The Last Page (A Contemporary Romantic Comedy) (Living, Loving and Laughing Again)

by Lacy Camey

  “Sweetie, it’s time for a change.”

  Like a sad dog who never got to go on walks anymore, I glanced his way, again with the Click daze. “Sweetie pie, starting next week, you’re starting therapy.”

  “Therapy?” I gawked at him.

  “Yes, I’m tired of seeing my bright, aspiring fashion designer so defeated. We Johnsons don’t let life get us down. Why, when I was in my fourth year residency program competing for that one spot with Dr. Chinagens, I-“

  I blocked out everything he was saying and averted my eyes to the women lunching and drinking Champagne after a day’s worth of shopping. That was supposed to be my life. And I was supposed to be in the new reality show, Baseball Wives. No, that wasn’t technically a show yet, but I just knew it was the next sport franchise reality show. It had to be! At least, before Hockey Wives, or Soccer Wives. Baseball had to be next. And I was supposed to be the fabulous one with the design line, and chic boutique and…

  “And that’s why Maycee had the great idea of you two living in the summer home together because, not only is it near Dr. Hood, but…“ and his voice became softer and softer in my brain. I was getting good at shutting out the world. But there was only one thing I couldn’t shut out-how I felt.

  Oh, wow. The women lunching were getting into a fight, and one was pouring an ice bucket over the other woman’s head. I wished I could pour an ice bucket over that scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, tramp of a woman, Alicia.

  * * *

  One week later

  “Why are you here, Norah? Tell me about yourself,” were his first words to me.

  There I was. Vulnerable. A mess. Broken!

  “Tell you why I’m here?… ” I said slowly.

  Let’s see… where do I even begin? Great question. Yes, I knew that was the standard question a therapist asked a new client. Before I could even answer, my memory reverted to that chilly February evening. I closed my eyes and swallowed. Even though it had been three months ago, I felt like it had just happened last night.

  “Have you ever woken up and found it was all a dream?”

  He nodded slowly. Yet, in that nod, I just knew he was analyzing everything.

  “I just woke up from my worst nightmare, except it wasn’t really a dream. And I feel like I’ll never wake up again, per se.”

  He nodded again, with great understanding.

  I looked into his warm eyes. He made me feel okay. I could tell him, and he could help me. I desperately needed help. I just wanted it to all go away.

  “I was on the verge of getting engaged to…“

  Deep breath.

  “You’ve heard of him. Truett Mason. Pitcher for the—“

  “New York Yankees,” he finished.

  “Yeah.” I exhaled slowly.

  “Sorry.” He cleared his throat and repositioned himself in his big leather chair. “Kind of a big fan here. Go ahead.”

  Ugh! Was there anyone in the entire world who was not enamored with the illustrious Yankees or, furthermore, their star pitcher? Didn’t anyone know about his former girlfriend who practically held his entire world together for him? I knew I could keep going with my rabbit trail thoughts, so I stopped and focused.

  “Listen, I’m serious. I just want to be able to trust you not to go to the media. To not—“

  “Norah. Patient-doctor agreement. There is no fear of that. You can trust me.” He smiled. “Or you can sue me and make lots of money.” He leaned forward and folded his hands.

  Not funny. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Kidding.”

  Right.

  “I just… ” I took another deep breath. “Want to be me again. I’ve experienced recently, let’s see… betrayal, cheating, pain, sadness, disconnect, loneliness, disappointment, not being myself, feeling stuck in a rut.” I said all of this in one giant breath, as fast as Speedy Gonzales. “Really, I’m a normal, happy, successful woman.” I smiled my charming, plastered smile.

  Again, that nod. What was it with therapists and nods? I hated silence so I continued, “I’ve been to Milan for an extensive, elite, completely exclusive fashion internship. I’m about to launch my own line because of that internship, well, after I show my financial backer the remaining ten pieces, which are not created as of now, and here I am facing this…” I searched for words to explain it.

  “Massive roadblock.” I just want my broken heart to heal! I screamed inside. Just fix me already!

  Gosh! This was going to be hard to explain! “I wish there was a cord you could plug into my mind and preview it all like a sitcom off of iTunes, and call it a comedy, preferably. I’m at the point where I’m ready for some comedic relief. And then be able to say, ’And that’s why I’m here!’” I laughed nervously. Is this guy going to talk? Give me advice?

  But, maybe on another planet where species are more advanced, he would have just read my mind, understood everything, and had the perfect solution for me, and so that therapy would be a one-time visit.

  “Here’s what you do. Here’s how you can be yourself again. Here’s how to push the delete button from your mind and erase your awful memories.”

  But who was I kidding? It’s planet Earth. We’re human. It’s 2011. Time to face reality…

  And then, finally he spoke.

  “You know, it’s okay. Just keep talking. You don’t have to tell me everything at once,” he explained.

  For the next two hours, I tried my absolute best to relay to him everything. Afterward, he gave me gentle instructions to journal every day, take walks, and relax.

  I replied, “But I can’t relax, I have this line I’m supposed to produce. My entire career hangs on it.”

  “I understand,” he said kindly.

  Uh, he understands what a line involves? Designing, creating, sewing, cutting, stitching, working. Functioning!

  “The important thing is for you to take the pressure off. From what it sounds like to me, you’ve worked hard all four years in college, worked even harder in this internship, and endured a life-changing crisis. Your heart is broken; now you need to heal. Part of healing is simply resting. Think of this as healing after an open-heart surgery. What does one do? One doesn’t overly exert themselves. So my order for you for the next couple of weeks is journal, walk, relax, do something new, watch your favorite movies, and just relax.”

  Um, one also doesn’t deserve this awful pain.

  Just relax? Does he know my personality? Does he know about my career?

  As if he could read my thoughts, he added, “Often, our best ideas come to us out of a rested soul.”

  A rested soul. Not heart, but soul. So I was supposed to heal my heart and let my soul rest? Isn’t my heart my soul? I furrowed my brows in confusion. I’m not a dense person, but couldn’t one just heal without getting all philosophical and multi-dimensional?

  “We are beings composed of mind, body, and spirit. Each component works in unison to create optimum harmony in one’s health. We need balance in all three,” he continued, as the perfect therapist would say. I wondered how many times he had told his patients that. Considering his gray hair, his robust belly, his classic sweaters, and the pictures of children and what seemed to be grandchildren on his shelves, I guessed he had said it thousands of times.

  “Yeah, about that. Is there like some sort of special happy pill I can take?” I smiled with all the charm I could muster.

  He laughed genuinely, then swiveled around in his chair and pointed to the vast collection of diplomas and awards hanging on his wall. “As you can see, I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. Besides that, I tend to lean on more of the holistic side of healing and treatments.”

  He turned back around. “Trust me. You’re in good hands. You’re in a good place. You being here. You being at the summer home with your sister. You have great support. You’re going to do just fine. More than fine. You’ll see.”

  Chapter Two

  I had been living in the summer home for two weeks, and it was
n’t too bad. It was actually a progression, as I went from the sliding around in my slippers to flopping around in Tory Burch flip-flops.

  I had my thrice-weekly sessions with Doctor Hood, and was reminded again to journal constantly and to take walks. But still, no matter how beautiful it looked outside, I found myself feeling lackadaisical about walking and exercising as Dr. Hood had suggested. I just felt like doing nothing, extremely not like me!

  In college, I had been extremely athletic and always on the go. Of course, I had been extremely a lot of things pre-heart wound, pre-open heart surgery.

  And I was reminded again to try something new, which was something I hadn’t done yet, but was planning on doing. And lastly, I was told to, oh, to love myself.

  To love myself.

  “Of course, I love myself,” I told Doctor Hood in one of my sessions when he had asked if I loved myself. But as I said those words, I knew I was struggling with the thought, “Why did the man I loved, my soul mate, cheat on me with such a skank?” Yes, I guess such thoughts can wreak a little havoc on one’s self esteem, more than one realizes. Yes, I guess Dr. Hood had his PhD for a reason. He could psychoanalyze, but not give me medicine. Oh, well. I did love myself, but I could love myself a lot more, considering the circumstances.

  Anyway, I had to journal. And journaling, really journaling, required being alone with my thoughts.

  The last thing I needed was to be alone. Yet I had to be alone to write and “think about my feelings.” Now, this absolutely did not make sense to me. Why think about feelings more than I already had to feel them? But, I desperately wanted to heal and move on, so I was doing everything Dr. Hood had told me to do. Maycee and I had already watched like fifteen movies. I was actually getting my color back from laying out in the sun. But there was an aching feeling in the pit of my stomach about the last pieces of my fashion line that were due in seven short weeks. Our giant sitting room, surrounded on three sides with floor-to-ceiling glass, had been hijacked by every fashion magazine imaginable, as well as my sketches, fabric pieces, the sewing machine, my empty coffee mugs—that is, the coffee mugs Maycee overlooked when she tried to clean. She was such a neat freak, and it drove her crazy that the room was so messy. But she never said anything to me. She already felt too sorry for me—a card I might use a few more times with her.

  The only problem with such a messy room was trying to keep it off limits to the adorable puppy my insightful parents, who seemed to be always ten steps ahead, had bought for me in an effort to raise my spirits. Did I mention the puppy was a little high-maintenance? Yeah, just a tad. She was beautiful, though, a Teacup Pomeranian, who chewed everything. All of my heels were on lockdown. I put up a giant makeshift safety gate to keep Coco out of the most important room in the house, my creating room. That was after she almost destroyed a dress I was working on. But, the little tear she chewed in it actually worked out for the better, giving the dress a more eclectic character. I decided maybe she liked fashion. So, I spent an entire day—yes, instead of journaling, or walking, or working on my creation, or trying something new—sewing her the most perfect little doggie outfit. No one would look as fabulous as Coco. She wore doggie couture. I guess you could say that was something new. Doggie Couture. Maybe that counts.

  After I made her first outfit, I decided to make a few more, as well as a luxury dog bed, one covered in silk. It was just so much fun. It was effortless. The hours flew by as I listened to music, harmonizing with the hum of my sewing machine. I had an energy to create, but to create for my dog, not my nine remaining pieces.

  That wasn’t like me. I normally had things done ahead of time, way ahead of time. I had practically half a year to prepare my line, ever since I had come home from Milan. But considering the circumstances, I was slightly sidetracked. I had a plan, though. I would create two fabulous pieces each week for five weeks, then have the remaining week to modify.

  It would all work out.

  Since Maycee was off for the summer from teaching, her days were pretty methodical. Get up, breakfast, lay out in the sun, read, come in, eat, go out and tan, read, run, write on her iPad, check on me, eat, then we would watch a movie while I interjected with sobs, comments about the jerk in the movie, or the horrible cheater. Then I would rant about how all women should just join a union or something against cheaters. I was seriously super close to calling Elin Woods or starting a YouTube Channel-Women Unite against Male Athlete Cheaters. All the while, my wonderful sister never told me to stop feeling or stop saying anything. She would just smile and pat my feet, as we kept watching whatever it was we were watching.

  Yes, I know. I had a great support system. I was truly thankful.

  Sister, cute dog, summer home… oh, and my parents came by a few times a week with tons of food, still concerned about the weight I had lost when I literally couldn’t stomach anything besides toast, saltine crackers, and Sprite. But, hey! I was gaining it back.

  Things got a lot better one morning.

  There I was, up early, trying to journal since I had kept putting it off with puppy duty, sewing, sketching, and watching movies. It was the day before my next session with Doctor Hood, and I had nothing written in my journal to show him. I was tempted to Google “journal entries to show therapist” because I didn’t want to feel. Finally, I decided to get down to business and write. Live with Regis and Kelly was on the TV, with Nick Lachey as the guest host, since Regis was on vacation. Kelly was asking her energetic questions, the ever-so-perfectly-enunciated-word-questions, like, “So-is-this-your-first-marathon?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “It served as great inspiration for my latest album. I-“

  I need inspiration for my line! I whined inside. My anxiety grew, and I started sketching a dress in my journal.

  Maycee walked in and poured a bowl of cereal.

  “Oh, he’s so hot!” she observed, as she leaned against the counter.

  “Yeah, I miss Jessica and Nick!” I said sadly, as I worked on the sketch of a strapless dress.

  “Yeah, but I love her with Eric Johnson. He seems like he’s always protecting her in the pictures, and they just seem like more of a match. They seem like companions. Maybe soul mates!” Maycee shrugged and dropped her spoon in her bowl. The clank was loud.

  “You know, that’s exactly what I need!” Her face was bright, excited.

  “You need an Eric Johnson?”

  “No silly. Norah, that’s it. We’re running a marathon. You see-”

  Uh, oh. I knew what this meant.

  “No, no, no,” I replied, in uneasy protest that escalated to a stammering absolute, “No! I’m supposed to walk, not run! Dr. Hood said-“

  “Exactly! Aren’t you ready to take long strides and heal? Running will speed up the process!”

  Huh?

  I shook my head. Was she trying to use psychology on me? Because it was working. I was actually considering it.

  “I’ve got to get my books out to my agent this summer. Running will shake up my brain! I haven’t done something like this in years, not since I went hiking in Costa Rica in college.” Her eyes went to the ceiling. “I miss adventure,” she said, like an old person missing the good old days. With finality, she added, “Let’s do it. You’re doing it.”

  I don’t have a choice, I realized. When my sister said I was doing something, it always meant I was going to do it.

  It was a trend set early in my life. I was four. She was seven. She wanted to play dress up, be in a play, do this, do that; I was always drawn in. I didn’t mind it. I actually liked her initiative. Life with my sister was like an adventure. That was why she was so proud of me when I went to Milan on my internship, because it was such an adventure.

  I remember sharing my excitement with her when I found out I got in, a spot among the chosen twelve from thousands of other applicants across the world.

  “Oh. My. Gosh. I’m so inspired to write a novel about this. I’m so coming for research,” she had said. New adventures alway
s inspired her. That was one reason why I thought her being there for the summer with me was almost as beneficial for her as it was for me. She hadn’t pushed out a book in three years. She was a New York Times best-selling author. I knew deep down that what kept her mentally and creatively blocked was that blood-sucking boyfriend of hers, Josh. No, he wasn’t a vampire. He couldn’t hold a candle to Edward Cullen, but he did have the pale part down and could seriously benefit from a nice spray tan. He also wore the solemn, blank stare all the time. I guessed that was compliments of a doctor’s residency program, our father’s residency program. I always speculated that there was something fishy with that, like maybe he was using my sister, but I could never tell her that.

  “Yes,” She interrupted my train of thought.

  Oh, she agrees? He is a blood-sucking vampire? He is just using you for his residency spot with dad?

  “Yes, we’re running. I’m looking it up right now!” She left to get her iPad. Her voice echoed down the hall. As I watched her leave, her blond ponytail bounced back and forth. I admired her silk pajama shorts with fuchsia flowers and realized three things: I love silk; my sister is perfect. Like she needs to run. And three, I seriously hoped it would rain so there would be no running!

  Or would that last part even alter the plans? My sister would probably want to run in the rain. Even more adventure.

  Just then, our doorbell rang, and I sighed. Saved by the bell.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” I yelled, as I stomped to the door. “It better not be another shamefully awful reporter!” I had had quite a few paparazzi try and follow me, but Dad had given them a piece of his mind that they would never forget, a.k.a. including the threat of not only a restraining order, but of “his people” who “knew people” who “knew people” from Jersey who would pay them a nice visit. That got them pretty quiet, fast. After that, I finally felt free from the press. No more paparazzi.

  But, no. It was not a feared reporter. When I opened the door, there stood Chloe, the best girl in the entire world, besides my sister, of course.