“Right,” I mumble, returning to fingering my coat’s fur. “Yeah… Stay above it.”
“Your parents’ infidelity,” he opens yet again. “Do we want to explore that?”
“Do I want to explore it?” I give an ironic laugh.
“Shall we discuss it?”
Dr. Pierce and I spend the remainder of our session talking about how each month it seemed like my mother had a new asshole dropping by the house to “talk business,” as they referred to the relationship they carried on in my parent’s bedroom.
We talked about my dad and how he checked out early in the game, saying he discovered having a family just wasn’t his cup of tea. He preferred the young and single pole dancers and cocktail waitresses.
The last day I saw my father was a cold, winter morning before school, back in the second grade. He brushed past me at the kitchen table. I was holding up a box of Apple Jacks, and his abrupt movements caused the box to loosen from my small grip and subsequently spill all over the sickly green and cracked laminate floor. He muttered a few choice words (I specifically remember him calling me a “stupid shit”—a kid can’t erase those words no matter how much Clorox she may sniff in junior high). Then he grabbed his navy-blue work jacket, angrily stuffed the newspaper inside a pocket, and declared he wouldn’t be coming home for dinner.
I cried all throughout snack break, recess, lunch break, and after-school daycare that day, unable to shake the import and cruel reality of my father’s words that morning. And come seven o’clock that evening, my tiny tummy growling and my mother locked away in her bedroom after having slammed down a can of Spaghetti-Os in front of my brother and me, saying, “Eat up then go to bed,” I looked to my brother from across the table and said, “I don’t think Dad’s coming home.”
I don’t think I hated or disliked my brother any time before that moment. Sure, his pulling the heads off the two Barbies I’d ever owned and stabbing out the glass eyes of the hand-me-down doll my mom had picked up for me one happy day down at a flea market conjured up feelings of resentment for my brother. Any five-year-old would be pretty pissed. But I’m fairly certain that the day my father didn’t come home was the same day I began to hate my brother.
What was his response when I said, teary-eyed and scared, that I feared Dad wouldn’t be coming home?
“No duh, you stupid shit.”
All in one night I’d lost my father, lost my brother, and I’m pretty sure realized I’d lost my mother, although that had more than likely happened long before. It was me against the world, and it was a cruel one, but eventually I knew I could pull myself through it. Eventually that light at the end of the tunnel would shine. I couldn’t settle for the sham of a life I’d been forced to start in this world.
I’m still waiting for that light to really shine and make all these horrible memories feel so distant I’ll question if they even belong to me. They still feel pretty real, but they don’t hurt as badly. The light is getting brighter. And my best friends—Lara, Emily, Sophie, Claire, and Robin—all have something to do with it. And, Andrew, too, of course.
“You don’t have to internalize your friend’s unfortunate brush with infidelity and mix it up with the pain your parents caused you, Jackie,” Dr. Pierce says.
“I know. I’m not internalizing it.” I sigh. “Just reminds me of crappy people, crappy behavior. Makes me wonder if we all end up that way, if that’s written in my destiny after all…”
“You can’t control what other people do. You can only control what you do, and how you react.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I pull myself up into a seated position once more and slip on my coat.
“Don’t make your friend’s problem your own, imagining that you’re headed for the same scenario.” He clears his throat.
I bite down on my bottom lip and fix my gaze on the floor.
“Jackie? Do you think you’re headed for the same scenario?”
“I don’t know.” My voice is small, because I’m not so sure where I’m headed.
“Is there something you want to talk to me about?”
I blink twice and press my coat tightly to my chest. “No,” I say. “No, I’m fine.”
I consider the likelihood of Lara’s story, my parents’ story, far too many unfortunate women’s stories, becoming my own. Andrew’s an attractive, successful, and charming man, and so long as you’re not the wife sitting around waiting for him to come home, he’s the total package. What woman wouldn’t want him? Especially the kind who are around him more than I am. Like the kind who work with him.
“If the question of your husband’s loyalty is something that’s bothering you,” Dr. Pierce says, “then you should be open and honest with him.”
“I’m fine, Doctor,” I say sternly.
I can feel my face become hot with discomfort. It’s one thing to think your husband’s having an affair, but it’s another to move past conjectures and actually discuss ways to deal with a cheating spouse.
“I’m probably internalizing, that’s all.” I give a weak grin. “I’m fine. I can handle it. Thank you.”
Chapter Seven
The pink bubble grows and grows until I hold my breath and carefully let it go…snap! I lick the deflated bubblegum from my lips and chew, prepping for another bubble. Maybe this one’ll be bigger.
My attention’s drawn from my masterful bubble-blowing skills to the small chandelier hanging in the antique shop window’s display. It’s got the largest of teardrop crystals draping about the bottom, with smaller ones climbing upward. It’s exquisite!
I can’t help but press my forehead to the glass windowpane of Pioneer Square Antiques to try to get a better look. I imagine the chandelier must cast the most romantic golden glow when it’s turned on and all those crystals come to life. It’d look so beautiful hanging above a dark-wood dining table, or in a narrow hall or entry, or—
Suddenly, my cell phone vibrates in my hand, and its clamoring ring sounds, startling me from my fantasies.
“Andrew?” I answer the call quickly and blindly.
“No,” comes the nasally voice. “This is Nikki.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “Hi.”
Nikki Dowling is Andrew’s obnoxious, rude, stupid, bit— Okay, I’m really trying to be nicer to her. I’ll just refrain from using any flavorful adjectives.
Nikki Dowling is Andrew’s secretary.
“Where’s Andrew?” I get straight to the reason why I called my husband’s office thirty minutes ago and left a message with Nikki, the girl who couldn’t deliver a message if her life depen—
“I’m sorry, Jackie,” her grating voice cuts through my thoughts, “but he’s still got his hands tied.” Her voice is so nasally I can feel my own nose start to uncomfortably plug up.
“So he’s, what?” I say, backing away from the antique shop window. “Busy?” I take a seat on a wooden bench nearby.
“Yes, busy,” Nikki says. “He’s still in with a client, and I don’t anticipate he’ll be out for at least…another hour.”
“An hour?” I bellow.
“Yes.”
Incensed, I drop my turquoise Ferragamo handbag next to me, then cross an arm over my chest. “Well…” I smack my gum. “I guess just tell him to call me whenever he’s finished. Like my last message.” I roll my eyes.
“Will do. Have a great day. Bye-b—”
“Wait!” I say briskly, leaning forward in my seat in urgency. “I’m not done!”
“Yes?” Nikki’s voice is unappreciatively curt.
“Please tell him I’m probably going to Emily’s,” I say to what seems like dead air. “Hello?”
“I’m here,” Nikki says, monotone.
“Tell him that, Nikki. Okay?” I inhale deeply, beckoning relaxation. “Please. I don’t know how long I’ll be at Em’s, but if Andrew’s looking for me, that’s where I am.” I withdraw the pack of Parliaments from my handbag. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
&nbs
p; “All right. Have a nice day, Jackie. Goodbye.”
The line clicks dead before I can slip out another word.
I look at my phone with a curiously raised eyebrow. “She’s such a bitch,” I mutter. I toss the phone into my handbag.
Nikki Dowling and I don’t exactly get on too well, if you haven’t noticed. We try to be civil, but it’s difficult when there’s such a strong undercurrent of nastiness every time we talk. It’s that passive-aggressive bitchiness that runs really rampant up sorority row amongst the houses. As a DeeGee sister, I can smell it a mile away, and Nikki reeks.
I could live my life quite happily without Nikki in it, thank you very much, but Andrew won’t fire her, because apparently she’s a really fast typist and very reliable. Reliable at what? I’m not so sure, seeing how Andrew misses about half the messages I leave. But whatever. Andrew says I’d dislike anyone who was his secretary because they’d be a natural roadblock to me being able to ring up and access him any time I pleased. Point well taken, I suppose.
I’m sure Nikki could live her life happily without me in it, too. I think she hates me. Of course, I did drunk dial her once upon a time and told her that she was a total bitch who should kiss my ass. She kind of had it coming, even though Andrew still seethes a tad whenever that memory’s brought up.
See, Nikki’s a fellow shopper and lover of all-things-designer, especially when on sale, so she used to give me little tips on special sales she found and stuff. The gestures were kind, and I guess she figured it wouldn’t hurt to be sugary to her boss’s wife. So when I’d call the office to reach Andrew (because he gets upset if I call his cell phone when he’s working—so stupid) she’d tell me, “Hey, by the way, there’s a sale on sandals at Nordstrom!” or “Did you know there’s a BOGO at Anthropologie?” Very helpful and critical information like that.
Only trouble was that sometimes that information was totally false. If I told her afterwards that there was no such sale at Kate Spade’s, she’d act all surprised and say things like, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Jackie. I must have gotten the date wrong.”
I’ve always thought it fishy to send me on these wild goose chases. I mean, what the hell’s the point? Just don’t tell me anything. Andrew (and all the girls, actually) think I’m being petty and that the whole passive-aggressive thing Nikki and I have going on is ridiculous. Andrew says if missing out on a discounted pair of peep-toes tops my tragedies list then I need a hobby. To which I reply, “Shopping…hobby…what part of this are you not understanding?” To which he’ll often reply that I don’t need to chase sales anyway with my bottomless allowance.
Anyway, I don’t know what Nikki’s got for brains, but I’m pretty sure if you took a trip inside her skull you’d lose a few of your own wits stumbling about in that dark. There’s no reason for her to lie to me or have a beef with me or…erm…okay, minus the drunk dialing… But she was bitchy before that little episode. She had it coming. I just don’t get her behavior. What did I ever to do to her?
Now, ever since that little episode with the phone one shnockered night, Andrew’s insisted that Nikki and I both put our best foot forward and be as civil as possible. I’m trying. I really am.
I continue to huff and puff as I sit in the square, even mumbling aloud to myself, grousing how I wish Andrew would come to his senses and fire her. I bet he’d get more of my messages then. He may even call me back now and then. Now there’s a novel idea…
Or maybe Nikki’ll grow so tired of having to deal with me she’ll quit! I think excitedly. I blow one last bubble, then toss my gum into a nearby trashcan. “She’s impossible!” I cry.
I withdraw a stick from my nearly emptied pack of cigarettes and place it between my ruby-lipsticked lips.
“Honestly,” I say in an angry whisper. I light up, take in a puff, and blow a ring of smoke out up into the cloudy sky.
There’s a slight breeze whirling through the square, the bushes and thin tree limbs swishing and swaying. The sun’s at the perfect position, in a long stretch of no clouds and able to scatter its rays all about the red-brick buildings and square.
I love Pioneer Square. It’s the best place to come to think and unwind. In the old pioneering days it used to be the heart of Seattle, and today it’s filled with all of these historic, turn-of-the-century brick and stone buildings. It’s a short drive from home and kind of looks like an old Hollywood movie or TV set. It’s a charming part of town that’s kind of plunked down in the middle of the modern, rush-rush part of the city.
I used to come here growing up whenever I wanted to escape whatever fight was breaking out at home. If it wasn’t my parents arguing, then it’d be my dad and my brother, or my mom and my brother—always someone wanting to throw the first punch or strike below the belt. Running to Pioneer Square provided that escape, that imaginative release. Feed the pigeons, sit and think, imagine that I was in an old movie with Cary Grant, Bette Davis, and Doris Day. I’d gawk at what was for sale behind the antique and gift shop windows. How often I’d wander through the old bookstores and secondhand shops.
I never felt like Pioneer Square belonged in Seattle—it’s so displaced with its historic charm. And I never felt like I belonged in my family. Suppose that’s why I ran here in the first place.
I still like to come here from time to time—old comforts that are conveniently located near home. It’s the kind of place where you can burn time, ponder, smoke, or even shop. A place of escape.
My phone rings to life once again, and I immediately retrieve it, hoping on a wing and a prayer that it’s Andrew. It’s not that my message is of any importance, but it’d sure be nice to know that Nikki listened to me and Andrew cares enough to do even the smallest of things I ask.
“Andrew?” I answer in a blind hurry.
“Nope,” comes Emily’s reply.
“Oh, hey,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed. “What’s going on?”
“Your crap, that’s what,” she replies dryly.
“My crap?” I yank on my handbag and stick my cigarette in my mouth, trotting off through the square. “What are you talking about?”
“Jack, I love you,” she says with a laugh, “but I’ve got a ton of your clothes over here. Still! My bedroom floor is beginning to disappear. Again! Are you on your way yet?”
“That the only reason you want me over, eh?” I tease.
“The main one.” Emily—always honest. A doll, but honest.
Emily’s got a simple one-bedroom apartment over in Fremont, the peculiar part of town. The neighborhood’s motto of “De Libertas Quirkas” fits Emily’s hippie and quirky personality and lifestyle to a T. It’s Seattle’s funky corner, with junk shops and head shops, eccentric public sculptures and art, and there’s never a shortage of dusky coffeehouses or grungy pubs. It’s filled with a mix of ancient hippies, up-and-coming young business types, and even the few, like Emily, who enjoy being granola on top of a giant trust fund.
Em’s had her place in Fremont for years, even when she’s off traveling the world, and often I’ll call her casa my casa. It’s not unusual for my stuff to collect at her place. (It just sometimes gets a little out of hand.) Whenever Andrew’s out of town I’ll usually crash at Em’s. I’ve lived there when she’s been gone traveling and also countless times when I’ve been between boyfriends.
“All right, I’m coming,” I say to her. I take one last puff, then stamp out my cigarette.
I’m about to make my turn out of the square when a vintage hatbox in the antique shop window catches my eye.
“Oh, Emily.” I peer inside the window, shielding my eyes from the reflecting sun with one hand between. I press my face up closer so I can get a look at the gorgeous, worn, striped pattern on the box. “I just found the most lovely little hatbox. Can’t believe I didn’t see it before!”
“Hanging out in Pioneer Square again, are you?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice all gushy-sounding as I stare at what would be the most perfect decorat
ive piece for a sitting room or entry hall. It’s like one of those pieces they’d use in a Vogue photo shoot, where the models are all dressed up like Victorian dolls, with pastel parasols, and they’re in a San Franciscan carriage house or something. Something elegant and turn-of-the-century.
“Gatz is coming over when he gets off work later tonight,” Emily explains through what sounds like the munching of chips. “So if you’re looking for some girl time and you’re bored…” She clears her throat. “Or if you don’t mind coming over and taking home some of your crap, then now is the time.”
“I’m coming,” I say, pulling myself from the window. “Was only gawking.”
Andrew would never hear of putting something that wasn’t modern or white or steel or ridiculously expensive in our home as décor. I wouldn’t really know what to do with an old hatbox, anyhow.
Chapter Eight
“How does this even cover what it’s supposed to cover?” Emily asks, holding up one of my shift dresses. She’s got a bemused look on her face and begins to press the dress up against her body. “Guess you have to choose…” She pulls it up higher over her boobs, then lower to above her knees.
“It stretches when you put it on,” I say with a laugh.
“I should hope so!” She tugs at the silvery cloth.
“Don’t stretch it out!” I caution, reaching up for the dress from my seated position on Emily’s bedroom floor, which, by the way, is not as bad as she made it out to be. You can still see at least half the floor.
“I thought you said it stretched, silly,” she says, dropping the dress into my open arms.
“There’s a right and wrong way to stretch material.”
Emily tosses a pair of my fishnet stockings into the laundry basket in the center of the room.
“I want to keep these here,” I say, showing her a handful of some simple shirts and a pair of dark jeans.
“You can keep some stuff here, Jack.” She folds a pair of my pants. “You know half that dresser,” pointing across the way at it, “and half that closet,” pointing over at it, “are yours, anyway. My door’s always open for you, honey. I just need some space for myself.” She places the pants in the basket and holds up a U Dub sweatshirt. “Yours or mine?”
When Girlfriends Let Go Page 6
