It’s a great opportunity.”

  “For what?”

  She lets go of my hand. “To be a star, silly.”

  “Oh, no. Maybe for you, but not for me.” I should have known what this was all about. Gail warned me, but this morning’s yoga event left me unprepared.

  “But, Stacy,” she whines. “They want real life drama between friends, and that’s exactly us. We’re like Sex in The Sin City.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Really, I don’t want any part of it. You be the star. You don’t need me.” The last thing I want in my life right now are cameras filming me spiraling into a mid-life crisis.

  “Well, we’re still waiting to hear about the other group of friends being chosen by the other producer. It’s not a sure thing, but I told Tara you’d be up for it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not for sure. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll get picked. And it’ll probably take a year before anything gets rolling. Please. Just say you’ll do it for now. We’re like a team you know—partners.”

  “You mean Tara wouldn’t agree to take you on unless it was the four of us.”

  “Maybe, something like that.” Cally turns away and looks out the window. She pretends to watch traffic, but it’s her way of sulking.

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Really?” She focuses back to me. “Thanks, Stacy! You’re the best friend, ever.” She rises up out of her chair, stretches across the table to give me a hug, and almost knocks her coffee over.

  “Yeah, you too. Look, I’m gonna take my coffee and run if that’s okay. I’ve got some stuff to do before pick-up and practice.”

  “Wait a minute. You haven’t told me what Gail said the other night.”

  “Nothing, really. She asked about Jon and Patrick.”

  “You didn’t talk about Steven? About the divorce?”

  “She didn’t say a word, and I didn’t ask.”

  “Great. Now I’ll have to take her to lunch or something to find out what’s going on. She seems to be drinking more. Did you notice?”

  “I think I’d be drinking more, too, if I was her. Why is it so important for you to know?”

  “What do you mean? She needs to talk about it. It’s for her own good. We’re her friends, and we have the right to know what’s going on in her life.”

  “Not if she doesn’t want to tell us.”

  “Oh, she’ll tell me all right. But it’s going to cost me a fortune in food and wine.”

  “Okay I’m leaving now.” I stand up and grab the car keys from my purse.

  We say our quick goodbyes, and on my way out, it dawns on me that I’ve never had a bloody nose before. I wonder if it’s related to the alarm sound I heard at Cally’s last night. Maybe these are signs of physical exhaustion. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thunderous quiet rolls out when I open the door. Most people say they love peaceful silence, but this feels lonesome and unsettling. Sometimes when I’m home alone, I’ll leave the TV on all day with the volume set to low. The science channel usually—there is a calming quality I find in the narrators’ monotone voices.

  The constant fall of desert dust is set aglow by the noon sun beaming through the kitchen windows. It’s hard not to think of the radiant particles as fallout. On some days, it has a taste.

  Arizona Tan, which is the same color as yellow straw, coats the kitchen walls and family room. It’s bright and airy. Neutral colors in the granite countertops work well to hide the fine layers of dust that build up overnight. Simple lines and clean symmetry have always been my personal preference; although, I’ll admit I did not mind designing over the top Rococo or Baroque style rooms for some of my clients.

  I grab the phonebook out of the cupboard next to the double ovens. It’s been almost two months since I’ve been able to Google anything. I can’t seem to enter Jon’s office upstairs without feeling doom.

  Desperate to prove it had no significance, I went in there after one of my nightmares that involved Jon’s surgical anatomy book. His mutilated body flashed before my eyes, then my frantic search through his library to get it right. It was a crazy notion, but the book was on the shelf precisely as I had dreamt it. Hesitant, I pulled it down slow and careful. Then in a fit to get it over with, I flipped to the pages I’d remembered so clear. It was horrifying. Everything was exact. That day I spent hours crying over the pages. Not wanting to bother Jon, but really, not wanting him to think I was crazy, I kept it to myself. In every nightmare involving the book since then, I’ve noticed water damage to the pages I sobbed over.

  The phonebook impacts the counter with a thud, jogging me back to the here and now. I’ve never liked the inky, oily smell or tissue paper feel of phonebooks. Thumbing through the chalky pages makes my fingertips raw.

  For a psychiatrist, a large advertisement obviously means either desperate or popular and neither will work. Toward the end of the section, I find the list of names in fine print. That is what I need—new ones, those that can’t afford big spreads. Scrolling down, I avoid names that sound even remotely familiar. Then a shrill, electronic tone pierces my left ear. It switches to the right. The intensity lessens. I push my finger against the cartilage
of my outer ear and close off the opening, but it’s still there. The sounds are like a hearing test, only louder. Not again. And with that thought, it suddenly stops.

  With a little more fervor, I continue eyeing the names. A single droplet of blood falls onto the page. “Dammit.” I hold the length of my finger up under my nose and scurry to the bathroom. After pulling a wad of tissues with my free hand, I move my finger away. There’s no blood around my nostrils. A quick scan of my face reveals nothing. It’s perfectly bare—almost too bare, and too pale. I slam the wadded tissues into the trash then tromp back to the open phonebook more determined than ever. First I need a psychiatrist, then maybe, eventually, an ENT doctor. Ugh, this is going to be a nightmare…for my nightmares…how ridiculous.

  My eyes are instinctively drawn down to the sunburst of blood left on the page. All the rays are evenly proportioned outward, except for one. A single line of red extends straight into one of the names—Dr. Thomas Light, M.D., Psy.D. “Perfect.” I jot the name and number down on scratch paper then slam the phonebook shut. At least now I have a name. I’ll call when I get the chance. I’m tired.

  After a sandwich, I lie down on the couch. My eyelids open and close in sync with the louder commercials. Moments later, I’m running down a corridor between mammoth columns. Brilliant murals adorn the walls; they flash by as I rush past. Sheets of long, sheer fabric drape down from the ceilings. They billow with warm breezes across the halls.

  Children run with me. Our giggles echo and bounce around the great expanse. My bare feet slap against the cool stone floors. It’s a game of Hide and Seek. A voice calls out, and we scatter like bugs. Heavy, gold bangles jingle around my wrists and ankles. I duck and take cover behind a fountain, then wait. Impatient, I rise to look for the seeker. There is no one in sight. My eyes focus onto something in the pool below. A sudden gasp escapes me. My reflection—I’m a child, too. A girl, I think, perhaps ten or twelve years old. Something about my hair doesn’t look or feel right. I’m wearing a thick, coarse wig, and it moves.

  “Bah!” The seeker grabs me from behind, and we both fall back, I onto him. I scream and struggle wildly, until he lets me go. He sees my fear and bursts into hysterical laughter. The other children quickly surround us. They cackle like a pack of hyenas.

  The youngest, smallest child stops laughing, steps toward me and reaches out her hand. Her face is familiar. I know this one. Then they all stop laughing. The fountain thunders behind me, as my eyes sweep over their faces. I know them all. Her little hand is warm and soft. She helps me to my feet, then smiles wide, exposing missing teeth. The seeker roars into laughter again, and the others follow. The little girl starts to giggle, too and I along with her.

  I wake up laughing—happy. But when I stop, the children’s laughter continues. A bitter chill races up the length of my spine. I sit up on the couch, turn the TV off, and listen. The laughter rolls past, as if it were caught in an invisible current. I get up and quickly follow the sound upstairs. When I get to the master bedroom, I open the doors, then stick my head in to listen. They’re not in here, but then the laughter intensifies. They are in the office…

  Standing at the door with the lever in my hand, I can’t seem to find the strength to move. Stop it. Their laughter gets even louder. I push the lever down and throw open the door. A gust of air blows out, and the laughter stops.

  * * *

  “Hello. This is Dr. Light.”

  “Hello. Um, my name is Stacy Troy. I’d like to schedule an appointment, please.”

  “Yes, of course. Is there a specific day or time that you’d like to come in?”

  “No. Not really. Whatever works best for you.”

  “How does nine o’clock Friday morning sound?”

  Crap, my day planner is in the car. “I’m sorry, Dr. Light. Can you hold a minute? I’ve got to check my calendar.” I set the phone down, run out to the garage and back. I have lunch with Jordan on Friday. I can’t cancel, it’s for the fundraiser. “I’m sorry Dr. Light. Friday won’t work. Do you have any other days available?”

  “This Thursday, at ten.”

  “Yes. That’ll work. Perfect. Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you Thursday then, at ten. Do you need directions?”

  “No. Thanks. Oh, but do I need to bring anything? Medical records?”

  “No. Just your insurance information. You might want to come a little early. There will be plenty of paperwork to fill out. I’ll also need some time to jot down your health history. Come prepared to answer a bevy of questions.”

  “Okay, so Thursday, around nine forty-five. I’ll see you then.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Troy. I look forward to meeting you.”

  “Bye.”

  He seems harmless, and now I have an appointment—something tangible. What a relief, and before I forget, I put it in my day planner. For all things secret, I draw pictographs. The Roman numeral X for ten and a light bulb for Dr. Light. It’s silly, but Jon has occasionally gone through my day planner. Not that I have anything to hide, but some men will never learn…women just know these things. Once in a while though, I’ll misinterpret my own code. If I forget what this means, I hope I don’t go to the hardware store and buy ten light bulbs.

  * * *

  “Grab the stuff from the back. Coach might need the extra balls.” Rumor has it, he does anyway. Patrick doesn’t see my grin. Poor Coach. Cally should heed the term, “Too much information,” more often when she gossips. I really didn’t need to know about Coach’s sex life. Even though I brought a magazine, I know I won’t get the chance to look it over. Cally and Gail are already here, sitting under the skeleton of what’s considered a tree in the spring. During the summer months, the few leafy branches that provide shade are a treasure fought over and well-guarded. Creatures of habit, we flock to the same tree, even in the fall. The constant smell of desert dust pervades the air.

  I watch Patrick hobble with the overstuffed bag of nets, pylons, and balls. He drops it next to Coach then runs over to Cally’s son, Kyle, and Gail’s son, Justin. They’ve all been friends since kindergarten, and now they’re all fifteen going on sixteen. We joke around about how they’ll be driving soon, but there’s always a lull when the joke is over. That’s when we remember it’s just another reminder of our age.

  “Hello, ladies.” I pop open the canvas chair Jon and Patrick got me for Mother’s Day. It has “Soccer Mom” embroidered on the back—yea.

  “Hi Stacy,” they chime together.

  “You guys have a good day?” I say.

  “Bill cancelled lunch with me, so I went and got a mani and pedi. You like the color?” Cally spreads out her fingers and toes. “It’s called Rapture.”

  “Yeah, it’s nice,” I say. “What about you, Gail? How was your day?”

  Cally looks over and waits eagerly for Gail’s response. “It was good.”

  “Speaking of lunch…” Cally says. “It’s been a while since you and I have gone out, Gail. Let’s do it.”

  “Sure, Cally.” Gail turns her head to me and winks. There’s something different about the way she looks. Her eyes…they lack a certain luster they used to, and her face is sullen.

  “You sure you’re fine?” I say.

  Cally stops her jabber to listen.

  “I’m hanging in there, but it’s not easy. Justin’s been so angry lately—acting out.”

  “Do you have him seeing anyone?” Cally says.

  “He’s been seeing Hannah Ross since the separation. Have you heard of her?”

  “Yeah,” Cally answers. “She’s supposed to be the best child psychologist in town. Ellie, what’s-her-name’s daughter from grade school sees her for an eating disorder. You remember her don’t you, Stacy?”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “And what about you, Gail?” Cally asks. “You should be seeing someone, too.”

  “I’ve had several appointments with Dr. Goodwin. He’s got me taking something… there’s
an X in the name. I can’t remember.”

  “He’s got a decent reputation, too,” Cally says. “You’re headed in the right direction.” Then she looks over at me, and we exchange sideways glances. I remember seeing his full-page layout in the phonebook. Definitely not someone I would have considered for myself. I’m pretty sure Cally told me his wife caught him having sex with one of his patients on his office desk. It was to everyone’s advantage to keep their mouths shut. As long as his reputation for being a good shrink upholds, it doesn’t matter how bizarre their personal lives get. He will always have clients, and she will always have friends.

  Practice doesn’t end soon enough. The boys jog over. “Let’s go, Mom,” Justin says, then walks off.

  “Well, I guess that’s my cue. I’ll see you guys later.” Gail gets up quick and follows Justin to her Seven-Series Beemer.

  “Patrick, you’ve got to separate our stuff from Coach’s.” I toss the car keys to him, and he reaches out and snatches them from the air.

  “Go and help, Kyle,” Cally says. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Cally scoots closer. Gail hasn’t even pulled out of the lot yet. “Hey, that was nice work. It must’ve been killing her to keep all of that in. Don’t you think?”

  “Not at all. You should take her out to lunch anyway.”

  “I will. I will. And what about the shrinks? Hmm…” Cally strains to make a facial expression.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to make a quizzical brow.” She sighs. “I’ve really got to lay off the Botox. Anyway, I wonder if she gets a family discount.”

  “You’re wrong on so many levels.”

  “I’m just realistic. I told you she needed to talk about it, and she did. I’m sure she feels better.”

  Patrick and Kyle are in the car listening to music with the volume turned up all the way. They are thrashing their heads around like a couple of idiots. “We better get going, before they decide to drive off.” I get up and close my chair.

  “That might not be such a bad thing,” she says, which makes me laugh.