“Okay fine. But this is between you and me. Our secret. We can’t be making a habit of cookies for meals. Got it?”
“No, I don’t got it. Where are my cookies?”
“Never mind. Sit tight.”
As I grab any box of cookies in the pantry I can locate, I dump them on the table and head toward the house phone. I didn’t even know they made these anymore. I locate the ‘in case of emergency’ Post-it taped on the wall and scan the numbers.
No, no, no, no . . . wait . . . bingo!
Ian Whitman.
I dial the ten digits that will take me to my future. Nervous beyond belief, I pace the kitchen. What in the hell I am going to say? I should have rehearsed this before calling.
Like a billion times.
Hi, Ian, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you I was engaged.
Ian, hey, it’s Christina. I just wanted to call and say sorry about my ex, who I swear is my ex, just showing up. And oh, yeah, I used to be engaged.
Ian, what’s up! Oh, yeah about that fiancé, yeah, he’s out of the picture, no worries!
Every time it rings, it’s like a deafening sound, blaring for me to upchuck my breakfast.
Finally I hear the click. “Hi, this is Ian—”
“Lies! All lies!” I spit out. Wow, I didn’t just panic there. “Leave a message and I will return your call. Thanks.” Fuck. Voicemail. The line beeps, indicating it’s my turn to speak.
“Umm, hi, Ian, this is Christina. Christina Daniels. Or Chrissy. Or, well. You know who I am. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened today. And I really wish you would give me a chance to explain because that looked waaaay worse than it really is. And—”
Beep.
Hot fuckin’ diggity. The voicemail cut me off!
Only an insane person would not call back and finish that message right?
Same song and dance. At the sound of the beep, I go off.
“Hi, Ian, it’s me again.” Pause. “Christina. Listen, I was hoping you can come back so we can fix whatever just happened here because that seriously didn’t come out like I was hoping it would and maybe if you just came back here we can talk about this then everything will be—”
Beep.
“Fuuuuuuuuu—” I look at Pippa staring at me like I’m a madman. “—uudgcicle! Fudgcicle.”
“What’s a matter with you?” she asks.
Pretty normal question. “Oh, nothing, sweetie, Ian’s phone is being silly.” I turn around and slam the numbers back into the phone. Ring ring and AGAIN! Voicemail. I’m starting to feel like I’m getting the end button here.
The second I hear the beep that’s cue, it’s on. “Ian, Christina, listen, come back. Right now. We can talk like civil adults. I’m serious. Get over here right now. Cause if you don’t, Ian Whitman, I swear I’m going to—”
Murder this motherfudgen phone! I do believe I officially black out for a few seconds because when I come to, I’m wrapped up in the cord, fighting tooth and nail to rip it out of the wall.
I stop momentarily to take a peek at Pippa, who is gaping at me, mouth full of cookie.
“So I think Ian is busy.” Inhale. Exhale. “Looks like it’s just us for a bit, kiddo.” I remove myself from the ancient cord like it’s a skirt and untangle it from my legs. I step out, place the phone back on the wall base and sit down at the table.
I think that went well.
There looks to be nothing left to do but eat a cookie lunch and wait.
I ENDED UP DOING a lot more waiting than I planned on, because it’s now Monday and still no Ian.
Talk about the cold shoulder. Geesh. I mean, I get that he’s mad but come on. To ditch us all night is way not cool. Luckily, the Internet and Pippa’s intelligence guided us through the rest of our Sunday. I got her through her bath and safe and sound to bed and spent the remainder of my time lying in my own bed wishing I wasn’t alone. I started to get a little worried that Ian isn’t just cooling off and he might not be coming back at all. Thankfully, a little bit into my sudden freak-out Pippa came pitter-pattering into my room, asking to sleep with me, and I welcomed her with open arms.
It’s now Monday and I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off and shoved up my rear, trying to get Pippa ready for school. We wouldn’t be rushing if she didn’t fool me first into agreeing to let her wear a princess dress to pre-k camp. That took another ten minutes to convince her to take it off and wear normal clothes. Of course now we’ll be having pancakes for dinner as well.
With Pippa gone, the house is super quiet and eerie. I debate calling Ian, but I decide to hold off. I’m not sure how long guys fester for, and I really don’t want to interrupt. The silent treatment tells me I should probably not show my face at the center to volunteer for the art program either, so I take a pass on that. If Ian was so worried about the kids, he would come and get me. I sit down to watch some TV, then realize I don’t really have anything I particularly watch besides Mickey Mouse Clubhouse nowadays and that doesn’t start until 11 a.m.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick . . .
Oh, screw this waiting crap. I get up and head back toward my bedroom. Nothing like sending a few naughty I’m sorry pics to seal the deal without having to grovel too badly. Don’t get me wrong, I’m willing to do a lot right now. I just want him to come back so I can explain. Then possibly let him chew my black stockings off my legs. I miss that mouth. Just thinking about it makes me sad. I miss every single part of him.
“Geez, Christina, turn that frown upside down.” I will get through this. He will see the light. He lov—
Before finishing that thought, I’m dinged in the head by a loose lever walking down the hallway. I look up to see a pull string to an attic just hanging clear from the ceiling. “Yay, secret room!” I celebrate. I’ve always loved these. Curious, I pull the lever and down comes the magical ladder. I check to make sure it’s sturdy and won’t come crashing down, and I journey on up.
I peek my head up and see solid ground. Holy dust balls, I’m lucky I don’t have allergies, because I would be an Allegra salesman’s wet dream right now. I climb the remainder of the way and search for a safe spot to kneel and explore. Boxes, boxes, and boxes. Some labeled Christmas, old clothes, a few reindeer, Pippa’s toys, Chris’s stuff, Easter decorations, tons more box—
Wait . . . rewind. What?
With my go-go-Gadget vision, I see ’em clearer now. Boxes that have my name on them. On a mission, I make my way over St. Nick and his flock to the boxes screaming Chris. I squat on top of Mrs. Claus and pull open the first box. My art supplies. I left most of these at our house when I left. She packed them and stored them. And kept them. I turn to another box and rip it open. More of my stuff. By the time I’m done rummaging through all five boxes, I realize that not a single thing was left behind.
I scramble through them and find all my personal knickknacks that defined my childhood. My favorite stuffed animal, Penny the Bear, my worn books, some old CDs. At the bottom of the last box, I reach a nicely folded pillow cover. Ian’s flannel pillowcase I stole one day so I’d have a piece of him with me at night. I take it and hold it to my chest.
Amy kept everything of mine.
“Why, Amy?” I whisper. “Why did you always care so much even when I cared so little?”
I grab the art supply box and truck it down the ladder without the box or me plunging to the floor. I quickly head toward the kitchen and reconstruct the kitchen table as a makeshift art easel. I dump the whole box on the table.
Brushes, tubes, and palettes, oh my!
I’m like a greedy little kid at Christmas, tapping my fingertips together at what I’m going to play with first. I mean I do have a while before Pippa gets home and I know, festering or not, Ian is in his weekly staff meeting. So, I guess I should probably just test out some of this stuff, right? I’m in a huge life bind right now, but the world isn’t going to end if I pick up this brush and make a few swipes here and there.
Conf
irmed. Let’s get messy.
There’s just something so powerful about the ability to create a thought or emotion on paper. I’ve been in the zone at the center trying to teach others, but now, being alone and able to just let it flow is like giving crack to a junkie. I grab my phone and with the world’s most random playlist, I press play. I used music a lot to block out the ghosts of my past when I was first in California. Play it loud enough that it keeps your own thoughts from being heard. I didn’t take many art supplies with me when I left. The basics. Some pencils, some tubes of acrylic paints, a few brushes and some drawing pads. I spent the first few months holed up in my tiny one-bedroom shoebox drawing and reading biographies on famous artists.
Feeling the rhythm of the music, I begin to roll the acrylic paint in circular motions, creating a nice base. Minutes into my work of art, I’m belting out song lyrics like it’s my job. My colorful strokes are gliding and mushing onto the canvas as I throw in a little twerk here and there.
God, this feels refreshing.
I decide to take it down a notch. For starters, I think I just pulled my groin, and also because it’s never not the perfect time for a little slow jam. Well, maybe there are a few not so perfect times, because the current song is causing my good spirit to take a dip. Holy mood killer, this song is blaring out the most depressing lyrics. Lovers leave and the heart cannot go on. Karma will find its way to repay. Am I the leaver? Is Ian leaving me my karma? And how did this song even get on my playlist? My mood begins to plummet along with my painting. I realize I’ve been slapping darker colors on my not so bright anymore masterpiece.
My playlist is totally failing me, sounding more like Debbie Downer the Musical. All these stupid lyrics are telling me I’m a sucky person for leaving the one I loved in the first place and I’m getting what I deserve.
I need to get this party a little bit more upbeat. I need to think happy thoughts. Ian will come through. He’ll want to hear me out. I wonder if he’s listened to my voicemails. But if he has, then he’s done nothing to return my calls.
Insert infamous Pippa pout face.
Why hasn’t he called me? Is he really that mad? Does he not want to try to work things out? And who in God’s name put on Sarah McLachlan? She is just as depressing as her dog rescue commercials. I want to scream at all these song lyrics that our love will overcome this! But what if it doesn’t? What if Ian doesn’t forgive me? And why would he? Maybe it’s because I messed up. And bad.
The right decision is for me to abort this horrible playlist and to try to call Ian. No one ever got what they wanted by giving up. Neither should I. I call him from my cell, hoping maybe he won’t know the number and answer.
Same song and dance folks. Three voicemails later and I think he may or may not ping me as bi-polar. Why do things always start out so sweet and then turn into an ‘If you don’t want to talk to me, then kiss my ass!’ blow-out rant? I’m just so confused about how I completely lost control of the situation. It’s that damn voicemail. I mean, how can you express your feelings or your sincerest ‘I fucked up’ when you’re being cut off mid freakin’ grovel?
Hot diggity fuck the fuck off!
I debate on just driving over to the center and forcing him to talk to me. Possibly chaining myself to his truck. But then I remember that rectangular box vehicle in the garage that I won’t step foot in. I know—nice cop out—blaming the minivan for my own insecurities in confronting Ian. I’m not proud, but luckily Pippa will be home soon, so that works as an excuse for staying put, too.
Feeling defeated, I abort any type of music and try to lose myself back into my painting. Unfortunately, I think my drug is wearing off because it’s just all downhill feelings from here.
THE SOUND OF THE bus honking indicates that Pippa is home so I greet her at the door. Apparently, little humans need feeding constantly, because she immediately runs past me into the kitchen to fill her belly. I trek after her and she is standing in front of my painting looking a wee bit confused. “Why are you painting a pampake with an upside down smiley face?”
It’s more like Picasso’s The Weeping Woman, but whatev.
“Where is Eeen?”
Good question there, wise one. “He’s at work, kiddo.” Most likely changing his number.
“When is he coming home?”
This kid. Ha. Home.
This is going to be a long night.
Kids. They ask a billion questions. I didn’t even know their little brains held that much informational curiosity. I guess lucky for me it was all art and paint related so I fired off answers just as quick as she threw them questions.
“What’s that bwush for?”
“I put paint on it and brush it on the palette.”
“Why?”
“So I can create something really pretty.”
“Why?”
“Because I like making pretty things.”
“Why?”
Did I mention the billion questions are all in the form of one word?
“I like playing with pretty colors. It makes me happy.”
“Mommy says you were vewy good at colowing in the lines.”
Thanks for the kick-punch combo to the heart, kid.
“She did, huh?”
“Oh, yep she did. She told me that you were the best colower in all the world.”
“Is that so?” Feeling the double kick in my gut.
“Oh, yessiree, she would give me your special drawings just to show me!” She beams.
“You have my drawings?”
Pippa nods and takes off toward her room. I’m still frozen in the kitchen at this revelation.
Once Pippa returns, she is holding two picture frames, struggling not to drop them. I meet her halfway, taking one from her little hands. I turn it over and gasp.
The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, but I do.
“This . . . this is my senior art project. I won first place in the school art fair. How did . . . how did she get this?”
“Mommy said you were famous. She said you were a shining sta.”
This kid has a serious punch and doesn’t even know it. My eyes fill with tears and begin to pour over.
“Why do you cry a lot, Kissy?”
“Because you always say such nice things and they make me happy. So I cry for happy reasons.”
Pippa walks up to me, takes her sleeve and roughly wipes away the tear falling from my cheek.
“Don’t cry, Kissy,” she says in her innocent four-year-old voice. Then does something I would never have expected. She leans in and kisses my cheek.
The warmth of her affection causes me to battle to keep the tidal wave of emotions from flowing over.
“Would you like to paint with me, Pip? Maybe we can go try and paint something for your mommy and daddy that would make them happy.”
“Oh, yes.” She beams. “I want to paint me and you. That would make Mommy happy.”
And KO.
Thanks, kid.
If anything, Ian is definitely bringing back some old high school moves. When we were in the twelfth grade—well, I was in the tenth, since Ian was two years ahead of me—I remember I was all about trying to fit in with the cool kids, but that consisted of breaking rules after dark and doing lots of underage drinking. Ian fought me on the drinking part, but naturally, I fought him back. Why shouldn’t I have done it? It was all I saw at home, and I just wanted to see how it felt. He threatened that if I went, he would not talk to me. So naturally, I rebelled and went. He was so mad at me; he didn’t talk to me for days. I even baited him with fake stories that I was sick and needed him, but no bite. It finally took me actually getting food poisoning from some expired lunchmeat my mom bought us for him to feel bad and come take care of me until I recovered.
Tuesday morning comes along, and after sending Pippa on her merry way, I debate bypassing the phone option and going straight for the center hotline. I could act like some poor suffering kid, which technically I am. My heart is in
dire need to wrap itself around Ian and beg for dear life for him to forgive me and just hear me out. I know I’ll get to the first operator and the waterworks will start. As much as I’d tell myself this is all an act, it probably is partially true. I miss Ian and I just want to hear his voice. Even if it is to tell me to beat it, I will at least hear that deep purr one last time and hold on to it until the end of time. My sad story will get me past round one. Unfortunately, I know female callers are transferred to a female counselor.
AKA Amber.
I know I will only get so far before she figures me out and most likely hang up.
I spend my entire day pacing the house like a madwoman. My crazy brain goes from imagining my make-believe hotline call, to Amber hanging up on me and gloating that she one-upped me. I envision her swaying into Ian’s office and throwing herself on his desk, telling him she would never lie to him. And since my brain hates me, the reel gets worse as I imagine Ian grabbing her nappy head and kissing her senseless.
Each possible situation that runs through my hater brain ends with that little weasel all over Ian. By the end of the day, my sanity level is shot and I’m about two seconds away from pulling out my red lipstick and smearing it all over my face while creating a hate list, victim numero uno, Amber.
Thank goodness Pippa finally comes home to break up my insano-fest and distracts me from anything bordering on destroying my self-dignity.
I get to enjoy some one-on-one with Pippa. She’s an amazing little spirit. We sit in the living room having a ‘picnic’ since the kitchen table is still a disaster and she tells me story after story about her mommy and daddy. Some I can’t interpret into adult sentences but the ones I can melt my soul. My sister sounds like she was a great mom and John was a hero in his daughter’s eyes. From what I’ve learned, Amy worked as an administrative assistant for a small tax attorney. I remember from the speeches at the funeral that John was a mortgage broker, and very successful from the sounds of it.
In the explanation of a four-year-old, magical stories were read at night and pancakes were Saturday specials. Totally getting worked over on that one. And her mommy was the prettiest princess in all the land, until she grows up and becomes the ‘most prettiest.’ She doesn’t catch me when I wipe the tears falling down my face, but when I almost get busted, I blame it on potential fairy dust in my eye. I read three books to Pippa before she falls asleep in her bed and wait the forty-seven minutes it takes for her to wake up and come crawling into mine. I worry that I need to start forcing her to sleep in her own bed, but until I win Ian back, it’s imperative that she fill my void as little spoon.
My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3) Page 15
