I was completely gobsmacked (and a little turned on). “What are you talking about?”
“Duke is my badge of shame from one unfortunate night when I drank too much because you kept daring me to, and you’ve never let me live it down. Remember that? The ‘only-pussies-can’t-do-Jägermeister-shots’ night? Then, after I overindulged? You thought it would be funny to do doughnuts in your new car and the centrifugal force got the best of me. I threw up and I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry for more than twenty years. But were you sorry? Were you empathetic? Did you take any ownership of the situation whatsoever?”
Where was this coming from? I interjected, “Oh, please, I totally—”
He pressed on and the little veins in his forehead got all bulgy. “No. No, you weren’t. Instead, you made out with my best friend to punish me for having ‘puke breath’ and then spent two weeks after that macking on your nerdy neighbor. For the rest of my life, you’ve delighted in sharing the origin of my nickname with everyone—college roommates, coworkers, neighbors, bosses, bankers. You even told our dry cleaners, and each time I see them, they greet me with ‘Herro, Duke!’ Well, that stops now.”
I placed a hand on his jacket lapel. “Come on, Duke, you have to admit it’s kind of a funny story. Who mixes Jolt, Jack, and Jäger?”
Holy cats, I thought, we are going to have the best makeup sex!
Yet Duke wasn’t reading from our usual playbook. Instead, he practically levitated to get away from my touch. “You know what, Lissy? Duke is dead, gone, no more. As for everyone being mean to you? They hate you. All of them. If you can’t figure out why, Lissy—I mean, Melissa—then there’s no hope for you.” With that, he returned to his date and the two of them bent their heads together at the table, deep in conversation.
So, no makeup sex, then?
I recount his words to Debbie and ask her, “I wasn’t really that bad back then, was I?” expecting her to reassure me that clearly Duke’s the dickweed here.
Debbie doesn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely.”
“Absolutely?”
“Yes. You were the kind of girl Tina Fey writes movies about.”
This is news to me. “Huh.”
She leans in, all sympathetic. “Is that difficult for you to hear?”
I nod. “A little. I mean, I’d always pictured Charlize Theron or Cameron Diaz in the role of Lissy Ryder, but I guess I could imagine Rachel McAdams starring instead. She was excellent in The Notebook.”
Debbie drains her glass, then, mercifully, wipes her lips with a woven-bracelet-covered wrist. “I’m so intrigued by what you consider a compliment. Now let me ask you something, Lissy Ryder—are you finally acknowledging the person you were in high school? Because that’s the first step to making a change.”
It’s my turn not to hesitate. “No, I’m not acknowledging shit. I couldn’t have been so bad, if for no reason other than basic time management. Between cheering and tennis and student council and my rigorous social schedule, I never had time to crack a book.”
I don’t add, Which is why I barely got into college, even though it’s true.
I press on. “Plus I’m here with you, right? If we weren’t cool, you’d have left me at the Drake.”
Debbie practically erupts, and her voice echoes through the cavernous space in her loft. “Ha! You’re the worst person I ever met.”
Ha?
Really?
I merit a “ha”?
How is this possible? I never even thought about her unless she was in front of me doing something bizarre. I didn’t, like, seek people out to criticize them intentionally, but if they were right there with, say, hairy pits and a tank top, it was kind of my duty to mention it. You know, as a friend.
“What’d I do to you?”
I’m not being oppositional; I really don’t remember. Sure, with her herbs and her Stevie Nicks dresses, I thought she was queer as a soup sandwich, but for the life of me I can’t recollect any direct negative interaction.
“Debbie Does Deep Throat.”
“Beg pardon?”
Debbie’s expression darkens. “Debbie Does Deep Throat. The day the cafeteria served corn dogs? You don’t remember shrieking in front of the entire senior class, ‘Oh, my God, she’s fellating her lunch’? Like it was so goddamned easy to eat food on a stick in a back brace and I had another choice. Then to be stuck with that nickname on top of it? That’s what you did to me.”
Debbie pauses, places her hands on her thighs, and takes a couple of deep breaths. She exhales for a solid thirty seconds. “I apologize for that outburst, Lissy Ryder. I’m centered again. Anyway, the reason we are ‘cool,’ as you say, is because I’m not Debbie anymore. Debbie wants to punch you in the motherfucking face.”
She pauses to breathe again and clears her throat. “Ahem. I’m Deva now. I’ve devoted my adult life to transcending negative emotions like anger and resentment. I channel all that’s bad into positivity and light. Trust me when I share that your actions eventually produced a shitload of positivity and light.”
I fall back into the sleeping pit’s pillows. “This is all too much for me to process. I had no clue.”
“I’m very sorry if my painful teenage memory troubles you.”
Seriously, this is kind of news to me.
“What you’re telling me is that I did all kinds of damage to you in high school.” I tend to repeat what people say to me when it sounds important. It’s a great PR trick I picked up years ago. Makes people believe they’re really being heard. Only . . . half the time I used to parrot stuff back in meetings, I’d be reminding myself that I needed to schedule a mani and a wax.
“Again, ha! Not just to me! You left a string of wounded in your path.”
“Really?” I thought I was just being funny. Everyone used to tell me how hilarious I was. Well, the cool people, anyway. “But I can’t consciously recall trying to hurt people’s feelings. I was just being me.”
“Who you were wasn’t nice. Understatement. Who you were was Satan.”
Ouch.
“Okay, if that’s the case and I was all Regina George, then why didn’t people accept my apologies last night?”
Deva coolly appraises me before answering. “I imagine they doubted your sincerity. Were your words coming from your heart or were they motivated by something else, like greed?”
Damn.
“Lissy Ryder, if you reflect on your evening, what message is most clear to you?”
Oh, I know this one!
“Never drink boxed wine.”
Debbie—no, Deva—grits her teeth and inhales so hard, I’m afraid all of her ancient booby statues are going to fly off the shelves from the suction. Then she exhales so hard she blows my hair back. “Beyond that. If you listen with your head and your heart, what is the message that you received?”
I scrunch my eyes shut and I come up with an answer I don’t particularly like or agree with. “That if I want to live a happy life now, I need to have not been Lissy Ryder in high school?”
Then, in a flash, everything falls into place. I bet that’s why the bank manager in the class behind me wouldn’t advance me a line of credit for LissCom, even with my dad cosigning. And the girl I cut from the squad because her hair was too shiny? Elyse, Duke’s reunion date and divorce attorney. No wonder she went for my jugular. No wonder she wore that slutty dress.
My mind races through all the slights I’ve suffered in the past twenty years—drinks “accidentally” spilled on my new Tory Burch shoes, elevator doors not held, paperwork misfiled, parking spaces stolen, and all the vaguely familiar faces attached to the perpetrators.
Is it possible I’ve generated an entire universe of bad karma?
That thought is far too overwhelming to consider before coffee, so I vow to shove this realization to the back of my mind the second I leave this place. Like Scarlett O’Hara says, I can’t think about that right now because I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about everything tomorrow.
Deva taps a meaty digit to the tip of her nose. “Bingo.”
Now I’m mad. Anger’s a way healthier emotion than guilt. “Bingo. Bingo? What is bingo? What are you saying? That I need to find Doc Brown and build a DeLorean and go back to the future?” I throw my (delicate, adorable) hands in the air. “I’m not even sure how I’m getting back to La Grange.”
This is where Deva’s deep and abiding spiritual guidance comes into play. “There’s a ten twenty-five Metra train, and you can grab a cab to Union Station right out front,” she offers.
“Thanks,” I retort, failing to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “That takes care of my future. What about my present?”
“Lissy Ryder, if you turn yourself over to the wisdom of the universe, you’ll find things have a way of working themselves out.”
I level my gaze. “People really pay you for this kind of spiritual guidance?”
She nods. “Enough to buy vacation homes in Maui, Aspen, and Sagaponack.”
“Sweet.” My wheels start to turn and I’m trying to come up with a reason that Deva might need to bring me along to the Hamptons or Hawaii when I notice that she’s staring at me. I mean, she really, really sizes me up, like she’s checking me for blackheads or nits or something. I feel self-conscious all of a sudden. I touch my face. “Do I have boogies?”
With the hint of a smile, she continues giving me the whale eye. Seems like she’s having a debate inside her own head. After sixty extremely awkward seconds, she appears to have come to a conclusion. “I may have something that will help. If I give it to you, you must promise to use it carefully.”
I shrug. “Sure, whatever.” The more amenable I am here, the more likely she is to let me camp out in her extra bedroom in Aspen. I haven’t been skiing in years! But I’ll probably need new snow pants, so that’s a dilemma. Not insurmountable but—
“Give me five minutes.” While Deva goes downstairs to her shop, I find a palatial bathroom where I dry-heave a couple of times. When I’m done, I inspect myself for damages. Oh, my Lord, I could go swimming in my pores right about now, and my crow’s-feet have crow’s-feet! Also? I have a not so fresh feeling that I’m hoping stems from having slept under a yak pelt. I splash cold water on my face (and other areas) and then blot with a big, nubby piece of cloth I assume is a towel, although maybe it’s some kind of ancient fertility rag; it’s not so clear in a place like this. My dress is in here, too, so I slip out of the Ikat robe and leave it by the side of the massive sunken tub. The Spanx are in shreds. She can keep those.
Deva greets me when I exit the bathroom. She hands me a small brown vial about the size of an airplane bottle of gin. Ugh, gin. I do not want to think about liquor right now. “What is it?” I ask.
Deva cups the bottle like it’s some kind of precious gift. “This is a powerful elixir. You should only drink a drop at a time. Do you understand? It’s crucial that you’re very, very careful.”
“What does it do?” After the whole wheatgrass debacle, you can’t blame a girl for being skeptical.
“This is an ancient Incan tonic that, when used properly, will imbue you with a sense of clarity, purpose, and inner peace. An old shaman taught me how to blend it on my last spiritual quest to Machu Picchu. The fluid’s distilled from the seeded flora indigenous to the high jungle, such as the Lupinus mutabilis and pteridophytes, which, now that I’m thinking about it, isn’t a flower or seed so much as a vascular cryptogam, in which case—”
Noting that she’s losing my attention, Deva tries to press the bottle into my hand. I must seem dubious, so she grudgingly adds, “This will cure your hangover and help your complexion, Lissy Ryder.”
I grab the vial and stuff it in my bag. “Sold!”
As I have many things to avoid thinking about, I decide it’s time to motor. When I get to the front door, I turn and tell her, “See you later, Deva. Thanks for everything and . . .” I suddenly feel a flash of empathy for the weird little hippie girl with the stringy hair and the back brace and the big mitts, just trying to eat her lunch in peace. “. . . I’m sorry about the corn dog thing. That was uncalled-for and I apologize.”
The damnedest thing is?
I think I actually mean it.
* * *
My mother picks me up at the station, greeting me with an enormous tumbler of sweet tea. Even though my thirst is Saharan, I take tentative sips for fear that I’ll see it again all over the seats of her Volvo SUV. When we arrive home, she wants to help me plot revenge against everyone who shunned me. (As it is, I suspect Books Fatty’s mom is about to be iced right out of the garden club.) I appreciate Mamma’s enthusiasm but I’m desperate for a nap, so I escape to my room instead.
I try to lie down but the bed’s spinning, so I sit up again. My thoughts are racing, despite my attempts to avoid thinking about the night. I cue up my Whitesnake playlist and dock my iPod, hoping that music will soothe my soul and quiet my head. David Coverdale’s mournful wailing on “Ain’t No Love in the Heart of the City” perfectly captures my mood right now. Ain’t no love for Lissy. I’m trying not to be all “Self-Pity, Party of One,” but the past twenty-four hours have been more mind-altering than Jack and Jäger.
When I recounted events to Mamma, she said the problem was that everyone at the reunion was jealous of me. I like the sound of that, but if I’m being brutally honest with myself, I can’t fathom how that might be true. Three months ago, yes, absolutely, but now?
Especially given the awesome lives they’re all living?
What do they possibly envy? My best friend who bails on me? My loving husband and his hottie? My newfound ability to pack on half a pound per day? The four hundred dollars LissCom has thus far raked in?
Before I can ponder further, I have to dry-heave again. As I race to the bathroom, I knock into my bookshelf and I hear all the touchstones of my glorious youth clatter to the floor as I hug the bowl.
When I return to my bedroom, I begin to right the fallen items. One of the pieces on the floor is an old diary. When I pick it up, I notice Debbie’s name, and right there in black and white, I’ve recounted the whole corn dog incident. I’m all self-congratulatory on the page, like I accomplished something really great that day. I sink onto my bed and start to read while David Coverdale croons over whether or not this is love.
Six hours later the sun is low in the sky and I feel sick. Only this time it’s not the boxed wine. I understand now what everyone was so mad about at the reunion. These events are going to be forever burned in my mind now.
Deva’s right—I wasn’t nice. To anyone.
The things I thought were hilarious at seventeen are decidedly less so at thirty-seven. I’m not sure I even meant to be so cutting half the time; doling out well-timed retorts was the easiest way to hold on to my power. As my mom told me on more than one occasion, “Fear’s more powerful than love.” She may have been even more concerned about my social status than I was.
I lean back against the headboard and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, all hollow-eyed and middle-aged beneath a poster of a greased David Coverdale.
Pathetic.
I’m about to call to Mamma and invite her to my pity party, but then I remember what Deva gave me. Bad as I feel both mentally and physically, I’m willing to try anything right now.
I dig around in my purse until I find the vial. I take a tentative whiff and I smell . . . root beer schnapps? I carefully unscrew the lid and tip it back. The rubber stopper permits only one tiny bead of fluid to struggle free and land on my tongue.
Whoa!
The drop travels through my system with the intensity of a rifle blast and the fire of nine thousand tequila shooters.
Definitely not root beer schnapps.
I wait a few minutes for my clarity, purpose, and inner peace, or at the very least, to stop wanting to pray to a porcelain god. Yet there’s something strangely appealing about the fluid, so I take another wee swig. My mouth feels oddly alive and my shoulders less tense as I swa
llow the second drop.
I repeatedly ingest minute amounts of the potion, and each time I do, I feel less queasy and my thoughts are quieted.
Maybe I’m being hypersensitive about the night, and maybe what’s in my diary isn’t so bad after all. Kid stuff. No big deal.
Each time I look in the mirror, the image is somehow softened and my edges seem smoothed. This shit’s got to be a hallucinogen, because I swear I look younger. Too bad Dr. Amy Childs is a jerk who doesn’t want to grow her business. The three of us could sell the bejesus out of this stuff to cosmetic manufacturers. The notion of Incan Pepto-Bismol/Xanax is genius.
Deva, I say to my reflection, you’ve completely redeemed yourself for the wheatgrass.
Over the course of the next hour, I end up chugging about half of the bottle. I’d have finished the whole thing, but I’m so, so sleepy. I’m not sure I’ve attained inner peace, but I’m borderline euphoric. Plus, the bed has stopped spinning enough for me to take a nap.
So there’s that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Time May Change Me
I wake up to the sun illuminating a swath of David Coverdale’s bare chest, just like God intended. I feel a million times better than I did yesterday. I’ve noticed that as I get older, my hangovers tend to last more than a day, which is completely unfair. You’d think with age and experience one’s liver would function more efficiently, but, sadly, that’s not the case.
I sit up and try to work the kinks out. Surprisingly, there are no kinks. None. I’m not even bothered by my high-maintenance elbow, which I screwed up from so many years on the tennis court. I practice a couple of backhands and I have total freedom of movement. This is great! Maybe I’ll lob a couple of balls against a backboard today at the park. Or, more likely, play Wii Tennis. Either way, it’s nice for my joint not to be sore for once.
Here I Go Again: A Novel Page 5