Just Pru

by Anne Pfeffer

  Wait a minute. Had I used the word attractive in connection with Adam? Error, error. Rewind and delete. He still had that Ziploc evidence bag.

  Plus, the way he kept rolling the name Ellen around in his mouth, as if it were a ripe, delicious blueberry, led me to suspect that his affections were already engaged.

  I sighed. I now had to further embarrass myself by asking him for help.

  “I have a situation.” I told him about Dr. Abbot and my desperate prescription-less, drug-less status.

  Adam listened, his face sober. No matter what else he might think of me, he clearly got the seriousness of my dilemma. Using a handkerchief from his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone. “Yeah, hi, Cheryl. I have a friend….. Her therapist died and her apartment burned down….. Can you get her in to see Dr. VandenBerg on an emergency basis? Even for a few minutes?”

  He listened, while a flicker of indecision crossed his face. “That’s the only time he’s got? .... Okay, then, we’ll be right over.” He clicked off. “Let’s go.”

  “Now?” My throat closed up and the ants attacked. I usually needed a good hour to mentally prepare before I left my apartment. If I left.

  “He’ll be done with a patient in a half hour and will see you on his lunch break. Come on!”

  I beamed a secret plea to the Ghost of Dr. Abbot: what do I do?

  Go, the ghost replied. But comb your hair and change your clothes!

  “Gimme five minutes.” In the bathroom, I ran a comb through my hair and changed the tee shirt I was wearing for the other one, which was at least clean. You can do this, I told the mirror. Just keep breathing.

  When I came out, Adam was on the phone. “At two to one leverage, you can double your returns but you can also double your losses.” He made notes in his iPhone. “If you really want to trade on margin, we should implement stop loss orders.” He listened for a moment. “I’ll have some recommendations for you tomorrow.” He clicked off.

  “Are you going back to work now?” I asked.

  “I go to the office in the morning, when the markets are open. Afternoons and evenings, I work from home.”

  We took the elevator down to the parking garage. A moment later, I was sliding into a low, gleaming silver car. The door made a solid, satisfying thunk as it closed. “This is really nice,” I said. While Adam sprayed hand sanitizer on the steering wheel, I brushed my finger along the buttery leather of my seat. I wondered if it had ever before tried to accommodate a size 16 posterior.

  The car started to fall apart. I screamed a little as the roof above me hummed and began to move.

  “I’m putting the top down. Is that okay?”

  “Oh, you mean…. Is this a convertible?” I’d never been in one.

  “Yeah.”

  “And it’s yours?”

  For some reason, Adam’s voice reflected a growing astonishment. “Yep.” He slipped his arm along the back of the seat as he looked over his right shoulder, expertly backing out of his spot. The car purred as it flew forward. “We’ll take Pacific Coast Highway to VandenBerg’s office. Then do you mind if we stop for lunch? I’m starved.”

  “I’m not dressed for….”

  “Where we’re going, you’ll be fine.”

  Wow. Just wow. Last night, in the arms of a firefighter. Today, driving along the Pacific Ocean with a cute guy in a hot car.

  “Great!”

  I felt a thrill that was part excitement, part nausea. For once in my life, for the briefest of moments, I was living the dream.

  I flung back my hair in what I hoped was a sophisticated yet casual sort of way, my curls rioting in the wind. I crossed my legs as alluringly as possible. So what if he liked Ellen? The next two hours were all mine.

  I hoped I wouldn’t spend them hiding in the bathroom.

  Chapter Six

  From Pru’s Journal:

  “Practice looking people in the eyes,” Dr. Abbot said. “It will help you connect with them.” I try. It’s hard, though, because I’d much rather look down. It’s almost like I believe if I can’t see a person, he can’t see me. And that’s a good thing.

  **

  I wolfed down my last bite of burrito, savoring the spicy tang of barbecued pork and soft chewiness of flour tortilla. “Incredible!” I tried not to think about my hair, whipped by the wind into a giant cotton candy beehive on my head.

  “Told ya,” Adam said. “Best burritos on the West Coast!”

  The place was called Betty’s. We sat outdoors on a flagstone patio overlooking the ocean. Our splintery, old picnic table made bumping noises on the uneven flooring until Adam finally silenced it by pushing a couple of folded napkins under one leg, using a plastic knife. “I don’t want to have to wash my hands again,” he said.

  I couldn’t blame him. We had spent the first twenty minutes at Betty’s in our respective lavatories, where Adam washed his hands over and over again while I did deep breathing exercises.

  At least I’d gotten my pills and a new prescription from Dr. VandenBerg. The doctor had given me fifteen minutes today and a follow-up appointment next week. Adam had been using his services for four years.

  “I always stop here after I’ve been to see VandenBerg,” he said. “It’s like Betty’s is Stage Two of my therapy.”

  “I’m finding this burrito to be therapeutic,” I said. “I feel way better than I did a half hour ago.”

  “Me too.”

  I wondered if Betty made dessert. Adam sat comfortably looking at the ocean, while I tried out some of my Dr. Abbot ice-breaker questions on him.

  “So, what kind of job do you have?”

  “I have my own company. I manage people’s money.” He started to gather up our plastic forks and paper plates.

  No wonder he wore a suit. “Maybe you should manage my money.”

  “I only take people with two million in assets. Or more.”

  Well Lah-di-dah. I gave him a sharp look. Adam stood by the trashcan wearing an expression of horror. Using his handkerchief, he plucked the grimy lid off and dumped our plates and forks.

  “Oh. Well, if you know all about money, can I at least ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “If it gets really wet, can you still use it? I mean, does it dry intact? Or does it just crumble apart?”

  Adam stared at me for a moment. “You mean—bills? Actual currency?” One corner of his mouth twitched, as if he wanted to laugh.

  “Yeah. Money. My money’s all wet because of the fire.” I explained how, due to my drug shortage and the potholder incident, I hadn’t had time to go through my backpack yet. For all I knew, I could be dead broke, all my cash dissolved into a puddle of ink and pulp.

  He did laugh then. “Actually, I did that experiment when I was nine years old. I soaked a one-dollar bill in water for two days. It dried up great, and I used it to buy peanut butter cups.” He held out a little pump bottle to me. “Hand sanitizer?”

  I shook my head. “Well, that’s a relief!”

  “But let me get this straight. You keep all your money in a backpack behind the laundry hamper?”

  “Actually, right now it’s hanging in the shower.”

  “I’ll reword my question. You keep all your money in a backpack in the shower?”

  “Well, only because I don’t want it to drip on the wood floor.”

  “Of course,” he said. He stood up. “I should have known that.”

  As we drove down Pacific Coast Highway, I held my arm outside the car, letting the wind blow through my fingers. My hair whipped into and around my face. I imagined ugly things coming unstuck from me and blowing away forever: scary thoughts, bad memories, loneliness.

  Maybe about fifteen pounds of baby fat too, while I was at it.

  “Six days,” I said to Adam. “I only have six more days until Ellen gets her car back.” Already I was wishing I could stay with her longer. Interesting things seemed to happen around her.

  The line of his shoulder and arm against
the steering wheel changed, grew tense. “So you’re rooming with her while she uses your car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I offered to give her rides while hers was in the shop.” His hands moved on the steering wheel as we swung onto our street. “But I guess she decided she’d rather borrow yours.”

  We slowed as Adam pulled the car into his spot in our parking garage, then headed for the elevator. For a moment, he seemed to forget I was there, but then he asked, “How come you don’t drive your car?” The elevator door opened, and Adam put his arm out to hold it.

  “I plan to. I just have to work back up to it.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, his gaze bright, and in that moment, I felt like he totally got me, knew exactly where I was coming from.

  Or maybe he was just waiting for me to get out of the elevator. I jumped out. In front of Ellen’s door, I fumbled the key she’d given me into the lock. “Thanks for… ” I held up the pharmacy bag. “I needed this.”

  “Don’t I know it!” He waved good-bye. Then, “Hey, Pru!”

  I turned back to him.

  “Did Ellen say when she was coming home tonight?”

  “Ten.”

  “Okay. Maybe I’ll drop by.”

  **

  Adam arrived at ten fifteen with a cellophane-wrapped box of Soft n Creamies from Grandma’s Chocolate Company. “They’re for Ellen to take to the theater. She’s always saying she likes to spoil her cast and crew,” he said with an apologetic grin.

  He had changed into a beer brewery t-shirt and old jeans, which made him look younger, like a frat boy, and cuddlier and cuter, like a teddy bear. His eyes coasted past me, clearly looking for Ellen.

  I hauled myself up from the sofa and inspected the box. “The Crunchy Chews are better than the Soft n Creamies. I mean, if you really want to impress her.”

  I knew whereof I spoke.

  “I didn’t buy these,” he was quick to say. “Someone brought them to our office, and I didn’t want to eat them.”

  Yeah, right. He was an endearingly bad liar.

  He had interrupted my third viewing of Unbroken Promises, in which Bree, the plucky heroine, helps her estranged parents learn to love each other again. Fortunately, I hadn’t reached the weepy parts yet. Also fortunately, The Wholesome Family Channel would be airing it twenty-two times this month, so I would have other chances to pick up where I’d stopped.

  I turned off the TV. “Ellen’s not here yet. You’ll just have to be patient.”

  Adam flushed. “Am I that obvious?”

  “About Ellen? Yes.” I gave him a piercing look. “And I know you bought that candy, too.”

  He began pacing back and forth, his hands in his jeans pockets. “I don’t want her to think….”

  “That you like her?” I snickered meaningfully.

  “Well, yeah.” He looked so earnest and perplexed that I thought I would try to help him with his social problem, even if that did seem a bit like one rhinoceros trying to teach another how to climb a ladder.

  “You want to make her believe they came from your office? Bring her an opened box with a few gone. Then you can tell her you’re just passing them on to her for her cast.” I was pleased with how Machiavellian yet effective my idea was.

  “You mean, unwrap the box and take a few out? “ He sat down next to me on the sofa, gazing at me uncertainly.

  “If the box is started, it’ll clearly show that you didn’t buy it for her.”

  Also, if we took chocolates out, we’d have to dispose of them somehow. Those Soft n Creamies weren’t so bad, in a pinch.

  I spoke in my most authoritative tone. “I think opening it is the wisest course.”

  “It’s not very hygienic. All those unwashed hands touching everything.” Adam shuddered a little.

  “You should have thought of that before you bought a community box of chocolates. Besides, all the more reason why you should be the first to partake.”

  “Good point.” Adam tore off the cellophane and opened the box.

  The smell of chocolate rolled over us like a wave of passion. We moaned in unison.

  “Now what?” Adam was checking out those chocolates just as much as I was.

  “In my role as your advisor,” I intoned, “I would suggest that you remove no more than…. say, ten percent of the chocolates.”

  Adam studied the box. “Okay, but ten percent of twenty-five chocolates is two point five.”

  “So we round up to three,” I said.

  “But there are two of us.”

  “So we round up to four.”

  “I like the way you think.” Adam held the box out to me, along with a tissue. “Use this to pick up the chocolate.”

  I chose a round dark chocolate in the corner, while he took a square milk chocolate from the middle. We bit in at the same moment.

  “Ugh, marshmallow!” I made a face. “You want it?” I held out the half-eaten chocolate.

  Adam recoiled. “That thing is teaming with microbes! Just take a replacement chocolate.”

  We sprawled on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, the box of chocolates between us, talking.

  “So, for me,” Adam said, “it’s like I’m in a cave of ice, and it’s unbelievably cold. And the cave gets smaller and smaller, and I’m freezing—you know, shaking, teeth chattering, the whole bit.”

  “For me,” I said, “it’s like ants are crawling up and down my arms. And I sweat buckets.”

  “Yeah, weird, isn’t it?” Adam studied the box of chocolates and then used a tissue to pick one up. “The only way I keep it at bay is by cleaning everything around me. I think I wash my hands fifty times a day.”

  “What about therapy? Has Dr.VandenBerg helped you?”

  Adam shrugged. “He listens to me. In four years, I haven’t noticed a lot of change.”

  A key rattled in the doorknob. Adam and I simultaneously leapt into action, Adam jamming the lid back on the chocolate box while I grabbed for the little, brown chocolate wrappers. I shoved a handful into the waistband of my pants, while one escaped me and fluttered to the floor. I put my foot on it.

  The door flew open to reveal a frowning Ellen, her right leg in a plaster cast, being supported by two of the most beautiful humans I’d ever seen.

  Chapter Seven

  From Pru’s Journal:

  Maybe my problem is that I don’t know what I’m good at. Maybe that should be my overall global goal, to figure that out.

  **

  They were unlike any person you’ve ever seen in line at the post office. Chiseled jaw lines. Eyes in striking, surreal colors—the girl’s, almost violet, the guy’s, a sea green. The girl had those popular puffy lips, except they looked real for a change. The guy had jet-black hair and craggy Viking shoulders.

  Adam gaped for a split second at the girl’s Barbie-doll body, then pulled himself together. “What happened to you?” he said to Ellen.

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now. Blake, Becca, sit down for a minute.” Two lines had formed around Ellen’s mouth. Her voice rasped as if she’d been yelling for hours.

  “Allow me, our crippled Queen, to transport you to your throne.” Ignoring her protests, the Viking literally swept Ellen off her feet and carried her toward the sofa, where I was standing. I needed to move to let them by, but my foot was hiding the last chocolate wrapper. I deflected it under the sofa with a swift backward toe dig, then stepped out of the way.

  Wincing, Ellen stretched out on the sofa. The thick cast, which went from knee to toe, looked bigger than she was. Her short dark hair, pushed behind her ears, and her tiny glasses set off the perfect heart shape of her face.

  Blake and Becca took over the only two other available seats. Blake sprawled in the arm chair, his legs apart the way guys always sat. Becca perched on a smaller chair, forced by her short skirt to be lady-like.

  Adam and I stood awkwardly by.

  “This accident changes nothing, guys.” Ellen raised her eyebrows meaningfu
lly at her two actors. “Rehearsals, interviews, costume fittings, all go on as scheduled.”

  “All work and no play will make Blake a dull boy indeed,” he droned, leaning forward and opening the box of chocolates. While Adam stiffened beside me, Blake plucked one out and tossed it into his mouth.

  “I’m counting on my leads to step up and make this show happen.” Ellen pointed at Blake. “You need to learn your lines!”

  Blake started to explore the box, his long, slender fingers picking up chocolates, turning them over so he could examine them, and putting them back.

  Beside me, Adam coiled up, then sprang into action. “Hands off the chocolates!” He strode forward and stood over Blake. “Those are Ellen’s!” Side by side, the two made an odd pair—a sleek panther versus a scruffy irate bear.

  “The Queen always shares with her minions. Don’t you, Ellen?” Both guys turned to her for an answer. So did I.

  “Of course.” Ellen had buried her head inside her large bag and was rooting furiously for something at the bottom.

  Fuming, Adam stepped backwards.

  I felt bad for him, but was too fascinated by Blake to dwell on it. The actor reminded me of someone—I couldn’t figure out who.

  Ellen emerged from her bag. She held her iPad in the air and spoke like a general commanding her troops. “Tomorrow afternoon. We rehearse the shower rape scene, followed by Blake’s soliloquy on death.”

  “Ellen.” The girl spoke for the first time. “Ellen.” Her voice was soft, yet insistent.

  Ellen closed her eyes. “What is it, Becca?” She suddenly sounded hollow and exhausted, like she was speaking from the bottom of a well.

  “You know I can’t work like this,” Becca said. “I mean, this, this uncertainty, it’s just not fair. I mean, how am I supposed to function on a stage, in front of a live audience, when he keeps changing the lines?” Her lashes fluttered tragically over her violet eyes.

  “She’s right, Blake,” Ellen said. “No more improvisation! We’ve settled on the lines we’re using.”

  “Because of course we can’t have Becca getting upset! It wouldn’t be fair!” Blake delivered a dead-on, high-pitched impersonation of Becca.