I heard him on the porch, and I ran to the foyer and opened the door he'd just closed.
“Tom?” I whispered, and he turned, his eyes registering surprise.
“What?”
“Will you hug me?” I asked, willing myself not to cry.
“Why?”
“There doesn't have to be a reason. I'd like you to hug me.”
He did.
He felt familiar, and stood stiller than a cadaver. It was like being hugged by a third cousin, twice removed, who'd flown in from Wisconsin for a once-a-decade Siggs reunion.
The embrace was obligatory, almost cold.
I felt worse. “Thanks,” I mumbled.
“No problem,” he said.
He strolled down the sidewalk, his right hand in his pocket, his eyes registering shame as they made contact with the asinine car in our driveway.
When Tom wasn't holed up in rural hell with his unhappy wife, he was serving time as a salesman for the Bucks County Auto Super Store. The automobile outside our house was their pride and joy. It was ridiculous, but appropriate. The vehicle was a late model Toyota, replete with a deer head – sporting over-sized resin antlers – attached to the roof, above the windshield. A bushy white tail was adhered above the lock on the trunk.
Plastic legs protruded from the front and rear bumpers. It was supposed to look like a majestic creature prancing along the roads of Bucks County. It didn't.
Tom's professional life had come full circle. He was just as emasculated by this job as he'd been in high school, when he'd danced around in August heat, in a chicken costume, advertising the local barbeque, until he fainted and was rescued by two pedestrians in their
mid eighties.
The chicken costume was long since retired, set aside with all the dreams my husband once had for his life. He wanted to do more, be more, and once, long ago, we'd snuggled in bed and talked of the things we'd be. We were none of those things, and I sighed deeply, and wondered what the hell happened.
I returned to the kitchen, refilled my coffee mug, thrust two slices of limp, white bread into the old toaster, and forced its plug into the grimy outlet. The toaster shook, the bread shot out like a cannon, and flames leaped from the left slot.
“Jesus,” I said, as the toaster vibrated, launching crumbs from its bowels, like bits of confetti. I wrapped my hand in a stained dishtowel, whispered a quick goodbye to those I loved, and unplugged the Westinghouse fire trap.
It was moments like this when I wished my dad was still close by.
He wasn't.
He and my mother lived in a retirement community ten miles outside Miami, Florida.
Dad had been a music teacher, who was basically tone deaf. What he could do was fix stuff.
One could give my father a rusty pile of junk, and George Harrison, who resembled the legendary Beatle in face, not talent, would turn it into a rocket ship. I missed him. A lot.
I dropped the towel on the table, and looked out the dirty window at small-town America. Despite the horrendous condition of my old house, it was, in a sense, what I had always wanted. There was a certain sweetness to the slowness of small-town living, and Oxford Valley, Pennsylvania, the place I called home, was no different.
It was autumn in Pennsylvania, my favorite time of year. Trees bared in preparation for winter, and a spring of new growth. It was quiet, and gradual, and it should have brought me peace. Instead, it made me wistful. I closed my eyes and imagined the smell of autumn.
In reality, all I could smell was burning toaster, but the symbolism was nice.
Something moved, catching my attention. Thurman was back. I sipped the steaming liquid in my cup and spied on my neighbor. Thurman spotted a piece of paper in his side yard. He picked it up, wadded it in his fist, and turned toward my house.
What the hell is he doing? Oh, my God, he's not coming over, is he?
He toddled toward the road and tossed the paper in the direction of his open garbage can. He missed. His face twisted with disgust, as he angrily bent forward, grabbed the paper, and made another attempt. This time the trash hit its mark, but what was that?
I did NOT see that.
While Thurman had been focused on getting the paper in, something had popped out.
Oh, my God, I saw Thurman's junk!!
The age-old question of boxers or briefs, at least when it came to Thurman Pippin, had been answered, and the answer was NEITHER! He went commando, but in his defense, he was still in his pajamas.
I rose so quickly I knocked over a scarred kitchen stool the color of baby puke. I was tempted to claw my own eyes out, but I expected to live another fifty years, and couldn't face a lifetime of darkness.
“Holy cats, I saw Pippin's pecker!” I said out loud. I laughed until I was breathless, something I hadn't done in years, then scanned the counter for my cell phone. I found it buried beneath a Fangerhouse catalog addressed to Ida, and dialed Tom. My call went to voice mail. I left a message.
“Tom, it's Mona. No one died. Call me back.”
I dropped the phone into the pocket of my robe, which had been Aunt Ida's. Time had faded the Pepto Bismol pink to a pleasant shade, and had the robe been absent of coffee stains and cauterized holes from Aunt Ida's Pall Mall cigarettes, it might have been nice.
It wasn't.
I wore it anyway.
I headed for the bathroom, opting for a shower while I waited for Tom's call. I closed the door, and stood before the full length mirror on the wall.
Good Lord!
I looked at myself, seeing myself in a way I normally didn't. While I'd been poking fun at Tom for his taste in ties, he'd been looking at this?
Some things improved over time. Obviously, I wasn't one of them. I was only thirty-four years old, much younger than the thing in the mirror.
“Mona Lisa Harrison Siggs,” I said aloud, expecting some sense of recognition to come with the speaking of my name. “Who are you?” I whispered, and the thing's mouth moved.
The thing in the mirror was not me, it was not the grown version of a little girl born to an art teacher and music teacher, ten years after they'd abandoned any hope of having a child.
I was an unexpected gift, the most precious thing in the lives of two people I called Mom and Dad. Mom, with her affinity for art, which had evolved from the Louvre in her twenties, to paint-by-numbers in her seventies, and Dad, with his old Victrola, repaired by his own hands, complete with a collection of old records that filled his life with scratchy music written by some of the world's greatest composers.
I was once nothing more than a dream in the minds of two aging teachers. I'd become Mona Lisa, beloved child. A girl who, if born a boy, might have been called Beethoven. I was their most precious gift. Now I was this?
What in the sam hell?
I was surprised when my eyes filled with tears, and I lifted the robe to wipe them away, feeling a crusty hole graze my left cheek. I was horrified by the image I saw in the water-speckled reflection.
Did this person ruin my marriage?
The thing in the mirror was not the woman Tom Siggs had married.
Where was she?
Where did she go?
I held my own gaze for ten minutes and tried to psychoanalyze my failings, the task a failing in its own right. I wasn't a therapist. I was a WalMart cashier!
Once, I thought I'd be a book editor, or a journalist, strolling the streets of New York City, carrying a briefcase and an overpriced coffee. Now I worked at WalMart.
I didn't look down upon WalMart employees, in fact, it was in the “blue-aproned sector,” where I'd met some of the finest people I'd ever known. It wasn't the job that had let me down, it was me.
I'd failed to meet my own modest expectations. Repulsed, I fled from the mirror, into the safety of my bedroom, but nostalgia wasn't willing to free me just yet. My eyes were drawn to an old Polaroid photo, taped to the bedroom mirror. I averted my eyes from the thing that had followed me into the bedroom, and grabbed
the fading photo. In the dim lighting it was barely visible, but I didn't need to see it. I'd memorized the moment. Fifteen years had passed since the camera captured two young lovers in their third week of romantic bliss.
We'd been students at Penn State. I was a sophomore, studying journalism; Tom, a senior, a music and drama major, who dreamed of becoming a teacher. I'd met him in a park on an ordinary day that changed my life. Forever.
I moved to the window, and the sun cast its light upon my treasure.
“Hey,” I said to the familiar faces in the photo. Tom and I looked hopeful, happy - younger, more optimistic versions of the grown-ups we'd become. There was an inscription on the back. It had held up well, better than the faded picture, better than the people in it.
Me and the man I will marry.
A lot had happened since that day.
Tom graduated.
I didn't.
In fact, I'd never finished anything. I was the queen of unfinished business, unmet goals, unfulfilled dreams.
I deserved a fucking tiara!
I plodded back to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet seat. “What happened to us?” I asked the people in the photo, both of whom remained silent.
Tom no longer paid attention to me. I merely occupied the same space he did, and was no more or less significant than a couch. He didn't see me, but how could I blame him?
Look at what I looked like!
My strawberry-blond hair looked like a retired Ronald McDonald wig. I no longer bothered with makeup, and couldn't remember the last time I'd worn anything but khaki trousers, a blue apron, ragged jeans on the weekend, or my red sweat pants when I wanted to feel dressed to kill.
I looked at my feet, at the nail polish that was barely visible, and only on my big toes.
What is going on with this? Am I in some stupid contest to see how long it takes nail polish to fade?
I used to wear high heels all the time, increasing my five-and-a-half-foot height, two or three inches. Now I covered the ruined pedicure with worn Keds. My body was still firm and slim, but I hid it beneath rags, and not because I couldn't afford clothes, but because I no longer cared.
What the hell happened to me?
My pocket vibrated. It was Tom. “Hi,” I said, fighting back tears.
“Hi. Is something wrong?”
You know there is, and it's my fault. “No,” I lied. “I had to tell you something.”
“Talk fast. The Saturn people are out front.”
“I saw Thurman's junk,” I said through a giggle.
“In our garage?”
“What?”
“Pippin had junk in our garage?” Tom asked.
“No. Junk, Tom! Do you know what junk means?”
“Our house is filled with it.”
“Tom Siggs, I saw Thurman's penis fall out of his pajama pants!” I nearly shouted, and my husband gasped.
“What was he doing in our garage?” Tom whispered.
“None of this happened in the garage, Tom.”
I recited the story, and when I was done my husband was laughing as hard as I was. It was a delightful sound, and I couldn't remember the last time I had heard it.
“Mona, I have to go,” Tom said, his voice lighter than it had been in a long time.
“I know.”
“Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
“That was a funny story.”
“It was.”
“Thanks for calling, honey.”
“You're welcome,” I squeaked, my breath catching on honey.
Tom disconnected. I turned on the water in the tub and stepped back to let it warm.
While I waited, I returned to the kitchen with purpose in my step. I set my phone on the counter, shrugged off the old robe, and threw it in the trash. I would never wear it again.
I walked back toward the bathroom. I shed my tattered sweat clothes, and stepped into the tub.
Something had happened. Some wound I had made, that we had made, a wound made by lost dreams, and dissatisfaction – something between us began to heal.
Three
A make-over is good for the soul,
but it is murder on the wallet.
Ten minutes later I was still in the shower. After some searching, I located an old bottle of Paul Mitchell conditioner. I wrestled the top off, squeezed a glob into my left hand, and plopped it onto my head. I left it for three minutes, and rinsed my hair.
I stepped out of the shower, and wrapped myself in an old towel. Hell bent on resolving my present state of self-disgust, which was teetering on colossal, I removed the remnants of my months-old pedicure. I slopped some nail polish remover onto a wad of cotton I'd once plucked from a bottle of Midol, took a couple of swipes at my toes, and the polished vanished.
I shook out my hair, and took a comb to it. The comb actually moved, so I figured the Paul Mitchell had done its job. I grabbed the only bottle of nail polish that was still a liquid, and returned to the kitchen.
I refilled my coffee cup and plotted my next move. Maybe I'd get a hair cut, treat myself to a little pampering. I got a little serotonin buzz from my change in perspective, but my reverie was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
“Hello,” I said.
“Good morning, may I speak to Ida please?” a young man asked. The blood left my body so quickly, I swayed and whacked my butt against the counter.
“Um, Ida doesn't live here anymore,” I squeaked.
“I'm sorry. This is the number we have on file.”
“Ida is gone. It's been years.”
“May I leave a message?” the man asked, and I damned near dropped my coffee.
“I guess you could, but I don't know how I'd get it to her.”
“This is Jack from Fangerhouse. We were wondering if Ida was displeased with our services. She hasn't placed an order in years. We have a special offer for her.”
“We still get your catalogs,” I mumbled, dumbfounded.
“You'll give her the message?”
“Ida's dead, Jack, but I'll be sure to let her know you called.”
Click
“Stupid ass,” I muttered. I was pretty sure it was the last time Fangerhouse would call, and I imagined Jack standing in the unemployment line after refusing to further pursue a career in telemarketing.
Ten seconds later the phone rang again. “What the hell?” I whispered. “Hello!” I barked, with none of the charm I'd turned on for Fangerhouse Jack.
“Hey, it's Beth.”
Sonovabitch.
Beth Mulpepper had recently been promoted in the WalMart hierarchy, and was now my immediate supervisor.
“Hi. What's up?” I asked.
“Well, I have some bad news,” Beth said.
WalMart burned down? “What's the bad news?”
“Edith called in sick.”
Shit!
Edith Purnell was months away from retirement, and had been for ten years. She'd been Aunt Ida's best friend, despite their age difference. Edith had more excuses for calling in sick to work than any other human being I had ever met, and I had met some doozers.
“What's wrong with Edith?” I knew where this was going, and it was no place good.
“Edith's Irritable Bowel Syndrome is bothering her,” Beth said.
“You don't say,” I said, padding toward the living room. “Can you hold a sec, Beth?”
“Sure, Mona.”
I liked amateur detective work as much as the next gal, so I grabbed the television remote, and hit the little gray button on the upper right-hand corner. The Directv Guide popped up, and I flipped through until I found what I was looking for. Sure enough, there was the Criminal Minds marathon on A&E. Edith always said if she were forty years younger she'd go back to school and eventually do profiling. I figured she was lonely and had a crush on Mandy Patinkin, but I could almost see Edith working for the FBI.
“Good day for IBS,” I blurted.
“You say something,
Mona?” Beth asked.
“Shame about the IBS,” I said.
“So, what is it today? Golden Girls?” Beth asked, so astute, Edith the Profiler would be impressed.
I chuckled weakly. “Nope. Criminal Minds.”
“Please........,” Beth whined, turning please into a multi-syllable word.
I sighed. “Beth, come on......”
“Can you do three hours, and I'll get someone else to cover the other three? Please, Mona.”
Aw, hell!
“What time, Beth?”
“Noon?”
“I planned to get a haircut,” I complained.
“Where?”
“I hadn't decided yet,” I said.
“I'll make you an appointment in our salon, and it's on me. Do you want it done before or after your shift?” Beth asked.
“Before.”
“Done!”
“See you at noon,” I said, and Beth bubbled over with gratitude before disconnecting.
“Shit,” I whispered, setting the phone on the coffee table. So much for a day off!
Okay, so maybe it didn't have to be a total loss.
I returned to my bedroom where even the bed told a story. My pillow was in one hemisphere, Tom's in another. “Sad,” I whispered.
I restored order to the bedding, and opened the top drawer of my old dresser. Tucked inside was the Kohl's gift card my parents had sent me in August. With only three hours separating me from Edith's shift, and the beginning of the Criminal Minds marathon, I didn't see much point in starting any garage cleaning.
So, why not do a little shopping?
I pulled on my khaki pants, a dingy blouse that used to be white, and tossed the blue apron into my bag. I did what I could with my hair, and headed for Kohl's.
I reached the store without issue, pulled out my cell phone, and sent a quick text to Tom.
I got called into work. I'll be home before you, and I'd like to go out to dinner.
I got out of my Jeep, threw my purse over my shoulder, and shuffled toward the Kohl's entrance. I headed to the makeup counter, and the sales lady looked at me like she wished she were someplace else.
“I need a makeover,” I said, when she was close enough to hear me. She didn't say anything, just forced a smile. I knew what I looked like, so I forgave her.
Becoming Mona Lisa Page 2