by Hope Lyda
“Can we take cuts?” Wallace asks.
Dad looks behind us. “If the two people behind us say it is okay.”
Marcus and Wallace ask permission and return to our gaggle of family.
Mrs. Jamison looks at us all with a big smile. “This is just like old times. Except Frank was just four then. And you two were teens. Remember how he used to call you something funny…what was it?”
She is pointing to Marcus and me. I try to act like I don’t know what she is talking about, but Marcus is eating this up. “Love birdies.”
“That’s it. Sounds silly now, but you two really were old souls. Kindred spirits, I guess you could say. I look at Frank, who is about to turn eighteen, and I cannot imagine him finding the love of his life this young. He’s still my baby.”
“Aw, Mom.” Frank blushes and turns his attention to the ice cream man. He then realizes that he needs money from his mom so he holds out his hand for the dollar.
Dad reaches across her shoulder with a twenty-dollar bill. “All my kids get treated today. Including you, Cheryl.”
She laughs and graciously accepts the offer. I gladly accept the distraction from the line of conversation.
Marcus handles all the orders and doles out the flavors one at a time. “Carmel nut for you.”
“Thank you. Still eating cherry chip, I see.”
“Nothing better.”
“Except our own creations, of course.”
He smiles. “Goes without saying.”
We walk in silence for a while enjoying one of the last days of summer. I feel seventeen again—all tied up inside with life’s questions and joy. It was the point in my life when I realized I was an individual and could have my own future someday.
“If you had asked me thirteen years ago what I would be doing right now in life, I would have rattled off so many things.”
“But not this?” Marcus jokes softly.
I slant my head toward him. “No. Anything but this.”
“Have your dreams served you well?”
“They have. I went through a phase when I was dreaming of the wrong things, but I think I have that figured out.”
“I did the same. Realistic is better.”
I pause in our walk. “Yes, realism inspired by dreams and faith is best.”
“Here’s to dreams, then.” Marcus tips his cone toward mine.
I take a bite off the top of my ice cream swirl and hold it on my tongue as long as I can stand it. Another carryover from seventeen. Marcus does the same.
“You swallowed. I’m the best!” I say after a couple minutes. Though it comes out more like, “Thoo swawod, I’m thu beshed.”
“Hey, love birdies, beat you to the house,” Frank says from behind us. He and Dad are also heading to the house.
I notice Marcus smile shyly at our nickname. Then bravado takes over. “You’re on. I’ll beat Frank. Mari, you outrun the old man with the cane!”
We take off for the house. Each of us running in awkward, silly strides. By the time we reach the front step, we are winded, covered in a smattering of ice cream, and laughing.
The taste of pure joy hits me hard. And I am surprised by the sweetness of childhood contentment.
Forty Licks
Mari, I always drink water with lemon when I have a mailing like this to do,” Kayla says in a tone that declares she is much wiser than I will ever be. She places a glass of tap water with a lemon wedge floating on top in front of me.
“I was thinking a cocktail might help more.” I smile at her with an open mouth like a ventriloquist dummy might.
“Mari!” Mom slaps the back of my head on her way to her seat at the table, where piles of letters and envelopes and stamps await our folding, stuffing, and licking.
Kayla acts hurt. “I just meant the lemon helps you salivate, which in turn helps you lick all those envelopes and stamps. Once again, I’m terribly sorry that I only had enough self-adhesive envelopes for your mom and me.”
I do the smile again and this time add really wide eyes. Now I am a circus sideshow puppet that comes alive at dusk.
Mom throws a pen at me this time. “Mari, I swear, you’d think you were a child.”
“Gosh, I remember my childhood. Back in high school. Remember when I was in high school, Mom? I did homework and special projects and internships. Remember that?”
Kayla ignores me completely. She gives Mom a snuggly-wuggly smile and shakes her head. It is a “those kids and their strange humor” look. Mom laughs but gives me a very stern scowl when Kayla bends over to retrieve more envelopes from a box under the table.
“So, Mari. Your mom tells me that you read to old folks? That is such a servant thing to do.”
“Actually, I’m the recreation director for a retirement and assisted living facility. I do lots of things. I teach classes, I schedule special events and activities, I coordinate the volunteers, you know…like interns.”
Mom kicks me beneath the table and offers Kayla a snack. It is so obvious where the love is in this room. Far, far from me. Deservedly so. I don’t know why I cannot let Kayla alone in her psychotic world of make-believe. Why does it matter if she wants to pretend she does not know me? It occurs to me that maybe I really am that forgettable. I did only job-shadow her for three months. Maybe my personality does not come out until month four.
“These are delicious, Mrs. H.” Kayla begins to eat a biscotti without dipping it in coffee first. As I watch bits of shortbread and almond tumble from her lips and onto the letters in front of her, I suddenly have a flashback.
We went on a double-date together.
Kayla was supposed to go out with a senator’s supposedly boring son, Rob, and she didn’t want to go alone, so she invited me to tag along as the blind date of the boring son’s friend, Thane. When I protested that my parents would never let me go, she insisted that I sneak out of the house and pretend I was twenty-one.
Sadly, I did both under her wicked spell. Turns out the only bore that night was her. As she ate like a wild animal with a broken jaw and harassed the waitstaff, the two guys and I watched with horror. Finally we ignored Kayla, who seemed frozen in her inadequacy, and we embarked on interesting conversation about politics and baseball. When nine o’clock rolled around, the nice young men said it was time to get me home before my parents found out. I was not excited that they were on to how young I was, but I was relieved to get home before curfew and the interrogation that would have ensued had I arrived home after ten.
“Mom, do you know whatever happened to Senator Bob Munroe?” I ask as casually as possible. I watch Kayla’s eyes widen.
Gotcha.
Mom presses down on a stamp and thinks for a bit. “I think he and his son are quite successful in business real estate these days. You know, I should invite him to my next event. I always liked him.”
“Wow,” I emphasize, “he and his son are really successful, huh? That sure is good to hear. Don’t you think so, Kayla?”
For a brief moment, there is a look of recognition, of avoidance, and finally of denial on Kayla’s face. She shrugs and bites into another dry biscotti.
“Thanks again for the water with lemon idea, Kayla. I feel like I could spit all day.”
“Mari!”
A Fitting Response
Passenger Mari Hamilton, please report to the Fly Right gate.” The overhead is blaring my name every ten seconds. I try to act as though my fast shuffle down the airport hallways isn’t a direct response. It is like casually exiting to turn off your lights when your license plate is announced at a restaurant.
“I’m Mari Hamilton,” I say while juggling my laptop and an overnight bag. “You paged me?” I look up into the stern eyes of Clarissa.
“Your friend tried to get past the gate to greet you with a special package. We don’t allow that. Tell any friends that if they want to meet you at the airport, they must meet you in the baggage claim or here. Got it?”
Gulp. “Yes, ma’am. Can I s
ee my friend now?”
Clarissa does her extreme pointing. I follow the shell pink, polished nail and see Caitlin looking sheepish next to an airport security guard. It is the guard who last time removed the necklace Beau made for me.
“Maybe you should send a memo to your friends. Surprise gifts at the airport are not such a good idea,” says the guard.
“I got that message from Clarissa, but thank you. Can my friend go now?”
He nods and Caitlin hurries toward me.
Clarissa is helping another customer but finds it necessary to add one more round of wisdom to this day’s lessons. “Maybe your friend could dress in something recognizable too. She wouldn’t be such an obvious one to pull aside. Okay?”
I wave and smile and reassess my friend. I am so accustomed to Caitlin that even after a month’s absence her clothing taste did not faze me. But now that I take a second, fresh look, her multi-colored headdress is a bit conspicuous.
“Don’t worry. This isn’t one of my designs. I borrowed it from a friend. Thought I would show up at the dress fitting with this on to tease Sadie.”
“I’m thinking that is a big risk, my friend.”
She fingers the tufts of feathers that extend about two feet above her face. “I wouldn’t want to upset her. I thought it’d be funny.”
Am I really the only one who understands that Sadie is on edge?
When we pull up to the dress shop in my ratty car, we are met by Valerie, who is beaming beneath the awning-covered entrance. Her hair is up in a very formal style, and she wears a floor length, blue satin dress.
“Should we hope that Sadie changed her mind about the striped numbers?” I say before we get out of the car.
“No. I even asked. In a discreet way, I promise.” Caitlin nods with grave seriousness. “That’s why I thought the headdress might be good comic relief. Angelica told me that even her size four thighs were not meant for this challenge.”
“We just have to deal with the dresses. That stays,” I give her a Clarissa directive for her comic relief prop.
“I’m glad we returned the dresses for a second fitting,” says Caitlin.
“So it wouldn’t be in your apartment, sucking you into its mesmerizing vortex of cataclysmic, stripy…”
Caitlin can spot one of my adjective-filled run-on sentences in a few syllables. She holds up a hand to stop me. “I stress ate for a week while making the New York decision. I needed to move the hips back out to the fuchsia stripe.”
“I passed the fuchsia stripe months ago. Now, put on your ‘I love looking like a Bond girl’ face. Our friend awaits.”
Sadie is peeking over Valerie’s shoulder, excited to see us. She looks beautiful in a white suit and lavender blouse. We cannot disappoint our friend with bad attitudes. And we don’t. Not even when two of us put them on backward in confusion. We are perfectly agreeable.
“Where are those little sandwiches?” Angelica looks haggard and is sitting in an unladylike position on the bench. Or off the bench. She is on the floor with her feet propped up on the cushions. She says it is to relieve a backache, but I think she has vertigo from the stripes.
Sadie doesn’t seem to mind Angelica’s pose. In fact, she seems more chipper than ever. “We should have food now. Has everyone been pinned?”
“Yes, Miss Verity,” we say in unison, eager to get to the free food. Well, free to us.
Once Valerie has offered us a splendid assortment of sandwiches and salads, Sadie asks if we can have the parlor area to ourselves. Once alone, we all four sit on the floor and get comfortable. My brief visit with Rachel and Cheyenne in Arlington made me homesick for this circle of friends.
They all want to know about the shelter, the kids, and my dad’s health. And all I want to know is how Caitlin is handling her relationship with Jim, postproposal.
“So, Caitlin, any change of mind or heart?” I ask openly.
Caitlin looks down at her sandals. Angelica and Sadie appear puzzled and curious. I realize I am about to blow a secret. “…about how you plan to wear your hair for the wedding?”
Caitlin plays along. “No. I wanted to see what Sadie thought.” She gives us all a few hair poses.
Sadie considers the possibilities. “I like the hair up along the sides but long and a little wild down the back. Do you think that matches the feel of the bridesmaid dresses?”
We all hold our breath—just for a moment.
As Angelica opens her mouth to speak, I close my eyes, anticipating the worst comment possible.
“Believe me, ‘a little wild’ fits the dresses.”
Surprisingly, it is the perfect answer.
Filling in the Blanks
Call me when you want me to pick you up,” Caitlin says as I heave myself out of her low car.
“I’m sure Beau can drive me to your place. What time will you be going to bed?”
“Early. I’m wiped out. You know, with the whole proposal thing. By the way, thanks for not bringing it up. I feel funny. Like if I stick with my no answer, I will offend Sadie somehow, and if I say yes, I will let you and Angelica down.”
I stand on the curb and lean in through the passenger window. “You worry about disappointing everyone, Caitlin. I’d be so happy for you if this was the right thing. And only you can decide that. You and Jim the Cop.”
“I’ve been envious of Sadie for so long, ever since I’ve known her but especially since her engagement, and now that it is a possibility for me, I realize that a lot of questions go with that one big answer.”
“I hear ya.”
“Angelica would totally be against the idea.”
“There you go again. And to let you in on a little secret, I predict Angelica is going to come out of her self-appointed isolation. She’s a lot more like you and me when it comes to figuring out the love stuff.”
“You’d never know it.” Caitlin starts her car. “Can you really see me married?”
“I can see you married and having your own store. That’s what I see.”
After I watch Caitlin’s car pull out of the parking lot, all my thoughts are of Beau. Happily I feel weak in the knees and my heart is racing. After our not so great record of phone conversations recently, I was afraid I would approach this time with him too cautiously, or worse, with hurt feelings. Instead, I am taking the stairs two at a time to his upstairs condo.
I can hear clapping and what sounds like the laugh track for a 1950s sitcom—rising and falling in an orderly way.
Knock. Knock.
More clapping.
Knock. Knock.
Chuckle. Chuckle.
Finally I hear motion on the other side of the door. Or commotion rather. Something heavy hits the floor, there is another thud, and then a small crash. I stretch my neck to peek in the window just as the door opens. My heart skips a beat when I see Beau standing in the doorway looking bedraggled and slightly disoriented.
“Were you asleep?” I ask instead of hugging him like I want to.
He rubs his eyes. “Come here.” He reaches out and pulls me to him. The awkwardness of the phone conversations disappears as soon as I look into his face.
“You are working too hard. It’s only eight thirty and you are falling asleep in front of the television,” I tease him, but not long ago this was my life every night.
“I just turned the television on to help keep me awake. Guess that wasn’t such a good remedy for fatigue.” The word fatigue apparently triggers Beau’s thoughts of my dad. “How is your father’s condition?”
“Better. He’s stronger each day and more feisty. I think he is going a bit stir-crazy, but it is way too early for him to tackle anything close to his past routine at the center. And the kids have been great. It does them good to tend to some of his needs. A few of them are really blossoming under the role of caregiver.” I smile, thinking of Jon, Katie, and Alf taking turns blending Dad’s vitamin shakes.
“Come sit down. It’s so good to see you, Mari.”
“It is?” I love it when he says my name.
“I have missed you. And this report is killing me.”
“Then we should go out for ice cream or for a walk at the rock gardens. You need a break from all this work.”
He scratches his head and then his oxford-covered stomach. “Actually, I was thinking you could help me with some of this.”
“Oh, sure,” I say not too convincingly.
He reaches for the hook on the wall past me. Holding up his keys, he says, “Tell you what. I will go get some ice cream and toppings and you can sit back, relax, and maybe take a look at that printout there. Something is missing, but I’m too tired to figure it out.”
I kiss his cheek and readjust my expectations for a romantic stroll or a nice dinner out. If I had not been gone the past month, I would love the chance to help him with this project. In fact, it is exactly what I was asking for before I left for Washington—involvement, inclusion, connection.
He is out the door and down the steps quicker than I can say “extra caramel sauce.” I sit back on the couch and wonder what it would be like to be married and living here with Beau. The furnishings and decor are sparse, and moving boxes remain unopened, even after all these months. Yet Beau is the kind of guy who can make a place feel homey. The couch is cozy with pretty pillows and colorful throws. He has a candle arrangement in the fireplace and up on the mantel. Sure, it is the exact arrangement they have on the cover of Pier 1’s sale flyer, but still, for a guy it is a nice touch.
Maybe staying in and working together side by side is just what we need. We only have a few hours, and here we have no distractions from waiters, and we can relax and enjoy the precious time.
Wheel of Fortune’s theme song is screaming at me. I turn the sound down, but keep the television on so I can guess the words. Spreadsheets cover Beau’s polished pine coffee table. No wonder he has been working so hard; this project seems daunting. Jumping in midway isn’t easy, but soon I recognize stats and charts from my work at Golden Horizons. It seems he is showing how facilities with high program involvement have a greater success rate for improving the quality of life for patients who have Alzheimers, dementia, or mobility problems. It is something we all know, but it is not necessarily easy to prove that dollars toward programming are dollars well spent.
