“Thanks,” I said. Why did I say thanks? What a loser! You don’t thank a guy for kissing you!
“You’re welcome,” he said sexily.
We stared straight ahead in silence for a while. I felt colder when we stopped skiing, but the sun was warming our faces. My nose was beginning to run, so I sniffed quietly. I reached into my pocket for a tissue and dabbed daintily at my nose, keeping my head down so I wouldn’t gross him out. When I pulled the tissue away, it was bright red.
“Oh, no!” I shrieked, destroying any hope of keeping this disaster from Todd.
“What?”
“My nose is sort of bleeding a bit,” I said with a lame giggle. I pinched my nostrils with the tissue as I’d seen my dad do. He was very prone to nosebleeds. The flow seemed to have stopped by the time we reached the top of the hill, and we unloaded, gliding to where Lisa and Kyle were waiting for us.
“Let’s go down the face this time,” Kyle said. Without waiting for a response, he was off. My new, sort of, possibly boyfriend stayed behind with me again, impressing me with his Nordic abilities. About halfway down the hill, Lisa and Kyle stopped and waited for us.
“Hey!” I called, skiing up to them.
“Oh, god!” Lisa said, looking at me in horror. “What’s wrong? You’ve got blood all over your face!”
“What?” I touched my upper lip, and my mitten came away red. “I’ve got a fucking nosebleed.” I hoped the swearing would make me sound cool and possibly compensate for the uncoolness of a bleeding nose. “Do you have any Kleenex?”
Lisa handed me a wadded-up ball, and I pressed it to my face. It will be fine, I told myself. I will pinch the nostrils to stop the flow, wash the dried blood off with some snow, and hopefully have another kissing session with Todd on the chair. It will all be fine.
“Kerry . . .” Lisa still looked on the verge of barfing. “The Kleenex . . . it’s soaked through.”
The ball of tissues was now a soggy red mess in my hand. I fished in my own pocket and found a few spare sheets. I pressed them frantically to my nose. Please stop bleeding, I willed it. Please. Not today. You can bleed all day tomorrow if you want.
“Do you guys have any tissues?” Lisa asked Kyle and Todd, who were standing by awkwardly.
“Just some rolling papers,” Kyle said.
“Kerry, you’re going to have to use these.” She handed me a small pack of rolling papers.
“What? How?” I sank down into the snow, dropping my second soaked ball of tissue. I withdrew a few of the flimsy papers, crumpled them up, and stuffed them in my nostrils. That should as least stop the drip. Shit! I could feel it still trickling down my face. I pulled the rolling paper out of my left nostril, and behind it trailed a long, snakelike blood clot.
“Ahhh!” Lisa, Kyle, and Todd screamed.
“Oh, no! Oh, no!” I started to cry. I stuck more rolling papers to my bloody nose and lay back in the snow.
“What’s going on here?” It was a ski patrol guy. He sounded very serious. I suppose the scene was cause for concern. I was lying prostrate in a circle of bloodstained snow with several rolling papers stuck to my face.
“She’s got a nosebleed!” Lisa said, pointing at me like I was a cat run over on the street.
“What’s your name?” the ski patrolman asked me.
“Kerry,” I moaned.
“Are you feeling light-headed, Kerry? Dizzy?”
“A bit, I guess.”
He pulled out a walkie-talkie and called down to someone at first aid. “We’ve got a girl on the north face in danger of bleeding to death. We need a stretcher up here on the ASAP and lots of gauze. It’s a nosebleed, but it’s a bad one. Yep . . . clots and everything.”
In what seemed like six hours, the first-aid team arrived. They packed gauze around my nose and secured it with white medical tape stuck to my cheeks. Then they zipped me into what was probably a body bag and buckled me onto a stretcher on skis. One of the first-aid guys was wearing a harness that they clipped the stretcher to. He would tow me down the hill.
“You kids can follow her down,” he told Kyle, Todd, and Lisa, who were still looking horrified.
And then we were zooming down the hill. I was beginning to feel a little dizzy, so I closed my eyes. Occasionally, I opened them to catch glimpses of Lisa and the boys skiing behind me. I couldn’t read their expressions from my body bag, but I was sure they were ones of disgust.
I was taken to the first-aid shack, where I was placed on a rickety metal cot and given Tang to drink. Lisa sat beside me. The boys stood awkwardly at the door.
“So umm . . .,” Kyle said. “We’re gonna take off.”
“Okay,” Lisa said.
“Can I, uh . . . get your number?” he asked her.
“Sure.” She wrote it on a paper towel from the dispenser by the sink.
“Okay, then,” Kyle said. This was obviously the cue for Todd to ask me for my number. I looked over at him. I just hoped he could remember the girl he’d kissed on the chairlift instead of this blood-soaked monster with her nostrils packed with gauze.
“So, uh, Kerry . . .,” he said.
“Yes?” I responded encouragingly.
“Uh . . . good luck with the nose problem.” And he was gone.
Chapter 7
Ramona has given me renewed hope for the future. I am now strong enough to resume entries in the journal of mortifying moments. My therapist was thrilled. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to continue with your journal, Kerry. Now . . . you do realize that the nosebleed was probably due to the cold and elevation, and therefore nothing you could have prevented?”
“I do!” I said brightly, marveling at the fact that she has such a bad haircut despite being so well educated and having so much money.
Anyway, my numerous therapy visits have not had nearly the impact that my one session with Ramona did. I am walking on air! In addition to the prediction of true love with one sandy-haired and creative Douglas or Dean or Dale, there is another factor in my new positive attitude. Sam has been leaving me messages. Make that one message—but still. He had previously called but hung up when I didn’t answer—as evidenced by the call log on my caller-ID box:
294-6062 (Mom)
294-6062 (Mom)
294-6062 (Mom)
294-6062 (Mom)
294-6062 (Mom)
294-6062 (Mom)
620-3579 (Sam)
294-6062 (Mom)
294-6062 (Mom)
619-4135 (Val)
620-3579 (Sam)
294-6062 (Mom)
294-6062 (Mom)
But yesterday, he left a message!
“Hey, Kerry, it’s me . . . Sam. I haven’t heard from you, and I was just wondering how you’re doing. I hope everything’s okay.” Pause. “Call me.”
I played it over a few times last night . . . twenty-three times last night. I had to ensure I wasn’t missing any subtle innuendo in his tone or word choice. From my analysis, I deduced that he sounded concerned . . . like the fact that I haven’t called him must mean I am dead or in a coma at the very least. Because why else would an averagely pretty, rather bottom-heavy woman of thirty-one not phone the gorgeous sexy man she has been involved with for two and a half years?
Unless . . . his concern is that I’ve moved on. Maybe met someone else who is more on my level in the looks department? Maybe now he is regretting letting me go?
Whatever the reason, he sounded a bit bummed, which has lifted my spirits immensely. Whether he is mourning my death (or coma) or my new, more equal relationship, the fact that he may feel an ounce of the pain and confusion I have been living with is extremely satisfying. I have called home four times today to listen to the message . . . just to keep my spirits bolstered.
Wouldn’t it be fabulous if he called again tonight? Tonight I will be out drinking, dancing and flirting with kind, open, and giving Don or Dennis or Damon. Because tonight there is a fund-raiser for the National Advertising Philanthropic Institute (N
API), which is an organization that helps people in the advertising industry who suffer a personal tragedy or crack-up and need hospitalization (which happens surprisingly often). This would certainly constitute a work-related function, would it not?
Sam will wonder why I haven’t returned his call and may even be alarmed if he phones and I am not home again. He might just call my mom to find out what hospital I’m in or when the funeral service will be held. I can almost hear my mom’s reply: “She’s as fit as a fiddle as far as I know, Sam. But she’s been impossible to get a hold of lately. I can only assume she’s dating someone—if not several men. You know she never tells me anything.”
I am in such a good mood, I will see if Trevor can sneak away for a chai latte.
“Fucking Rory,” Trevor says when we are seated at a corner table in Starbucks. “He called last night.”
“I thought you told him it was over.”
“I haven’t really had a chance to.”
“Trevor . . .,” I begin in a voice disturbingly like my mother’s.
“Look, Kerry. I know it’s over. The fact that I haven’t conveyed that to fucking Rory doesn’t make it any less true.”
I nod. That actually makes a lot of sense to me.
“Anyway,” Trevor continues. “He called and said he’s more sure than ever that I’m the one, but he’s just waiting for the right time to tell Ken.”
“Oh. And when might that be?”
“They’re spending a week in Cancún in December. He thought he’d probably have an opportunity after that.”
I bite into my blueberry white chocolate scone to keep from commenting. “Anyway,” I say, through the mouthful of muffin. “Let’s forget about our depressing love lives and party it up at the NAPI event tonight.”
“What?” Trevor gapes at me. “We hate those parties!”
“No, we don’t.”
“We do! We always say we can barely stand spending time with advertising people when we’re being paid for it, let alone on our own time.”
“I’ve never said that. I love work-related functions!”
“Since when?”
“Since . . . umm . . . okay,” I confess. “My mom took me to a psychic, and she told me I’d meet the sandy-haired, creative love of my life at a work-related function.”
“Wow.”
“And his name starts with D.”
“Very specific.”
“She was really good, Trevor. She told me I had been involved with a gorgeous man who didn’t even know the real me.”
“Obviously gorgeous Sam.”
“Obviously. And she said that there was a negative woman at work who would always hold me back.”
Trevor gasps loudly. “Sonja!”
“Yes!”
“Oh, my god! Maybe I should go see your psychic? She could tell me if I should wait for fucking Rory to come back from Cancún.”
“I’m sure she could tell you that.”
“Cool!” he says, oblivious of the tone in my voice. “Okay. Let’s go tonight, and if we find your soul mate, I’m definitely making an appointment with her.”
Back in my office, the message light on my phone is blinking furiously. I dial in and find a message from Sandra.
“Hi, Kerry. Look . . . I’m sorry to bother you at work but . . . Oh shit, here I go again.” I can hear her sniffling on the message. “I . . . I really need someone to talk to. Call me if you have a chance.”
I don’t bother checking the other four messages waiting, and I dial Sandra directly.
“Hi!” her cheerful voice says. “You’ve reached the desk of Sandra Conner. I can’t take your call right now. . . .” I hang up and dial her cell phone.
“Hello?” Her voice is weak and shaky.
“It’s me. Where are you?”
“On the bus. I’m going home.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” She is falling apart again.
“Is it George?” I volunteer. He is her married boss/lover.
“Y-yes. Sort of.”
“What do you mean?” I coax.
She begins to wail. “It’s his wife!”
“Oh, no! Did she find out about you two?” Despite my reaction, I am not surprised. George’s wife must be the stupidest person alive if she believes George needs to have emergency meetings with his legal secretary on Saturday nights. He is in wills and probates, after all.
“Nooo . . .,” Sandra says. “She’s pregnant.”
“What? Is that even possible? Isn’t he like, sixty-five?”
“He’s fifty-eight, and yes, it’s possible.” Sandra sounds a bit annoyed through her tears.
“Sorry. I just thought that at his age, the chances of getting someone pregnant would be pretty slim. I mean, I think you’d have to try and t—” Oops.
There is silence on the other end of the line. Then, “He says they hadn’t been intimate in years. It was just one time. . . .”
Maybe George’s wife isn’t the stupidest person alive.
“Anyway,” Sandra continues, “I had to get out of the office. People have been sending him pink and blue balloons and boxes of cigars all day. It was horrible!”
“Okay, listen, I don’t think you should be alone.”
“I’m f-f-fine!” She is bawling again.
“I’ll meet you at your place.”
I grab my coat and briefcase and hustle out of the office. “Off to a meeting at Prism,” I tell the receptionist, stabbing the elevator down button frantically. Once downstairs, I race to my car and peel out of the parking lot. I am sunk low in my seat in case Sonja happens to be walking by. At the same time, I am dialing my cell phone. I realize it’s not a very safe driving method, but this is an emergency situation.
Michelle answers on the first ring. “Michelle Dueck,” she says aggressively.
“Hey, it’s me.” I sit up as I gain distance from the office building. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Sandra’s falling apart. George’s wife is pregnant.”
“Oh, Christ,” Michelle mutters. She has never been very sympathetic to Sandra’s plight. She can’t understand how a woman could have such low self-esteem that she’d put her life on hold to be at a man’s beck and call. I, on the other hand, can kind of relate to that situation.
“I’m on my way over there to make sure she’s okay,” I say as I weave through traffic. “But someone needs to be with her tonight.”
“I have a Pilates class.”
“Sandra’s a wreck! I’m sure you can miss one Pilates class.”
“Okay,” she says reluctantly. “What have you got on tonight that’s so important?”
“A work-related function.”
“I thought you hated work-related functions.”
“No, I don’t! Anyway . . . I have to go to this one,” I say. “It’s mandatory.”
Michelle acquiesces. “All right. Tell Sandra I’ll be over around seven. We can order in some dinner.”
“Thanks, Michelle. You’re a good friend.”
I pull into Safeway and scurry into the store. I race through the aisles, loading my red plastic basket with cookies, chips and dip, herbal tea, and a tub of ready-made frosting. Everyone has a different way of coping with heartache. I, myself, am partial to the sweet-and-creamy group of foods, but I have known others who prefer to go the salty-and-crunchy route. I also pop into the liquor store next door for a bottle of chardonnay and a pack of cigarettes. You never know.
Sandra answers her door, and I resist cringing at the sight of her. It’s a good thing she decided to come home! Her eyes are almost swollen shut with thick rings of mascara beneath them. Her nose is red and shiny and running. Her lips look chapped and puffy. Oh, dear. “There, there,” I say, taking her into my embrace.
“I—can’t—be-be-be-lieve he—did this—to—to me!” She sobs into my shoulder. After a few moments, I can feel the dampness soaking through my collar. I
extricate myself and lead her to the couch. I don’t want to meet the love of my life this evening with a snot stain on my shoulder.
“You’re going to be okay,” I tell her, holding both her hands in mine. “Maybe this is for the best?”
“If you’re here to—to—g-give me a lecture,” Sandra screams. “You c-can just leave!”
Yikes! She’s really freaking out. “I brought supplies,” I say, sheepishly changing the subject. I begin to unload the bag. “Chips, icing, cookies . . .” She grabs the chips and tears open the bag.
“That’s a girl,” I say, patting her knee. “It’s all going to be okay. Time heals all wounds. That which does not kill us makes us stronger. There’s dip in the bag.”
“I know I’ve been stupid,” Sandra says after she’s inhaled half a package of potato chips. She’s now smoking a cigarette—who knew? “But he’s played a huge role in my life for so long—professionally and personally. He was a father figure”—Sandra’s father passed away when she was twelve—“a lover, a mentor. . . .” She is starting to get upset again.
“I’ve got icing? Do you want some icing?” I try to distract her.
“No.” She waves her hand. “I like salty and crunchy.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to have to quit my job.”
“Yeah. But it’ll be a fresh start for you.”
“Oh, God! I’m going to have to start all over . . .,” she moans. “I’m thirty-three, and I have to start all over!”
I take my friend in my arms again, deciding to ignore any mess on my shoulder. I should have time to change before tonight’s work-related function. I glance at my watch. Gak! It’s quarter to four!
Sandra feels my panic. “What?”
“I didn’t realize it was so late,” I say. “I, umm . . . I have a really important meeting this evening . . . a work-related function that I can’t miss.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sandra says, flopping back on the couch in a pout.
“Michelle’s going to come over tonight. She thought you guys could order some dinner?”
“Michelle?” Sandra jumps up. “Michelle! Why would I want Michelle over here? So she can tell me I’m an idiot? That something like this was bound to happen sooner or later? That I’m weak and pathetic because I need a man in my life?”
The Journal of Mortifying Moments Page 6