Mrs. Perfect

by Jane Porter

  Today at Z Design is easier than yesterday because I know where everything is and know whom I’ll be working with. Fridays are also usually half days, but because it’s Susan’s last day and everyone has so much to do, we all stay until four, when Allie surprises Susan with a going-away cake and Robert whisks a bottle of champagne from an ugly paper bag in the back of the fridge. Everyone’s talking and toasting Susan when the door opens and Marta walks in with a travel bag and briefcase.

  “Fantastic. Cake and champagne, my favorites,” she says, shutting the door and leaving her luggage in the corner.

  “You’re back early,” Susan answers, licking purple-and-white icing from her fingers even as she stands up.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Marta insists, and as she gestures for Susan to sit, she spots me hovering in the background. “Taylor.” Her eyes rest on me a moment, her expression serious.

  I hadn’t expected to see Marta until Monday, and I’m thrown for a loop. “Hello,” I say stiffly, feeling awkward here all over again.

  This isn’t going to work, I think, this isn’t something I can do.

  But Marta’s turned her attention to Susan. “Did you open your gifts yet?” she asks, taking a seat at the conference table, too.

  “No,” Susan answers, yet she looks delighted.

  “We were waiting,” Mel explains as Allie cuts Marta a piece of cake and Robert pours her some champagne. “We knew you were trying to get back early, so we were holding off in case you showed up.”

  Marta smiles, dark hair loose, white teeth flashing. “I showed up.”

  Susan cheers, and I feel even more alien. This is Marta’s place. She’s in her element here. These are her people. Her family.

  I can feel myself tense yet again. I want to go home now, want to go back to my world, the one I understand, but Marta looks up and catches my eye. “Sit, Taylor. Relax. You’re part of the team.”

  Hard to walk out when your boss tells you to stay.

  Saturday morning, I wake up with a raging headache brought on by the two glasses of champagne I had yesterday at the office, which I chased with another glass or two of red wine once I arrived home.

  I shouldn’t have had that much to drink. I don’t normally drink like that. I ordered pizza for the girls last night, the disgusting cheap pizza that I hate to eat—which I ate, accompanied by the red wine.

  Now, heading for the stairs, I wince as I hear Brooke and Jemma screaming at each other in the bonus room at the end of the hall.

  “I hate you!”

  “I hate you!”

  “You are the worst sister in the world!”

  “You are.”

  “No, you are.”

  “Stop copying me!”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  Time to play referee. I hate being referee. I open the door and stand there as they continue screaming at each other.

  “I hate you for the rest of your life!”

  “I’ll hate you longer! I’ll hate you even when you’re dead!”

  “That’s it. Enough!” I shout, but they don’t hear me. They’re too busy hating each other’s guts for the rest of their lives.

  “Jemma! Brooke!” I roar their names to be heard.

  They straighten abruptly, both falling silent. They most definitely heard me this time.

  I feel a grim satisfaction in my capacity to stun and frighten. I haven’t stunned and frightened anybody in a long time.

  “Both of you, to your rooms. Twenty minutes. Do not come out. Do not speak to each other. Do not speak to me. Do not make a sound. Twenty minutes. I will come get you when time’s up.”

  They march past me, giving each other cutting looks. “Where’s Tori?” I ask as they reach their rooms.

  Jemma turns around, points to her mouth. Right, she can’t talk. Smart-ass.

  “Brooke?” I ask politely.

  Brooke flashes her older sister a triumphant look. “She’s still sleeping.”

  “Thank you.” I gesture toward their doors. “Twenty minutes. Starting now.”

  Downstairs as the coffee brews, I open the front door to get the paper before I remember it got canceled since we were late on payments.

  I feel a momentary letdown, then remind myself the paper was depressing. It was just a daily dose of bombings, carjackings, murders, robberies, terrorist attacks, global warming threats, and growing world debt. And that’s just here in America.

  I drink a glass of water as I wait for my coffee. I’m going to need some serious Advil today. Passing the powder bathroom, I see that the light is on, and I reach in to click it off and close the door but stop when I catch sight of my reflection.

  Good Lord. I’m tragic. And old.

  I move toward the mirror, tip my head, check my roots and then my hairline near my ear.

  Dark roots and—fantastic—gray hair.

  Not a lot of gray, but enough that I know it’s time for overall color. I pride myself on my hair. It’s gorgeous hair. I want to keep it that way.

  But $180 on hair color and finishing isn’t really part of my budget anymore.

  I check my roots again. They’re definitely darker than they’ve been in a while. If I fluff my hair back and avoid a part line, you can’t see the roots too badly, but I never let them go this long. I guess I kept waiting for the cash flow to improve.

  The cash flow might never improve.

  The dark roots and gray aren’t going to wait, either.

  I pour my coffee and sit on one of the bar stools. The Salon uses a L’Oréal product. I can buy a L’Oréal product at Bartel’s Drugstore. How hard can it be to do my own color?

  I’ve had my light brown hair lightened for years. I could explain the process in my sleep. Mix up the cream, apply it with a stiff brush to the scalp, putting color only on the roots, let it sit, and then rinse it out.

  The hardest part will be matching my hair shade, and honestly, all I have to do is put a chunk of my hair against the picture on the box. The box that matches wins.

  After the girls are out of time-out, and after they’ve all been served hot breakfast, we head to Bartel’s together. I’ve explained to the girls what I’m going to do, and I’ve enlisted their help.

  “We’ve got to find my hair color. Now, there are going to be a lot of boxes and a lot of different shades, but we want the one that’s closest to mine.”

  The girls are excited. We’ve never done anything like this before. Home manicure and pedicure parties, sure. Play facials, too, where we make our own hair conditioners and facial scrubs using fruits, vegetables, and oatmeal. But hair color? Never. That’s always been the Salon’s job.

  I knew there’d be a lot of hair color boxes. I thought that would be to my advantage, since many boxes means more hair color choices. But suddenly confronted by twelve shades of blond and eight light brown, I’m no longer sure of myself.

  Neither is Jemma. “Mom, what’s the difference between Natural Medium Ash Blonde and Natural Medium Golden Blonde?”

  “Good question.” I bend down to look at the two boxes in her hands and then back on the shelves. “Maybe Natural Neutral Dark Blonde is the way to go.”

  “But what is ash?” Jemma persists.

  Brooke turns around with another box. “This one’s for gray, Mom. Do you have gray hair yet?”

  I put a finger to my lips. Her voice is a little too loud. “Not enough to worry about,” I stage-whisper in a cheerful voice just in case anyone from another aisle is eavesdropping.

  Brooke puts back the box and finds another. “How about highlights, Mom? You get highlights.”

  Tori takes a box off the shelf and holds it in both hands, smiling at the picture. “He looks like Daddy.”

  Brooke snorts in disgust. “He does not!” she says, grabbing the box out of Tori’s hands. Her expression changes, and she tips the box back and forth, as if studying the male model from different angles. “Actually he does. A little bit.”

  Tori ge
ts another box with the same picture and kisses the model on the lips. “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Okay, that’s just weird,” Jemma says before turning to me. “So, Mom, what do you think they mean by ash? And why do they call some colors Natural Light Blonde and others just Light Blonde? Why are some of the colors ‘Natural’ and some aren’t?”

  I haven’t a clue. I’m beginning to have some reservations about doing my hair color this way. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this—”

  “No. We should. We’re going to help you.” Jemma looks up at me. “Let’s forget all the names. Let’s just match your hair to the hair on the box like we agreed.”

  Why I listen to a ten-year-old is beyond me. But I do.

  We head home with Natural Medium Golden Blonde—after Brooke has announced to the senior citizen man working the register that we’re all going home to color my gray hair—but as we troop into the house, I’m worried.

  I’m not that golden, and Medium Champagne Blonde sounded like a much better fit to me, but Jemma said it’s because I like the name “Champagne” more than the color on the box.

  The girls crowd around me as I open the box and take out the instructions. There’s a lot of instructions but only three steps. Hmmm, something doesn’t fit.

  Jemma’s reading the instructions out loud while Tori is pulling out the bottles and tubes. I’m feeling close to freaking out. This is too chaotic. I don’t want to do anything wrong. I like my hair, and it’s cost a fortune over the years to maintain.

  “Girls, I don’t know. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “Mom . . .” Jemma sighs, looking up from the instructions. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  What could go wrong? How about everything? I could have an allergic reaction. My scalp could burn. My hair could fall out. My hair could turn orange.

  My hair turns orange.

  Okay, not as orange as orange fruit, more like screaming gold. Think hollowed-out pumpkin with a candle inside.

  My former highlights are darker, too. Darker orange. On the burnt amber side.

  I’m surprisingly okay with it, and I don’t know if it’s because having Crayola-colored hair is less traumatic than losing your house, but the girls are shattered.

  I knew something was wrong the moment I rinsed the color out of my hair and stepped out of the shower and looked into the mirror.

  Jemma was waiting on the other side of the shower door with a towel, and she knew it, too, only she didn’t want to believe it. This was her pick, after all, and she begged me to blow-dry my hair fast, hoping and praying that once my hair was dry the color would be softer . . . more apple cider and less tangerine punch.

  My hair’s dry, and it’s still fluorescent.

  Jemma’s facedown on her bed, crying. She hates my hair almost as much as she hates her sisters, who have ruined her life by being born.

  Tori’s a little weepy, but not bad. She’s more fascinated by my transformation than anything else. Apparently I look like Charmander from Pokémon.

  Brooke is quick to point out that being called Charmander is not a compliment. Charmander isn’t just orange but has a weird dinosaur head and spiky teeth.

  Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, I turn my orange head this way and that. I wouldn’t even mind the screaming gold if it was more complimentary to my skin tone. But copper and orange is harsh. It makes my skin sallow. Right now I look at least thirty-nine.

  I pick up the phone and dial my very expensive, very snooty hair salon. They’re going to be livid when they see what I did to my hair.

  Why, oh, why do I learn everything the hard way?

  Chapter Eighteen

  I can’t get into the Salon until Monday noon, so I spend Sunday working at the house, getting us prepared for the move, trying not to be overwhelmed by the staggering amount to do in the next few weeks. There’s just so much to sort, organize, pack, and toss out.

  While the girls play games, I pull down the ladder to the attic and tackle the sea of boxes stored up there. Everything’s up there: clothes, small furniture, lamps, pictures, and dozens of boxes of Christmas and holiday decorations. The sad thing is, unless the box is Christmas or holiday decorations, it’s just collecting dust.

  Tired of dust and tired of stuff, I’m determined to get rid of everything that can’t fit into the new house, and since very little can fit into the 1,650-square-foot house, almost everything has to go.

  While going through plastic tubs and cardboard boxes, I find a bin filled with old cassettes and record albums from my high school days.

  I smile at my collection of music. Keith Green, 2nd Chapter of Acts, Amy Grant, Matthew Ward, Sandy Patti. I was born again in high school, and my dad, despite being a deacon in our church, wasn’t thrilled by my evangelical fever. Memorizing scripture and prayer was fine, but joining a “worship group” and singing praise songs for hours was going too far. The charismatic movement made him suspicious. Emotion and passion made him suspicious, but emotion and passion were what I craved.

  I needed to feel something good. I longed to feel something hopeful. Brave.

  Being deeply religious had its benefits. God took me away from the disaster at home, and believing in Jesus Christ meant I didn’t have to believe in me. I didn’t have to be perfect because that was the Holy Spirit’s job. I just had to show up with an open heart.

  I suddenly miss that young me, the one full of fire and grace. I was so sure I’d be a light in the world. So sure that I, Tammy Jones, could make a difference.

  Reluctantly, I slide back the box of cassettes and albums and reach for another box, unsure what to do with my Christian music. I don’t play the old albums anymore, but I still can’t bear to think of tossing them away.

  I lift the lid on the next box. A white cotton quilt edged in the most gorgeous blue and white silk ribbon.

  Matthew’s baby blanket.

  I slowly lift the blanket from the box and bring it to my face. I made this blanket.

  Matthew was the baby between Jemma and Brooke, the baby boy I lost at seven and a half months.

  No one could tell me why I lost him. At the seven-month checkup, he was healthy and moving, kicking up a storm, and then two weeks later he stopped moving.

  I knew something was wrong the night he stopped moving. Matthew had always been such a busy boy in my tummy. When I went to sleep, he’d start to play. But that night when I went to sleep, he never did his kicks or somersaults.

  I kept putting my hand on my stomach. Wake up, Matthew. Wake up, Matt, wake up for Mommy.

  I woke Nathan early in the morning to tell him something was wrong, and Nathan put his hand on my belly, and then his cheek and then his lips, as if he could breathe life into the baby.

  I had to deliver Matthew the next evening. They induced me, and I went into labor. It was horrible. Jemma was a hard delivery, but this was so much worse. I remember begging for the epidural, but they said they were afraid it would stop the contractions and the baby had to come out. Nathan was with me the entire time. He held my hand. He wouldn’t let it go even when I was screaming at God and the doctors for taking my boy.

  Thank God Nathan was there. He made sure I got to hold Matthew after he was cleaned up and wrapped in a little blue hospital blanket.

  He was small but otherwise perfect, with wisps of gold brown hair on his head.

  I’m glad we named him Matthew. Matthew was my favorite apostle.

  I tuck the soft quilt back into the box with the crib sheets and bumper. I made everything for Matthew’s nursery, just the way I made everything for Jemma’s.

  I stack Matthew’s box on top of the box with my Christian music. These two boxes will go to the rental house. Although I can’t bear to look at either one, I can’t bring myself to get rid of them, either.

  I’m emotionally and physically flattened by bedtime. I spent nearly five hours hauling boxes downstairs, but the attic is now completely empty. A third of the boxes will go to the new house
, another third will go to the garbage, and the last will be dropped off at a Goodwill station.

  I shower and, still wrapped in a towel, apply my evening skin repair cream, the one that’s supposed to erase fine lines, fade age spots, and even out a blotchy complexion. I hear the phone ring, but I don’t answer it. I’m too tired. I just want to get the girls in bed and then collapse in bed, too.

  My bedroom door opens and Jemma walks in, carrying one of the cordless phones. “It’s Patti, Mom. She has to talk to you.”

  “Oh, okay.” I quickly finish smoothing the lotion over my face and throat and then rubbing the leftover into my hands.

  As I take the phone, Jemma whispers to me, “We called Dad and talked to him. He’s going to try to come home for Thanksgiving. Isn’t that great?”

  I hold the phone against my chest. Nathan’s coming home for Thanksgiving? “Really?”

  She nods and smiles. “He’s going to help us move, too.”

  “That’s wonderful.” I kiss her forehead and then bring the phone to my ear. “Hi, Patti.”

  “She wants it.” Patti’s voice squeaks with excitement. “All of it. Including the art on your walls.”

  I press the towel to my chin. “She’s lost her mind.”

  “I told her the moving truck arrives Wednesday, so she said she’ll bring you a check over tomorrow.”

  I can get the house. We’ll have the rental house. I sag against the counter, overwhelmed.

  “But, Taylor, won’t it be hard seeing her in your house with all your things?”

  “I won’t be back. When I walk away, I’m walking from this house for good.” But just saying the words brings a lump to my throat. This house has meant a lot to me. It’s still so painful to think it’ll soon be someone else’s.

  “Have you started packing yet?” I ask, needing to change the subject.

  “No, we have movers doing it. I’m just taking care of personal stuff, putting things in suitcases that I don’t want in the truck. How about you? Do you have a company coming in?”