Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. Lucy ‘I-have-a-date-every-weekend’ O’Brien is in the house.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “I do not. Not every weekend.”

  Last spring she dragged me kicking and screaming to a singles event up in Cocoa Beach. “Can’t go,” I protested over and over. “I’m allergic to singles functions!”

  My eyes watered, my throat tightened and I couldn’t breathe. I needed air.

  Anyway, I caved to her demands and attended this singles shindig when she reminded me I hadn’t been on a date in over a year. It was a Hawaiian luau with a bonfire on the beach, roasting pig on the spit, twilight volleyball and candlelit pavilions. All serenaded by a ukulele band with its very own Don Ho impersonator. I had to admit, a very nice event.

  But, as I suspected, it turned out to be the classic, textbook church singles function. Five girls for every guy, and every guy a dud—in my humble opinion. The one cool guy who showed up without a USB data stick slung around his neck, polyester pants or Velcro sneakers gravitated right past me for Lucy.

  “Mace, hey, earth.” Lucy snaps her fingers. “Come in, Macy.”

  “What?” I jump into the present.

  “What about Casper? What’re you going to do?”

  Oh, that. Between the upheaval at Casper and the upheaval with Chris, I’m not sure how to find right side up.

  “I don’t know. My beautiful life…an ash heap.” With that, I’m depressed. Knowing it is one thing—declaring it is another.

  “Don’t take this wrong…” she starts with a thoughtful expression.

  “Oh no, I love conversations that start with ‘Don’t take this wrong.’” I brace myself for one of her friendly cuts.

  “Your career was becoming your God.”

  “What?” Now, that’s not fair.

  “This last year, you changed, went berserk with work. Then you met Chris—”

  “Berserk with work?” I echo, biting into my egg roll.

  “You got hung up on climbing the corporate ladder and it took some zeal out of you,” Lucy says.

  “Zeal? You just said I was berserk with work.”

  She looks at me for a long second and I know she’s about to utter something profound. “Your zeal for Jesus faded. Like frizzy perms and oversize belted blouses.”

  I’m cut to the quick. Comparing my spiritual life with distasteful ’80s fashion. I fire off my rebuttal. “I’m zealous for Him by doing my job with excellence.”

  “Don’t twist things, Macy. Your identity was becoming that whole corporate, yuppie world. The cars, the clothes, power lunches, working fifty-, sixty-hour weeks.” Lucy picks up the fried rice carton and shovels another round onto her plate.

  “So what are you saying? Give up on my dreams?”

  “Of course not. I’m saying make an adjustment. Remember what you do in life is merely a reflection of who you are as a Christian, one who loves and serves the Lord.”

  Her words shake me. She’s right. I didn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. I hate these kinds of “duh” moments, like realizing the light has changed to red just when I’ve shifted into fifth gear.

  “Casper obviously doesn’t seem to appreciate all you’ve sacrificed for them, and Chris showed you how much your love means to him today. He forgot your name, Macy.”

  “He did, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.” Lucy reclines against the back of the couch, plate in hand, and reaches for the TV remote. She stops on the latest installment of The Apprentice.

  “Luce, hey, do you mind?” I point at the TV with my chopsticks. “I don’t need a reminder.”

  I wonder if Donald would fire me. Better yet, fire Roni Karpinski. “Veronica, you’re fired.” Hmm. I feel a little better.

  Sigh. But my life is not a reality TV show. It’s worse. Seeing my name on that Casper org chart dropped from the manager box into the slush pile of staff names was painful and humiliating, then running into Chris with Kate…

  I wonder if I should call him and sort this out. What if he’s with her? I can’t bear it. I won’t call. Makes me look desperate. If he’s got something to say, he can come say it.

  In the midst of my mental and spiritual debate the phone rings. Lucy answers and hands it to me with her eyes popping, her finger over the mouthpiece.

  “It’s your boss,” she whispers.

  “You don’t have to whisper, Lucy.” I yank the phone out of her hand.

  “Hi, Roni.” Maybe she’s watching The Apprentice, too, and is calling to apologize.

  “Macy, it’s Mike Perkins.”

  Chapter Four

  Oh. Yeah. My boss. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry to call you at home, but you never came back to the office—”

  “I had to take care of some things.”

  “Mmm-hmm, right. Listen, Pete Miller called from Atlanta. He needs technical help with his Web software upgrade. He’s crunched for time on an e-business launch.”

  “I tried to send him Tim Sorenson last month, but he refused. Didn’t want to pay for on-site support.”

  “Well, he’s not refusing now. He’s demanding.”

  Figures. “The schedule is full for the next few weeks, Mike.”

  “Wel-l-l-l, Jillian booked you on the 7:15 a.m. out of Melbourne.”

  I spring to my feet. “Me? Seven-fifteen!” My plate of moo goo gai pan tumbles to the floor. Lucy fumbles with her plate trying to catch mine and tips the carton of wonton soup.

  “Roni and I decided you’re the best one to calm Pete down. Do a little company campaigning. You can install W-Book. Get him excited about our new product.”

  Company campaigning? The company that just demoted me? This is s-o-o-o Roni. Mike rattles off the trip details while Lucy mops up soup and fried rice and peas. Stunned, I listen to his instructions, confirming them with a series of “Mmm-hmms.”

  By the time we hang up, my stomach is in tiny knots. I haven’t been on-site in aeons. But hey, it’s like riding a bike, right? You never forget. Wanted: a three-wheeler.

  I pen a mental checklist of to-dos: pack, pay next week’s bills, print out my e-ticket. Oh man, my laptop is at work.

  I give Lucy the lowdown. “Macy, why don’t you tell him you can’t go?”

  “Of course, why didn’t I think of that? And when he fires me, can I move in with you after I sell the condo?”

  “Right. Happy trails.”

  Yeah, just as I thought. We continue discussing the weirdness of my day as I finishing cleaning up, taking our plates to the kitchen.

  “Mace, I’m so sorry about today. I’ve been praying for you,” Lucy says, retrieving a can of carpet cleaner from under the kitchen sink. She grabs a clean dish towel and heads to the living room.

  “Thank you, Lucy.” I peer at her through the pass-through. Where would I be without her friendship? She’s in there cleaning up my carpet as if it were her own, praying for me, comforting me, encouraging me while I refuse to give up griping and complaining.

  I can’t say that I deserved this day or that God is punishing me, but I can say that if I’d been walking a little closer to Him it might not sting as much.

  “Are you going to quit?” Lucy asks, returning to the kitchen, replacing the carpet cleaner.

  “No, I can’t afford to be a prima donna.”

  She smiles, leaning against the doorway. “Good. I don’t want you to leave town.”

  I pick up the pile of mail Lucy had brought in. “I’m willing to hang out a little while and see what happens.” I sigh. “But Lucy, life on the road is the pits.”

  “I know, but give it a chance…. Oh, you got it.” Lucy points to a bright red flyer sticking out of the pile of mail.

  “Got what?” I tug on the red corner and pull the piece away from the others.

  “The announcement for our fifteenth class reunion.”

  “Already?” There, in black and red, in the bubbly verbiage of our class secretary, Alisa Bell, is a reminder to put th
e July Fourth weekend on our calendars and “if your address has changed, let me know!”

  Alisa has never given up the job of senior class secretary. In her mind, she was elected for life. In fifteen years I don’t think one of our Beauty High classmates has managed to come up MIA.

  “I can’t wait,” Lucy says. “Reunions are so fun.”

  Normally I’d agree with her, but in light of recent events, a reunion sounds dreadful. “I don’t know. I might skip this one. Wait for the twenty-year, where hopefully I’ll show up married to a bazillionaire and running a Fortune 500 company.”

  “Macy.” Lucy picks up her purse and digs out her keys. “You’re one of the most amazing women I know.” She hugs me. “I know today was hard, but you have to believe God has a plan for you.”

  “I know. I know.” I spend the rest of my night getting ready to leave town. The laundry I meant to do over the weekend—but didn’t—has to be done. I load and start the washing machine, throw on my sneakers and drive to the office to pick up my computer.

  I’m dreading this new assignment—a week on-site with an antsy, uptight customer. I mutter to God all the way to the office and back about this new phase of my life.

  “Don’t understand what’s going on here…if You wanted my attention, You have it now…please, give me understanding…I promise to listen….”

  It’s late when I finally collapse into bed. My thoughts are all over the place, yet not thinking of anything at all.

  Just as I drift off to sleep, the phone rings. I toy with not answering. Who do I want to talk to at this hour? No one. But by the third ring, curiosity wins out.

  “Hello?”

  “Macy, sorry to bother you. It’s Elaine Woodward.”

  Elaine Woodward. Mrs. Woodward? Her first name is Elaine?

  “Hi.” I reach for the light.

  “Can you come over?”

  “Mrs. Woodward?” I call, cinching my pink robe and shaking water from my fuzzy green slippers.

  The front door’s ajar, so I peek inside and step subsequently into 1954. The furniture, the lamp stands, the doilies resting atop the easy chair, the entire scene straight from a ’50s Better Homes and Gardens. I find it comforting and warm.

  “Mrs. Woodward?” She’s lying on the couch, one hand over her stomach and one hand covering her eyes. “You okay?”

  “Macy, thank you for coming. I didn’t want to be alone.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ease down onto the edge of the sofa.

  “Pain,” she says with a deep breath. “Right here.” She presses her middle, between her ribs.

  Heart attack? Please, do not be having a heart attack. I am not EMT material. I faint at paper cuts.

  “I’m going to call 911.” Just the idea makes my heart palpitate.

  “No, no, I don’t want to bother them. I’ll be all right.”

  “Bother them? It’s their job.” What is it with the senior set and their preoccupation with bothering people?

  “No, let’s wait. I just didn’t want to be alone.” She sighs with a deep moan, her face pinched and pale.

  Do not tell me this is a clever ploy to get me over for a visit. If she asks me if I’d like a spot of tea, or a bowl of soup, I’ll—

  She moans again and I can tell she’s in real pain. I feel guilty over my lack of compassion.

  “Does your chest hurt? Arm numb?” I slip my hand under hers. If she says yes, I’m bothering 911.

  “It’s not a heart attack,” she mutters. “Could you get me a glass of water?”

  I dart to the kitchen, praying as I go. Despite the fact that I don’t know what to do for my ailing neighbor, it’s a relief to focus on someone besides myself.

  Mrs. Woodward’s hand trembles as she reaches for the glass, so I help her take a sip.

  I plead, “Let me call for an ambulance.”

  “No, it always passes.”

  “You’ve had these episodes before?” I take the glass and set it on a coaster. “What did your doctor say?”

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  “Mrs. Woodward, this could be serious,” I lecture. I rack my brain trying to remember what organ lives between your ribs in the upper stomach region. I have no idea. Well, there’s $170 gone to waste for that university anatomy class.

  For a while I sit quietly and hold her hand. I start to get sleepy and can’t help but think how fast 4:00 a.m. will come. Then I hear the soft sounds of sleep from Mrs. Woodward.

  “Mrs. Woodward?” I gently shake her arm.

  She’s out. I get up without disturbing her and reach for the afghan draped over the back of the couch. I cover her and click off the lights except one in case she wakes up and wants to go to her bed.

  Pushing in the lock button on the doorknob, I head for home, captured in the sudden emotion of Mrs. Woodward’s episode. Dark rainy night, an elderly widow all alone, overcome with pain. I would have called me, too.

  The last time I saw visitors at her place was last…last…hmm, well, weird—I’ve never seen visitors. I don’t even know if she has children or grandchildren. I didn’t see any pictures on the wall or mantel.

  “Hey, Macy.”

  “Who’s there?” I tumble into a cluster of overgrown palmetto bushes, freaked. My fuzzy slipper sloshes into a pool of floating pine chips.

  “Macy, it’s me, Chris.”

  I peek between the palm fronds to make sure it’s really him. A girl cannot be too careful. Yep, it’s the weasel.

  “What are you doing here?” I step out of the shrubs, losing a slipper. I stoop to fish it out, hobbling on one foot.

  “What are you doing?” Chris asks.

  “I asked you first.” I wring the water from my slipper and make a beeline for my place, one slipper off, one slipper on. My pink robe flows behind me like a cape.

  “I want to talk to you.” He follows me.

  “At one in the morning?” This day will just not end. It’s spilling over into tomorrow, which is now technically today.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” He’s right on my heels, and I catch a whiff of day-old Versace Blue Jeans. I loved that fragrance until today. Until right now.

  “Ah, is your conscience bothering you? Lousy cheater.” I plan to leave him standing on my front porch, stewing in his own guilt with my door slammed in his face, but when I twist the knob the door doesn’t budge. I shove it again.

  N-o-o-o. I’m locked out—my keys are still at Mrs. Woodward’s. Hoist by my own petard. I beat the door with my soggy slipper. “I…can’t…believe…this….”

  I drop my head against the cold exterior wall. How is this happening to me? What cosmic forces have aligned themselves to trap Macy Ilene Moore between the rock and the hard place without so much as a crowbar to wedge her way out?

  Chris puts his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

  Laugh? Cry? Laugh? Cry? Punch Chris? Definitely, punch Chris. Oh, just one good punch. But I laugh instead.

  “Macy, what’s going on?” He grabs my shoulders. “Stop laughing.”

  “I’m locked out.”

  “And that’s funny why?”

  In the cold glow of the porch light I grit my teeth and say, “Actually it’s not funny. I’m just all out of tears for today.”

  Oops, spoke too soon. A small reservoir floods my eyes.

  Without a word he produces his keys and unlocks the door. I’d forgotten I’d given him one about a month ago, just in case. How ironic for him to rescue me now after squishing my heart like a pesky mosquito.

  “What’s so important that you have to come creeping around at one in the morning?” I demand once we are inside. I toss the slipper into the laundry room before collapsing into my chair.

  “I’m so sorry about today. I tried to call you, but you never answered.” He lurks on the edge of the living room.

  “Long day.” I avoid direct eye contact.

  “I’m sorry, Macy, about the restaurant and Kate.”

  I flip off my other slipper
. Hmm, lint in my toes. I concentrate on cleaning my foot as if that were way more important than what Chris is attempting to communicate.

  “I didn’t plan for this to happen. Kate called a few weeks ago. We went out. One thing led to another….”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  He pauses. Dead giveaway.

  “I see.” My mouth goes dry, my stomach contorts and picking the lint no longer seems important.

  “I know we had a good thing going. This just caught me.”

  “Chris, are you a Christian?” Suddenly I want to know.

  He fidgets. “Well, that all depends on what you mean by Christian. I believe certain things.”

  Enough said. “Key, please.” I rise out of the chair and hold out my hand.

  “What?”

  “Key. May I have my house key?”

  “O-oh, right. Of course.” He slips the key off the ring. “I hope we can still be friends.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Macy, don’t be like this.” Chris’s tired irritation shows.

  “You dump me, break my heart and I have to make you feel better about it? Don’t put this on me, Chris.”

  In the wee hours of the morning my tiny amount of tolerance seems justified. What do I have to lose? I’ve already lost it all.

  “Listen, why don’t we have lunch? We can talk this out when we’re more rational.”

  “I am rational. Besides, I’m leaving for Atlanta in a few hours.”

  “Atlanta?” I can tell he wants an explanation, but I’m too tired and too crabby. Besides, it’s none of his business.

  “Good night, Chris.”

  One-thirty. I crawl into bed, spent. Finally the day is done.

  Chapter Five

  I fade in and out of sleep until my alarm beeps good-morning at four-thirty.

  Why me, why now? resonates in my head. I feel shoved back to Go without collecting two hundred dollars. Did I cross wires with someone else’s life?

  I rouse slowly and decide to call for a cab, since this is a Casper trip. Why should my pet convertible suffer outside in the elements on account of them?

  A hot shower makes me sleepier. I feel thick and stupid as I blow-dry my hair, dress in a pair of khakis and a pale blue oxford and brush my face with foundation.