Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju (Romantic Comedy)

by Bethany Bloom

  “It was so amazing. So relaxing. You should have come,” Hannah continued. “There’s a tanning bed, too. But Fiona said I had to ask you before I get in there.”

  Charlotte looked to Fiona, who raised a perfectly plucked brow. Charlotte shook her head from side to side.

  “I knew that’s what you’d say. Mom.” She folded her arms and plunked her chin toward her chest.

  Charlotte laughed. “That’s how they pout in cartoons, Hannah. You know how I feel about tanning beds. Under no circumstances are you going to get inside that cancer appliance. Honestly, I don’t want you to spend time in the same building as one of those things.”

  “Oh for crying out loud.” This was Fiona’s expression, but Hannah had evidently picked it up during the afternoon with her.

  Without a word, Fiona turned and minced out of the room. Hannah followed closely behind.

  Then Gracie asked, “So, what did you do today, Mom?”

  Well, I crumpled into a ball of tears in the workout room and then I crouched in the cupboard and licked peanut butter off my fingers like some kind of bear. She did not say this. Instead: “I got organized. Got myself right. Got myself ready to enjoy this summer.”

  Gracie lowered her voice. “Fiona told us how she wanted to give you a makeover.”

  “Is that what she called it?”

  “Yeah. A makeover for your mind, body, and spirit. I think that’s how she phrased it.”

  “Huh.”

  “You should let her do it, mom.”

  Charlotte squared her shoulders.

  “You really should.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it means a lot to her,” Gracie looked at the floor, then back up to meet Charlotte’s eyes. “She was crying. In the car, after you wouldn’t come with us this morning. She said she loves you and she thought she had hurt your feelings and she didn’t know what to do. She just wants to help you.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, Gracie.”

  “Does it have to be?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “It’s just…you are always taking care of us,” Gracie said. “And of Dad. Let someone take care of you for a change. Just let go, and let someone help you. Do it for me, Mom. Because I think it would make you happy. I really do. She has some cool things planned.”

  Charlotte clenched inside, wondering if Fiona had shared Idea Number Five. The delicious men. She moaned. “You know, Gracie, that I would do anything for you. But this…” Charlotte knew that she couldn’t tell Gracie her pride wouldn’t allow her sister to help her. She also knew that she couldn’t spend another afternoon shoveling peanut butter into her face and eating pork fat off dirty plates.

  “It would make me happy. It would make Aunt Fiona happy. Please. Nothing would make us happier…than to see you smile again. Like you used to. Like when you and Dad…” Gracie stopped and placed her hand on Charlotte’s back.

  “You know,” Charlotte started, as Gracie rubbed between her shoulder blades. “You are at the age when you are supposed to be rolling your eyes at me and slamming doors. Not rubbing my back and telling me to let others take care of me.”

  “Would you like me to start? Slamming doors? Rolling eyes?”

  “God, no. That would be the end of me. The final straw. It would make me fall over backwards.”

  Gracie laughed.

  “Seriously. My heart would probably stop beating,” Charlotte said. “You and your sister are the one thing I’ve got…the one thing I …”

  “Good. Because I don’t think I have it in me.” Gracie leaned in close. She smelled like bubble gum. “You’re my best friend, Mom, and I want you happy. Happy enough for…” She stopped short.

  “Happy enough for what?”

  “Just… happy.”

  Chapter Four

  Later that afternoon, Charlotte did manage, finally, to take a nap, and, when she awoke, it was as though it were a whole new day. The inside of her head felt scrubbed and clean and new. She had dreamt of Fiona. Of her sitting alone in this enormous but lonesome home, ardently designing a resurgence of luck for her loved one. Charlotte blinked twice, then leapt up. She needed to find her.

  Charlotte roamed through the halls, calling softly. Finally, she dialed Fiona’s number on her cell phone.

  “Where are you?” Charlotte asked when she picked up. “Your home is so vast, I’ve lost you.” It felt good to credit her sister, finally, for her wealth. For her success. She could do this. She could swallow whatever lump was sitting in her throat, whatever it was that was making this so hard for her.

  Maybe she could even learn something from her sister. The fact was, her girls were watching her. They were watching how she handled Fiona. How she handled her own personal jealousies. So far, Charlotte knew she wasn’t acting like the kind of sibling she expected her daughters to be to one another.

  Fiona’s laugh was bubbly and light. “I’m out in my garden.”

  “Which one?”

  “On the north side.”

  “What are you doing out there?”

  “Just….looking at stuff.”

  “May I join you?”

  “I would like that very much.”

  And so Charlotte had gone out to wander in the garden and to find her sister. The new plants were small and shrubby, and so the garden looked to be filled mostly with topsoil. It would, she assumed, fill in over time. How many seasons would pass before they would leaf out and fill the gaps between? Before they would grow to the edge of the stone paths?

  Charlotte liked the precise way her shoes click-clacked over the cobbles. And she found Fiona, finally, on a patch of grass, leaning against a stone bench. An outdoor fire ring had been installed here. The afternoon was warm and the ring was cold and bare.

  Fiona raised a hand to her face. Her eyes looked puffy.

  “Is everything okay?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’m perfect.” Fiona answered. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing…better. Thank you. Your flowers are really gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. Yeah. Lydia did a great job.”

  Charlotte blinked. Her name is Linda, she wanted to say, but she didn’t. “Do you know the names of all of these plants?” she said, instead.

  Fiona shook her head and grinned. “No way.”

  “You could have said you did. I would never know. Like this one…” Charlotte placed her hand beneath a bud that had been transplanted. It was cardinal red and spiny. “What would this one be called?”

  “I told you. I have no idea.”

  “Just make something up,” Charlotte said. “Remember when we used to do that as kids? We would try to fool mom and dad into thinking we knew something, even when we didn’t.”

  “Uh. Ha. Okay. How about …. I don’t know. What do you think it should be called?”

  “A yawning vermillion.”

  “A yawning vermillion? That sounds like something from Dr. Seuss or Alice in Wonderland. But I like it. It sounds like something you could curl up and sleep with.”

  Charlotte wondered what it would be like to wake in this garden. Not yet, but someday, when the plants were full and fragrant and rooted deep in the soil. Maybe many seasons in the future. And a memory came rushing through her, of the backyard campouts she and Fiona had when Mom and Dad’s festivities went on too late. They would meet in the upstairs hallway, tiptoe down the stairs and out the back door and then they would unfurl their sleeping bags on the backyard trampoline. How she loved waking to the scrubbed scent of morning, hearing the hushed trills of far-off warblers and sparrows.

  “I think I owe you an apology,” Charlotte said.

  “Nonsense,” Fiona replied. She hugged her sweater tight around herself.

  “No, I do. I wasn’t very receptive. And I know you are trying to help. I’m being a bit of a poop. I realize this. So. I want you to help me. I’m yours. Make me over.”

  “For reals?”

  Charlotte hadn’t heard that
expression since middle school. “For reals.”

  Fiona clapped her hands together in just the way Charlotte knew she would. “The whole thing?”

  “Whatever you think I need. Except for the boobs. And the tanning bed.”

  “Oh, c’mon.” Fiona’s bottom lip jutted out. Is this where Hannah was getting it?

  “I’ll just have to think on those a bit. But everything else. I’m yours. Putty in your hands.” Charlotte leaned against the bench and looked up to the sky. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t need a change.”

  “Here, anything is possible, Charlotte. You can be slim and healthy and stylish and ready for anything. And you’ve just made me the happiest woman alive.”

  “That was easy.” Charlotte said, laughing. “I sincerely hope I don’t let you down.”

  “Impossible.”

  “And I do want to get a job.”

  “Absolutely. That’s a tenet of Pact Item Number Four, in fact. Embracing new opportunities.” Fiona was silent for a moment, then, “You know, some people say life started for them when their kids were born. That this is when they truly came alive. But my life started when I opened my business. It’s kind of hard to explain, but that’s when I became myself. And don’t you worry. I’ll help you find something. You know I am the stylist for most of the people on the town council. It’s all about who you know here.”

  “Duly noted.” Charlotte sat for a moment in silence. “You know,” she said, finally. “I’ve never had a job that didn’t involve Caleb telling me what to do.”

  “Yeah. Working for your guy. That would be strange. Especially when he’s a jerk and a cheater. But….your new chapter has begun. What do you think you will want to do?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion. But it’s just for the summer. It will go by in a flash. So I guess it doesn’t matter too much. I want to play. Like you said, maybe I’ve never really played. I want to find something that will be fun.”

  “Fun. Got it. I’m your girl.”

  “Okay, you’re in charge.”

  “Fabulous. Because registration for summer classes takes place tomorrow morning at eight. And I want you first in line.”

  ***

  The college was headquartered in a four-story Victorian building, constructed of brick and complete with bay windows and dormers, ornate cornices and friezes. Charlotte thought it looked like something from a storybook as she stood staring up at it, and she felt a tiny leap in her chest as she began to make her way up its cobblestone path.

  She meant to fling open the carved wooden door at the entry, but it was heavier than she expected, and she had to push on it with both hands and wriggle inside so it wouldn’t pinch her in two. Maybe she did need to start working out.

  The air here smelled of mildew and stale grease. The carpet was a grey Berber, and it stretched down a long, straight hallway where students far younger than she stood in various stances of boredom and impatience. At its end, two women with pixie haircuts were spreading a table with dark blue cloth and arranging a series of booklets and clipboards.

  A bearded man pushed into her from behind, then attempted to maneuver through the rest of the line. “God damn it, people,” he shouted as he passed. “I’m trying to get to yoga class!” The mass of men and women moved aside, though no one in particular seemed to hear him. He disappeared into the final door near the administrator’s table behind which the gals with their jaunty, impish hairdos continued to giggle and chat with one another. Apparently, they would start this thing when they were good and ready.

  It was eight-thirty by the time this occurred. And the line for registration now snaked behind her and out the front door. It was strange to see this many people gathered, but not a single familiar face. After seventeen years in her little Missouri college town, she knew so many of them. Not the students, so much now, but the administrators and the professors and their spouses.

  The literature department wives gathered for wine and cheese on alternating Tuesday evenings. Always the same women, the same stories. The same way of pushing their hair back, of decanting the wine, of arranging the cheese on a chalkboard platter with the name of each crumbling variety spelled in curlicue script. As they sipped their first glass, the talk would revolve around their children and their children’s teachers and coaches. Each guest would carefully assert her superiority while disguising her remarks as complaints or self-deprecation. “My daughter is so focused and driven that I think she might need a therapist.” “My son got the winning touchdown and I clapped so hard I fell right off the bleachers. So embarrassing!” During the second glass of wine, Mary would start to sigh a lot and get philosophical and throw about words such as “magical” and “enchanting,” and then Elizabeth would break down and cry, from either melancholy or delight, depending on the varietal and the day, and then, at some point, Katie would be overcome with giggles. Tears would stream from her eyes and she would shake her head back and forth. “I don’t know what has come over me,” she would say, and then, “I guess I’m just tired.” And so would begin the competition for how exhausted each woman truly was. How worn out, how spread thin, and how, heroically, they were battling through the agendas, the to-do lists, those insane soccer schedules. Charlotte would watch quietly from the corner, contributing small bits here and there, mostly agreeing with what everyone else was saying and trying to swallow the feeling that she might want to stick something sharp into her eyeball. This went on until it was time to go home.

  Many of the other people in line had entered into conversations with one another, which gave Charlotte a thirsty, homesick feeling, so she bent her head and pretended to study her registration documents, which Fiona had already completed. The enrollment and payment details were all made out in capital letters in black ballpoint pen, with a small checkmark by “Painting I with Professor Rachael Whitmore.”

  Fiona had wanted to come along. So had Hannah and Gracie. They had practically begged, but Charlotte had held firm. This was something she needed to do by herself. She would bring the girls by to tour the college later. She had a small surge of anxiety then that maybe the class would already be filled. She looked at each of the students ahead of her and tried to determine whether they would claim a spot in the class she wanted. If she would, perhaps, be getting to know them over the months to follow. Who looked like the “painting type?” Did she look like the painting type? The artist? She decided maybe, no. With her jeans, faded in the knees and butt. Her blue t-shirt. Hair in a ponytail. The portrait of a soon-to-be-single mom. Man, did she need to go shopping, and this was what they would spend the afternoon doing. So said Fiona.

  Maybe it was her clothing that was making her feel so invisible. She sucked in her stomach so it pulled away from her denim waistband. This always made her feel better. Skinnier. Though she knew that some men actually preferred women with a little meat on them. There had been meat on that woman in Caleb’s office, hadn’t there? The truth was, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure how much she had seen that day. What she had seen and what details she had filled in later. Funny how, at the time, she had locked on only the mundane details of the room. Objects and books and papers on the desk.

  There was a time, she thought, surveying the young men in front of her, when she would have turned their heads. When she was buying books for the fall semester of sophomore year, in fact, two different men had asked her out.

  But no one even looked her direction here. Not even the older, non-traditional students. One thickset guy gave her a nod and went back to staring at his loafers. A group of young men stood behind her, discussing how epic it was that this ski town had a college, so they could ski most of the time and still keep their parents off their backs. Then, she could have sworn she heard someone say “Caleb MacDougall,” but she must have heard it wrong. His last book had been surprisingly successful, but it wasn’t as though his was a household name.

  Caleb. He had been one of her literature professors senior year. It was a small class,
an honor’s seminar in Women’s Literature, and when Caleb had first begun to speak, she knew. She just knew. He was so quiet, she had to lean forward to hear him. His voice was so smooth, melty like milk chocolate. She found herself at his office door, that first day after class, and he asked her to join him for coffee, to discuss Kate Chopin’s The Awakening, though he said he had never taken out a student before. His quiet kindness, his soft laugh, the cordial way he looked at her and the way she felt like she could just talk and talk to him—no nerves, no anxiety, just peacefulness and acceptance. After coffee, he had taken her hand and led her back to his tiny office on the fourth floor, and they made love right there on the Queen Anne chair and then on the desk and then again on the floor. Afterward, she couldn’t stop smiling. She would think of him and her legs felt tingly and she had to draw a sharp breath in. Nine months later, Gracie was born.

  How many times, she wondered now, before or since, had he taken out a student, had he brought her back to his office? That same office? With the worn Queen Anne chair and the cheap white coffeepot and the stacks and stacks of books.

  Charlotte shook her head and squared her shoulders and waited to reach the front of the line.

  ***

  Charlotte’s next assignment for the day, before allowing Fiona to make over her wardrobe, was to finalize her arrangements with her new personal trainer, Leopold. For that, all she needed to do was check in at the health club: a building every bit as large as the college but, here, all skylights and glittering glass.

  The revolving door at the entry released her into a lobby that felt brighter even than the outdoors. The air felt cool against her skin and was perfumed not with the lemony disinfectant she associated with such facilities, but with a pleasing combination of lavender and rosemary. On the south side sat a lounge with eight televisions and a trio of overstuffed black leather chairs. Over her head, two stories up, was a running track, which seemed to be suspended from the ceiling. And straight in front of her stood a reception desk, comprised of glittery onyx panels and flanked by sliding walls trimmed in chrome. How fancy. Maybe she would apply for a job here.