by Liza Palmer
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’d like to mail these,” I say shoving the full fan of invitations through the window’s door. Not one separates from the group. The woman awkwardly holds up the fan. Not one invitation falls.
“We can’t mail these,” she says.
“Sure you can. Just pop them in the mail slot one at a time,” I say.
The woman peels the first invitation off the top of the fan and inserts it into the mail chute. It magnetizes to the chute and stays right where she dropped it.
“We can’t mail these,” she says as she’s peeling the invitation from the metal postal chute.
I take back the invitation and stick it back to the top of the fan where it was before the Chute Incident. I dejectedly walk back to my car and go home. Since I’m newly unemployed, I have plenty of time to obsess on the invitations. I decide to put the tiny envelope in a larger envelope. Maybe that way the second sheet of paper will reduce the strength of the magnetization. I go back to Vroman’s and pick up another box of envelopes. I readdress the new envelopes and drive to the post office praying I don’t get the same lady. I find parking right outside and run inside with the stack of less magnetized invitations.
I get in line. The lady who helped me before is still there. I hold my newly enveloped invitations with courage and moxie. Oh, you’ll mail these now.
“Can I help you?” It’s the same lady.
“I’d like to mail these,” I say.
“We can’t mail these.” Her tone is a little more annoyed.
“Sure you can,” I say, shoving the same pile of invitations through her bulletproof window gate. A few of them separate from the pack.
The woman peels the first invitation off the top of the fan and inserts it into the mail chute. It slips down the chute slowly but makes it all the way down. I feel victorious.
“That’ll be fifty-five cents each,” she says.
“That’s fine,” I say, pulling out my wallet.
I imagine the invitations sticking to the sides of mailboxes across the country as my cell phone chirps. I forgot I even had the damn thing with me. I sift through my purse and find the culprit.
“Hello?” I am annoyed.
It’s Ms. Beverly Urban. “Ms. Thompson?”
“Ms. Urban, yes.”
“Ms. Thompson I’d like to offer you a paid internship where you’ll be working on the Marcus Aurelius.” I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.
“Oh my gosh! I am honored . . . thank you, Ms. Urban. What a . . . this is just such good news.” I’m hyperventilating. I want to hang up so I can call Mom and Kate and screech the good news.
“The internship starts in the fall, so you have one month to settle your affairs.” Settle my affairs? Are they going to kill me?
“Yes. I am honored. Thank you so much.” I am stuttering.
“It is our pleasure. I will be mailing you the contracts. Please have them looked over and mail them back to me as soon as you can.”
“Yes, yes . . . I will.”
I hang up with Ms. Urban and begin dialing Mom’s phone number. We scream and screech to each other for a full five minutes. We plan to meet for a congratulatory dinner at six thirty that evening. I call Kate and we go through the same screaming screeching routine. I am tempted to call Domenic, but don’t.
The wagons are circled around Mom’s house at six thirty. We will celebrate my internship in style. Russell has a prime rib he’ll cook too rare, and the girlies have made cards. The crowd is buzzing with excitement. I am smiling from ear to ear and can’t help but be proud of myself. This isn’t just some gift shop job in a museum. I am the official in-painter and gap filler for this project. That means that when Marcus—we’re on a first-name basis now—is finally assembled, I will come in and put the finishing touches on him. At the Getty. I will report for work every day to the fucking Getty Museum in the hills overlooking Los Angeles.
I will ride that tram every day and check in with the security guard, who will begin to know me and eventually just wave me in. I have to get through this last month without a job. I might be able to find some kind of waitressing gig just to make ends meet. I can do anything for one month. But after that, it’s Marcus Aurelius and me. And my first real job. I’ve never felt more proud of myself. Russell lowers the barbecue lid and motions for me to come over. Either that or I’ve done something wrong and he’s going to kill me. I approach slowly.
“I want you to know how proud I am of you,” Russell says.
“Thank you.” I am being taken out. That’s it. There is some member of Russell’s recon squad hiding in the bushes, and this is my last supper.
“Your finances for the next month are being taken care of,” Russell says stoically. I am silent. I can’t choke the tears back. My lip begins quivering. I can’t help feeling so lucky and blessed. Mom walks up beside me and rubs my back. My family has always known I have talent and potential. All they’ve wanted for me is great things. I’m the only one who has ever doubted it.
“Please don’t cry, Maggie. I just wanted you to know that you will be taken care of until the internship kicks in,” Mom says. Russell is angling to free himself and get back in front of the barbecue, where he feels safe.
“Oh, for chrissakes, Russell.” Mom sidles up next to Russell and is beaming at me.
“I just feel so lucky, you know,” I whimper.
“I told you she was going to cry. That’s why I wanted you to tell her about the money.” Russell takes a swig of Mom’s caffeine-free Diet Coke and makes a face.
“We’re just so proud of you, sweetheart.” Mom holds Russell’s hand, more as a way to keep him in the conversation than as an affectionate gesture.
I lean up and give Russell a kiss and say thank you over and over again. I hug Mom and can’t control the tears. I feel so amazing—like this life isn’t even believable anymore. Those fantasies where I’m in the basement of some museum in my charcoal cashmere sweater and Levi 501s are becoming a reality. It’s a bizarre phenomenon—real life is so much better than any fantasy.
On the way home from dinner, I decide to put a call in to Domenic. I have a lot to tell him. Throughout this whole ordeal all I’ve wanted to do is call him and tell him about quitting Joe’s and getting the internship. This is where I get scared. Do these milestones need Domenic’s approval now to mean anything? Am I unable to feel happy or proud of myself for just the act of doing these things? No, I have to retrain myself. This is not a loss of independence. This is not a loss of self. This is one simple phone call where I get to tell a friend that I’ve done something good.
“Hello?” It’s Domenic.
“Hey there, it’s Maggie.” I can’t wait until I can just say, It’s me.
“I knew it was you. So anything new going on in your life, stranger?”
“Nah, nothing much.” I am smiling from ear to ear.
“You haven’t, oh, I don’t know, quit your job? Told off your boss? Stopped talking to a friend? Nothing?” Well, when you say it like that.
“But the best part is I got the internship!” I yell.
“Are you serious?” Domenic asks.
“Yeah! Can you believe it? She called this morning while I was at the post office. Amazing, huh?”
“I knew you could do it,” Domenic says.
“Thanks!” We are silent. “So when did you want to meet up to talk about Solo?” I stutter.
“Oh, um, we could do it Friday at around ten?” My mind is racing. Isn’t this where he invites me to go out for congratulatory drinks? Am I completely off base on everything relationship-related—I mean, is this how the beginning of dating usually is? Maybe I just don’t know. But I sure as hell liked my fantasy better.
“That sounds good. I’ll see you then.” And he hangs up.
What did I do? What the hell is going on? First the nape-of-the-neck thing, then I don’t get a hug after the party, and now this? If this is what love and trust feel like—the
y’re sorely overrated.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Telepathy School
Once you taste a little of the sweetness that life can be, there really is no going back. I think that’s why I fought it for so long. I knew once I started, I wasn’t going to be able to stop. Now I find myself with my fingers curled around the bottom of my shirt, getting ready to raise it as high as I can, exposing every flaw I’ve ever imagined.
“Hey there,” I say, as Domenic arrives the following Friday. Solo bounds to him and is jumping and whimpering as he bends to greet her. The back of my neck is wet with sweat from my morning training session with Gabriel. I got a gold star in my food diary this time. I can’t begin to express how much that little stupid star meant to me.
“Hey,” he says, mouth full of Solo.
“Okay,” I say, trying to act perfectly normal, “I’ve made a chart of everything. Hopefully this will answer some of your questions.” I hand him my color-coded spreadsheet.
“I’m sure it will.” Domenic stands to look at the spreadsheet.
I have listed phone numbers of vets, emergency vets, and next of kin. I have explained Solo’s feeding regimen and sleeping behaviors. I made photocopies of her rabies vaccinations and attached the most recent picture I have of her. Just in case she gets away and he has to go door to door. I have given him the approximate times she usually needs to be put out and/or walked.
The whole time I imagine what he will look like sleeping in my bed. He’ll be sleeping here for two nights. He’ll be in my shower . . . naked. He will be living in my house and taking care of my girlie. Here I am explaining the ins and outs of my life to him. I feel conflicted because on the one hand I’m happy and I know he’ll do a good job. On the other hand, I can’t figure out what’s going on with us. In the end, I know this is not about Domenic taking care of Solo. This is about Domenic taking care of me.
“I’m picking up my sister at around six in the morning tomorrow. Come over anytime after that,” I say.
“And when will you be getting back?” he asks.
“I hope to be back early evening on Sunday,” I say.
“Your birthday?”
“Yeah, I’ll probably do some cake thing with my family that night,” I stutter. How had I forgotten about my birthday again?
“So you’re flying to Vegas?”
“Driving,” I say.
“You’re driving? For a weekend?”
“I don’t fly unless absolutely necessary.”
“Okay, but you’re going to be damn tired of driving come Monday.”
“I’d rather be tired than hanging upside down in a tree bare-ass naked.”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw this news program once about a search party that went in the jungle to find dead bodies after an airplane had gone down in Colombia. There was this dead guy in a tree. He was completely stark naked, hanging upside down.”
“Should we mention at any point that this poor man was dead?” he asks. I am silent. Horrified. Domenic continues. “So I’ll be here tomorrow and see you when you get back on Sunday,” he says.
“That sounds perfect,” I say.
Domenic takes the key I made for him and pets Solo one more time. Am I next in line? I step a little closer and the tips of my fingers are tingling. I miss him. I miss what it feels like to be touched by him. I want to end those stopgap measures I’ve had to come up with in the meantime, like imagining it’s Domenic as Gabriel leads me to a machine with his hand on the small of my back. But Gabriel’s touch is not Domenic’s. I want my turn at the real thing. Domenic waves and closes the door behind him, saying he’ll see me Sunday night. I want to scream at the top of my lungs for him to stay. I want him here with me. I don’t want to be alone anymore. But I’ll see him on my birthday, and those few minutes will give me some solace. I am standing at the door as Solo starts barking again. Domenic is coming back. Finally, all those years of telepathy school have come in handy. I open the door.
“I have something special planned for your birthday,” Domenic blurts.
“What?” He couldn’t have said anything more ludicrous.
“I just wanted you to know. I know I’ve been acting weird, but I . . . I just wanted you to know. So can you set aside some time for me?” Domenic is flipping his keys.
“Yeah, sure,” I say robotically. Is this really happening?
“Okay. So you’re not just using me because I’m the only one your dog likes, are you?” Domenic breaks a smile.
“No, you’re the only one I like.” Gasp. What did I say? I literally have my mouth open—horrified.
“Okay, good. See you Sunday then?” Domenic leans into the screen door. I am still completely dumbfounded.
“Yeah . . . Sunday,” I mutter. Domenic turns around and walks down the courtyard, looking back once and waving. I feel like crying.
I go to the store and pick out foods to stock the refrigerator for Domenic and for the road trip as well. Kate says she’ll bring old Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies she found in the freezer while she was defrosting. I throw every snack food I can find in the cart. Then I take inventory of what’s there.
I have to write down all that shit and show it to Gabriel on Monday. I start putting stuff back on the shelves. I keep about a fourth of what I had and grab a thing of celery, a big bag of almonds, and some grapes. I am packed and ready to go by ten thirty that night. I give the house a final once-over and decide it’s time to turn in. Tomorrow will be a long day of driving, and I definitely need my sleep. I set the alarm for five o’clock in the morning, turn over, and go to sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Salem Witch Trials, 1692
I was Kate’s maid of honor at her wedding. I stood at her side as she married Vincent di Matteo on a Saturday in a backyard in Altadena, California. They were so opposite that you could only see the overwhelming love they had for each other. Kate had swaths of chiffon over every piece of greenery in the backyard. Vincent had all of his groomsmen wear black Converse All Stars. Kate wanted their wedding song to be “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” so Vincent compromised by picking the version by Irish rocker Luka Bloom. It was a true marriage of acceptance and inclusion. I wonder what I will be thinking standing by Olivia’s side in the gardens of city hall. Is hers going to be the marriage of two people like Kate and Vincent, or will it be the final gasp of the old Olivia as she loses herself in her thin fantasy life?
I awake slowly as the alarm blares the next morning. My body is still aching from yesterday’s workout with Gabriel. I am still smiling about Domenic. The automatic timer on the coffeemaker goes off and the machine begins to percolate. I put Solo in her side yard and start my shower. I’m excited about the trip. I’m trying to treat at it as a mini-vacation, rather than Olivia’s shower. Otherwise the excitement will be replaced by dread and anxiety. I pad to the kitchen in my towel and pour a cup of coffee, adding plenty of nondairy creamer. I grab the pair of Adidas sweats and white T-shirt I laid out last night. I don’t mind getting dressed anymore. It’s not that my clothes are falling off me. They’re just more comfortable. I’m not packed into them like I once was.
Once I’m dressed, I let Solo in from the side yard and set the house up for Domenic. I leave a note thanking him again, letting him know there are surprises in the fridge. I sign off by saying I’m looking forward to his “surprise,” knowing I will be three hundred miles away when he reads it. The terror of an actual acceptance is far enough away that I may only feel the aftershock. I leave my cell phone number, the hotel number, Kate’s cell phone number, the vet’s number, and Mom and Russell’s home number. I pet Solo, grab my suitcase, and head out into the early morning.
I pull up to Kate’s house a little past 6 a.m. All the lights are on, and the girlies run out in their pajamas to meet me. I walk into Kate’s warm home and see two thermoses full of coffee and a pink pastry box o’magic.
“Mommy took us to the doughnut shop in our pajamas,” Emi
ly says.
“I picked out your favorites,” Bella says.
“Thank you,” I say, still bleary-eyed from the early hour. Will I have the strength to turn these little drops of heaven away? But then I remember what Gabriel says. “Go ahead and have one, but you eat the normal meal as well.” Don’t substitute the sweet for the meal. I’ve already eaten my breakfast; maybe one doughnut would be all right? Will I be able to stop at just one?
“It’s past six o’clock,” Kate says, going through her bag.
“You’re turning into Mom,” I say as Kate tells the girls to go in and brush their teeth.
“No, if I was Mom I’d tell you that it’s past six o’clock, asshole.”
“Your children are still within earshot.”
“I thought we could take these with us,” Kate continues as she opens the pink pastry box o’magic to unveil two doughnuts: one maple bar and one chocolate bar.
“The rest are in the fridge for Vincent and the girlies’ breakfast.” Kate winks. I sigh with relief.
Kate grabs her bag. I take it to my car and head back inside as she is saying good-bye to the girlies and Vincent. Bella has her thumb in her mouth, and Vincent is gently trying to dislodge it. Emily is making her way through the comics, and Kate has to bend down to her for her morning kiss.
Kate sips from her commuter mug as we merge from the 210 freeway to the 15. We are officially on our way. Every fiber of Kate’s being yearns to jump in the driver’s seat and take charge of the vehicle. She has grown accustomed to driving little people around and being in absolute control. Her arm is propped against the window, and whenever she feels I am getting too close to the car in front of me she pumps her imaginary brake pedal to make sure we stop in time.