Looking Glass Lies

by Varina Denman

  Cecily’s eyebrows flickered with skepticism. “Shanty Washington? Who graduated a few years ahead of us?”

  Actually, Graham thought, she never graduated. “That’s the one, but she’s Shanty Espinosa now. Married. And she’s surprisingly good at these things. She led her first group a couple of years ago, and since then, she’s helped a lot of women.”

  “Espinosa?” Cecily narrowed her eyes. “Tell me she didn’t marry one of those Espinosas who lived out on Hereford Highway, twenty-five of them in a single-wide mobile home.”

  “A cousin of theirs from New Mexico.”

  Cecily was silent as they made their way down the hall, and Graham clicked off lights as they went. She would be weighing her options now, trying to decide which was the lesser of two evils—counseling with him or a support group with Shanty.

  “She’s actually quite good,” he repeated, trying to convince himself, as well as her, that it was a great idea to meet with a support group led by a woman she didn’t respect, at a coffee shop owned by the man she went out with three days ago. Graham ran a hand through his hair, his own self-esteem dragging along behind him and leaving a greasy trail of guilt on the worn carpet. “And you and I could still discuss things on the side.”

  “Like unofficial counseling?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay . . . I’ll do it.” Her haunting eyes held his for five long seconds, then she nodded and pushed through the door.

  Graham watched her walk to her car. He told himself he was watching her for her own safety because it was late at night and she was in a dark parking lot, but truthfully, nothing very worrisome ever happened in Canyon. The real reason he watched her was because he liked what he saw. He liked the way she pushed her hair behind her ears. He liked the way her shirt swung back and forth as she walked. He liked the shiny little slippers on her feet.

  But remorse washed over him as he headed out the back entrance . . . to his car waiting in the alley, to the dumpster where a few rats scurried, to the darkness where he could hide his shame. Certainly, he liked what he saw in Cecily Ross, but if he was honest with himself, he would admit that those shiny little slippers were black, just like all her other shoes. And her clothes were either black, gray, or brown. Even her SUV was dark gray. And her hair? It was styled in such a way that she could easily let it fall across one eye, partially hiding her expressions, her emotions, her pain.

  Graham distinctly remembered the hardtop Jeep Wrangler that Cecily had driven in high school. It had been refurbished, probably by Dub, and spray-painted bright yellow, with a smiley face sticker on the back bumper. And he remembered her wardrobe—after all, he had looked at her enough—as nothing fancy, just jeans and shirts, but she was obsessed with matching her shoes to her blouses. Red shirt . . . red sandals. Green shirt . . . green Converse sneakers. Pink shirt . . . pink heels, pink earrings, pink scarf, pink purse.

  Graham remembered Cecily very, very well.

  And he knew she needed his professional help. He knew she did, and he wanted to help her. He wanted to give her advice, listen to her problems, steer her away from the self-inflicted darkness she was hiding so well from the world. But more than all that, he wanted to get to know the twenty-eight-year-old Cecily, to hear her laugh, to find out what could make her happy. He wanted to date her.

  And he wouldn’t be able to do that if she became one of his clients.

  Chapter Twelve

  Text from Graham to Cecily: To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.

  Cecily: Is that just off the top of your head or what?

  Graham: Actually, it’s Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  Cecily: Of course it is.

  Graham: Have fun at group.

  Cecily: Right. Fun.

  “Sess-uh-lee With-uh-spoon!”

  Shanty’s cry met me as I opened the door of Midnight Oil on Saturday afternoon, and I almost shuddered. She had always been a loud one, and the gaze of every coffee shop patron swung from her waving palm straight to my face. And to think, I had sat in my car for ten minutes, fretting over whether I would recognize her.

  I waved tentatively, then walked past the counter, greeting Michael with a cheery hello, as I’d planned. To his credit, he did the same. Mirinda, on the other hand, looked back and forth between him and me with a smirk on her face.

  Shanty sat at a booth deep in the shop, and a young girl sat across from her. Shanty looked the same, but different. Her creamy brown skin—a mixture she got from her African American father and Asian American mother—was set off by frosted makeup. I had forgotten how pretty she was, but surprisingly, I didn’t find her intimidating.

  As I came closer, I could see that the young girl sitting across from her was actually a young woman, college aged, who leaned in the corner of the booth as though trying to disappear into the vinyl. Her arms were crossed tightly, and a student backpack sat on the bench beside her, discouraging anyone from getting too close. She fingered the leather cover on what I assumed was a Kindle e-reader sitting on the table in front of her.

  I pulled a stray chair to the end of the booth. “Hi,” I said simply, glad Shanty didn’t seem compelled to stand up and hug me.

  “Been a long time, girl, but you look good,” Shanty said. “Love the wonky hairstyle.” She tilted her head from side to side, indicating my bi-level cut, and as she did so, her own beaded braids bounced around her shoulders.

  I had never seen Shanty with long hair. Before I moved away, her curls had been kept short in a halo of black fluff. Maybe the braids were extensions.

  “Cecily, this here is Nina Guiterrez,” said Shanty. “She’s a sophomore at the college. I was just telling her how you and I go way back even though we never ran in the same crowd or nothing. You were probably still in school when I married Al and settled down.”

  I nodded toward the girl but didn’t speak to her directly, fearing she might have an anxiety attack if I did. “Do you guys know each other?”

  “We’ve known each other all of”—Shanty made a production of looking at her cell phone—“seven minutes, but we’ve hit it off really well so far. Don’t you think, Nina?”

  The girl had been sipping her iced coffee, and when Shanty addressed her, all at once she set her cup down, swallowed her coffee, and nodded. The hurried combination of actions left her with coffee dripping from one hand, and she patted her wrist with the tiny napkin her drink had been sitting on.

  I pushed my chair back. “If you need to wash up, I can let you out.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.” Her cheeks warmed from a shade of soft honey into dusty peach. She was pretty in a natural way with long straight hair that was so black it almost looked blue. I remembered seeing her in the shop before.

  “Anyway,” said Shanty, “looks like this is us. There was another woman thinking on coming, but her husband was against it, don’t that beat all? Seems like he’d want his woman to feel good about herself, but whatever.” She leaned her elbows on the table where a bagel, smeared with strawberry cream cheese, sat next to a large coffee. “I don’t know what Dr. H told y’all, but this group is all about self-image, self-esteem, even self-love if the term makes you happy, and my goal is to help you girls get out of your funk. Personally, I have a constant battle with self-esteem, but when I help other women fight their own, it helps me fight mine.” Her smile slipped, but just barely. “Have any questions?”

  Could you please speak quieter? “Um . . . what do we actually do here?” I asked.

  “Just talk. And maybe whine a little. Lean on each other for encouragement.”

  She grinned, and I felt the urge to smile back.

  “But I don’t want y’all to feel apprehensive about sharing your stuff.” Shanty held up her index finger, and its glittery nail wagged back and forth. “What’s said in this group, stays in this group. None of us will go blabbing things around town—that’s not productive—but there is one thing I won’t h
esitate to act on, and that’s anything that hints that one of you might be a danger to yourself or others.” She placed a palm on each of our hands. “And in that case, I’d only be doing it to get you the help you need.”

  I slipped my hand from beneath hers, pretending I had an itch on my shin. Would the cuts on my thighs classify me as a danger to myself? Probably, but I was over that now, getting help, moving on. But still . . . I made a mental note to myself: be careful what you say.

  “What do we talk about?” Nina could barely be heard over the general noise of the shop, but I was glad to discover she could speak up when she wanted to know something.

  “Our problems mostly.” Shanty’s expression grew grim. “Our fears. Whatever makes us feel insecure that day. And we’ll chat about the forces that are working against us.”

  “What forces?” Nina asked.

  “The media, mainly, not to mention all those thoughts that churn through our minds and cause us to beat ourselves up.” She batted her palm through the air. “Anyhoo, we need to be aware of what we’re up against. I trust you wouldn’t be here unless you were down on yourselves a little bit, so we’ll root out your particular brand of hang-ups, but we won’t harp on them. We’ll just put them all out there and talk about your options.”

  Poke them with a stick.

  Shanty leaned toward me. “Nina was just telling me she paints with watercolors. Ain’t that something?”

  “Oh?” I settled back in my chair, trying to recapture my personal space while marveling that Shanty had been able to glean even that much information from the timid girl.

  She continued to study me, then bounced gently, squeaking the springs in the padded bench. “What hobbies do you have?”

  My mind went blank. “I guess I read sometimes.”

  “What was the last book you read?”

  “I . . . I can’t really remember.”

  “Then you need a new hobby. Something you enjoy doing just for yourself. Something that makes you happy. Think you can find something before we meet again?”

  “Is it really that important?”

  “I’m just telling it like I see it. Honestly, Nina couldn’t admit to painting much either, and I put it to her the same way. You girls need hobbies.” Her lips puckered like a duck, and she looked back and forth between us. “Something you like to do, so that you will like yourself while you’re doing it. Make sense?”

  No wonder Nina seemed to be pushed into the corner. After seven minutes of interrogation by Shanty, she could have looked a lot worse.

  But finding a hobby was the least of my worries. “Sure,” I said.

  “Excellent.”

  Shanty seemed to have an agenda, but what did I expect? It was a support group, for crying out loud, but still, I felt as though she was pressing me like an overexuberant spin class instructor when all I needed was light yoga.

  “Let’s get to know each other a little,” she said, “by sharing our stories.” She shoved the table half an inch toward Nina to give herself more room, and I looked away. Shanty could stand to lose a few pounds.

  “Our stories?” I asked.

  “You know . . . how you ended up needing this group. What happened in your life, recently or even in childhood, that caused you to have low self-esteem.”

  Again, I wished she would talk quieter, but nobody around us seemed to be paying any attention. “I think I’m going to get a coffee first. Since we’re here and all.”

  “Oh, right. I’m jumping ahead of myself as usual.”

  I escaped to the counter, taking my place behind three other customers and wishing the line were longer. Shanty Washington—no, she was Shanty Espinosa now—was a steamroller, full speed ahead, and Nina and I were going to have to hold on tight or get slung off at the next curve. Could I do this? Did I even want to?

  Shanty was so . . . open about her self-esteem, whereas I didn’t even like to say the word aloud. I glanced back at the booth where Nina was rotating her cup in front of her. She had stopped drinking from it, as though her throat was too tight to swallow. Shanty, on the other hand, was still talking faster than a time-lapse video.

  When I turned back to the counter, the line had disappeared, and Mirinda was tapping a fingernail against the cash register.

  “Caramel honey latte, please,” I said. “Grande.”

  Mirinda busied herself with making the drink. “So I guess things didn’t work out between you two.” My mind was so far away from Michael Divins that it took me a minute to register what she was saying.

  I peeked around the restaurant and located him. He was standing at our table, greeting Shanty.

  “No, things didn’t work out,” I said, wondering what Michael had told her.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised. I never figured you for his type.”

  Well, he hadn’t turned out to be my type either, but I had actually known that going into it, hadn’t I? And I had been desperate and needy. I handed her my money, then stalled at the napkin dispenser and waited until Michael left our table.

  Shanty started talking before I sat down. “That Michael Divins was asking how I know you and all that. Are you friends?” Her left eyebrow inched up until it was hidden by beaded braids.

  “Sort of. I went to a movie with him last week, but we didn’t really hit it off.”

  “You went out with him?” Nina sat up straight, bolstering her courage in order to solicit the information, and I suddenly had an overwhelming thought. You’re Madam X! It seemed obvious, and I wondered why Graham had even sent me to the group if her identity was supposed to be such a secret. Did he think I wouldn’t figure it out?

  “We only went out once and probably won’t again,” I said softly.

  Shanty placed her palms on the table. “I’ll share my story first ’cause I’m not nervous about it.”

  Her transparency made me uncomfortable.

  “My issues go way back to when I was a little girl.” Her voice finally lowered. “My parents were both workaholics, never home, and they didn’t have much time for my sisters and me. Turns out I didn’t suffer too much from Mama’s absence, seeing as how I had older sisters to baby me, but it would’ve done me good to have Daddy in my life.” Her face lost its animation. “He’s gone now, but still, I wish I could just hear him one time, saying, Shanty, you’re beautiful, just as you are.” Then, suddenly, she snickered. “Course, I don’t know he wasn’t thinking that every day of my life, but that’s just it . . . I don’t know. I don’t know that he ever even noticed I was around, one way or the other.”

  Nina patted her forearm.

  “Thanks, darlin’.” Shanty fanned her face with her palm, drying her eyes. “I’m married to a loving man who tells me I’m a pretty little girl. That makes me laugh cause there’s not nothing little about me, but we have a good thing going.” She dabbed at a tear. “Anyhoo, now I write a blog about body shaming called Shame on Shanty. You girls should check it out if you haven’t already. There’s lots of good info on there, and a guest blogger every week—stories from all sorts of women. I try to keep it encouraging.”

  My mouth must have fallen open, because Shanty looked at me and guffawed.

  “I know it!” Her smile was back full force, and her bronze skin glowed. She really was pretty. “I know what you’re thinking, Cecily. Who would’ve thought little ole Shanty would end up a big-time blogger, but there you go. I’m not able to do as much online as I’d like, seeing as how I’ve got four kids underfoot, but I do what I can. And it’s rewarding for me. Makes me feel like I’m helping this crazy world a little. One woman at a time.”

  My lips curved upward. I knew they did because I told them to, but I wasn’t sure it was a believable smile. Not because I wasn’t happy for Shanty, but because I knew I was expected to tell my own story now.

  “I’ll go next.” Hopefully my nervousness wouldn’t be obvious. “I don’t remember being unhappy with my looks when I was young.” I shrugged. “I don’t remember thinking about m
yself one way or another, but when I was a teenager, suddenly everything mattered. I looked at the other girls with their silky hair and designer clothes, and I didn’t match up. Or I didn’t think I did—who knows the truth, right? But I started trying very hard to fit in, to be what I thought I was supposed to be, and to get praise from other people, especially boys.”

  Nina nodded, but she didn’t seem like she was going to comment, so I continued.

  “Brett and I dated in high school, and everyone said we looked great together. We kept dating in college, and then we got married after my sophomore year.” I paused while I decided there was no need to mention the secret I had discovered about Brett after the wedding. “We had a few rough years, and eventually he told me he didn’t love me anymore and he wanted out. But I don’t think it was about love at that point.” I swallowed what felt like a cotton ball lodged in my throat.

  Nina’s fingertips brushed the back of my hand, startling me with their reassurance.

  “Pretty boy Brett Ross didn’t love you anymore? That fool.” Shanty’s lips pursed like she’d tasted a sour lemon. “Girl, you’re better off without that one.”

  “I agree, actually, but I can’t seem to pull myself out of the mud he tossed me in.”

  Shanty hummed softly. “Thank you for sharing your story, honey bunch. I know it ain’t easy. Let me tell you, we’re gonna get you outta that mud puddle, you just wait, but we’ll work on you, not Brett. He’s got to take care of his own problems now.” She looked at Nina and tucked her chin. “Okay, girlie, you’re gonna have to speak, but I promise we won’t bite.”

  Nina smiled, nodded, smiled again. “I know you won’t. I’ve just always had a difficult time speaking up . . . When I was a child, they worried about me.”

  Shanty spoke gently. “Does your shyness lend itself toward insecurity?”

  Lend itself? Every so often, I got a glimpse of the writer Shanty claimed to be.

  “Yes . . . ,” Nina said slowly, “and vice versa. If I was more confident, I wouldn’t be as shy. And if I wasn’t as shy, I would be more confident.”