“Yeah, but I can see how you might have mixed feelings about him just jumping back into her life without checking with you first.”
“I know and you’re right. I did feel uneasy about that. But he’s her birth father and it never occurred to me that he could influence her choices so easily. She’s pretty stubborn.”
“I don’t blame her for wanting at least to know who he is, you know . . . did she look like him and all that.”
“Right. That’s reasonable. So, first there was a lot of chatter on Facebook, and then, out of nowhere, last January he bought her a ticket to come and visit him. She was twenty-three years old and she didn’t know her dad and she wanted to, so, reluctantly and with a whole lot of trepidation, I let her go.”
“I’m sure I would’ve done the same thing.”
“Thanks for saying that but I can tell you it was a huge mistake for me to support it at all. She gets out there, and with his stupid ideas about opportunity knocking, he helps her set up this crazy business. It’s called High Note Travel. I should’ve been smarter.”
“High Note Travel? Please tell me you’re kidding,” she said.
“I wish. It’s on the Internet and Facebook and all over the place. All anyone has to do is go on her site and click their way to an all-inclusive package to stay stoned for as long as you’d like.”
“Oh, Lisa. This is terrible. You’re not an old biddy one bit.”
“Wait! It gets worse! The package includes airport transfers, pot-friendly hotels that have THC in the candy bars in your welcome basket, tours of dispensaries, tours to glassblowers who make these things you use to smoke—I mean, I’m a medical professional and my only child is practically a drug dealer!”
“But it’s legal, isn’t it?”
“I don’t care if it is! I still think drugs are immoral. That’s just how I was raised.”
“Well, me too.”
“Why can’t she see how difficult this is for me to reconcile? Someone says, ‘Oh! What does your daughter do for a living?’ What am I supposed to do? Tell the truth? Then they’ll say, ‘Oh! How hilarious that you’re a nurse and your daughter helps people get high.’ It’s just mortifying.”
“I see your point. Gee, what a mess.”
“Yeah. So, Mark Barnebey feels like Marley’s chains to me. I can’t shed them or him. And now he’s got his ridiculous ideas in her head and she’s making more money than all of us put together. And I’m the bad guy because I’m not proud of my daughter’s success.”
“This has to just break your heart,” Suzanne said.
“Today’s her birthday. She twenty-five today. After I practically starved to give her a life, this is my reward.”
I had sent Marianne a card and a framed picture of us taken when she was little, but I would have given anything to be making a cake for her instead.
“Well, maybe this is just a fad. Or maybe competition will squash her. I can see lots of folks wanting to make money from this. I mean, what’s to stop Expedia or someone like that from squeezing her out?”
“Honestly? I wish they would. Anyway, we have had so many terrible arguments about it that now we hardly speak. She doesn’t answer my calls or texts or anything.”
“What a shame,” Suzanne said. “This is one of those situations that requires prayer.”
“Or maybe a miracle. Now, look. In the case of medical marijuana? That’s different. If somebody’s hurting or having seizures or there’s a condition that can be helped by it? Okay, I understand that. You know, like Carrie giving Kathy pot brownies. I get it. But I have to tell you, it’s not legal in South Carolina. So it’s probably best that y’all keep that to yourselves.”
“It was Carrie’s idea. I wouldn’t know where in the world to find it.”
“Ha! Ha! Poor Carrie! Under the bus! You okay, Carrie?”
“Okay, okay. I knew what she was up to. But she baked them, not me.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. Anyway, I cannot say that I am thrilled with my daughter. At all.”
I leaned down and pried a sand dollar out of the wet mud. It was in perfect condition.
“Wow!” Suzanne said. “You hardly ever see those things whole.”
“That’s true.” I slipped it in the pocket of my shorts. “You ever hear the story about the doves in these things?”
“Only a billion times. Why?”
“Well, one variation says the doves are the Holy Spirit. So I’m going to take this shell as a good sign. When I get home, I’ll call Marianne and tell her I love her.”
“Well, I’m no expert on children, but I do know you have to keep the door open.”
We turned around and started walking back. I gave Pickle a whistle and she fell right in step with us.
“Miss Trudie seems fine to me,” I said. “But if she falls again, she ought to let a doctor take a look at her.”
“Oh, absolutely! Thank goodness she wasn’t really hurt. I would have had to call my sisters and tell them about it because they’d pitch a fit if anything happened that they didn’t know about. Not that they’d get on a plane and come visit. And it’s not like they’d actually take care of Miss Trudie if she got sick. They stop in Charleston overnight on their way to Europe. You know, when it’s not a terrible inconvenience for them.”
“All families are dysfunctional. I don’t know one that isn’t.”
“Boy, is that ever the truth.”
“Where do they live?”
“Alicia’s in Los Angeles and married to Giles. And Clio lives outside of Chicago and she’s married to Ben. I wish we all got along better.”
“I feel the same way about my brother and his wife. They think money is the only measure of success. They’re idiots.”
“My sisters’ husbands think the same way. Like the fireman who pulls them out of a burning building isn’t successful? Or the teacher who teaches their kids to love literature or math or history isn’t successful? My sisters used to be nice, but over time Clio and Alicia guzzled their husbands’ Kool-Aid. Now they’re idiots too.”
“It would be easier to like them if they didn’t have so much money. Isn’t that terrible?”
“Well, yeah! But, Lisa, that’s not all there is to it. The very nature of how they go about their day has nothing in common with mine. Starting right here! You and I walk the beach. They have personal trainers.”
“That’s not the problem with my brother. He’d never spend the money on a trainer. He’s so tight he squeaks when he walks. My poor sister-in-law. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her to live with him.”
“Where do they live?”
“On a farm outside of Boone, North Carolina. Can you imagine? If she needs milk and bread she has to drive ten miles.”
“I imagine the cost of living is less out in the country?”
“It’s gotta be or they wouldn’t be there. It’s pitch-black dark at night. You can’t even see your hand in front of your face. Not even a streetlight! I’ve been there. It’s so quiet at night it scares me to death!”
“I think it would scare me too. I’m used to hearing the ocean and the occasional car whizzing by.”
“I’m too social to live in the country.”
“Me too.”
Later, when I got home and showered, I waited until ten o’clock to call Marianne and wish her a happy birthday. My call went straight to voice mail. I felt my heart sink. She would see my number on caller ID and call me back, wouldn’t she? I waited an hour and called her again, telling myself she couldn’t take my call for any number of reasons. This time I left a message.
“Hi, sweetheart. It’s just your mom calling to wish you a happy birthday. This is our special day, you know. I hope you got my gift. Now listen, I don’t want you to think about the twelve hours of excruciating pain I suffered to bring you i
nto the world. And I don’t want you to think about everything I gave up in the last twenty-five years so that you would not have to pay off student loans. I just want you to know that I love you and I miss you very much. Happy birthday, baby!”
I pushed the “end call” icon and looked at my phone. Would my message make her mad? Probably. But when I told my secret to Suzanne she had agreed with me. I wasn’t an old biddy after all. Nonetheless, Marianne was avoiding me and that wasn’t nice either.
I decided to call my mother and see if she had spoken with Marianne.
“Hi, Mom! It’s me. Got a minute?”
“Of course! Hold on just a second so I can turn the stove off.”
I heard her put her phone down and walk away. Then I heard her footsteps coming back.
“It’s Lisa! Yes! I said it’s Lisa on the phone!”
“Mom? Are you wearing high heels?”
“I swanny to Saint Pete, your father is as deaf as a doornail! I keep telling him to put in his hearing aids and he says he can’t remember where they are. This getting-old business is a pain in the derriere! Now, what did you say? Am I wearing what?”
“High heels?”
“Well, they’re not that high. I’m going to a lunch at Andy Bertsche’s house and I’m bringing my world-famous deviled eggs with chopped shrimp and minced chives. They are so good!”
“You do make the best deviled eggs, Mom. You surely do.”
“Okay. What’s going on? I can hear it in your voice.”
“Have you spoken to Marianne? Today’s her birthday, you know.”
There was a short period of silence on the other end of the phone while she considered my question.
“I think it’s time for you to tell me what the problem is between you two. I mean, I want the truth.”
“Then you’d better tell Daddy to pick up the extension.”
“All right. Alan? Alan? Go pick up the extension! Lisa has something to tell us! Alan?”
Dad picked up the phone and said, “I’m not deaf, Carol! I heard you the first time! Hi, Lisa. How’s my girl?”
“Oh, I’m okay, I guess.”
“Lisa is finally going to tell us why she and Marianne aren’t speaking.”
“Okay, I’m ready,” Dad said.
“You know she owns a travel business that caters to high-end travelers?”
“Yes, and that she’s very successful,” my mother said.
“Well, what you have not put together until now is that recreational use of marijuana is legal in Colorado.”
“So what does that have to do with my granddaughter?” Mom asked.
“I heard about that. People do crazy things everywhere,” Dad said.
“Y’all? One of the reasons people go to Colorado is to smoke pot. Marianne has people who visit her website who want to get stoned and she makes it happen for them.”
“What did you say? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
“Yes, you did. She picks them up at the airport, she books a pot-friendly hotel for them with pot waiting for them in the room, and she takes them on tours of pot shops, and I have a problem with that.”
“Oh, my dear Lord. I think I’m going to faint,” Mom said.
“Get a grip on yourself, Carol. It’s legal, isn’t it? I mean, Marianne isn’t doing anything illegal, is she?”
“No, it’s not illegal but it’s certainly not morally right,” I said. “And she promised me that she’s not smoking it herself.”
“I’ve got to sit down,” Mom said.
I heard a kitchen chair being dragged across the floor. Then I heard her sigh so hard it sounded like a gale of wind.
“All right, ladies. Here’s what I don’t understand,” Dad said. “Nobody’s getting hurt, are they?”
“Actually, there have been several instances, probably many but I only know of a few, where people have smoked too much pot and they had to go to the hospital. The problem is most people new to it don’t understand its potency.”
“Dear God,” Mom said. “Please tell me this isn’t true.”
“Sorry, but you’ve been hounding me for an answer and here it is.”
“So, help me get this through my head,” Mom said. “How does she justify this?”
“Well, she says now that marijuana’s legal, an entire new population of people are coming to Colorado to get high. And that the general public is better served if those people who are smoking pot for the first time have some supervision. Apparently, there are all sorts of pot that bring on different effects. Some make you hungry, some make you laugh. And while that may be true, as a registered nurse, I cannot condone the recreational use of drugs that are illegal here. She’s so defiant you wouldn’t believe it. She says it’s a free country and she’s not breaking any laws and I should be proud of her because she’s running a successful business! Can you imagine that? Be proud of her? For facilitating drug use?”
“It’s unbelievable to me,” Mom said. “Shameful. This does not reflect the way you raised her, Lisa. It does not.”
“That’s right. It’s the influence of her father. He could always justify anything.”
“Wait a minute,” Dad said. “Would you say the same thing if she had started a vineyard out in Napa Valley?”
“Of course not,” I said. “That’s an entirely different thing.”
“Is it?” he said.
“I’m sorry, Alan, but I’m taking sides with Lisa on this one.”
“Dad? Should I run down the street and brag about this? Should I brag about this to the medical staff at Palmetto House?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It almost always pays to be discreet.”
“Look, if prostitution was legal would that make it okay?” I said.
“It’s legal in Nevada the last time I checked,” Dad said.
“Well, don’t tell Marianne or her father that. The next thing you know they’ll be running houses of ill repute,” I said.
“What were you doing checking on legal prostitution?” Mom said. “Is there something you want to tell me, Alan?”
“I think prostitutes are disgusting,” Dad said. “The very thought of one repulses me.” And then he started to giggle. “I’ve learned so much from Siri.”
“Oh, boy,” I said. “What is this world coming to?”
Chapter 9
Dreaming Green
Marianne never returned my calls yesterday. My only child who carries my blood in her veins made me cry on her birthday. I thought it was so mean to deliberately hurt me when she knew I loved her so very dearly. Surely there had to be a part of her, one brain cell perhaps, that realized the conflict I would have with the way in which she had decided to earn her living? I consoled myself a little with the knowledge that she was healthy, solvent, and probably having the time of her life when she wasn’t faced with me. But I had really hoped that the picture I sent her would break down some barriers. She was so precious when she was a little girl. That picture of her grinning and riding her bicycle without training wheels for the first time was irresistible. I was in the background clapping my hands like the very proud mother I was. Could she be that hard-hearted? All she really had to do to make things right was just acknowledge my issue with her business and perhaps reassure me that it wouldn’t go on forever, that she had other dreams too. Jesus, just throw me a bone!
It was early in the morning, and as soon as I finished watering my tomatoes and basil, I’d be on my way to work. The thermometer was expected to climb to one hundred sweltering degrees. Again. Throw in the humidity and the world would feel like a steam bath. The heat was just one more thing to deal with but at least it distracted me from dwelling on my disappointment with Marianne. I put the watering can back under the kitchen sink, begged the tomatoes not to explode, and filled Pickle’s bowl with f
resh water. I opened her food and filled her dish.
“It’s just you and me and Bobby McGee, babe.”
She was so excited to see breakfast she didn’t respond.
I wished I could take her to work with me. I hated leaving her at home. But my consolation was that John and Mayra would look in on her several times during the day and they would walk her. I loved living next door to them. And I suspected she spent more time in their house than mine.
“It’s like having a granddog!” Mayra always said. “She’s a sweet baby!”
John and Mayra Schmidt, for whatever reasons, had never had children. And frankly, at that moment, having children seemed overrated to me. They were so affectionate with Pickle it always made me think what wonderful parents they would’ve been. I wondered what they would say if I told them the truth about my Marianne. They would probably faint dead on the floor. That reminded me that I had to start looking for a place to hang my hat. I sure would miss them.
I pulled into the parking lot at Palmetto House and began my routine of unfurling my sunshade across the dashboard of my car and gathering up my things. There was a tapping on my window and I turned to see Paul standing there smiling. I gulped, opened my door, and got out.
“Good morning! Where were you yesterday?” he said.
“Good morning! Oh, I don’t work every day.”
We were standing face-to-face then and he looked at me curiously.
“You don’t?”
“No, just part-time.”
“You okay?”
“Oh, sure. I’m fine.” He had the same molten chocolate-brown eyes as he did the last time I saw him. I realized then that his lips also carried some sensual promise. There was the hint of an adorable dimple in one of his cheeks. I must be losing my mind, I thought.
“It’s not me, is it?”
“Oh! Goodness no! I just—”
“Somebody took the wind out of your sails, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, I guess. Sort of. It’s okay.”
“Listen, I have an excellent idea. When do you finish for the day?”
“At four this afternoon.”
All the Single Ladies: A Novel Page 12
