She's Out of Control

by Kristin Billerbeck

  I stare at my steering wheel, contemplating my destination when my cell phone rings. I see it’s my mother. I look up at the sky. You know, just kick me when I’m down.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  “Ashley, where have you been? It’s like you live in another country with how much we hear from you.”

  I’ll admit, I don’t see my parents nearly as much as a good daughter should. My mother is like June Cleaver brought back from the vaults. She’s like Nick-at-Nite live. I love her dearly, but success to her is a man in the house and a bun in the oven. I’m afraid my advanced degrees and job title will never impress her. She just wants more than that for me.

  “I’ve been in Taiwan and working as usual. But I got a puppy,” I add cheerfully.

  “When do you have time for a puppy? Does Seth like animals?” My poor mom, ever worried about the elusive husband who slips through my fingers like tiny sand pebbles.

  “I guess he does because he bought Rhett for me. But Seth is in India.” I look at my watch. “Well, he will be by this time tomorrow.”

  “I’ll never understand you young people, Honey. Why can’t you just settle down? You spend more time on planes than in your own home. In your grandfather’s day, they had no choice; there was a war. But you kids do have choices. I know your father and I are old-fashioned, but it’s just no way to live. I want you to have more than this, Honey.”

  “Amen to that. How’s Mei Ling, Mom?” My sister-in-law is expecting. How green is my valley.

  “She’s doing well. She’s got that little basketball tummy like Brea. She’s happier than a clam and eating like a warthog. I told her she must be having a boy.” My mom laughs in her giddy way. Her grand-motherly days are about to begin. “When will Seth be back? I’d like to have you both for Thanksgiving.”

  And here it comes. “He’s not coming back, Mom.”

  She’s quiet as she assimilates this information. “Before Thanks-giving? He’s not coming back before Thanksgiving?” Ever the optimist.

  “He’s not coming back at all, Mom. It’s over between us.”

  She gasps. “I don’t believe that. At your brother’s wedding, you two were the talk of the casino.”

  “Denial only works for awhile. Trust me on that one.”

  “Ashley, Honey, I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” And suddenly I’m overwhelmed with the desire to call Seth. Call it a setback, but my dialing finger is itchy. “You know Mom, I’d like to call him before he goes. Just to wish him luck and all.”

  “Sure. Sure, honey. We love you. Dinner’s at four on Thanksgiving.”

  “Can I bring a friend?”

  “Of course. Kay’s always welcome.”

  I open my mouth to explain about Kevin and the food kitchen, but decide it best just to leave that for another day. Telling my mother I’m bringing a Stanford surgeon to dinner is a bit like telling her the wedding’s on. And then there’s the whole Mensa issue. My parents would probably think that’s a monthly visitor.

  I say good-bye and dial Seth’s number. His sweet mother answers and I’m just about to snap the phone shut . . .

  “Ashley?” Grr. Caller ID.

  “Mrs. Greenwood?”

  “Seth’s gone, honey. Are you looking for him?”

  I try to hide my pathetic disappointment. “Of course, he’s gone. I guess I just wanted to make sure.”

  “He left about an hour ago.”

  “I wanted to tell him I made general counsel.” Not that I ever work currently.

  “That’s wonderful, darling. He’d be so happy for you.” Mrs. Greenwood’s tone changes. “I’m sorry about Seth, Ashley. I don’t know what we did to scare him on marriage, but I’m afraid he might never settle down.”

  I try to laugh her comment off. “Maybe he’ll find a nice Indian girl.” Or perhaps Arin.

  “He’s missing the chance of a lifetime with you. His father and I know that, dear, but God’s will be done.”

  “Thank you.” There’s such peace in knowing you impressed the parents. That, given the opportunity, they might embrace you into their family. I take solace in the fact that this gentle-hearted woman thinks I’m good enough to marry her son. And I didn’t even have to take the IQ test. We say good-bye, and I dial Brea.

  “Hello?” Brea’s tone is desperate.

  “Are you bored?”

  “You have no idea. Did you know the same people are on All My Children that were on it when we were in high school? I thought we were in a rut. But Erica still looks as gorgeous as ever.”

  “I feel for her. But she is married in real life. And she runs like this billion-dollar company on the Home Shopping Network. So I guess I don’t really feel for her.”

  “Remember Edmund?” Brea sighs wistfully. Every man she ever mentions looks exactly like John. “Ooh! Ooh, wait a minute. You know, Ash, if I could have this kind of plastic surgery, I would so be there. They look fabulous. Where are you? Turn on the TV a minute. Channel 7.”

  “I’m in the car.”

  She’s quiet for a minute. “Did you want to tell me something?”

  “And miss the recap of the morning soaps, you mean? Fill me in. My life has nothing on soap operas.”

  “I don’t know about that. How’s the boss?”

  “Funny you should ask. He’s sending his girlfriend home to Italy. The international affair has ended.”

  “Did you have something to do with that?” Hmm. How would a politician answer this question?

  “I’d like to think not.” I slink back against the leather driver’s seat. “Why do people listen to me, anyway? I can’t even get my own life together, and people are taking my advice like I’m Dr. Laura. Would you take advice from someone overwhelmed by a puppy?”

  “Yes. You’re very good at looking at the big picture, Ash. That’s why people trust you.”

  “I’m good at looking at the big picture.” I start to laugh. “Brea, if it was paint-by-number on a four-inch canvas, I couldn’t see the whole picture. And I’ll prove it.” I clear my throat. “Seth left for India today. For good. Without me.”

  I hear the TV click off. “You knew he would.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “So, Kevin was here earlier. Brought me some more ice cream. So we’re mourning Seth, why?”

  “I’m a glass-completely-empty-with-a-hole-in-the-bottom kinda girl. Give me a chance to wallow, okay?”

  “Maybe you make negative things happen with that attitude.”

  “Fair enough. Maybe I do.” I look at my watch and speed through a yellow light. My Rainforest sprinkling awaits. “I’m taking the day off and going to get that treatment you bought me. Hans got me promoted to general counsel.”

  “In return for what?”

  “And you talk about me being negative? What do you think? I’ve suddenly turned into a wanton ambitious vixen?”

  “No, I just think it was hard work those first couple weeks, when you never had a day off,” Brea says enthusiastically. “Hard work and solid commitment and rock-hard patents. When all others failed, you were there. You were in Taiwan. You were in Seattle. You were—”

  “Are you through?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure that’s what the secretaries think. I’m happy for you, but not really, because I hate that you keep getting these promotions, and you keep working so hard that you don’t have time to meet anybody decent. It’s kind of a treadmill, only not the kind that makes you thinner. I thought you and Seth stood a chance because he’s just as big a slave as you are.”

  “I’m here at the spa.” I find parking right in front. Again, loving the down economy. “It was a perfect gift. Thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome. Do me a favor, don’t get in there and start thinking about all the patents you left on your desk, or what you should have said to Seth, or that you’ve stressed me out with your news. Just relax. Can you do that for me?”

  I look down at my empty double latte cup. “I can try.
”

  “He’s not wer-thee, Ash.”

  We both laugh at the reference to our youth, and Wayne and Garth from Saturday Night Live. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  It’s early and I park my TT right in front of Provence in Saratoga. Saratoga is a small, wealthy town surrounded by the mountains that separate Silicon Valley from the Pacific Ocean. I should say wealthier because the Valley is a place where money is entirely taken for granted. If you live here, you just have it. You might not have friends, or time, or serious relationships, but money is the least of your worries. Unless you’re looking for a place to live.

  The soothing scents of Saratoga reach my nose: heady redwood and eucalyptus mingle with fresh-roasted coffee and the various aromas of the culturally elite restaurants preparing for the lunch rush. I was born to live here.

  I enter the spa’s courtyard and the little dripping sounds begin. What is that? Is it supposed to be relaxing? Because I’m thinking Chinese water torture, and what’s the difference? Once inside Provence, I’m met with a whole new realm of sensations. There’s the soft continual splash of the fountain, and the soothing scents of lavender and almond oil with ylangylang. Combined with the subtle mural of the French countryside, I feel like I’ve been transported to Europe, and hope for serious change starts rising inside me.

  “Good morning. Velcome to Provence. How may I help you?”

  “I’m here for a rain-forest therapy.” That sounds so stupid, I feel like I’m ordering McNuggets. “The reservation is under Ashley Stockingdale.”

  “Ah yes, you’ll find a robe and slippers in the dressing room. Vould you like some tea or water perhaps?”

  “No, no, thank you.” I make my way to the dressing room, which is draped in rich taupe brocade, and looks like something out of a Gold Rush brothel, but I try to dispel such thoughts. There’s a younger, more refreshed Ashley waiting to burst forth onto the scene, and this overly decorated spa holds the key.

  A teenager, at least I think so, meets me in the waiting area. “Hello, Ashley. I’m Isabella, and I’ll be doing your rain-forest therapy today.” She sits me down in front of a mirror and begins to finger my hair, feeling the texture like it’s a piece of modern art. “Your hair is natural, no?”

  “Naturally curly, yes.”

  “Such a beautiful auburn. But you are stressed, no? I see in your skin the toll of your life.”

  Now there’s a comment I could do without. Let’s get this over with. I stand up. “I was given this therapy as a gift. I’m not sure what it is, or if—”

  “You vill love it.” She moves her arms around like she’s doing some intense foreign dance. “It vill take zee impurities from your skin and your body, and zee therapy vill vork for days after your visit. You vill be a new voman.”

  A new vermin. There ya go. The sum total of my life. I can be transformed into a new rat. She leaves me alone, I undress, climb onto the terry-cloth table that looks like some kind of torture device, and wait for an eternity until Isabella decides to return. So passive-aggressive the way they leave you waiting naked under a blanket like a slab of meat waiting for marinade.

  After what feels like an eternity listening to creepy nature sounds, Isabella returns. “The temperature is okay, no?”

  “It’s fine, thanks.”

  She starts to massage my back, then says, “Now I vill add zee marjoram oil.” As she drips it on my back, she explains further. Like I need a narrative on this. I don’t want to know any more about what’s happening than I want to know the contents of a McNugget. “It helps to lower the blood pressure and vorks as a laxative,” she rambles, “and to help calm the nervous system.” Ah, well slather it on then!

  She rubs that on, then I feel another dribble. “This is oil of rosemary.” I smell like a chicken. “It is used to aid the immune system and support hair growth.” Where was this stuff after my last haircut?

  My back starts to sting just a tad. “Can you wipe some of that off? It’s stinging a little.”

  She just keeps rubbing. Apparently, her English is not as good as her aromatherapy. “This should help,” she finally says. “This is oil of oregano.” Now I smell like an Italian chicken. And I’m getting hungry. “It promotes balance and clears the bronchial tubes.”

  “You know, this is really starting to hurt. Do you have anything gentler?”

  “Oil of eucalyptus. It is help to deepen concentration and to increase awareness.”

  I turn around and see she’s reading this garbage off the bottles. Aromatherapy for Dummies, it probably says. My back is now feeling quite raw, like a really bad sunburn.

  “Ouch, that stings!” I hop up in my towel and my voice sounds unusually high pitched. “Get it off me!”

  But there stands Isabella with even more bottles, more soothing jars of mystery potions to scald the skin from my body.

  “Where’s a shower?”

  “A shower might cause the oils to react with your skin.” How strange. Her accent is now completely gone.

  “How do I get this off me?” I say, hopping like a fish on a hook. I rub against the towel, but the more I move, the more I hurt. “Please. Please get this off me.”

  “Lie down,” she says. “You must have sensitive skin. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh yeah, this is my fault. Because I didn’t know you were going to slather me up and sauté me in pain, that’s why!”

  Okay, Christian reaction not good, but I hurt! This is so not suffering for Jesus. I look at the pots and jars of stuff on the counter, praying for something soothing-looking. I find a green cucumber medley that looks souffléish and slap it on my back. “Oh,” I gasp, feeling like I’ve just hit ice after being on fire. “Put that on, please!”

  Isabella rubs it on and then takes a towel to my back. I don’t even care that my backside is completely flailing in the wind. I pull my clothes on as soon as the piercing irritation stops. I pick up the eucalyptus oil. “Look, it says right here to be used sparingly or in a bath.”

  “It’s pure oil. It cleanses the system.”

  “It strips the skin, Isabella. Like a deer tick.” Poor Isabella’s face is stricken, and I realize I’ll be terrible in labor. I can’t even handle massage therapy. “I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting that. I guess my skin is sensitive.”

  “Please don’t tell my boss. I need this job,” she says again, in perfect English.

  I look at her and start to laugh. “Please don’t tell my best friend that I couldn’t relax.” I look over my shoulder at my back, and it’s red like fresh-cooked lobster. “Anyway, I do feel purged. We’ve just eliminated the essential oil of Seth and that’s a good thing.”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. But I suppose it’s not every day she sees a customer do the hokeypokey during rain-forest therapy.

  23

  Thanksgiving, and I have a million things to be thankful for: I made general counsel by the age of thirty-one. I have a best friend from heaven, a church that I love, a great family. Well, okay. A really nice family, anyway. I’m going to be an auntie. (Three times over if you count Brea’s babies.) And of course, most importantly, I’m loved by Jesus. There, that’s the positive view. Now I can whine.

  It’s another year where I’m technically alone on Thanksgiving: lost between a legitimate spot at the adult dinette and the folding table beside my ten-year-old second cousin. It’s a year when the draw of a foreign culture was stronger than my boyfriend’s love for me, and being dumped is fresh and raw—right before the Christmas season. Remember how in high school, guys would break up right before Valentine’s Day so they didn’t have to buy a gift? Well, bingo. Here I am, only worse than that.

  Once, I read the story of Mumtaz, an Indian princess so loved by her emperor husband that when she died giving birth to their four-teenth child, Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal for her mausoleum. Mumtaz inspires love. I apparently inspire fear, and Seth’s escape to India, Mumtaz’s final resting place, is as close as I get to true devot
ion.

  And yet there are all these men in my life that don’t run. All these possibilities that aren’t really possibilities. Like my boss. The way he looks at me makes me feel desirable. But then reality sets in. This is a man who hangs women on a tree like ornaments. Call me: Christmas 2003. And then there’s Kevin, who is clearly impossible. And then there are the Reasons.

  Kay is organizing Thanksgiving dinner for the entire abandoned singles’ group. Their parents are somewhere across the country, and they’re here. Generally, the Reasons eat out, but there’s a paltry selection on Thanksgiving Day, and it gives Kay an excuse to use the fine china. So everybody’s happy.

  “Everything looks great, Kay.” There’s a harvest-colored, plaid tablecloth with rust candles, and a huge bouquet of fall flowers adorning her antique table.

  “You don’t think it’s too much?”

  “Kay, you know everything you do is perfectly incredible, and you’ll be the talk of the Reasons for a month.”

  She pouts at me. “That doesn’t make me feel any better. I want things to be nice, Ashley. None of these people have anywhere to be today. Our house is such a wreck right now. I hope everyone’s okay with that.”

  “They could all be with me at the food kitchen. They need servers, Kevin says.”

  “That’s not fair. You’re going to your mother’s for dinner later. The guys are going to watch football here. It’s so anti-Silicon Valley, there might actually be conversation. I would think you’d like us getting together. You’re always saying that we need to get a social life.”

  I said that? “Forgive me, I’m Scrooge today, okay?”

  “Seth hasn’t called?”

  I toss my hand. “Oh, who cares about Seth? I’m loyal to the wrong people.” Rhett whines at my feet and I scrunch his face in my hands. “Not you, Sweetie. You are worthy of being loyal to.”