by Mary Campisi
“I should’ve been home more. I would’ve seen it.”
“And Kyle?” Derry piped in. “Would you have made him heterosexual?”
Shea shrugged. “I’m such a screw-up. This baby was my chance to get things right, and now look.” Her hazel eyes sparkled with tears. “I’ll be raising a child on my own, again.”
“It’ll be okay.” Cyn grabbed Shea’s hand, squeezed. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We’re going to leave everything behind us, just for a few weeks, okay?” Derry met Shea’s gaze in the rearview window. “If you leave it alone, the answers might come. If not, I know a good divorce attorney. But right now, we’re thinking do-over. What would you do if you had a chance to start over?”
“I’d get out of that damn hospital.”
“Just get rid of the scrubs,” Derry said, which made Shea smile. “You’re Marilyn Monroe, remember? I’ll even dye your hair if you want.”
“Can you trim thirty pounds off and give me a black mole?”
“You’d be amazed by what I can do with a little makeup and a pair of scissors.”
Chapter 6
Everyone has a past, most have a present, but only a few have a future. This became Derry’s motto as they traveled north.
Red and orange foliage rose up to surround Route 220 as Derry, Cyn, and Shea wove through the dips and turns of northern Pennsylvania. It had been six hours, four bathroom trips and lunch at Chuck’s Diner since they pulled out of Randalee Road. Derry’s radar detector beeped all the way through the last hour in Pennsylvania, which forced her to back off the 85 mph she preferred and threw them way off schedule.
Even though they weren’t supposed to have any schedule.
“Rule number one, for the next thirty days we will leave behind all the psycho drama shit in our lives.” No Alec, no thoughts about my own screwed up life.
“What if we need to talk about something?” Shea leaned forward from the backseat of the Navigator. “I have some real issues, Derry.”
“We’re not priests or psychologists. I told you to try and put it on hold for now.”
“You can’t just run away from your life.”
“Says who? Weren’t you the one flagging us down in the middle of the road this morning? Anyway, we’re just taking a break, doing what most of the women in this world would do if they could.”
“A do-over,” Cyn said. “Remember when you were eighteen and thought you were going to change the world?”
“That’s because I was forty pounds lighter and had more energy,” Shea said.
Cyn ignored her. “Be serious. What if you could have that time back? What would you do?”
“I have no idea. My mother was a nurse, my aunt was a nurse, even my uncle was a nurse.”
“Which leads us to rule number two—try something new every day, and I don’t mean getting up on the left side of the bed instead of the right. I mean something different, a challenge that will jog the old brain to start synapsing.”
Cyn wrinkled her nose and said, “Sounds like work.”
“Not really. It might actually be refreshing. I don’t know about you two, but my life sucks a big one right now.”
“Mine’s not any better. How would you like to be pregnant and have a husband who’s screwing a waitress?”
“Cyn?”
“I’m…okay.”
“You had a birthday and your own friggin’ family didn’t show? That doesn’t sound okay. You want to live in the shadow of those spoiled brats forever?”
“Everyone else always seems to have needs that are so much more urgent than mine.”
“Yeah, and one day you’ll blow, just like Mount St. Helen.”
“I have a question.”
“What is it, Shea?”
“Would trying a caffeinated beverage, which I haven’t had in fifteen years, count?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.”
Derry sighed. Shea was so…Shea. “Well, you can dye your hair like Marilyn Monroe. Or wear ‘come screw-me’ red lipstick, or go up to some guy and buy him a drink. I doubt you’ve ever done that.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you haven’t done it before,” Cyn said.
“Exactly.”
“Or, you could go braless,” Cyn said, sliding a smile toward Shea.
“And wear a piece of clothing that isn’t hospital-issue green.”
“It’s just about all I own.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know if I like this rule.”
“Just think of it as stretching your brain.” Derry was actually excited about the rules, especially the first, no talking about psycho drama which meant no Alec. She’d only said ten sentences to him since the night he half-raped her.
Okay, who was she kidding?
“You should’ve told us the expectations before we agreed to come.”
“Because you’d rather be sitting home alone waiting for Richard to come back?”
“No.”
“Then chill. By the time you head back to Reston, you’ll be making your own rules.”
“Are there only two?”
“Now what do you think? Rule number three is what I call ‘Think Tank Eighteen.’ What if we were all eighteen again?”
“I’d be forty pounds lighter with no stretch marks,” Shea said.
“What if you could have a do-over? What would you do? Who would you be with? Where would you live? What would you look like?”
“Isn’t all that a moot point?”
“No. If we can figure out who we are, then we’ll know where we’re going and what we’re going to do. I don’t care if you sit on the john for the next thirty days, but when you go back to your old life, you’ll do so willingly.”
“It’s not that easy, Derry. Tell her, Cyn. We can’t just snap our fingers and start a new life. I have two kids in college, a mortgage, two car payments—”
“We’ve all got our own, shit,” Derry said. “I could put ten kids through college but I don’t have ten, do I? I don’t even have one.”
“You’ve got Charlie—”
“I said no psycho drama bullshit, Shea, unless one of us wants to talk about it and it has to be our own bullshit. Charlie’s off limits.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Cyn’s not sitting in Happy Land either, are you, Cyn? Sad thing is you don’t think you deserve a spot at the head of the line. Ever. And why? Because everybody else has issues, so you’ll just wait. But you’ll be waiting until hell freezes over, because there will always be something, and one day, you’ll flip and say, ‘Screw it all, I’m leaving.’ And in the meantime, what are you supposed to do, spend the rest of your life scrubbing toilets and soaking your daughters’ bloody underwear?”
“And digging out their scum-soaked hair from the shower drain,” Cyn added glumly.
“How’s that for fulfilling? We could start a whole new revolution, one woman at a time, hands across America, and all that, a real uprising for a new kind of women’s rights.”
“How do we do that?” Cyn rubbed her temples. “I don’t even know how to find something I want to do. Maybe I’m just happy where I am.”
“Are you?”
“Not really.”
“Well, good, I’m glad we got that out of the way.”
“But part of me feels guilty for being here.”
“What do you expect? You’re Catholic.”
“But another part of me is looking forward to it.”
“Good.”
“And another part is scared.”
“Shea, did you know we were traveling with the three faces of Eve?”
They all laughed and Derry pointed to Shea and said, “You will think Marilyn Monroe, and you”—she nodded toward Cyn—“Sophia Loren. I am Liz.” Her voice turned husky. “Sex will start oozing out, you’ll see.”
“Where’s it gonna ooze from?” Shea asked. “M
arilyn had more sex in her left earlobe than I have in my whole body.”
***
The first time Shea saw Derry Rohan she stood on the podium of the Mercy Hospital Annual Children’s Benefit Ball wielding a pair of giant scissors above her head. Shea and Richard had attended the fancy benefit to help raise money for Kids’ Wigs. She hadn’t wanted to go. It was one thing to stand alongside a doctor and hand him a bolus of Lidocaine with the rush of adrenalin pulsing through them as they worked to save another life, but quite another to sit next to that same man in his black tuxedo and his diamond-studded wife. And besides, Shea never had anything to wear.
But Richard had insisted. He didn’t care about raising money to make wigs for kids with cancer. He wanted prospects and what better place to mine for new business than a function that brought together more per capita income in one building than a dozen real estate magazines? Doctors needed houses too, he’d explained, and Shea should think of her role in the introductions as a facilitator of good will.
She’d just come out of the bathroom where she’d been hiding while Richard cornered one of the doctor’s wives, when she saw the tall, striking woman in red, waving a pair of scissors in the air.
For the children. The woman waved the scissors, then reached up and unwound the black coils on top of her head. A single fat braid fell to her waist. Shea stood, mesmerized, as the woman lifted the braid, and chopped it off. The crowd cheered, the woman hugged the handsome man next to her, and Shea stared at the thick, black snake of hair.
Later, with Richard engrossed in conversation with a podiatrist who many said made more money in the stock market than in his practice, Shea slipped out the back door, vodka tonic in hand.
That’s where she found Derry Rohan, puffing on a cigarette and downing a scotch.
“I didn’t even know I was going to do it, until I was in front of the podium with the scissors in my hand. Then, it came to me and I said, why not? I just did it and everyone was cheering and at first I didn’t even realize why.” Tears clogged Derry’s voice, made her whole body shake.
Derry and Shea became friends that night five years ago, despite themselves and their differences. But now, as Shea stretched on the bed of the Best Western, waiting for Derry and Cyn to return from Wal-Mart, she worried Derry would wake up tomorrow and wonder how she got here, and why.
She was wondering that herself right now. What if Richard came home tonight and she wasn’t there? She’d left him six messages on his cell phone, a detailed note at the house telling him she’d be traveling with Derry and Cyn, and a poorly veiled plea on his office voicemail indicating plans could be altered without notice.
Who was she kidding? He wasn’t going to call. She massaged her belly. What kind of woman would still want a man who cheated on her, who didn’t even want his own child?
The knock on the door and Derry’s, “Honey, I’m home,” saved Shea from having to find an answer.
“This place may be a dump, but Clydesville, Pennsylvania still has a Wal-Mart,” Derry said unloading her bags on the other double bed.
“What took you so long? I was getting worried.” Shea sat up and peeked into one of the bags. “What’s all this?”
“It’s Mrs. Clean.” Derry rolled her eyes and lifted a bottle of Soft Scrub and Bleach from one of the bags. “Cyn says you can’t have a bath until she cleans the tub.”
“Why? Housecleaning’s already taken care of it.”
“We’re not taking any chances. I don’t want you getting an infection or God knows what. Do you know what people do in these places?”
“No, Cyn, tell us.” Derry handed her the bleach and winked at Shea.
“Let’s just say, a little squirt of Lysol isn’t going to kill everything.”
Derry laughed. “Sperm only lives a few hours outside the body.”
“Gross.” This from Shea.
Cyn pulled back the faded mosaic bedspread Shea had been lying on. “Make fun if you want to, but don’t think they wash the blankets or the bedspreads every time someone checks out. Look.” She pointed to two yellowish smears on the underside of the spread. “Three guesses what this is?”
“Okay, CSI, we won’t use the bedspread. Shea, I guess that means you can’t sleep naked either because the sheets might not be clean.”
“I wasn’t planning on sleeping naked.”
“No?” Derry sighed. “I was and now I can’t.”
Shea stared after her as she dumped the contents of another Wal-Mart bag on the bed. Was she serious?
“Look here, Shea.” Derry held up a box of Clairol. “Move over, Marilyn.”
Shea eyed the box. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Wait ‘til you see the outfit she bought you,” Cyn called from the bathroom.
“You’ll be a new you, Shea.” Derry pulled out a pale pink velour top with matching pants. “See, no green.”
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with scrubs. They’re comfortable, durable—”
“And ugly.”
“Derry, I wasn’t really serious about the Marilyn Monroe thing.”
“I was.”
“I would look like a freak with bleached hair and freckles.”
Cyn poked her head out of the bathroom she’d been scrubbing and said, “It would look pretty bad.”
“What about Liz?” Derry asked. “I bought black dye to make my hair even darker, but you could use it.”
“Hmmm. Maybe. You wouldn’t mind?”
“Nah, I’ll be Marilyn.” Derry grinned. “I’ve always wondered what being blonde was like. Now I’ll see, just as soon as Cyn finishes sanitizing the place.”
“Why are you cleaning the sink when we’re just going to mess it up with dye?”
“I don’t want you putting your head in a dirty sink.”
“Crazy,” Derry whispered. “I got you some makeup, too, Shea.” She dug in the bag again, pulled out two packs of L’Oreal eye shadow, an eyeliner and mascara.
“Am I that ugly? No wonder Richard found someone else,” she blurted out, burying her head in her hands.
“No, no, honey, that’s not it at all.” Derry stroked her back and said, “I just wanted to play around. If you don’t want it, that’s fine. You’re so pretty but you hide it behind those scrubs. And your eyes are the most magnificent hazel. If you wore just a little shadow and liner, the results would be amazing. But either way, it doesn’t matter to me and don’t you think for one second that you’re responsible for Richard’s behavior.” She rubbed Shea’s back. “He’s a jerk. What kind of man would leave a woman who was pregnant with his child?”
“What kind of man would mess around with another woman while his wife was trying to get pregnant?” Cyn was beside her now, massaging Shea’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
Shea straightened, sniffed. “Thanks, both of you. I guess I’m just a little sensitive. I feel so blah.”
“And we know just how to fix that,” Derry promised. “Let us show you.”
Chapter 7
Clydesville was the kind of town a person stopped in for a night if he were so exhausted he risked ramming his car into a tree. People called it a pass-through, where they made the sign of the cross if they were religious, rubbed two stones together if they were superstitious, and just hoped the carburetor didn’t blow.
There was always a rinky-dink bar or restaurant serving half pound burgers and crispy onion rings, the place stuffed with locals sipping long necks. And Ford F150-350’s lined up out back, plastered with Local U.A.W. or God Bless America decals
Derry, Shea, and Cyn sat in a red vinyl booth at The Blue Eagle, a joint that specialized in hot dogs smothered in chili sauce, battered onion rings on a stick, and $1.50 drafts.
“Those men over there are staring at us,” Shea said, fingering her black, freshly-dried hair.
“It’s probably been a while since they’ve seen women with teeth.” Derry flashed a smile at the two men in question. One waved back, the
other just kept staring.
“It’s our hair,” Cyn pronounced, ruffling hers with both hands. “And the red lipstick. I haven’t worn red in”—she paused, considered—“I don’t think I’ve ever worn red.” Her sleeveless top was a shimmery black knit, one of Derry’s, a medium though she usually wore large.
“New hair. New face. New look.” Derry slid a cigarette from its case, lit it and extended her long neck toward the ceiling as she exhaled.
Shea coughed. “Derry, please.”
“Sorry, I forgot.” She snubbed out the cigarette, lifted her beer and saluted. “You both look great. Cyn, you’ve got great boobs, you shouldn’t hide them under those tents you always wear. And Shea, the cleavage peeking out of that zipper will drive men wild.”
Shea yanked the zipper to the base of her neck. Derry laughed. “That’s not going to keep them away. They can see the curves beneath all that pink velour. Any man’s fantasy.” Derry wore a red jumpsuit, her near perfect body poured into it. “And in three months, I’ll be a size 38 DD, every man’s fantasy. Though I’m not so sure about this hair, it’s more Susan Powter than Marilyn Monroe.”
Derry would look gorgeous with her head shaved, GI Jane style.
“Look at those men.” Shea motioned to the two who’d been ogling them. “They’re coming this way.”
“God, Derry, get rid of them,” Cyn muttered under her breath, wishing she were hiding behind a Washington Redskin sweatshirt right now instead of a stripped down version of a Victoria’s Secret ad.
“Relax, I can handle these local yokels.”
“We’ve done our something different for the day; let’s just get out of here.” Shea grabbed her purse, clutched it against her stomach.
Too late. Barney Fife and his cohort surrounded them with big smiles and extra doses of heavy cologne. “Hey, little ladies,” the taller one said in a bad John Wayne imitation. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
Derry leaned back in her chair and lifted her glass. “No, we’re not.”
Encouraged, the taller man moved closer. “Mind if we join you?”
Derry shrugged, “Sure, why not?”
The shorter one—Cyn thought of him as Barney Fife—smiled at her and dragged two chairs to their table. Barney was small and wiry with a wide-striped polyester tie, a short-sleeved white shirt and brown pants cinched with a three inch tan belt. “Pleased to meet you, ladies,” he said quickly, his words sifting through the huge gap between his front teeth. He extended a wet, sticky hand. “Elroy McGill.”