My parents couldn’t have paid for my wedding. They had had to help my siblings out, they were such good children. I knew this because Momma and Daddy had told me so. Every time I called or visited. And besides, Tammy never wasted money on a big church wedding. Yeah, she always got her potential moneybag grooms drunk or high and eloped before they sobered up. Of course there would be a wedding reception after the deed was done, the bills no doubt footed by Momma and Daddy.
And it had been Daddy there at the church, waiting to tell me I told you so. “Your groom took off for the Poconos without you. But he won’t be crying in the champagne glass bathtub. The best man and your sister Tammy are kissing him and making him all better.”
Ouch, did that hurt. Daddy always did have a way of humiliating and embarrassing me, the way he told the truth as he interpreted it. So that was how my last great romance had ended. Considering how easily that scumbag had consoled himself, the wedding day traffic jam had probably been a fortunate twist of fate.
I eyed the clock. Nine twenty-one p.m. I could be here for a while. So I cut the engine, unbuckled and reclined the seat.
My eyes blinked in the darkness. Red taillights. Red sparkles. Beautiful red sparkles. Music. Another song by the Bee Gees, the brothers Gibb, “Technicolor Dreams”. They wrote and recorded it in 2001 but it was in the style of the big movie musicals of the thirties and forties, back when their dad was an orchestra leader and their mum a girl singer. I loved the clarinet solo. Just like the song I danced to with that guy in my dream. My recurring dream. Please recur.
Please recur…please recur.
~♥~
The car door opened.
“Hello, Cinderella.”
I couldn’t control my smile. “Hey you, step right into my dream again.”
“Actually it’d work better if you stepped outa the car.”
So I did. A valet climbed in and drove off. My man offered his arm and we strolled down the cobblestone boulevard.
“Gee, the stars are beautiful tonight. Hey, look up there. Can you see that really bright one?” Dream guy pointed.
I tore my eyes away from his amazing-to-me, handsome face and followed his arm, gazing up. “Yes, I see it.”
“That’s Venus, the planet of love.” A smoky haze surrounded it.
“Look! A shooting star!” I jumped up and down and then silently launched into a wish. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight. I wish to find my momma safe and sane. I wish peace in eternity for my daddy. I forgive him for his sins. He did not know that he was hurting me…all of us. He meant well, in his own weird way. I wish that my sister Tammy stops being so narcissistic and lives happily ever after. I wish that my brother Perry finds peace within himself and loses sufficient weight to get off his blood pressure medication and insulin. I wish that he also finds a life partner to adore him. I really, really wish that my brother and sister will put the past behind us, forget about all the childish rivalries and look at me as a friend. A grown-up woman, with my own interests and fascinating qualities to admire and respect. And oh, by the way, keeper of the stars, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to sell my novel and live happily ever after underneath the bedclothes with the dream man. Amen.
My dream man said, “I’m going to transport you from Mercury to Mars, love.”
All right, I’ll play along. “Why not Venus?”
“Too many women.”
I winked at him. “Good, I’ll have you all for myself then.” I thought for a moment. “But I don’t have a spacesuit. I won’t be able to breathe. And the temperature will freeze me or burn me, whichever way it goes in space.” My author’s brain played around with the idea. If we were going toward the sun, it would be hot. I didn’t know if Mars had a sun or not. I guessed it was cold there. Darn, I wished I had a better education. Not that I was ever too interested in astronomy. Just still jealous of Perry and Tammy talking our parents into carte blanche for their career needs. I sighed. I needed to let go of this jealousy and anger and forgive everyone. It was the only way I would be able to heal my Swiss cheese heart.
Staring at Venus, I heard music. The “Donna” song. Well, at least I won’t suffocate or freeze solid this time.
~*~
I woke up to honking. It was dawn on Wednesday, back in the real world. The traffic was moving. I started the engine and inched along. They had replaced the old drawbridge with this wider one. The additional lanes hadn’t helped one bit when it got stuck open. Unbelievable that Congress hadn’t approved something more practical, like building it high enough so any ship could pass under it.
The traffic jam finally opened up once I got over the bridge and passed the first two Virginia exits, Mount Vernon and Alexandria. I sailed on home with the sunrise.
“Ouch.” The Corvette bottomed out on the speed bump in my neighborhood. It didn’t actually hurt me but I dreaded looking under the front of the car. I turned into my concrete driveway and shifted to park. I stepped out and peeked underneath. What a relief, no damage. I trudged up to the garage and punched seven–seven–one–five into the keypad. I had lost the remote in the accident. The door wheezed and squealed open. I needed to get the chain oiled or something.
My roommate’s car wasn’t there. Not that I’d ever even seen it or the roommate for that matter. Ashley had answered my ad via email and that’s how we communicated. If not for the oil-stained floor on the left side of the garage and the seven hundred bucks she electronically deposited into my checking account every month, I’d say she was all a figment of my imagination. She lived in the basement and went in and out through the French doors in the backyard.
There was a fire grade door between the first floor and the basement. I kept it closed but unlocked in case of fire or some other emergency. I didn’t even know if she was neat or not. Didn’t care either. Ideal roomie. She was gone most of the time, driving the tour bus for one of the big rock bands of the seventies. The grandpas played stadiums and state fairs, something like two hundred gigs a year. But Ashley was a writer wannabe, a songwriter. That was what clicked it for me, when she mentioned that. Another soul in a sucky job like mine, aspiring to be a writer. We had developed a nice relationship via email. We’d gossip about the neighbors, discuss major weather events, talk politics and we’d even touched on religion. So far there didn’t seem to be anything we couldn’t chat about.
I noticed mail stacked on a shelf next to the potting soil. That was sweet, Ashley brought it in. Must’ve been piling up out in the common box on the corner. I grabbed it and went back out to the Vette. I drove her in the garage and proceeded back outside. I punched in the close code and the door did just that. I fumbled around on Momma’s key ring and felt clever. Clever and relieved I had the keen forethought to give Momma a key to my house, just in case. I ascended the steps to the stoop. I opened the door, shuffled in and shut it behind me.
Be it ever so humble and all that important stuff but it felt so good to finally be home again. I meandered into the kitchen and tossed the mail along with Momma’s purse and keys onto the granite island. I washed my hands and then popped a store-brand diet cola out of the fridge. Good and cool, all the way down. I opened the off-white cloth vertical blinds on the wall of French doors and let the morning sunshine flood in.
I sifted through the week’s mail. My fingers trembled as I ripped the side of an envelope from the writers’ organization. I shook out the white paper and shook my head. I’d come in dead last in the romantic suspense category. Oh well. What was it that the other authors often said? Something like making it to the final round of the contest was honor enough. Agents and editors would look favorably upon this distinction. I tossed the letter on the counter.
My heart sank, recognizing two of the self-addressed stamped envelopes that I’d sent to literary agents in New York. I’d never once gotten an invitation to submit my work to them back in one of these. I always received form rejection lette
rs instead. In the only request I ever got by snail mail, the agent used her own envelope. Must’ve liked my stamp. I always got the pretty ones, hanging up on racks on the post office walls. I bought the Reston branch out of the Cary Grants. They weren’t making him anymore. Limited editions, those were.
I carefully ripped open a letter from the District of Columbia Department of Health. I’d ordered a certified copy of my birth certificate. I needed it to apply for a passport. I’d need a valid passport when I was taking the UK by storm on my book tour. I just had to sell my novel to a publisher first. Maybe I’d be escorted around by one of those handsome Englishmen or even a Scot. Their soft-spoken accents just melted me. Not the working-class cockneys imitated in American movies, nor the hoity-toity royal accent. But the cadence in between. Like my dream boy. He sounded, well, like he was born in England to a nice proper but not royal family and perhaps they’d immigrated to the United States when he was a young man, as his accent wasn’t overpowering but smooth and attractive.
Momma had taken me down to the Department of Motor Vehicles when I was sixteen to get my driver’s license. She wouldn’t give me my birth certificate. She’d said, “You’ll lose it. I’ll keep it in a safe place.” So I’d never actually even seen it. A couple of weeks ago, I snuck and applied for one. Forty-two years old, sneaking and doing things behind my mother’s back. I grinned.
So here it was, typed and official. Orpha Donna Payne, female, date of birth, May 1, 1964, singleton. Mother’s maiden name, Chloe Sue Lambert, age 41, born in Shrew, North Carolina. Father’s name, Nathan Lucifer Payne, age 50, born in Sacramento, California. Usual occupation, physician. Other children born to this mother, two.
I read the last line again. Other children born to this mother, two? What was that all about? No wonder Momma didn’t want me to see this! She had had two babies before she had me? I had two more siblings! Where were they? Who were they? Why didn’t she ever tell me?
I tasted a cool swig of soda and stared out the back door. The mixed-color flowers—cardinal climbers, blue morning glories, red sunflowers and white pineapple lilies—in the pots on the deck looked great. Ashley must’ve watered them. Gosh, I was lucky to have her.
My mind was racing at the news. I didn’t want any new siblings. The two that I had were bad enough. I shook my head. Okay, I’m just going to slip the certificate back in the envelope and stash it in the metal filing cabinet and pretend I have never ever seen it.
I held the first self-addressed stamped envelope up to the light. I could see the outline of a small slip of paper. I carefully ripped the end of the envelope off, not the one with the stamp on it. I squeezed it and a wisp of white paper floated out.
It was a piece of notepad, folded in half, embossed with the fancy-pantsy New York literary agent’s name and Broadway address.
Dear Author,
Excuse the nature of this form response. I am overwhelmed with submissions and obligations to my clients preclude me from considering your work. If I did have the time to answer you personally, I would encourage you to buy my book, Writing the Wright Way. This would be a big step in your long and winding journey toward your dream.
Regards,
Juanita Wright
Me thinks Juanita Wright is a tad bit full of herself. Her loss. Perhaps the other one had better news. I opened the second self-addressed stamped envelope. I removed my one-page query letter, along with the first page of my manuscript, which I had begun to slip in so they could get a feel for my voice. Scribbled on the query letter, in purple ink, gel pen probably, was Amateur.
I moaned. My head throbbed over my left eyebrow and the pain zipped around to my right ear. This guy didn’t even bother to include a form letter. What, was my query and page one so repulsive that he had to eradicate them from his office? He couldn’t even shred them? I swiped the envelopes, rejection letters and birth certificate and stomped into the living room to my desk and filed them. I tallied up the two new query rejections. Eighty-seven down. Never lose hope, Donna. The one agent who believed in me was bound to come. And odds were, he or she was right around the next plot twist.
Back in the kitchen, I swallowed two aspirins, washing them down with the diet soda. Daddy always told me that aspirin plus caffeine was the quickest headache cure. He was a great diagnosticator. One of his silly terms. Daddy always knew precisely what ailed me and would have me on the proper antibiotic before I saw our family doctor. Momma worked as a private duty nurse at the Washington Hospital Center, on their exclusive 6–D ward, where people of wealth went. Anyhow, they dispensed medicine in little brown pillboxes and she’d bring the leftovers home in her pocket. So we always had a bolus of antibiotics on hand.
Daddy had always bragged about his pioneering organ transplant research. Too bad his patients had lost a dedicated physician when he lost his vision in the early seventies. And now I’d lost my daddy. A lump of mucus gagged my throat. I was so sick of crying.
Loping out to the living room, I plopped down in the chair at the desk built into a niche in the corner. My Men Out of Uniform calendar screensaver was half-blue and frozen. Of course it had to be the lower half of the screen that was blue. My favorite, Mr. July, Firefighter Johnny, was cut off at his six-pack. I sequentially pressed the Ctrl, Alt and Del keys, holding them down. Nothing happened. I tried again. Zip. So I turned the power off and then back on. I had been surfing when Daddy had called last week and then I had rushed out, leaving the computer on.
Yes, it booted fine. I clicked to check my email account. I was happy to see the little magnifying glass on the envelope icon. I was receiving mail. Just one message, from my roomie Ashley.
SUBJECT: Are you okay?
Donna,
Where are you? What happened? Your boss Cynthia came by the house this morning. She was just “checking in”. I wasn’t dressed, so I talked to her through the door. I peeked out at her from the peephole in the front door and man, she looks mean. So I found out about the accident. BTW, the real purpose of her visit was to inform you to report back to work immediately.
Your accident sounded horrific! I called the hospital and they said you’d been discharged, so I figured you must be okay. Post me ASAP and let me know if I can help with anything.
Oh I stuck your mail on the shelf in the garage. Please don’t be mad at me for coming upstairs. Cynthia was ringing the bell incessantly and that song you have on your chimes was driving me nuts. I thought maybe you’d locked yourself out or something. I didn’t touch any of your stuff. By the way, your house is beautiful. How do you keep it so clean?
We’re headed west, this leg of the tour starts in California and heads up through Oregon, Washington and into British Columbia, then through Canada, down through New York, Pennsylvania and home for almost a week. Maybe we can hook up then?
See you in September,
Ashley
I clicked the reply button and began typing.
SUBJECT: Re: Are you okay?
Hi Ashley,
Other than I feel like I was pummeled by an airbag, impaled on a deer, thrown through the windshield and pitched down a hill, I’m just dandy.
The antler didn’t do any damage to major blood vessels or nerves but it nicked a muscle. They repaired it and stitched me up. My lovely supervisor Cynthia probably found out about it because the hospital called for verification of insurance coverage. They kicked me out after four days anyway.
Ashley, my father died yesterday. Or was it the day before? I’m all fuzzy. Let’s see. According to the little date and time icon on my computer, today is Wednesday, August 2 already. He died Monday afternoon. July 31. August Eve. He had a heart attack. There was a long delay before help arrived. Well, no, they sent a fire truck and those guys did CPR and used the shock thingy on him. But by the time the ambulance arrived, they pronounced him dead.
My brother is ranting that my mother murdered him. He had her admitted to a mental hospital. Four days before Daddy’s cardiac arrest. So how the heck did sh
e get an opportunity to do him in? As if my eighty-three-year-old mother could have escaped from the hospital. Perry (my brother) is the one with the mental deficit.
Oh it’s been awful. My sister set Daddy’s coffin up in the basement, one of those eight-sided Dracula boxes! But he’s not inside. There was a fake Irish wake and his friends were just horrible. I borrowed Momma’s car and came home. I was stuck on the Wilson Bridge all night. Has that ever happened to you?
Hope you’re having a great time on the road again. It was sweet of you to worry. Of course I’m not mad at you for coming upstairs. I only wish I’d been here to finally meet you face-to-face. Thanks for letting me know about Cynthia’s visit. Yes, she is mean.
Write when you get an internet connection.
Hey, how’s your love life?
Oh thanks for bringing in the mail and watering my flowers.
The Immaculate Deception Page 6
