Calm, Cool, and Adjusted

by Kristin Billerbeck

  I try to put on my best front. “I think the spa would help. The office has been so busy, and with training, I haven’t had much time to play. My father just had a bit of news too. He’s going to Arizona, of all places. See? You are all leaving me.”

  “You are the only one I know who actually needs to schedule fun, Poppy, but I hear you. Can you go this weekend, then? I’ll call Lilly.” Morgan still has that nervous lilt to her voice, and I’m sorry I transferred my angst energy. Not a great friend thing to do. And definitely not like me. It’s probably the plastic surgeon. He’s got me all out of sync. He probably emanated bad silicone vibes when he entered my office, knocking over my energy with his plastic meridians.

  “I can go this weekend. I’ll just have to cancel all my dates.” I giggle, without feeling, but I’m hoping to infuse much needed humor into the moment. I feel relief knowing I’m just going to get away from it all for a time. But as soon as it’s confirmed, I start to stress about all I’ll need to do while there “relaxing.” “I’ll have to run while I’m there. I’ll swim when I get home to the condo, but I can’t stop training or I won’t make my goal for the Hawaiian triathlon.”

  “Poppy, you need to let it go, girl. You are a control freak and it’s scaring me.”

  “See, that’s the thing. Control freaks get a bad rap. I mean, even the word freak—how rude is that? God is a God of order,” I say calmly. “Not chaos. When people operate under chaos, how can they possibly not want to improve upon that? If people could feel the endorphins that I get running . . . If they could know the power of going to the cupboard and finding exactly what they needed immediately . . . If they could feel the energy of a really good diet . . . I’m telling you, there would be no Atkins, no Jenny Craig—just people running and jumping with all their excess energy. I mean, I have the answer, and I’m just supposed to keep it bottled inside? When you eat badly, your body’s rhythm changes. Your organs cry out for balance. I just can’t understand why people don’t embrace these truths. I’m not talking out of ignorant opinion. I’ve studied this in depth and—”

  “Poppy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It took you a minute and a half to tell me that story. I timed you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a minute and a half of conversation, without stopping for the other person’s comments, is why we’re getting you a wedding date.”

  I think I’m offended. “I was just saying that control freaks get a bad rap after you called me one.”

  “There’s a reason for that. Prove to us you’re not. Let the skirts go. You know, it was sort of cute back in college. Now it’s scaring us.”

  What is it with the skirts today? I look down at my current version. “Well, next time you need your shoes placed in an orderly fashion in a new closet, we’ll see who you go to. It won’t be Lilly. You love my order. What if I just became haphazard and commercialized?”

  “Poppy, you know we love you, but you’re getting to be like a telemarketer. It used to be just the weird skirts and the digestion of inhumane health drinks. But now . . .” She pauses dramatically. “Now, it’s just getting odder by the minute. Lilly told me you organized my twenty-four-hour shower according to the acupuncture clock?”

  “That was a surprise!”

  Morgan continues, “Do you like it when you tell a story and your audience starts backing up?”

  “I just assume they’re not open to the idea of their health yet. I just tell them the truth,” I cry.

  “It’s just not really dinner conversation, Poppy. That’s all we’re saying. There’s a time and place. In your office, people pay for your advice; they want to hear it.”

  I feel an ache in my stomach. “So what are you saying? You don’t want me at your wedding?”

  Morgan couldn’t be rude if she tried, but right now she’s on the hairy edge of offensive, and I realize this obviously means a lot to her.

  “I couldn’t get married without you, Poppy. You’re one of my very best friends in the world. You’ve been there for me when no one else was—do you really think I could get married without you there? No, I’m saying that Lilly and I think you have gone a little over the deep end lately. We want our Poppy back, not the one so obsessed with health that she’s not living. You know, Lilly grew up eating pasta and sausage and she looks every bit as healthy as you.”

  “Looks are deceiving. If you could look at her arteries, you’d see the difference. Sure, she’s thin—God made her that way. But still, she needs to take care of her temple. See, in the beginning, God created light. Light is energy and energy heals. It was God’s first building block, the power He instills in His children if they only respect the creation . . . creation of . . .” I peter out about here. Man, I do sound like a weirdo.

  Morgan sighs loud and long. “Don’t you see? People don’t want to eat bark for lunch. They don’t want gritty drinks the color of that stuff that grows on a frog pond. People want to enjoy life. To eat, drink, and be merry. They want to dine in outdoor cafés and sip fine wine with fancy cheeses.”

  “Outdoor cafés!” I’m horrified. “You know, birds just walk all over the tables, and how often do you think they get cleaned? I’m not even talking about a good bleach clean, just regular spray cleaned.”

  “I don’t care and neither does anyone else. Poppy, what’s happened to you? When did you stop enjoying life?”

  “I enjoy life,” I say meekly. But I have to admit, fun to me has become staying on top of my to-do list and counting my body-fat ratio. “I’m looking forward to the wedding. I’ll enjoy that. Why don’t you tell me about my date?” I encourage Morgan to do the talking.

  “He’s a runner, Poppy. Max met him on the San Francisco Beach 5k.”

  “You got me a date off the street?”

  “The beach, and no, not exactly. Max brought him to dinner, and Lilly and I interviewed him for the prospective job.”

  I’m not even going to comment on the word job. “Is he a Christian?”

  “Of course he is. And he likes to dress comfortably and he’s into his health. He even has a good body-fat ratio. He told us what it was, but I don’t remember.”

  “What do you mean he’s into his health?” Granted, I’m afraid to ask. That could mean a plethora of things, and considering what Lilly and Morgan currently think of my health topics, it could mean I’m in for a world of hurt.

  “He feels perfectly at ease discussing his small intestine at the dinner table. He’s you in pants, actually. We were delighted to find him.”

  “You know I can hold my tongue at the wedding. Why are you setting me up? I am capable of finding myself a date.”

  “We know that. It’s just we think you’d really like this guy and there might be some magic here.”

  The only magic I’m thinking of is how to make this guy disappear. “You know, if I want magic, I’ll go to Disneyland, Morgan. You either want me at the wedding, or you don’t. If you could tell Mr. Health, ‘Thank you for the mercy date but I’m busy that day,’ I’d be most appreciative.”

  “Poppy! You wouldn’t dare miss my wedding.”

  I slam shut the phone, which, granted, isn’t a big deal on a cell phone, but it makes me feel better. I know when Morgan has had a chance to cool off she’ll realize forcing me into a date with a guy from the beach isn’t her best moment as a friend. I take off a sandal and throw it across the office. At that very moment, Jeff Curran comes in the door, his eyebrows raised.

  “Well, I didn’t know you had it in you. So this beatnik peace thing—is that just an act?”

  “What do you want?” I ask rudely. Sort of my standard tone with Jeff, and I catch myself for my continuous rudeness. Even if he does represent in human form all that’s wrong with the world.

  “I’m knocking off early, and I wanted to know if you wanted to have dinner with me, but now I’m worried I’d get in the way of flying shellfish.”

  “I don’t eat shellfish. They’re bottom feeders. Not th
at this is relevant. My dad is taking me out tonight. Didn’t you overhear that?” (I’m sure he did. Could he be looking for an invite?)

  “So tomorrow night, maybe?” he asks, ignoring my question.

  I know he heard my plans. “Jeff, I don’t mean any offense asking this, but what’s up?”

  “I’ve been wanting to do this since I opened my practice, but today’s the first day you actually spoke nicely to me. I thought we might be neighborly when I moved my practice in. I see you at church. You see me at church. Maybe we could get beyond ignoring each other. You know, be big enough Christians to overcome our little differences.”

  This makes me laugh. “It’s a little late for that, wouldn’t you say?” I’ve sort of grown accustomed to ignoring him with style. And vice versa.

  My cell phone starts to ring. It’s Morgan again.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” he asks.

  “No.” I see him eye me as though I treat everyone with this anger. “It’s my best friend. I’ll call her back.”

  It keeps ringing, even though I try to shut it down so I stuff the phone into my oversized skirt pocket.

  “Let me guess: you’ve actually got another guy you’re torturing on the phone, but you want to finish with me first? So how about that dinner?” He crosses his arms in his elegant suit. He’s a young version of my now-corporate father. Granted, he probably makes money, though.

  “You know, I really don’t believe in plastic surgery.” I tell him. I mean, let’s nip this in the bud immediately. “It’s all about vanity and pride and the Bible is pretty clear on that, so how is it you justify what you do?” I cross my arms, and yes, I’m probably taking my anger toward Morgan out on him. But he is here, after all.

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Plastic surgery does a lot of good in the world. In fact, I’ll bet my profession is more respected than your New Age garble. Listen to the music you have playing. What is that supposed to be about?”

  I purse my lips at him. “It creates an air of peace. What did you do today over in your office? Besides inflate women’s mouths to the size of those wax lips we wore as kids?”

  “I don’t have to justify what I do to you, Poppy. I’m proud of it.” He crosses his arms, and I watch as his blue eyes flash at me. “Today, I didn’t have surgery. Mostly, I did consultations for a few patients to get all the extra skin removed after their gastric bypass surgery. It’s painful, you know, all that skin. Burning, chafing, irritation. The skin loses all elasticity when it shrinks so quickly.”

  “I didn’t know.” I didn’t want to, either, but that’s another story.

  “So it’s a deal breaker that we don’t respect what the other does; is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Well, isn’t it?” I ask him, still unsure why he’s even here. I thought my musical cars in the parking lot was enough to scare him off but good.

  “It’s not a deal breaker for me. I know you help people over here, and I figure somewhere deep inside you know I help people too. No one becomes a doctor for the money, am I right?”

  Well, except for plastic surgeons. I look at his handsome face, and he grins that electric charm that I’m sure works on every woman alive but me. The fact remains he’s being decent, and perhaps one dinner with him can convince him that what I do has value. Maybe dining with someone so absolutely different from me will help me see what my friends want from me, because I sure can’t figure it out.

  “Are you expecting me to dress in something other than what I wear?” I ask him with my eyes thinned. If he’s looking for fashionista clothing, I might as well let him know to lower the expectations immediately. If my skirt doesn’t go to the restaurant, neither do I.

  He smiles slightly. “I never even noticed what you wear. You’ll wear what you like, I would think. I didn’t know there was a dress code for two friends having dinner.”

  “That can’t possibly be true. That you haven’t noticed what I wear.”

  “Because you dress that way for a reason? Do you want to tell me what it is?”

  “See, you did notice.”

  “I noticed you spare no expense on running gear. But then, Poppy in spandex? Well, I’d have to be blind to not notice that. In case it hasn’t come across your radar, I am male.”

  “That’s sexist!” I accuse.

  “See, it’s really not. Sexist would be if I thought you were incapable due to your fine, good looks. But I don’t. However, like a day in Yosemite, I can’t help but admire the beauty. If I didn’t, God didn’t piece me together right, you know? Didn’t your daddy teach you about the birds and the bees?”

  “What about looking on a woman in lust?” I force a hand to my hip.

  “No, no, you’re not going to catch me in that. I never made the jump to lust. I was talking beauty. My job is to assist in beauty, so what kind of doctor would I be if I hadn’t noticed? Do you want a plastic surgeon who doesn’t get what the world thinks is beautiful? Think about that now.”

  “I don’t want a plastic surgeon at all, actually.”

  My father comes into the office with a jingle of the bells. “Business must be good,” he says to Jeff. “You never have to work.”

  “On the contrary, your daughter makes me work like a coal miner to try and wrangle a simple dinner out of her. Just a little business to discuss.” He cocks his chin down while he speaks. His blue eyes hold their sparkle.

  Business. I figured it had to be something. All this talk of my beauty is just a farce, as is any trust I have in Dr. Jeff Curran.

  “Tomorrow night, then.” I give in, trying to avoid my father butting in yet again.

  Jeff exits, and my father stares at me, disbelief covering his expression. “You’re going out with the plastic surgeon? Poppy, are you feeling okay?” He puts his palm on my forehead.

  “It’s just dinner, Dad. I would think you’d like him. He’s a doctor, corporate as they come, and would probably have me barefoot and pregnant in a matter of months.”

  My dad raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t he embody everything you think is wrong with the world?”

  I nod. “Pretty much, yeah.” But he’s asking, and I have to learn why my friends think I can’t date normally. He’s as good a place to start as anyone.

  Daddy just nods. If there’s one thing he’s learned with Sharon and me, it’s that reason does not necessarily play a role in our romantic thought process.

  As for me, I can’t figure out for the life of me why I’m going out with Dr. Ken Doll except maybe I have some latent homecoming princess dreams that haven’t gone away. But then again, he may hold the answer to my questions. The spandex comment not withstanding.

  chapter 5

  Dinner with Daddy.

  Desperation scale: 7

  We walk into the dark restaurant. (Restaurants from my father’s era are always dark; apparently, there is some peace in not quite making out your food, some sort of idealized romantic view. It’s probably hiding a lot of saturated fat and hydrogenated oil as well.) We’re led past the dining room down a long, dank hallway that reminds me of a scene on Law and Order: SVU. I can almost hear the music: “Bomp. Bomp.” The waitress doesn’t have our leather-clad menus, but she turns around and grins at us as we’re led down the hallway. We’re passing everyone eating, so where exactly are we going?

  “Dad, what’s going on?”

  He nods. “Little surprise for you.” He winks again. My dad seems to have something stuck in his eye constantly the way he winks anymore. I’ll bet he gets to Arizona and gets a job selling golf carts.

  I hate surprises. All control freaks hate surprises. You can’t control surprises, and besides that, you generally have to fake happiness. Another gift I completely lack. I try to call up a good memory in the recesses of my mind—“A mohair sweater? Wonderful!”—in case I need to use it.

  This back end of the restaurant is perfectly still, and I have to say if I was on a date, I’d wonder if the guy wasn’t in the mafia. But as it i
s, I know my father has no such relations. He just thinks dark restaurants equal class.

  When we get to the end of the hallway, the first thing I see is a sign draped across the back wall: “WELCOME HOME!”

  I’ll admit, this sign sends a surge of fear through me. Who are we welcoming home? And of course, I can’t help but think this has something to do with the decrepit house in Santa Cruz that has just come into my possession. I walk a few more steps and quickly gather the mohair-sweater smile. Underneath the sign is a smattering of friends from my former life in Santa Cruz. A life I might remind my father that I left for a reason. I always had the sneaking suspicion my dad was a bit “touched,” but this sort of puts the suspicion to rest with absolute certainty. Santa Cruz doesn’t exactly hold the warmest memories for me, and this conjures up the nightmare in the present.

  Santa Cruz is a city from days gone by. People never have to actually conform to live there, and the sixties—its clothing, its artwork, all of it—are alive and well. My skirt is perfectly at home there, and though that might be clichéd, it’s very true. The university’s mascot is the banana slug, and that sums up my childhood. Slow and blissful, among the magnificent redwoods and the majestic Pacific.

  More mohair smiling. I notice with a tinge of regret that none of my current friends are here. Only the people I left behind—and forgive me for adding this, but I think I left them behind for a reason.

  This is your life: Birkenstock style.

  My high school boyfriend, Jed Pierce, is there. With his wife. He rolls his eyes when he sees me as if to tell me this wasn’t his idea. Don’t be under the impression that you were ever good enough for me, his eyes seem to say. I wonder what my father said to get him here. And if Daddy has an effective sales pitch, maybe I could use it to meet Orlando Bloom.