Loves Me, Loves Me Not

by Libby Malin

  Fred not being home until Tuesday has nothing to do with going to the mall and everything to do with Trixie. Looking over at my sister I wonder if she plans to hire some canine version of a goodfella so she doesn’t have to deal with this problem. Or maybe she figures she can talk me out of keeping the cat. Hugging Trixie close I buckle myself in and we take off down the road. I send secret telepathic messages to Trix assuring her that wherever I go, she goes.

  Whatever my apprehensions about moving in with my sister, they are kept at bay for this one afternoon as we take a trip back to our childhood. At least back to the time when you didn’t need to worry about what you were going to eat, where you were going to live and who was going to pay for everything.

  With a happy abandon I’d not experienced since my mother took me into Hecht’s department store and told me I could buy any dress I wanted for my senior prom, I shopped away the afternoon. TowsonTown Center is a multistory temple of consumerism filled with specialty shops and boutiques, as well as the grand dames of the Baltimore retail trade, including good ol’ Hecht’s.

  Gina tells me she’s treating me since my birthday is coming up, and any time my eye lights on something, she asks me if I want it. At the end of the day she’s bought me another sundress, two pairs of slacks, a designer wraparound sleeveless top, some Victoria’s Secret lingerie, and a pair of strappy sandals that I can only imagine wearing with the lingerie in Henry Castle’s bedroom.

  Speaking of Henry, I think of him from time to time during the day, which only heightens my sense of being a teen again. It’s as if I’m back in the days when thoughts of a high school crush float through your mind like the words to a favorite song.

  To cap off our youthful afternoon, Gina takes me out to an early-bird dinner at a trendy bar off of York Road, where we order fattening burgers only a giant could fit in his mouth, and ice cream sundaes for dessert.

  “It’s a good thing we wore expandable clothes,” she laughs, loosening the top snap on her designer jeans. Gina is a good-looking woman, with perfectly frosted short hair and manicured fingers. Away from Fred she’s as gay as a spring day, and it occurs to me that she has made some trade-off that she is more than happy with.

  “Did you do that exercise?” she asks me as we slurp up the last of our ice cream.

  For a minute I think she’s referring to physical exercise since we just snarfed down a diet-busting meal, then I remember—the “essay” on my “perfect life.”

  “Yes,” I lie. Lying has become too easy lately, and I wonder if I’ll have to go through some twelve-step program to give it up.

  “Was it helpful?”

  “Yes,” I lie again. And more: “I came up with a few things. In fact, I was going through the paper and circled a bunch.” There, no lie.

  “Great!” She reaches over and actually pats my hand. “Mom and Dad have been worried about you, too.”

  “They shouldn’t. I’m probably doing better than they are.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. I was over there two weeks ago,” Gina confesses, “and Mom was screaming at Dad about messing up her kitchen.”

  “Payback time.”

  “In spades.”

  Our eyes meet in that way that communicates a thousand unvoiced thoughts. Poor Mom. Poor Dad. They’ve got what they deserve. We love them anyway. And to think we used to hate them.

  All in a flash, these thoughts jump from my eyes to hers and back again.

  “We can rent a video tonight if you want,” she says after paying the check with her credit card.

  “That’s okay. I’m kind of tired.” This is true. I woke up early to get ready for the movers, then ended up sitting around waiting for them for two hours.

  We leave the restaurant with a sense of regret, somehow knowing we won’t recapture this feeling for a long time.

  At home, I am chagrined to find that Trixie has left us little “gifts” on the kitchen floor and on my bed. Before Gina can notice, I quickly scoop them up and toss them, and spray the air with room deodorizer. Gina is outside, watering plants, but wrinkles her nose when she comes back in. She looks at Trixie who bounds for the door, but says nothing. That crafty Trix.

  I retreat to my room where I spend a half hour washing the Trixie stain from the white duvet, and another half hour trying on the clothes we bought. When I get to the sandals and the lingerie I think of where Henry is tonight. At the gala.

  From downstairs, I hear the television blaring. HGTV is airing a home-design special. I know I should offer to watch it with Gina, but I’m restless. Now another feeling comes churning up from my past—that same sense of fidgety impatience to get on with life that I used to get sitting in my purple-skirted bed as a kid at home.

  What did I do when I felt that way? I’d grab the keys to the car and tell my mother I was going for a drive. Then I’d bop around my friends’ neighborhoods, just cruising slowly past other ranchers and split levels. Sometimes, I’d catch a glimpse of a girlfriend out on the lawn. Once I caught a boy two-timing his steady with another girl.

  Henry. Henry is at the gala. Is he alone?

  I rush downstairs and I breeze into the small den where Gina’s watching TV.

  “Can I borrow your car?”

  “What? Sure. Keys are in my purse in the kitchen. Did you forget something?”

  “No. Just want to take a drive. I might go see Wendy.”

  “Okay.” She laughs. “Don’t be out late, or I’ll worry.”

  “Sure thing, Ma.”

  In a few minutes I’m on the road. This time I’ve decided to avoid Tess Wintergarten’s evil rays by taking an alternative route into the heart of the city. It’s nearly seven-thirty now, and chances are Henry and crew are already in the Hyatt doing the pretend-laugh routine with colleagues and friends.

  But I feel like a kid and I’m enjoying it, bopping down the road, looking for friendly faces.

  Late-day light is cutting across the city creating a glare that makes me squint. The air is fresh and cool now, and with the windows open I catch the scent of other people’s dinners wafting along the streets. I’m happy.

  I let the Volvo take me way into town, to the harbor where the water glimmers in the early evening sun and where cheery tourists and shoppers stroll. I convince myself that this is my real destination, that I’ll park the car, take a walk, listen to the soothing caw-caw of the seagulls and catch a little of the soothing peace that lapping water seems to offer.

  But then I pass the Hyatt. Nothing unusual there. The party’s inside. Good thing, I realize. It would be silly to think I’d catch a glimpse of Henry. That’s taking this teenage trip down memory lane a little too far, doncha think? Cruising around to see if you can “accidentally” run into your boyfriend? (Not that Henry’s my boyfriend, mind you.)

  But then I see someone exit the big front doors and I stop, even though it’s a green light and the car behind me is honking.

  Tess Wintergarten stands shimmering in gray silk, smoking a cigarette as long as her svelte figure.

  Dammit.

  I should have known she was a smoker.

  chapter 9

  Purple violets: You occupy my thoughts

  After my first date with Rick, I told myself I’d wait two days and then call him. My dating history had taught me that it was folly to wait for the guy to call you—it didn’t always signify disinterest. I figured if Rick didn’t seem pleased to hear from me when I called, I’d let the matter drop and move on. But I needn’t have worried. The very next morning after our first dinner together, Rick called me. He told me he couldn’t remember when he’d had a better time, and wanted to get together again soon. He promised to call me midweek to make plans, and he was true to his word. Rick always, always called when he said he would.

  Phhhhhhtt. My self-delusion rips away like a partially filled balloon suddenly released. False hopes. So, Henry is not true to me (“And why should he be?” the Inner Feminista screams, “that isn’t what you wanted in the first pl
ace.” And the Babushka Crone doesn’t even answer because the Inner Feminista has spiked her Metamucil with sleeping pills.) What’s more, I drove all the way into the city just to see if he would be true. Like I said, I’m a mess.

  I drive back to my sister’s and the sun’s slanting rays are now just annoying, not cheerful. And the open windows let in a wasp who scares me half to death and I have to pull over to let him out, then close the windows and turn on the fan.

  When I get back to my sister’s house, she is fixing herself some hot tea, pouring it into a delicate porcelain cup decorated with hand-painted violets.

  “I was going to take a bath, then read in bed,” she summarizes. “How’s Wendy?”

  “Wendy’s fine,” I lie. “I think I’ll go up early, too.” I don’t go up right away. I wait for Gina to finish her tea, then I grab the cordless phone from the kitchen and sneak upstairs with it.

  It’s too early to call Henry. He won’t be home from the gala until at least ten o’clock, if that. And I will call him. I’ll stay up all night if I have to, but I’ll call him. After all, I want to find out how the gala went. I want to show him I’m interested even though I couldn’t go. Just a friendly call, a warm, how’d-it-go kind of thing. Uh-huh. Sure.

  After my sister heads upstairs to her whirlpool bath, I settle into the den and watch television, peripatetically flipping through the channels like a hurricane blowing through with the remote. I’m hardly aware of the time passing.

  Actually, it’s been thirty-seven minutes since I got home.

  At ten, I finally punch in his numbers. What a shock, I get his voice mail.

  In the next hour, I try his number again twice (but who’s counting?) Now I’m transported back to that part of high school I hated—the aching hell of wondering if your boyfriend is out with someone else.

  At eleven-thirty, I have this devilish idea of trying Tess Wintergarten’s number and then Henry’s. If Tess answers, I’ll just mumble “wrong number.”

  After I find Tess’s number in the phone book, I dial and wait. Five rings. Then her voice mail with that mesmerizing drawl. It must be the accent that lures them in. It’s hypnotic.

  Quickly, I try Henry. Still no answer. At least if the two of them are out together, they’re not in bed.

  Or maybe they are, I think, and he’s not answering the phone. I try to remember if the phone rang while he and I were otherwise engaged. I can’t even remember if he has a phone in his bedroom. Surely he has a phone in his bedroom. But then again, he and I didn’t always do it in the bedroom. He could be in the shower with her.

  This is ridiculous, I mentally scream. THIS IS EXACTLY WHY IT WAS A MISTAKE TO GET INVOLVED WITH HIM. There is no such thing as sex without involvement. No such thing! Who made up that rule—a man?

  I am ashamed to admit it but I try his condo two more times, five minutes apart so in case he is home, and in bed with Tess, he’ll think it’s an emergency and pick it up. And then I’ll say, “What? No, this is the first I’ve called you all evening.” And hope to God he doesn’t have caller ID.

  By twelve-thirty, I’ve convinced myself that I’d be doing him a favor by driving down to his condo just to make sure he hasn’t been murdered by some Basic Instinct copycat. But I stop myself, take a few deep breaths, drink a finger of Scotch, count to ten, think about soaking in the tub, and go back upstairs.

  My new clothes are strewn around the room as if someone emptied a treasure chest there. They don’t seem so happy anymore, and I have this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’ve made a mistake. Whether that mistake was going to bed with Henry or not going to the gala with him, I can’t decide.

  After washing up and changing, I climb into bed but don’t sleep well. Visions of Tess and Henry dance through my head.

  When I wake up I’m cross and sick at heart, but reasonably normal again. In fact, when I think back to the lunacy of my stalking routine the night before, my face flushes with embarrassment. I might be nuts but I can’t be that nuts. Unless, of course, it’s my pills. That’s it—my migraine pills. “May cause sleeplessness, palpitations and overwhelming urges to stalk boyfriends”—surely that’s in the pamphlet that comes with them.

  Because of the traffic noise, I’m up before Gina again and I put on the coffee for us both, being careful to set out mugs, cereal bowls, plates and other things so that when she comes down for breakfast she’ll have someone taking care of her for a change.

  My gesture has the desired effect. When I walk into the kitchen twenty minutes later after my shower, my sister smiles broadly while sipping at her Colombian roast. What I would give to sip on my own Colombian.

  “I love having you here,” Gina says. She puts the paper down and goes to the freezer where she pulls out frozen waffles. “Want one?”

  “Naw. I’m not that hungry.” My lunacy has left no room for hunger. Sitting down, I stare at the headlines but they don’t give me any information I need. None scream Job for Amy Here, or Amy, Great Apartment Waiting. Or even, Forget About Henry.

  Remembering his flower-sending habit, I realize I can find out if he was with Tess last night at his condo by calling every single florist in a twenty-mile radius and asking if they’re placing an order for Henry Castle today. I mentally add it to my to-do list.

  “What’s on your agenda today?” Gina asks while she stands in front of the toaster oven waiting for her waffles.

  “Job hunting.”

  “That’s good.” When the toaster dings, she pops the waffles onto a plate, licking her burned fingers after the maneuver. “Want to go out tonight?”

  “Can’t. I promised Wendy I’d meet up with her and some friends.”

  “Not going out with Henry, huh?”

  “Nope.” I know she wants me to say more but my heart isn’t in it. I can’t even think of a good lie. It’s his night at the soup kitchen, perhaps? Or he’s masterminding a special spy mission to Cuba?

  After breakfast, I borrow her car and head into the city. It’s the darnedest thing—every car I’m in seems to head downtown. This one takes me to my flower shop. When I go inside, the air seems musty with the sickly sweet overtones of a funeral parlor. A couple days away and already it feels like a closed-up tomb.

  Speaking of closed, I don’t bother to turn the sign over to “open.” I have no intention of doing flower business today except, perhaps, beginning an inventory and closing out the books for the owner as he gets ready to sell.

  No, my intentions are to…well, sit around and mope. I don’t even realize this is my goal until I’m behind the counter, with the lights off and the closed sign on the door. Leaning my elbows on the counter I listen to the phone ring a couple of times but I ignore it. I’ve forgotten to bring the want ads with me, so I can’t even do some proper job hunting.

  Job hunting. Maybe I need to go to an employment agency.

  Nix that. I see myself sitting across from some blue-suited office-manager type asking me what I want to do and then I open my mouth and say “Own an in-ground pool” and start sobbing. No future in that.

  Among the stacks of mail I find the morning paper, but the classifieds in the daily are but a shadow of the copious entries in Sunday’s paper so I only take a quick gander at the paltry pages. Their lack of promise seems to reflect my own dead-end future. I’m about to call Wendy for a girlfriend sympathy-fest when I remember her own need for pity. Making a mental note to call her later, I give myself a pep talk. It goes something like this:

  “Think of all the neat clothes you could buy if you had another job.”

  “Think of all the nice dinners out you could afford if you had a better job.”

  “Think of the great places you could live if you had a decent, steady income.”

  “For God’s sake, Amy, think of the in-ground pool!”

  While the daily paper is a washout, the on-line version would have complete classified listings. Not only would the Sun’s want ads be on the Internet, the whole world’s want
ads would be there, too. With a too-quick movement that knocks a plastic vase filled with silk flowers to the floor, I turn to the shop computer and fire it up.

  For an hour I browse Monster.com and CareerBuilders and Jobsinc—anything that says anything about jobs. If I want to live in Desert Rose, Arizona, there are some terrific upper-level public relations jobs. If I want to move to Candlewood, Alaska, I can become an executive of a snowmobilers’ organization. If I don’t mind relocating to Marshland, Florida, I can head up the nonprofit organization Save Our Alligators. Deserts, tundra or marshes—not my idea of prime real estate, so I pass.

  Throughout this search, the phone rings several times. Aching from sitting slump-shouldered in front of the machine for so long, I eventually check messages.

  Five potential flower orders that will find other florists when I don’t return their calls. One call from Wendy. And one from my sister.

  “Ame, are you there?” Gina’s voice says. “Wendy was trying to reach you. And I’d like to talk to you if you have a moment.” Her voice sounds a little high and strained, so I call her back first and catch her on the third ring.

  “Are you still at the shop?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Cleaning up some stuff and searching some job databases.”

  “You could have done that here. On Fred’s computer.” She sounds hurt that I didn’t ask.

  “You said Wendy called. Is it important?”

  “I don’t now. Didn’t sound that way.” She hesitates a second and I know something is on her mind. I wonder if Trixie has left any more gifts recently, but I remember letting her out before I left and I can’t imagine Gina letting her back in. Then I think maybe Gina’s found out she’s pregnant and I start to get excited. But no, it’s not that.

  “Fred called,” she begins. “He was pretty upset. Turns out the Japanese firm that was going to buy your building? Someone is trying to interest them in another property. His client is pretty mad.”

  Uh-oh. I can imagine the call now. Fred blustering and blubbering. “You never should have said anything in front of Amy. Who knows who she talked to? Didn’t you say she has a new boyfriend?”