Lipstick Apology

by Jennifer Jabaley

  BY THE TIME I made it to my dentist appointment, I had read and reread all the letters. The first two seemed innocent enough, talking mostly about recent exhibits at the art gallery where Mom worked. But by the third letter there was some intangible tone that made me feel uneasy. In his writing there definitely was a palpable romantic tension. Then came letter number eight. Horrible letter number eight. My gut felt twisted in a million directions. On top of that, my whole face throbbed with pain despite the Advil.

  The dentist’s serene blue and green waiting room did nothing to soothe my nerves. The receptionist opened a clear glass window. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I have a four-thirty appointment. Emily Carson.”

  I filled out a clipboard of information and planted myself in a chair, replaying the letters in my head. One in particular, the eighth letter, that was dated January 15, 1993. I couldn’t get one line out of my brain. Even in the cold drizzle, your soft kiss was enough to melt my heart.

  Clearly, I wasn’t adhering to Georgia and Anthony’s advice about abandoning the search for answers, but what could I say? Now that I had inadvertently stumbled on something that seemed scandalous, I felt like I might be headed toward some kind of revelation. My need to understand my mother’s apology outweighed my fear of the train wreck that might loom ahead.

  “Emily Carson?” a tall brunette dressed in scrubs called from the doorway.

  My stomach clenched. I followed the hygienist to an exam room.

  She motioned for me to sit in the large chair. Poised with her pen to the paper, she asked, “So what’s bothering you today?”

  My mother kissed another man.

  She waited patiently for a minute or so, then finally said, “Is it one tooth in particular?”

  I cleared my throat and forced my brain to work. “It hurts here,” I said, motioning to the sides of my jaw. “I feel like I have toothpicks propping open my mouth.”

  She chuckled and took an x-ray of each side of my mouth. “Okay. Dr. Reeves will be with you in a few minutes.”

  I reached for my backpack, where I’d stashed the letters. Maybe I misread something. As my hand reached the zipper, a lanky man dressed in aqua scrubs flew through the door and sat on a wheeled stool. He slid over to my chair and extended his hand.

  I dropped my backpack to the floor.

  “I’m Dr. Reeves,” he said, flashing two deep dimples. His salt and pepper hair was cut short and he looked like a slightly less handsome version of George Clooney. “Woke up with an achy jaw, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Can I feel around a bit?” he asked, motioning to my mouth.

  “Okay.”

  He poked his gloved fingers inside my mouth and prodded around. He removed his hands and looked at me with a sympathetic face. “Have you been under any stress lately?”

  Um, kind of. I nodded.

  He nodded back. “It seems like you’ve developed what’s called TMJ. That’s temperomandibular joint dysfunction. TMJ usually results from grinding your teeth at night from built-up anxiety.” He paused, as if waiting for me to comment, but I was not about to launch into the numerous anxiety-causing problems of my life.

  Dr. Reeves continued. “We’re going to have to fit you with a night guard to help reduce the grinding.”

  Better make it a good one, because I just found out my mom kissed another man. Stress levels are at a record high.

  Dr. Reeves held an x-ray up to the light. “Sorry, Emily, looks like you have a cavity, too.”

  See what you’re doing to me, Mom! Cavities and weird jaw problems. How could you do this to me? How could you kiss another man? I thought you loved Dad. Suddenly, the next thought I had stopped me cold: maybe I didn’t know my mother at all.

  “Let me take a quick peek,” Dr. Reeves said, inserting a metal probe into my mouth.

  Maybe she was apologizing because she never really loved my dad or me.

  My eyes welled up and tears spilled out.

  “Oh,” Dr. Reeves said. “I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

  I lied and nodded.

  He pulled the probe out of my mouth and patted my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Emily.”

  I wanted to grab his arms and ask him to hug me and tell me everything would be okay. Instead, we both stood and walked out to the waiting room.

  Jolie stood and smiled at me. I looked away. She reached to shake Dr. Reeves’s hand.

  “Mrs. Carson?” Dr. Reeves asked.

  “Actually, I’m Emily’s aunt. Just call me Jolie.”

  He smiled his dimpled smile. Dr. Reeves went on to explain the TMJ, the teeth grinding, and the cavity. Jolie smiled and twirled her hair and I wanted to scream, How can you stand there and flirt with this man when you know you’ve been hiding things from me!

  I planned my attack. I’d wait until she was sitting on the couch, then I’d dump the letters in her lap and make her explain.

  On the cab ride home Jolie said, “That dentist was very nice.”

  “You mean he was hot,” I said, hoping to make her feel superficial.

  “Hot? You think?”

  “Wow,” I said nastily. “You work with way too many beautiful people. Your perspective is all messed up.” I shook my head like I was scolding her. “You can’t even recognize a normal, attractive person.”

  “God,” she said, running her hands through her hair. “All that silicone and Botox. You may be right.” She sounded apologetic, which made me feel just a little bad because she didn’t even know why I was attacking her.

  I turned away from Jolie and looked out the window for the remainder of the ride home. When we got home, Jolie planted herself on the couch. I went into my room and dug the letters out of my backpack. I unfolded the crumpled page.

  Your soft kiss was enough to melt my heart.

  My heart broke. I knew from the photo that “D” had a Hollywood glamour appeal, but I wondered why it was enough to lure Mom away from Dad. I laid my head down on the pillow and softly cried myself to sleep.

  chapter nineteen

  “OKAY, CALM DOWN,” Lindsey said.

  “CALM DOWN?” I screamed through locked jaws. “How can I calm down? I can’t open my mouth!” I paced my room.

  “You must chill!” Lindsey demanded, hands on my shoulders, forcing me to sit. “Take a breath. In—out. Good.”

  I felt myself relax slightly.

  “I thought you got something at the dentist’s to help with this jaw thing?” Lindsey asked.

  “My appointment to get fitted for the night guard is next week. Seriously, Lin, if I open my mouth any wider than this,” I parted my lips approximately an inch, “I get this shooting pain.”

  “So don’t open your mouth.”

  “I am going to Owen’s in two hours!! I can’t go over there like this. WHAT IF HE TRIES TO KISS ME?!” Oh my God, what if he tries to kiss me? I started to hyperventilate.

  “He’s going to try and kiss me and either A—I’m physically not going to be able to open my mouth and he’ll think I’m a TOTAL PRUDE, or B—we’ll be mid-make out, the pain will escalate, and my jaw will give out and come crashing down. I’LL PROBABLY SEVER HIS TONGUE!”

  “YOU MUST CHILL!” Lindsey commanded, grabbing my phone off my desk.

  “Who are you calling?”

  She ignored me, pushing buttons.

  “Hey, Georgia?” Lindsey said. “We have a situation here.” Lindsey explained my predicament.

  Since when did Lindsey and Georgia talk?

  Silence followed on our end, Lindsey nodding in agreement with whatever crazy suggestion Georgia was making.

  “You’re right. Okay, hold on.” Lindsey went over to my bed and picked up a pillow. “We have to improvise to see how dire the situation is.”

  “Oh, if you think I’m kissing that pillow . . .” I started.

  I heard Georgia’s loud protests through the phone.

  Lindsey thrust my cell toward my ear.

  “Do you really thi
nk we want to witness you kissing a pillow?” Georgia ranted, ignoring the fact that she was, indeed, two states away. “It’s painful. I mean it physically hurts just thinking of you pressing your lips to a flannel-covered bundle of cotton, but I’m trying to help you avoid a catastrophic situation. So I suggest you quit your belly aching and pucker up!”

  I laid the phone on my bed and veered toward Lindsey, who was holding the pillow in front of her face like a mask.

  “Close your eyes! Make it authentic!” Georgia bellowed across the phone lines.

  I closed my eyes, tilted my head, and made contact. The pillowcase was dry and scratchy. Lint stuck to my glossed lips. I tried to imagine Owen’s hands at the nape of my neck, stroking my hair. I parted my lips and imagined his mouth, hot and moist . . .

  “OOOWWWWW!”

  Lindsey jumped back, dropping the pillow. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I massaged my jawbone.

  Georgia was babbling over the phone.

  I reached over and put her on speaker.

  “That decides it,” Georgia said. “You need to postpone the date.”

  “Postpone? I can’t postpone,” I whined.

  Lindsey vigorously shook her head, agreeing with me. “No, you HAVE to go.”

  The three of us argued about what to do. Tell him the truth? Postpone? Smile through the agony?

  “Postpone,” Georgia said. “That’s my final answer.” She sighed and hung up.

  Lindsey, who had gone to the bathroom, returned holding an orange medicine bottle in her hand. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to the prescription label.

  “It’s a muscle relaxer Dr. Reeves gave me to help me sleep until I get my night guard,” I explained.

  “HELLO!!!” Lindsey shouted. “You’ve been kissing pillows when you had a whole bottle of muscle relaxers sitting in the next room?!”

  “I take those at night. They make me a little loopy.”

  “That’s a bonus, Emily. You’re going to be nervous—not only will this relax your mouth, it will relax your mind.”

  I contemplated. “Nah, I can’t. I’ll be all giddy. Owen will think I’m a nut.”

  Lindsey waved the pills in one hand and the phone in the other. “Muscle relaxers or postpone. You pick.”

  “Fine,” I said, grabbing the medicine bottle. I popped the tablet in my mouth and chugged some water. “This night is going to be a disaster. I can just feel it.”

  “Stop being so dramatic. You’ll be fine. Just let these little babies work their magic,” Lindsey said, tapping the medicine bottle. She flung my jeans toward me. “Come on, get dressed.”

  The ensemble that Andi and Lindsey had selected, including the Blue Cult jeans, Dolce & Gabbana top, and Anthropologie cowboy boots, cost more than I had spent on clothes in an entire year. At the time I had felt guilty for charging Jolie’s credit card for so much. But now, knowing she hid those letters from me, I felt no remorse. Oh, and there was the extra sixty-five dollars for the water bra Andi insisted I purchase. I slid into the clothes, eyeing myself in the mirror.

  Lindsey pulled a necklace out of her bag and wrapped it around my neck. “There,” she said. “That looks great.”

  I unclasped my mom’s pearls and gently placed them in my jewelry box.

  We both turned toward the mirror. She was right, I looked pretty darn good. I smiled and noticed my mouth tension was easing.

  Jolie popped her head in my bedroom. “Hey, want some makeup?”

  Maybe it was the muscle relaxers kicking in, but suddenly my pent-up anger toward Jolie for hiding the letters seemed to lessen. In fact, I thought, when I confront her this weekend, maybe I’ll give her a chance to explain. “Sure!” I said. “Makeup is awesome.”

  Lindsey walked over and reread the medicine label with a look of concern.

  I grabbed her arm and we followed Jolie into her studio.

  Jolie fluttered around shaking her brushes on my cheeks and around my eyes, but I noticed that she wasn’t applying much color.

  When my eyes still looked virginally clean, I grabbed the brush from Jolie. “Hey! There’s no eyeliner on this!”

  Jolie looked at the brush, faking innocence. “Oops,” she said, and lightly dabbed the brush into a pot of mocha-colored powder.

  “Are you purposefully trying to make me look young and innocent?”

  Lindsey chuckled.

  Jolie looked like she had just swallowed an ice cube. “Fine!” she said, dipping the brush back into the pot. “But don’t even think about asking for red lips.”

  Lindsey and I laughed.

  Jolie darkened my eyes but left my lips a glossy nude. It was flattering and age appropriate, she said. By the time Jolie had finished with my makeup, my mouth was positively pain free.

  Lindsey and I walked back into my room to grab my purse before I left.

  “Look,” I said. “Watch.” I opened my mouth, then shut it. Open, shut, open, shut. I started to laugh.

  Lindsey patted my shoulder. “Muscle relaxers kicked in, huh? Maybe you should have something to eat before you go.”

  “Nah,” I said. “Owen said there was lots of candy and his maid put leftovers in the fridge or something.” I did a small dance around my room.

  Lindsey gave me a suspicious look. “Are you sure you don’t want a few crackers?”

  I shook my head. With my expensive outfit, my hair and makeup done, and my restored jaw function, I felt a rush of excitement. I was ready. Look out, Owen, here I come.

  Owen answered the door in baggy jeans and a crew neck black shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. He was barefoot and his hair was still wet, like he had just gotten out of the shower. The hint of water shimmered in his short blond hair, setting off the yellow flecks in his bright, green eyes.

  I followed him into the living room and sat on the couch.

  “Want something to drink?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  He headed for the kitchen.

  “So when will the kids be coming by?” I asked, looking around the room. It was very airy and modern—even more so than Jolie’s place. But then there was a huge portrait of a soldier over the mantel against the far wall that looked like it had to have been in the family for centuries. It didn’t seem to fit with the sleek furniture with metal detailing and enormous flat-screen TV on the other end of the room.

  “Huh?” Owen called from the kitchen, where I heard the sound of a refrigerator closing.

  “The um, trick-or-treaters?”

  “Oh, they’re around,” he said, coming back into the room. “You missed the mad rush at around five o’clock.” He smiled, and I felt light-headed just looking at him. “I’m sure we’ll still get some stragglers, though.” He set the drinks down on coasters on the shiny black coffee table and touched my chin.

  “Oh.” I picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels anxiously. If he was nervous at all, he hid it well, talking animatedly, occasionally touching my arms or nudging my leg playfully with his.

  We fell into a rhythm of conversation that was much easier than on our Statue of Liberty date. We each ate a few mini Snickers bars and started talking about food: Owen had never, in his entire life, cooked a meal. His family’s cook prepared pretty much all the food they ate in their home. His favorites were Belgian waffles and strawberries for breakfast. He recently discovered Japonais in Union Square. I told him Jolie never cooked either. My favorite meal was my mom’s lasagna. I was tired of takeout and craved anything homemade or not from a carton.

  We talked about travel: Owen had skied in Switzerland, backpacked through Europe, and cruised the Greek islands. I told him I went to Disney World when I was seven, but aside from the occasional Florida trip, my family spent most of our vacations on the Jersey shore. When I segued into a monologue about which place served the best saltwater taffy on the board-walk, I noticed that the living room was getting a little wobbly. No, actually it was spinning.

  In ret
rospect, I should have realized something was up. I mean, who puts ice cubes in a regular glass of orange juice? And it had tasted slightly medicinal, leaving a lasting burn at the back of my throat. After my third refill, my jaw was not only feeling relaxed, it was downright numb. In fact, I couldn’t exactly feel my tongue.

  “Would you ’scuse me for one sec?” I slurred, attempting to stand.

  “Whoa,” Owen said, steadying me back on my feet. “Want some help?”

  I flashed him a big, loopy grin. “I’m great. Thanksh.”

  I staggered down the hall into the powder room. As I sat on the toilet, the room started to spin again. I reached out for the wall and accidentally knocked a photo frame off the counter. The glass shattered on the ground. Crap! I gently picked up the glass shards, throwing them in the trash, then shoved the picture and frame into my purse. I grabbed my cell phone and speed dialed Georgia.

  “Hey, what’s up?” she asked.

  “Little problem.”

  She waited. I explained about the mystery orange juice drinks and the spinning room.

  “Oh my God. He’s trying to intoxicate you! He wants to take advantage of you! I knew this would happen. Okay, the room is spinning, but how do you feel? Are you light-headed?”

  “Yessh.”

  “Oh, jeez. This is bad. I bet he slipped you a ruffie.”

  “He did not shlip me a ruffie! You watch too much TV! It’s just the mushcle relaxer I took. You’re not shupposed to mix it with alcohol . . .”