Reinventing Mona

by Jennifer Coburn

  “So, tell me, Mona,” Greta began. “What on earth is so special about this Adam Zigfried that you’ve gone off the deep end like this? Give me three good reasons I should be rooting for this relationship to work out between the two of you.”

  “First of all, his name is Adam Ziegler, not Zigfried.”

  “Oh, now I’m convinced. What a great reason.”

  “It’s not a reason. I just wanted to let you know so you can get used to saying his name correctly. After all, it’ll be my name too soon.” I smiled, mocking my own confidence.

  “You plan to take his name? Is there going to be anything left of the old Mona when you’re done?”

  “Greta, you’ve turned into a real drama queen.”

  I rolled my eyes, huffing and puffing as the Pacific Ocean scrolled behind us. “I’m certainly not the first woman to take her husband’s last name. It’s not like I’m handing him my right leg.” This particular limb came to mind only because of the pain shooting through it at that moment. We nodded to our fellow runners along the smooth ocean sidewalk. A cluster of tire-sized rocks formed a wall that separated us from the expansive white beach. I inhaled deeply, partly to get oxygen into my body, and partly to take in the paradise around us. Where else in the country were people jogging in T-shirts along palm tree-lined beach walks just a week before Christmas? My grandfather seemed to only make smart decisions, from buying a home on the ocean to being one of the pioneers of the canned tuna industry. San Diego, I sighed silently. God was definitely having a good day when he made this patch of the world.

  “Women don’t have to do things simply because others before them have,” Greta treaded lightly.

  “What happened to free choice?”

  “What happened to free thinking?”

  “You’re so right, Greta. Taking Adam’s name is going to evaporate my brain. My whole identity is going to be absorbed right into his. I am that stupid. Why are you so against this when you know it’s going to make me happy?”

  Greta didn’t look in my direction as she spoke. Naval planes flew above her; nothing could distract her. “I don’t believe in looking to other people to make yourself happy, that’s all,” she said, definitely with more than just Adam Ziegler in mind. “Mona, you are a wonderful person, but it breaks my heart that you don’t seem to realize that. I noticed you never did give me those three reasons. And what in God’s name are you thinking wanting to ask advice from that idiot, The Dog?”

  “Have you read his column?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard about it. He’s frighteningly chauvinistic.”

  “That’s exactly why,” I said. “You always tell me to embrace what I fear. Believe me, I’ve read his column and this guy is scary. He’s going to give me the insight into the way men think and not worry about political correctness. He’s the real deal, the inside track into Guy World.”

  “Why would you want to be with a small-minded Neanderthal, though, Mona?”

  “I don’t. Adam isn’t that way at all. Adam is sensitive and gentle and kind, but if I can understand men through the eyes of a total jerk, I’ll be able to handle Adam, no problem.”

  “This makes absolutely no sense.”

  “It does to me, and frankly, I don’t need your approval of this decision or any other. How’s that for emotional health?”

  “I’d say it’s one step forward, two steps back.”

  We ran a bit less than a mile before my legs could take me no farther. “I don’t have any patients this morning. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee at Starbucks?” Greta asked.

  “Sure, but I’ve got to be honest with you, Greta. I have no patience either this morning. Can we drop Adam?”

  “I’d love to drop Adam.” She smiled. “Okay, I’ll let it go. I know I can be a pain in the butt sometimes, but do understand it’s only because I care about you.” It rang with such genuine truth. I knew I could never stay angry with Greta for too long. Sometimes her timing was perfect.

  I changed the subject as we walked the immaculate sidewalks of Coronado. “Hey, whatever happened with that guy in Austin?”

  “What guy?” Greta asked.

  “Hello. The guy you were living with. The guy it ‘just didn’t work out with and I don’t want to talk about it.’ Remember him?”

  We walked in silence until we reached an empty Starbucks. “Morning, Greta,” said the clerk. “Mocha latte venti?” She shook her head to approve. “And for you, ma’am?”

  Greta stirred her whipped cream until it dissolved completely in her coffee. “I’m sorry, Mona. I know I promised we’d drop the subject, but I have to ask—how are you so sure he’s the one?”

  “I’ll make you a deal.” I sighed. “I’ll tell you what you want to know about Adam if you tell me what was so awful about your breakup that you had to move back home.”

  Greta shifted her weight from one side of her seat to the other. “The usual reasons,” she said, unnaturally upbeat. I wish I could have thick lips like Greta’s, so full and uneven on the bottom. Mine look like a Muppet’s—a sliced open face with no rim to delineate the mouth. “We outgrew each other, so it was time to move on.”

  “That’s pretty boring,” I said.

  “True.”

  “That’s really all there is to it?”

  “That’s all she wrote.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. “There’s always more to it than that.”

  “Not always. Okay, your turn.”

  “Hmm. Let’s see,” I began. “First, there’s chemistry between me and Adam. You can’t underestimate the power of pure physical attraction. Second, he’s from a great family. They’re so close that Grammy said they all take vacations together. They even manage to have Sunday dinners once a month. I think that’s sweet. I want to bring children into a family like that.” Greta shifted again. “And, third, I don’t know. There’s just something about him. He makes my hair twirl. He makes me want to twirl my hair around my finger, flop onto my bed, and talk to him on the phone all night. I don’t know, Greta. I just love him. I just do. I can’t tell you exactly why, but I’ve got this gut feeling that he’s the one. You know that feeling when you hear music that really resonates with you? You feel like someone drew a map straight to your soul, and the music travels the roads, seeps in through your pores, and follows every route to the very core of you. The part you rarely go to because it’s so delicate that if you so much as inhale, you’ll cry from the extraordinary, overwhelming sense of happiness. Do you know what I mean? That’s how I feel when I think of Adam, and I have no logical explanation for it whatsoever. And I’m not one bit sorry about it either. I’m only sorry I waited so long to pursue it.”

  Greta took in what I was saying. I could see her mentally starting several rebuttals until she came up with this one. “You aren’t pursuing it, though. Mona, you told me about Adam two weeks ago, and so far you haven’t even picked up the telephone. Are you afraid the real Adam Ziegler won’t be enough to live up to your fantasy?”

  I tried to prevent my eyes from watering, but was soon looking at Greta through rising tears. “No. I’m afraid the real Mona Warren won’t be enough.” I took a deep breath and held back my tears. I try not to cry very often because when I do, it lasts for hours and exhausts the life out of me. When I really get going, I start gulping and sobbing and it’s just an all-around mess. Every few years or so, I can’t help myself, but as a general rule, I try to stop crying before it starts.

  “Mona, I’m sorry,” Greta said, running to the counter for napkins. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I rolled the brown napkin into a point and stuck it into the corner of my eye. I felt the tears jump onto the napkin, escaping my miserable face. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said, sniffling. “I have no clue what I’m doing. That’s why I’m trying to hire The Dog, so he can help me figure out what men want. I know I’m supposed to be focused on what I want, and I will. I promise you, I will. But what I want most is Adam a
nd I have absolutely no idea how to act around a guy. I’ve never even had a boyfriend, and I’m terrified that I’ll get to Adam’s office and freak out from the pressure and start talking like an imbecile, and blow it.”

  When we returned to the house, I glanced at my answering machine to see if The Dog had returned my call. Greta picked up my pad of paper. “Waiting for The Dog?” she asked.

  “Kind of,” I admitted. “I don’t understand why he doesn’t call back.”

  “What would you say to spending Christmas day with my family, the whole slew of us?” Greta offered.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, then. I’m going to do something for you now. Let me restate that I think asking advice from a man who calls himself a dog is absurd, but you’re not going to truly appreciate how useless he is until you see for yourself. I’ll get through to him and schedule your silly little appointment, but I guarantee he’ll refuse your offer. I take that back. After meeting him, you’ll see that you don’t need his advice and won’t offer anything other than a one-way trip to the front door.”

  “But how? I’ve called him eight times already,” I explained.

  “Does tonight work for you?” Greta asked.

  I nodded my head. “But how are you going to...?”

  “Should he come to the house or do you prefer to meet at the coffee shop?”

  “Um, here, but, he’s not—”

  She put her hand up to interrupt me and began dialing.

  “He’s probably on vacation,” I whispered.

  Suddenly, Greta began speaking in an impeccable English accent. Impeccable enough, I hoped, to fool Mike’s English secretary. “Yes, good morning. Please connect me with The Dog’s office.”

  “Drop the accent, his assistant is ...” I couldn’t finish.

  “Yes, good morning, Gwen. This is Felicity from Claudia Schiffer’s office. Ms. Schiffer is a huge fan of The Dog’s. She thinks his column is quite clever. She’ll be stopping over in San Diego this evening and wonders if Mr. Dougherty would care to join her for dinner.” She paused again. “Yes, of course I’ll hold.” Pause. Greta’s facial expression signaled that Mike had picked up the line. “Yes, morning to you, too, Mr. Dougherty ... yes, of course, Dog. Okay, lovely, lovely, Claudia will be delighted. Let me give you the address of the private home she will be staying at. I trust your discretion will be used with this information, correct?” Pause. “Wonderful. Let’s say seven then.” Greta gave him my address despite my repeated pleas to hang up the phone.

  “What the hell did you do?!” I shouted when she hung up the phone.

  “I arranged for you to meet with this Dog person. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Greta, this is not a friendly dog! Read this column.” I shoved my open copy of Maximum for Him at her. As she scanned the magazine, I continued, “He’s going to come over here, see that I am the furthest thing from Claudia Schiffer, and God knows what.” I started pacing around frantically as she read the article. “He’s going to freak out when he gets here. Call and cancel. Give me the phone so I can cancel. He’s going to totally flip out when he gets here and there’s no Claudia Schiffer. Hey Dog, guess who’s not coming to dinner? Instead you’ve got me?!”

  Greta laughed as she looked up from the magazine. “Mona, this is what you said you wanted. If you want a male consultant, you have to meet him first. I set up the meeting, that’s all. If this is what you want, you have to make it happen.”

  Is this what I wanted? Why hire a guy coach who’s a dog when Adam is a prince? Was Mike like my New York? If I could make it there, I could make it anywhere? Or was I just using him as another delay tactic? Another excuse to prolong going for Adam?

  Chapter 9

  “When I told Greta I’d never had a boyfriend, I wasn’t being entirely truthful. It was so long ago, though, it hardly counts as practical experience.

  If I’d grown up in an American suburb, Todd would have been the boy next door. A product of the same farmhouse commune that I called home, he was the boy who slept on the other side of the children’s dorm curtain.

  My parents and their friends bought 110 acres in Montana just three weeks after Ronald Reagan was first elected president, and started building the house that spring. I was nine years old, and remember a lot of my friends’ parents saying they were leaving the country, moving to Canada, starting a revolution, or something equally drastic. My parents, and three couples they went to college with, actually followed through. They said they would build a tremendous house in the middle of nowhere, raise animals, grow organic vegetables, sew their own clothing, make their own food, and live off the land. Live from their labor rather than relying on the outside world. Everything from food to furniture would be made by our new, extended family.

  The first night in Missoula, Jessica and I found each other and became partners in cynicism about this whole weird commune idea our parents dreamt up. We each bet on how long it would last, and how it would end. My ten dollars said the animals would all run away right after eating all the vegetables. One year tops. Jess thought the adults would all get on each other’s nerves within six months, and we’d go our separate ways by Christmas.

  Our hope for failure had the polar opposite effect on the house. (So much for Freddy’s philosophy about thoughts manifesting reality.) Every night, there was more explosive laughter than the evening before. The adults constantly reminded each other what a brilliant choice they’d made. Asia recited her creation-of-paradise grace before every meal. Dinners were so plentiful they looked like knight’s feasts. Only now can I appreciate the purity of eating dinners that we planted and grew ourselves. From plates that Asia threw, painted, and glazed. On a table my father built. With burning vanilla candles hand-dipped by my mother. In a house that we built. In a life they created. With the people we chose to make our family.

  I don’t remember exactly when it dawned on Jessica and me that Todd was gorgeous. There weren’t grades to mark the time like we had in our previous life. It was the same year as Jessica’s Red Party, though. I remember because she was embarrassed that he knew about her first period, so it must have been right around when we were both thirteen years old. We sat on the porch watching the men chop wood, pretending to read the assigned Canterbury Tales, but really peeking over the pages to watch Todd’s tanned and newly developed chest as it contracted with every swing of the ax.

  Todd had just taken his SATs and we all knew he’d be off to an Ivy League school in the fall. Everyone always said Todd was brilliant, but Jessica and I thought that was just a bunch of hippie talk. We thought he was pretty smart and seriously beautiful with his shoulder-length wavy black hair and his Flathead Indian bone structure. But when Todd took his PSATs the year before and scored 234, with a perfect score in math, we conceded that perhaps he really was brilliant.

  The adults weren’t thrilled about his desire to attend an Ivy League school, but they were also big proponents of letting us kids chart our own course. They felt Yale or Dartmouth, Todd’s first choices, were too “establishment” and feared his good values would unravel there. Francesca assured them that if they raised the boy right, he could attend the University of Hell and still come out the same good person. Maybe even better. “That boy has spent his entire lifetime book-learning about privilege and power,” Francesca explained at the dinner table as this issue was debated. “Let him experience it firsthand. He’ll grow more compassionate in the environment. Let’s not assume the environment will affect him. Todd is a strong presence that we must now share with the world. Imagine the love our boy will take out into the world.” Her eyes welled with tears as Jessica rolled hers.

  Todd and I never went on dates like normal teens. But we were definitely an item and everyone knew it. It happened the summer he turned seventeen. At his birthday party, in fact. Birthdays were huge celebrations in our family. Everyone got a big party with the theme of his or her choice. Babies and elders were especially celebrated with dozens of horns and ritual
s and poetry readings. They really knew how to celebrate life, I will say that. Anyway, Todd chose a beach party theme, which meant we built a tremendous bonfire and set blankets around it. Bags of cookies, marshmallows, and Hershey’s chocolate sat promisingly in a crate. The sight of packaged food was an oddity in our home. We could hear Freddy lecturing the younger kids about the packaging of the sweets, asking them why they thought the manufacturers used an illustration of a teddy bear on its plastic bagging. “It’s cute,” my brother, Oscar, answered. “Okay, but let’s take this a step further and talk about why the marshmallow company wants to put cute pictures of teddy bears on their bags.” Freddy’s inquiry was punctuated by Oscar’s little head dropping to his lap.

  My mother serenaded Todd that night, changing the gender in The Beatles “I Saw Her Standing There.” When she sang that he was just seventeen, and asked if we knew what she meant, I blushed. I knew what she meant all right. I also knew that it meant that in one year from now, we’d be hosting his off-to-college party. Or so I thought. I don’t know what Todd was thinking, but our eyes met from across the fire, stayed locked on each other a second too long, and we both knew the other was interested. The vibe, my parents called it.

  Morgan drove an hour to buy two dozen lobsters, which Todd wanted for his birthday beach party. Todd had never tasted lobster, so it wasn’t as though it was an old favorite. Rather, he was starting to dabble in the finer things so he wouldn’t look like a sheltered Indian boy straight off a Montana commune. I think he had this wild notion that Ivy League kids were going to walk around campus talking about yachting and tennis, snacking on caviar and sipping champagne at polo games. I knew he felt terribly intimidated by the whole thing, but was going to go anyway. That’s one of the things I really loved about Todd. He knew what he was afraid of, but didn’t let it stand in the way from his doing it.