While we were sunbathing by the lake, he told me he wanted to attend an Ivy League university mostly because he wanted to measure himself against the standard that terrified him. Greta would have loved him. “Rich people scare me,” he said, using his finger to draw a line in the dirt in front of us. “Everyone here tells me how smart I am, but I have to wonder what they’re comparing me to, you know? My ‘report cards’ from them are always Groovy Plus, but what does that mean? I ask them if I would’ve been an A student at a regular school and they say that there aren’t any letters to characterize my performance. I know what they’re saying, but it doesn’t really answer my question, you know?”
“Todd, you got a perfect score on your math PSAT,” I assured him, reaching my hand to his forearm. He was lying on his stomach and rolled onto his side.
“Yeah, but not English. I don’t have the vocabulary down.”
Todd wasn’t just talking about learning Latin roots and scoring higher on the English sections of the SAT. When he said he needed the vocabulary, he said what all of us older kids thought—we don’t speak the language of the real world. Our college classmates were going to talk about movies and television shows we’d never seen, and have favorite teams of sports we never saw. Of course, as my father’s apprentice, Todd could make furniture. He was one of a small group of American teens who spoke Russian fluently. He played piano, bass guitar, saxophone, and harp. And he knew every plant and flower indigenous to the state of Montana, if not the entire country.
“Todd, relax,” I said, thrilled to be his confidante. “You never even studied for the test. You’ll buy one of those books, bone up on your vocabulary.”
He sighed, then feeling guilty for monopolizing the conversation, switched gears. Todd penetrated me with his gaze. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
“See, I think you have a great vocabulary. I love your vocabulary.” I giggled.
“I love the way I feel when I’m around you, Mona. It’s so easy hanging out with you.”
I adored my new role as his girlfriend. He was without a doubt, mind-blowingly amazing, and if he chose me, then I was wonderful by association. If he thought I was beautiful, I must be. After all, he was the genius. “I love your smile,” I said somewhat clumsily, afraid to overwhelm him with the tidal wave of things I loved about him.
“I love everything about you, Mona.”
“I love everything about you, too.”
“I love you,” he said for the first time.
“I love you, too.”
Long after I’d graduated from college, I went to New Haven, Connecticut, for an engineering conference, and visited the Yale campus. I smiled with deep regret that Todd had never discovered that the students there ate Big Macs and wore hooded cotton Mexican tops just like his. Many of the kids wore frayed denim, hemp chokers and peasant shirts just like we wore. Commune chic.
We didn’t celebrate Christmas at our home in Missoula because the adults felt the holiday had become too commercial. Instead, we made half-inch stars from tin foil and cellophane and hung hundreds of them with fishing wire from the ceiling. Freddy set the lighting so the stars would gently illuminate, creating a “winter nights” theme inside the house. My father and Freddy made a sheet-thin moon from quarry rock, and backlit it with blue. We strung freeze-dried berries and wrapped mistletoe in ornate handmade lace bows and knotty silk ribbon. The kids painted clay peace signs in rainbow colors and made God’s-eyes from homespun, vegetable-dyed yarn. It looked like the holiday spread when House & Garden meets Mother Jones.
The only gifts we were allowed to buy were books. Everything else had to be made by our own talents. I saved up enough money to go to town and buy Todd the Barron’s SAT study guide, then Asia helped me make a ceramic coffee mug for Todd’s late nights of studying. I painted bright pink bitterroot blossoms on it before glazing it. He carved a chess set for me because we spent so many hours playing the game. In fact, we used chess as an excuse to stay up late and fool around after everyone else had gone to sleep. The first time we had sex, we tiptoed out of the house and into the barn, after the others had retired. Our excuse—as always—was an intense game of chess.
Todd and I talked about getting married after he graduated from Yale, which I think we both knew was more of a sweet fantasy than a realistic plan for our futures. I always figured he’d meet a blond, blue-blood from Yale, marry her, and have 2.3 kids. I was going to be a singer with an edgy alternative rock band, which now seems such an alien idea I can’t even believe it was once mine. Though I realized Todd and I would probably go our separate ways, I always assumed we’d remain lifelong friends, which I suppose we did. I just never imagined that his life would be so short.
Chapter 10
Never bring flowers.
—Maximum for Him, October
Unless they’re for Claudia Schiffer.
—December amendment
The pounding on the door made my heart jump. My pulse raced; a layer of sweat appeared on my skin. It was the hour of reckoning. Seven. Dog time. Interestingly, he was right on schedule despite the fact that his dating rules include showing up ten minutes late with no excuses or apologies. I guess Claudia Schiffer is the exception to the rules.
I opened the door to the sight of a chiseled masculine face with soulful brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow. His dark blond hair had a slight wave and was flopped to the side in a scruffy, compellingly sexy way. His jaw shot out slightly from a centimeter under bite. He wore well-tailored casual pants, a cashmere high-neck plum sweater, and soft brown leather slip-on shoes. In his right hand, he casually held two dozen red roses with baby’s breath and greens volumizing the impressive bouquet.
“Hey,” he greeted me with polite dismissal, as though I must have been the supermodel’s assistant. “Mike Dougherty to see Claudia.”
“Come in,” I offered. “Can I offer you something to drink? Lemonade? Beer?”
“I’ll take a beer.”
I poured his beer into the mug I had frosted before his arrival. He sat boyishly on my couch as I placed roses in a vase, feeling quite guilty for accepting flowers meant for a German supermodel who’d never step foot in my home. I returned to the family room, sat across from Mike, and thanked him for coming.
“Yeah, no problem,” he snorted. “It’s my pleasure. I’m real flattered she likes my column. Believe me, plenty of women don’t.” His focus swerved past me as Mike watched the stairs expectantly for Claudia Schiffer’s descent. “She gonna be down pretty soon?”
“Look, Mike, I’ve got to confess something,” I said. He said nothing. “I’m really sorry about this ... it’s just that you never returned any of my calls and this was the only way I could think of to get you here, and it really wasn’t me anyway. My friend Greta called and said she was Claudia Schiffer’s assistant and I was like, ‘Stop, stop!’ but she wouldn’t listen because she really wanted me to, um, she thought it would be a good idea if we met because I really do have an exciting proposition for you, and, and ... could you say something, please?”
Mike looked annoyed, but not entirely sure what I was saying. “So, you’re Claudia Schiffer?” he clarified.
“Well, no, I’m not Claudia Schiffer. Of course, I’m not Claudia Schiffer, but if what you’re asking is whether Claudia Schiffer is going to be here tonight, then, um, well, I have to apologize again, but, well, no. No, she couldn’t make it.”
“Couldn’t make it?” he queried.
“Right.”
“Couldn’t make it? Or has no idea who you are, and never set up this bullshit meeting?”
My heart pounded like a frantic neighbor running to tell you the house is on fire. I desperately needed The Dog’s help, and he was less than sixty seconds from the door.
“Um, no idea who I am,” I stammered.
Mike stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Listen, I really wish you’d hear me out as long as you’re here.”
“Lady, I think you’re psycho.” He started
toward the door.
I laughed nervously. “I assure you I’m not a psycho. I’m just very determined. Can’t you respect that? I really wanted to meet with you because I value your opinion and want to make a business proposition. So I did what I had to do.” As he got closer to the door, I knew I had about another thirty seconds to win him over, or become tonight’s bar story. “Look, I’ve read a year’s worth of back issues of your column and you’re always complaining about how you wish women could think more like men. How cool it would be if women really knew what guys wanted? I’m offering an opportunity to do just that. You create the ultimate girlfriend. Think about what a service you’d be doing. You could write about the woman you’re creating in your lab like Frankenstein’s monster, um Frankenstein’s bride?”
Lose the whole Frankenstein thing. He already thinks you’re a freak.
“Like Weird Science! You know what I mean. Think about the material you’d get for your column.” His body had stopped at the door, and his hand was on the knob. “Come on, Dog. I just want to make a guy unbelievably happy. Please. Six months. I’ll pay you.” At the mention of cash, he was ready to talk.
“How much?”
“A thousand a month,” I offered.
“What do I gotta do for this thousand a month?”
“Advise me,” I told him. “Just tell me what a guy wants from a girlfriend. Teach me how to become irresistible. We’ll meet once a month and the rest we can do by phone. Ten hours a month, tops. Please, Dog. I’m desperate. I don’t have much experience and I really need a, a guide.”
“A guide dog?” He laughed. “You seem nice enough, but it’s like workin’ for the other side. I’m a guy’s guy. I can’t turn coat and be your fairy godmother.”
“Two thousand?” I countered myself.
“I’m real sorry. I’m gonna have to pass.” The knob turned.
“Twenty-five hundred,” I wailed.
“Done.” He smiled. Lifting his hand off the doorknob and shaking my hand, I enjoyed the most disempowered victory in the history of battle. “So, what’s your name?”
“Mona.” I smiled. “Mona Warren.”
“Right. Why don’t you cut me a check for December and we can get started right now?”
“Now?”
“Now a problem?”
“Um, no, no. Now is good. Now is great. I’ll go get my checkbook. Grab a seat, Mike. Is where we were before okay with you?”
He didn’t answer but returned to his place on the couch. “You think I could get another beer while you’re up?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I shouted from my office. “Should I order a pizza?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I returned to the couch where Mike had been partially absorbed by the burgundy chenille pillows. He leaned back, draping his arm around the back of the couch and resting his left ankle on his right knee. I sat primly in the corner, assuming about a fifth of the space. After I ordered pizza to Mike’s specifications, he gave me his orientation. “Look, I’m the kinda guy who just tells it like it is. I don’t do the whole happy talk at the front end, then finish on an up-note deal. I say what’s on my mind. That gonna be a problem for you?” I shook my head to assure him that no happy talk would be needed “If you’re serious about this, I’m gonna have to lay the shit out there bluntly for you. You’re not gonna cry if I hurt your feelings, are you?”
“No, no, absolutely no crying.”
“Good, ’cause I gotta tell you, we can make you hot, but it’s gonna take a lot of work. A lot. And I gotta just focus on my game and not worry about hurting your feelings, okay?”
“Okay. Do you really think I can be hot?”
He sighed. “It’s doable. You’re not half bad looking, Mona, but I got my work cut out for me.”
“I am ready to learn. Eager to learn.”
Mike told me I was too passive, too accommodating. “You told me you were desperate and raised your price. You gotta get out of that mindset. I don’t care if you’re freaking out that I’m gonna leave, you’ve got to be cool about it, like hey, I’m offering something here. Take it or leave it.”
“But you would have left it!”
“Sure ʼbout that?” He smirked. A half hour later, our pizza arrived just as Mike was telling me I was devoid of any sex appeal. He continued chewing as he advised me on how to be more attractive. “You got a decent little body, Mona, but I really have to work to see it in that smock you’re sporting.” He swallowed and bit into another slice in the same breath. “You got a nice-looking face, but news flash for you, women are wearing makeup these days.” His eyes scanned me, assessing me from head to toe. “You gotta do something with the hair. It’s just sorta sitting there doing nothing for me.”
“Oh,” I said sadly. “What’s it supposed to do for you?”
“The deal is that you aren’t gonna be sensitive about this. You want the truth or you want me to tell you a bunch of useless shit that’ll make you feel good?”
“After you’re done ripping me to shreds, you’ll tell me what I’m supposed to do about it, right?”
I couldn’t believe how much pizza this man could devour. How did he stay in such good shape shoving food in his mouth like letters through a mail drop? “First thing is you gotta start working out and get everything toned up. You could lose a few pounds, but no more than five, ten. I’m gonna hook you up with my sister on the clothing and hair thing ʼcause I didn’t sign up for the Queer Eye Fab Five team. I’m strictly a consultant on how to act, got it? Pay Vicki a hundred an hour and she’ll take you shopping, hook you up with a good haircut and all that.”
“Um, okay. Is she, um, how should I put this?”
“Hot?” he finished.
“Well, I mean, is she—”
“She’s a great-looking girl and if she’s got the time, I’m sure she’ll be willing to help me out.”
“Okay.”
“I think the best advice I can give you right now is to watch sexy women. Look at how they carry themselves. Watch how they move their bodies, how they dress. Look at their facial expressions. They’re cute and they know how to use what they got. You should go to a strip club sometime and watch the girls work the crowd. They know how to play the game.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to a strip club with a wad of twenties.”
“Go with a wad of twenties and you’ll be very popular.” Mike laughed. “My buddy told me his girlfriend took a stripping class and it was totally hot. Said she was like a whole different person. Had this ‘I’m hot shit’ attitude after a one-night class.”
“But I don’t want to be a stripper,” I said. “I don’t even think I’d strip for Adam. I’d be too embarrassed.”
“You’d be embarrassed?”
“Yes, I’d feel completely self-conscious.”
“You need the class, Mona,” Mike insisted.
“Trust me, you want to know what these girls know. You never have to strip for anyone, but get over the ‘I’m embarrassed’ thing.” Abruptly, he looked at his watch. “My work is done here. My sister is in L.A. this week, but I’ll have her call you first of the year to set up a time to shop and do the hair thing. Here’s my cell phone and my home number if you need anything.”
At the door, he looked softer than the last time we stood at the entry to my home. “You know, I kinda dug tonight. Maybe it’s the holiday spirit or something, but I really feel like I’m doing something good here. Giving back to my community. Hey, have a good one. Remember, no cookies for Christmas, and sign up for that class.”
As his car pulled out of my driveway, I leaned against the inside of the front door with a self-satisfied grin. “I did it,” I said to no one. For a moment I questioned whether a guy like Mike could help me land a guy like Adam. One was my dream man; the other was every woman’s worst nightmare. He definitely was my New York. I smiled remembering my first time in New York. I did make it there. I’d make it again
and marry Adam just as I planned. For the first time in years, I felt a sense of peaceful assurance that everything would work out for me.
Chapter 11
I have the absolute perfect birthday for someone who camouflages herself in the world. I share my big day with none other than Jesus Christ. Talk about being upstaged. Because of this gift from God (my birthday, not Jesus), I have never had to endure a cluster of restaurant wait staff singing “Happy Birthday” to me. I have never had school or workmates taking collections for my birthday present. I always had an excuse not to throw a party. I took great consolation in this fact because it meant I would never have to suffer the humiliation of a poorly attended gathering.
Greta called early Christmas morning to wish me a happy birthday and make sure I still planned to attend dinner at her parents’ house. Inspired by Mike’s assurance that I had babe potential, I decided to run on the beach before showering and changing for Greta’s. Rather than run along the cement walkway, though, I decided to climb over the wall of rocks and run barefoot along the shoreline.
* * *
My first Christmas with Grammy was spent dining in a hotel restaurant and window-shopping at closed stores, making us acutely aware that our family portrait was composed by tragedy. Something about getting away from home helped us escape the reality of looking at each other from opposite ends of an enormous dining room table. Grammy could’ve easily filled the seats with a dozen of her friends; it just seemed easier on both of us if we got out of the house. I suppose it was because the accident happened right around this time of year. We never really talked about it. It was always just assumed that Christmas would be spent anywhere but home. Each year our celebrations were further from home until our last trip.
There were years we stumbled onto very familial Christmas dinners. While I was on semester break from UCSD, Grammy and I stayed at a bed-and breakfast about two hours outside of Dublin. It was possibly the coziest, warmest place on earth I’d ever visited. The Hennigan family ran the bed-and-breakfast, and Grammy and I were their only guests that week. They were a retired couple with five grown children who all lived within a three-mile radius with families of their own. The Hennigans’ walls were cluttered with framed photos and souvenir plates from places they’d traveled. A pewter mug with their family crest shared shelf space with a stuffed teddy bear wearing a knit sweater from a local preparatory school. A half-finished game of Scrabble sat on a table where a silverware box was resting, waiting to be polished.
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