Fortunately, Laura and Mai weren’t rapists. They’d put the moves on me, been rebuffed, and now they were a flurry of concern, hovering over me and wanting to know if I was okay.
In my half-conscious state, I was dimly aware that the two of them were dragging me over to the hide-a-bed and hoisting me onto it—managing to knock my head on the metal frame as they did. I quickly fell into a merciful sleep.
In the morning, I didn’t remember where I was or what had happened. I just knew my head was in excruciating pain. In addition to a bruise the size of a plum on the back of my head from the coffee table, I had a searing pain just above my ear from where they’d knocked me against the bed frame. On top of all that, I had a blinding hangover.
I groaned in pain. Moments later I heard the patter of bare feet against the wood floor, and I opened my eyes in an attempt to figure out where I was and what was going on.
It was Mai and Laura, who’d run out to check on whether I was all right. They were naked, hovering over me like oversized Florence Nightingales so that when I opened my eyes, all I saw was tit. Four large, ponderous tits, encircling me in a mammary orbit.
I promptly shut my eyes and wondered, How did my life start to read like a Penthouse letter? Sure, some people—guys, no doubt—might like a life that read like a Penthouse letter. I was not one of those people.
A few weeks later I had yet another tangle with a lesbian—that night also involved alcohol and confusing and misguided tit groping, though thankfully no head trauma—but if you don’t mind, it’s still too painful and embarrassing to think about, so I’d rather not tell the story in all its gory detail.
Add on the sexual predator from last night, and you have the sum total of my love life in the last six months. And it was no romance novel before that, I can assure you.
I wonder if there is a place where this whole dating and romance thing is easier. Some country where the men aren’t as psychotic as the men in America all seem to be. If so, I’m moving there posthaste. I just need to find this magical la-la land. I’ll search the globe until I find it . . .
I smile at the idea. Then I think: If I’m interested in how romance is different in other parts of the world, maybe other people would be, too. Maybe that could be my angle when I pitch stories; maybe it would be unique enough to get me in the door of the major magazines.
The ideas zip through my head, and I have internal arguments with myself about where and when I should go. One part of me really wants to just take off. For months I’ve been fantasizing about how different my life will be if I can just get away for a while so I can recharge my brain by filling it with art and culture and recharge my body by having lavish amounts of salacious sex with a handsome, accented stranger. But the other part of me knows for a fact that I’ll lose my job if I leave. There have already been numerous rounds of layoffs at my company. I’m the lucky one for still having a job. Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway. I’m lucky to have my job, I’m lucky to have my job. I know a lot of people who have been out of work for months. As a single woman with no more than a couple of months’ worth of survival savings in the bank, I’d be in the poorhouse in no time if I got laid off, so I am lucky to have a job. But since the layoffs began, everyone at work is worried they’ll be next, and they are resentful, tense, and hostile. Looking for other jobs while at the office is a generally accepted practice. The bitterness factor went through the roof when we survivors were doing our own jobs plus the jobs of the people who’d been let go. These days the opposite problem has hit—there’s almost no work to go around, and somehow that’s even worse, at least for me. The strain of trying to pretend to look busy is much worse than the strain of actually being busy. For one thing, I’m constantly bored, and for another thing, I live in constant terror that someone is going to figure out I don’t have anything to do and that they could easily get along without me, and they’re going to fire my ass.
But the thing of it is, I hate my job, and there is a part of me that would love to get fired despite the economic strain. I’d finally have the time I need to pursue my real dreams and goals. Anyway, I’ve been racking up vacation time for months—I should take it before the company goes under and I lose it all.
But taking a trip would be so impractical . . .
But is “practical” the kind of person I want to be? No! I want to be adventurous! I want to take risks and follow my dreams!
I jump up and run home. There, I strip out of my sweaty clothes, take a quick shower, throw some fresh clothes on, and sprint the four blocks from my apartment to the Tofu Palace where Tate is working tonight.
She has just finished taking an order from a table and is heading to the kitchen to give the cooks the order.
The Tofu Palace specializes in food for diners who have wheat allergies, are lactose intolerant, and so on. Vegetarian, vegan, whatever your dietary oddity, the Tofu Palace is here to serve. The Palace does pretty well, what with it being located in Boulder, one of the most health-conscious cities in the universe. Boulder attracts skiers, hikers, mountain climbers, and marathon runners up the yin yang. A Boulderite is as likely to eat red meat as to stir-fry a hubcap for dinner.
The Palace is brightly painted. One wall is purple, one red, one deep blue. The ceiling is pale green, and the work of local artists decorates the walls.
When I worked here in college, I was the only member of the waitstaff without multiple body piercings or a single tattoo. Tate has several of both. Her belly button and nose are pierced, and her ears are studded with earrings. She has a tattoo of a thin blue-and-white ring encircling her upper right arm that looks like a wave, a rose on her ankle, and the Chinese symbol for harmony on her breast. (Only a special few have seen this one, and one drunken night she flashed me and I became one of them. It was a shining moment in an otherwise disappointing life.) Today she is wearing her long black hair in a loose bun that is held together by what looks like decorative chopsticks. She’s petite, but so thin her limbs seem long and she looks taller than she is, with the graceful lithe muscles of a ballerina. It would be fair to call Tate’s look exotic. My looks, with my honey-blond hair and dimples, would be best described as wholesome Iowa farm girl.
I follow her into the kitchen.
“Tate, you’re a genius.”
“What are you talking about? Lance, leave the onions out of this burrito.”
“Just write it down,” Lance booms.
“I did. I just don’t want a repeat of last time. I lost that tip because of you.”
Lance, the cook, just grunts.
“Your idea for the book,” I continue. I follow her over to the refrigerator, where she pulls out a couple of cans of organic soda. “What I’ll do is write a book about romance and dating around the globe. I’ll interview women all over the world and find out their most hilarious dates ever. I’ll find out about differences in dating and marriage in different cultures—the works. I’ll be able to sell tons of articles based on my research to bridal magazines and women’s rags. You know, stuff like, ‘Looking to make your wedding original? Borrow from traditional Chinese or Turkish or Moroccan customs to make your wedding an international success.’ Or for Cosmo, I can write about different sexual rituals around the world, or for Glamour I can write something like, ‘You think the dating scene in America is grim? At least you don’t have to do like the Muka-Muka do—they have to eat worms and beat each other up to see if they’re compatible.’”
“Who the hell are the Muka-Muka?”
“Well, that’s just to illustrate. I don’t know the worst mating rituals in the world yet—that’s why I need to write a book about it. I’ll be like the John Gray of international relations between men and women. I’ll be like an anthropologist studiously researching the most important issue known to humankind: love.”
“And along the way, as you’re doing all this important academic research, you might just happen to stumble on Mr. Right.”
Damn. Sometimes it’s a problem tha
t this girl knows me so well. “Well, you know, if it just so happens that way . . . But you have to come with me. You have money saved.”
She pushes the kitchen door open with her butt and delivers the sodas to her table. She drops off a bill at another, then clears off the plates at yet another. I hover at the doorway of the kitchen, waiting for her.
“How much do you have saved?” I ask her as soon as she gets back.
“Order up!” Lance says.
Tate checks the order and starts balancing the plates on her arms. “I’m not sure exactly. Maybe five thousand.”
Five grand! And she makes a lot less money than I do. Granted, she doesn’t need a car, she lives with four roommates, and she doesn’t need to spend a dime on her wardrobe for work, but still, I’m impressed.
“What are you going to do with it? What could be better than traveling the world with your friend? Come on, Tate, we need some adventure. We need to shake things up a bit.”
“Where were you thinking about going?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to see the whole world, but I don’t have quite enough vacation time saved up for that. How about Europe—the countries are small so we can knock out a bunch at once. Paris . . . Italy . . . Germany . . .”
“But we don’t speak those languages.”
“So? It’ll be an adventure. You’re not scared, are you?” Okay, I admit, I’m being manipulative. I know Tate well enough to know that the best way to get her to do something is to accuse her of being scared to do it.
“Of course I’m not scared!” She stamps out of the kitchen and delivers the order. When she returns, she pulls me aside conspiratorially. “What about our jobs?”
“I’ll work it out with my boss, ask if they can hire a temp for a while or something. And Jack will understand. His waiters are always taking off on road trips for weeks at a time.”
“That’s true.”
“So you’re thinking about it?”
“When are you thinking of going?”
“As soon as possible.”
“You’ll plan everything?”
“Of course. Come on, it’ll be the adventure of a lifetime. And maybe you’ll find your soul mate. Another free spirit just like you.”
She bites her lip. “It might be fun.”
“It’ll be a blast.”
“Do you really think we could do this?”
“Of course we can.”
She nods. “This is crazy.”
“You love crazy.”
She’s still nodding. “Tell me when I should show up at the airport.”
“Yes!” I give her an enormous hug. “It’s going to be the experience of a lifetime,” I assure her.
It’s a big promise, but there is no doubt in mind that it’s a promise I can keep.
MAYBE THIS CHRISTMAS
Jane Blackwood
CHAPTER ONE
Christmas Eve
Other than the elephant on her chest, Laura was just fine and dandy. The big, stinking, festering elephant. She could hear the heart monitor, knew the constant beep beep sounded normal, meant she was still alive. But this thing pressing down on her chest, that couldn’t be normal. No way.
She took a deep, painful breath, bringing a shaking hand to her forehead, and stopped. Her hand was unusually clean, her fingernails clipped and nearly clean. It looked so normal it was startling. Because nothing about Laura’s life had been normal in a long time.
“Are you all right?”
Laura moved her head, her dull brown eyes finally focusing on the old lady in the bed next to her. She knew her type. The kind of woman who belonged to a bridge club, who had relatives and children who loved her, who never had dirty fingernails or hid a bottle of Mad Dog in a paper bag. Bet she never had to squat behind a Dumpster in the middle of winter. Bet she . . .
The old lady shook her head, her mouth turning down at the corners, even though her eyes still twinkled. Laura had seen that look plenty of times at the Coolidge Street soup kitchen, all those goodie-goodies dishing out their food and their crap and smiling until they got hold of her stench. Stupid bleeding hearts.
“Should I ring the nurse for you?”
“No,” Laura said, her voice roughened by years of smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking cheaper booze. After the musical sound of the old broad’s voice, she sounded like a foghorn that needed some work.
The old lady sighed. “I’m Grace.”
“No kidding.”
“I was born on Christmas Day eighty-five years ago. At least my mother didn’t name me Merry. Or Noel.” Silence. “And you are?”
“Tired.”
The old lady—Grace—had enough smarts to laugh. “Pleased to meet you, Laura.” She leaned over conspiratorially and whispered, “I overheard the nurse.”
Laura would have rolled over and turned her back to Grace if she had enough energy and if she thought such a movement wouldn’t jostle that elephant into pressing down on her chest again.
“It’s tough being in the hospital this time of year.”
“Oh?” Laura asked, even though she knew what Grace meant. It was Christmas Eve, and Grace was probably lonely and wishing she was surrounded by her loving family. Ten kids and twenty grandchildren. Boo hoo.
“It’s my birthday tomorrow, you know,” she said, that twinkle in her eye growing so bright Laura had to squint her eyes else be blinded by it. Ugh.
“Happy birthday.”
Grace was quiet for a blessed minute before she opened her yap again. “Do you have any family?”
“Sure. My daughter’s a prostitute to feed her heroin addiction, my oldest son’s in prison for vehicular homicide, and my youngest son is somewhere in the Mid East.” That ought to shut her up. Old bag with her perfect life.
“Oh, Laura,” she said with such honest sadness it almost made Laura feel guilty for bringing up her pitiful life. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I like to talk about other people’s families because my own memories are so precious.”
“Yeah, well, we all haven’t had perfect lives.” But it had been perfect once. It had been a wonderful life full of laughter and family and Christmases she could still remember if she was sober enough—or drunk enough. The Christmases before everything went to shit, they were something a person ought to remember. But sometimes it was better left part of a murky dream, a life that maybe never even existed.
“My life has been far from perfect. But I’m not going to complain,” Grace said, moving her hands restlessly on her blanket. “I have four children, and I can still picture them coming down the stairs on Christmas Day. If I close my eyes, I can hear them. Sometimes I wish I could go back and watch it all over again. We didn’t have those fancy videotape recorders like they have now. I wish we did. But I’ve still got a lot stored in here,” she said, tapping her head. “You ever wish you could go back?”
Laura turned her head sharply away because for some damned reason her eyes started to burn, and if she wasn’t real careful, she’d be crying. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried over what she’d lost. Stupid tears. Go back, she asked. Oh, God above, if only that was possible. Go back before that Christmas, before everything spiraled down to hell, before she lost everything she loved. Go back? Just the thought was torture.
“I’m tired,” she croaked out, her face still turned away from her pestering neighbor.
“Would you go back if you could?”
What is this, twenty questions? If you’re that bored, read a book.
Laura closed her eyes and felt that elephant pressing down again, hard. Go back. Yes, yes, she’d go back to feel her daughter’s silky hair, to hug her skinny little boys, to feel her husband wrap his body around hers while they slept. “I can’t,” she said as her chest sank beneath a horrible weight and the pain started.
Grace was saying something, but she couldn’t quite make it out. Something about Christmas and wishes and things that were gone forever. She fought for a while against the p
ain, clutching her chest, holding her left arm rigid, fighting, fighting against the pain and a heart that had turned brittle long ago. And then, Laura stopped fighting. She let go, and the roaring in her ears stopped. Just like that.
“You can, Laura. Hold my hand. You can.”
She heard Grace with such clarity, it was as if she was wearing headphones and those words were the only sound. Grace’s hand was cool and strong in hers, and Laura knew the old lady was trying to give her comfort as she died. What a silly old woman, Laura thought, before everything went black.
CHAPTER TWO
December 15
Laura didn’t dare open her eyes because she knew if she did, her head would explode off her shoulders. She lay there for ten minutes cursing her stupidity for letting Eddie give her his moonshine. Good ol’ Eddie meant well, but he’d taken ten years off her life already. At least.
“It’ll kill me before it kill you, Lorna Doon,” he’d said a hundred times as he slugged back a long drink. It took a full five minutes before she remembered she shouldn’t have a hangover, unless they had them in heaven. Or hell. She knew, without opening her eyes, that she was no longer in the hospital. It was too silent, smelled too good, to be the hospital. And it sure as hell wasn’t the one-room dump she lived in over Coolidge Street.
That’s when Laura finally opened her eyes. And closed them. And slowly opened them again.
“What the hell.” Well, not hell. And not heaven either. Laura was home. Not the lousy one-room, rat-infested, piece-of-shit apartment she’d called home for the past five years. But home.
Home.
Laura looked down and laughed. That ugly old comforter that Brian hated was draped across the bed. Their bed, the sleigh bed they’d picked out two months before their wedding twenty-five years ago. She looked around the room in confusion. This room, this life, didn’t exist anymore. She’d sold this house, the furniture, even the ugly comforter, years and years ago.
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