by Leanna Ellis
“Well, you can’t take a shower yet.”
“Would you do it?”
“Wash your hair?” The grief in her eyes moves me out of my comfort zone. “Of course.”
In a most surreal moment we watch Barbie climb into her fancy convertible, fluff her hair, don more lipstick and drive away.
Marla gives a heavy sigh of relief or exhaustion. “I can’t stand that woman.”
I stare at my ex-mother-in-law. For once we’re in complete agreement.
After a long, hot shower to wash away the day’s grime and irritations, I help Marla lie on the kitchen counter, her head over the sink, towels galore making her neck and back comfortable, and carefully without touching any incisions, I wash her hair, noticing her dark roots are starting to show. But, of course, I don’t say anything.
“Be careful now.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“Well, it’s not a spa chair but it’ll have to do.” She stretches out her leg and bumps the coffee tin with her big toe.
With her eyes closed, her face mostly relaxed (although taut), I have a close-up look at the fine lines on her forehead and around her eyes. I hate to admit it, but she has beautiful structure and cheekbones. It makes me sad she can’t appreciate what she has instead of focusing on what she’s lost.
Right through my heart, I feel a jab. Maybe it’s God nudging me with that sharp two-edged sword. Haven’t I been doing the same thing? Focusing on what I’ve lost—Cliff—rather than what I have—Izzie. With all the pain my friend Terry is going through with Lily, I should pay attention and learn a lesson.
After I carefully blow-dry Marla’s auburn hair, we move to the kitchen table where she picks out the color nail polish she wants me to apply.
“Let’s jazz things up a bit.” She reaches for the fiery bottle called Racy Red-Hot.
I file a ragged spot on Marla’s thumbnail. “She wants him back.”
“Apparently.” Marla’s lips press into a thin line. “Does that bother you?”
“Of course, it does. He’s my—”
“Not anymore.”
I grit my teeth and unscrew the bottle.
She studies me, tilting her head sideways as if sizing me up. “Why do you want him back?”
I hold out my hand for hers. “He’s my husband. She stole him.”
“Hmm.” She places her hand daintily against mine. “But didn’t you do the same thing?”
Her statement takes me aback. I stare at her smooth but bruised forehead. What is going on in that brain of hers? I press the end of the brush against the bottle until a big dollop of red polish falls off. “He wasn’t even dating anyone when I met him.”
“Ah, yes! But you seduced him just as much. He should have gone on to law school, but he had a family to support.”
Suddenly the animosity I’ve felt from Marla our entire marriage is revealed in a new light. She believes I stole her little boy. Seduced him! When the opposite happened.
I went off to the University of Texas with wide-eyed hopes and dreams. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, but I was eager to find the right path. I’d had a happy childhood with what I thought were adoring parents. And when I returned home at Thanksgiving, I learned my parents had separated and were getting a divorce. They’d stayed married all those years. Why? For me? My happy childhood had been an illusion made of spun sugar.
They didn’t even try to fight for their marriage, to make it work. They just quietly parted ways.
“It’s amicable,” my mother said.
“It’s for the best,” my father claimed.
But the solid world I thought my feet were planted on tilted, and I tumbled into a dark hole, questioning everything I’d ever known or believed.
I fell right into Cliff’s arms. And ended up pregnant with Izzie.
Was our marriage only a figment of my imagination? Should we not have been together? Did that negate what we had created? Or did our overheated decision in his apartment late one night change the course of our lives forever? Did that one moment of insanity change our destiny?
When Cliff left me for Barbie, all those questions bombarded me again. And I went to church, seeking answers.
“We’ll pray your husband returns,” many said.
“He’s wrong. He made a mistake.”
“It’s God’s will your husband sees the error of his ways and returns to his family.”
But was giving myself to an immature, bad boy in college the real mistake? Was his decision to pursue Barbie inevitable, simply a course correction?
I didn’t know then, and I still don’t know. It doesn’t seem important anymore what Marla thinks. I’m not going to change her mind after seventeen years. And if I did, I’m not sure it would matter anyway.
“Watch what you’re doing!” Marla jerks her hand back.
Using the edge of my thumbnail, I scrape off a smudge of polish from Marla’s cuticle. “Is that why you’ve always hated me?”
“I don’t hate you, dear.”
I switch to her other hand. “You haven’t exactly embraced me.”
“What if Izzie got pregnant by that boy she’s seeing now. What’s his name? Greg?”
“Gabe.”
“Would you want her to ruin her life with the wrong boy?”
Polish splashes red on the palm of my hand. I meet Marla’s inquiring gaze. Feeling a lump in my throat, I answer with a slight shake of my head and go back to the task of painting her nails.
“You have to see your marriage the way I viewed it. You got knocked up. You trapped my firstborn in a relationship that was totally inappropriate. It was simply a bad match. You two were from different worlds.”
“Different classes, you mean.”
“Well, yes. You were middle-class at best.”
“And yet, you don’t like Barbara either.”
“She has no class.”
“No morals for sure.” I release her hand and at the same time realize how judgmental I sound. “I’ll do another coat in a minute. Let that one dry.” I screw the lid back on the bottle. “Not that I haven’t made mistakes, but I’m thinking we might be blaming the wrong person.”
I wait a moment, thinking she might make the connection. Finally a tiny wrinkle appears between Marla’s high-arched brows as if she’s finally considering Cliff might be responsible, but then it disappears as if she’s liberally applied a heavy dose of wrinkle-free cream. Does she not see? Is she incapable of ever blaming her son?
Three days pass before I see Cliff again. He stops by the house on his way to work one morning. I’m crouched in the flower beds, pulling weeds and trying to help my poor bedraggled roses that Cousin It likes to dig up and gnaw on. Mud cakes my tennis shoes and dirt packs my nails.
“Lookin’ good there, Kaye.” He stands just inside the back gate. His gaze darts around.
“Don’t worry, the dog is inside. Your mother is still asleep, unless you woke her, but you can go on in and check.”
“That’s all right.” His gaze skims over me in a way it hasn’t in more than a decade. Or at least that’s my hopeful interpretation. “I came to see you.”
“Me?” My pulse leaps. Slowly I stand. “What’s up?”
He takes a step toward me, starts to reach out but hesitates.
I raise a hand to ward him off. “I’m dirty.”
“Always were.” His mouth curves in a sensuous smile, but despite what I thought I wanted, I can’t manage a responding one. “I’ve been thinking about you while I was out of town.”
“Me?” Not Barbie? Did he see her last night? Did she pick him up at the airport? Or did he tell her he didn’t need a ride?
His eyebrows lift. “Thought you and I might have dinner tonight.”
“Sure, you’re welcome to come to dinner—”
“I meant—”
“—with Marla and Izzie—”
“—just you and me. You pick the place.”
I feel a jolt down to my
toes. “Oh! Uh, well, okay.”
“Good. Tonight. Seven.”
“All right.”
He turns and heads back to his car but stops midway and calls out, “Mom doing okay?”
My thoughts tangle. Slowly I nod. “Yes, she’s fine.”
Although she might not like this turn of events. But I do. For the first time, it seems I’ve taken precedence over Marla. And Barbie.
I’m running late because I changed clothes five times before settling on a navy blue sheath dress and strappy sandals. I was pleasantly surprised to find this dress still fit. Or maybe it fits again. The last time I tried to wear it a few weeks ago, it showed every bump and bulge around my hips and backside. But maybe the running I’ve been doing has started to pay off. Which gives me a slight pause. Didn’t I agree to swim at Izzie’s and Gabe’s swim-a-thon? A dress is unequal to a swimsuit in the humiliation factor.
Marla glances up from a magazine as I step into the den while juggling two purses. “Now that’s how you should dress for appointments.”
“I’ll be home late.” I take her comment as a backhanded compliment, which needs no response. “Can I bring you dinner?”
“I’ll call in an order.” She presses a hand against her belly as if gauging whether or not she’s hungry. She has been given the A-OK to drive since she’s no longer on heavy pain medicines, but she seems content to stay in my home.
She looks better with her hair washed and nails done, if I do say so myself. “You might want to get out and enjoy going to a restaurant.”
Horror registers on her face . . . well, a slightly skewed shock since her face is now asymmetrical. “Maybe I’ll skip dinner. I don’t want to get fat and have to see Dr. Scarr for liposuction.”
“Please, no.” The words pop out before I consider them. How long is liposuction recovery?
“What?”
“I meant, no, you don’t need liposuction. You’re in great shape.” I wave as I head out the door without a backward glance. Backing out of the garage, I notice Harry Klum getting out of his station wagon. “Mr. Klum!”
He turns in my direction and waves.
I smile and roll down my window. “How are you today?”
“Getting up my courage.” He pulls his toolbox from the backseat of his car.
“Needing courage to face my drain again?”
He laughs and straightens. “To see Miss Marla.”
“She’s pretty formidable, isn’t she?”
He nods. “You look pretty this evening.”
“Thank you.” Should I suggest he find someone else to love, someone more accessible, someone more deserving? After all, Harry is a nice guy. I don’t want to see him hurt. But I don’t want to be the one to hurt his feelings either. He is a grown man, able to make decisions for himself. “I have a business meeting, then dinner with my ex.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Harry, part of Marla’s reluctance is her surgery. She’s self-conscious. But . . .” I let the other reason for her reluctance dangle between us, unspoken but hopefully obvious.
“I don’t care about that. I’m interested in her heart.”
“Yes, but . . .” Does he really know Marla? Does anyone? Does she let anyone in that locked door? Maybe Harry could pry open her heart with his persistence.
“I understand what you’re saying, Miss Kaye.”
“Just Kaye.”
He grins and winks.
“Mom!” Isabel barrels out of the house. She slings her backpack into the car. “Come on! We’re going to be late.”
I pull up to Jack’s house one minute before our appointed time. After one ring of the doorbell, he opens the door. There’s an odd look in his eyes. Gabe hollers for Izzie to meet him in the back office. They’ve been working out the details of their swim-a-thon. After she brushes past us and disappears into the house, I focus on Jack. His expression hasn’t changed, like he’s the only one that knows the punch line.
“Everything all right?”
“I’m not sure.” He pushes the door wide.
Surprised by his response, I walk inside, waiting for an explanation. “Did the furniture arrive?”
“You might say that.”
Peering through the arched foyer, I come to a sudden stop. Glaring at me from the middle of the den is a red velvet couch. Red. It looks like it belongs in Vegas or Graceland or even a red light district. “What’s this?”
“A couch. The one you ordered.”
“Trust me, I did not order . . . that. There must have been a mix-up.” My gaze scans the room where more new furniture is clustered. I check the tables, lamps, and chairs that I did order for the room. Everything else is correct. Except the love seat.
“I’m not great at this decorating stuff,” Jacks dusts a finger along the top of a table, “but I was beginning to wonder if you were trying to tell me something.”
Unsure if he’s making a joke or seriously concerned that I was making a move on him, I laugh more heartily than I’m feeling. “There’s an old Doris Day movie my mom showed me when I was a kid. She was a decorator. Doris, that is. And Rock Hudson was this famous bachelor. To get back at him for something . . . I can’t remember what now, she decorates his apartment. Hideously. The proverbial, contemptible bachelor pad.”
He nods. “I’ve seen that movie.”
“Not exactly a guy flick.”
“My mom was a Doris Day and Rock Hudson fan.”
“Well, I can assure you, Jack, that isn’t what happened here.”
“Good. Because I’m not exactly Rock Hudson.”
“That’s good news . . . considering.” There’s an awkward moment of awareness, me noticing him, his manly size and ways, and my skin tingles. For self-preservation, I laugh again then abruptly stop. “Don’t worry. I’ll call the company and get this straightened out, Jack. The company I ordered from, they’re very reputable. They’ll take care of it immediately.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “It does give a whole new meaning to perceptions, doesn’t it? You’ll want to tell them about the bed too.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s pulling my leg. But from his serious expression, I’m afraid to go down the hall to the master suite to verify.
“Check it out.” He nods toward the hallway that leads to his bedroom.
Reluctantly I proceed without him. I walk down the long hallway, past his office. Through an arched passageway, I can see where Gabe and Isabel are staring intently at a computer screen. The elongated windows along the opposite wall reveal an inner courtyard housing flowering hibiscus and bougainvillea. When I reach the door leading to the owner’s retreat, where there used to be a king-sized water bed with a beige comforter, I pause, glance over my shoulder, and am relieved I’m completely alone. I draw a breath for fortification and nudge open the door.
There in the middle of the room is a gigantic Valentine. It lies in the middle of the bedroom, taking up the majority of the space. My first thought is: how do you find heart-shaped sheets?
Defeated, I sit on one side of the bed, just to the left of the pointy end. How did this happen? This does not bode well for my newfound career—wrong furniture, wrong bed. But then obviously the marital bed didn’t work out so well for me either. I feel my failures piling up on my shoulders, weighing me down. I flop back onto the pillow-top mattress. It is comfortable. Any discomfort is inside me.
What has happened to my life? As a little girl, I believed in fairy tales, where the princess avoids kissing the frog and gets the prince. The right one. I imagined living happily ever after, whatever that meant. But it was all an illusion stripped away. I should have realized the truth when my parents divorced. But no, I tried to make my own fairy tale come true. And I guess that was my mistake—taking the reins.
All I ever wanted was love. Was that too much to ask for? Was that an outrageous desire? Too lofty? Too pie-in-the-sky? I always thought God wanted to give me the desire of my heart. I always believed He
was more than capable. But every family I’ve been a part of has fallen apart. If God couldn’t save our family, if He couldn’t bring my husband back, then what could He do?
Suddenly the bed starts to hum and spasm. My fillings rattle. I jerk to an upright position.
Jack grins at me. “Now what do you think?”
“I’m speechless.”
“Yeah, I was too.” He plops down beside me, on the other side of the pointy tip and lays back against the pillow-puff mattress. “You should have seen the looks I was getting from the delivery guys.”
“Why didn’t you stop them? Refuse the order?”
“I was in the office working.” He pats the bed where I once lay. “Feels good with the motor running.”
I imagine my friend Elise utilizing this situation to her advantage, maybe give a little bounce, a twittering laugh, a come-hither glance. But that’s not me. “So you know Elise Whitfield?” I could kick myself for speaking her name at this inopportune time. “I mean, I saw her at the park the other day. I didn’t know—”
“Yeah, before her divorce her husband was one of my clients. She’s a nice lady. Has had a rough year.”
Uh-oh. Do I hear sympathy? Protectiveness? “She’s looking good now.” No, Kaye! Don’t point out her attributes! “I mean, um—”
“Yeah.” His voice dips. “I’m glad.”
I frown. I just bet he is!
“She needs it after her diagnosis.”
My frown deepens. “Diagnosis?”
“Breast cancer. That’s why she ended up with . . . well . . . reconstructive surgery.” He stares at me. “You didn’t know?”
I lay back on the bed, totally shocked. “No idea.”
“I didn’t know it was a big secret. I thought everyone knew.”
Placing a firm hand against my jiggling belly, I allow guilt to squeeze through the sudden cracks in my jealousy. “I’ve been preoccupied the last year or so.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, don’t say anything. In case I spoke out of turn.”
“Sure.” When the hum of the bed is the only communication between us, I offer, “I’m really sorry about this, Jack.”
