by Erin Duffy
“You really think I should throw a luncheon? I’m not really the cucumber sandwich type of girl.”
“Not a full lunch, but almost like a happy hour of sorts. Have small snacks and a waitress or two passing cocktails while people browse around the store. Trust me, I don’t know a lot of women in this town, but I’ll bet you any amount of money that the second one of them hears how someone ordered her Christmas cards from here, they’ll all want to do it. No one will want to seem lazy ordering from iPhoto when they have the option to examine the card stock before throwing it on their credit cards.”
“That makes sense. It’s a good idea. See, I never would’ve thought about that.”
“Thank you! How about this? Have you ever thought about how stationery stores are basically only for happy people?” I asked. “I don’t know why this thought is just occurring to me now, although maybe once you find yourself spending way too much time in the land of the unhappy, you start to pay attention to how the other half lives.”
“No, and I don’t think I want to know what you’re talking about,” Lissy answered. She picked up a large brown box from the floor and ripped off the packaging tape. I felt so badly for her. Every minute she spent in here, every decision she made, must highlight that she was doing it alone. No wonder she hadn’t been able to make any of the changes she and her mother had once dreamed of together.
“Think about it. You’re selling ways for people to broadcast their happiness: wedding invitations, birth announcements, bar mitzvahs, baptisms, Sweet Sixteens, quinceañeras, retirement parties, monogrammed stationery so people can write thank-yous for all of the gifts that show up at their doors wrapped in white paper and tied with satin bows. This is where people come to tell the world how wonderful they’re doing. ‘I’m getting married! I got engaged! I’m having a baby! We bought a new house!’ And, of course, to buy their Christmas cards, where they’ll splatter the one single picture of their kids not trying to kill each other that they managed to get out of, like, ten thousand. This is where it all happens. It’s the epicenter of happiness. Has anyone ever come in here asking for cards alerting the world to the fact they’re getting divorced? Do you have ‘my husband cheated’ cards? Or ‘my kid moved home because he failed out of college’ cards?”
“Probably not. But I think that could be a niche. Would you have sent cards announcing your husband left you?”
“Maybe if I had people to send them to.”
“That’s awesome.”
“All I’m saying is that you’ve been spending all of your working hours surrounded by happy people and you haven’t even noticed it. You should pay attention to that. It must be kind of nice.”
“I think you need to get some stationery with your old monogram on it. You don’t need to make an announcement about it, but why don’t you buy something with a nice bright . . . what’s your maiden name?”
“Stevens.”
“A nice bright C.S. on it? Won’t that feel good?”
“But what will I do with them? They’ll sit in a drawer in the kitchen forever. I don’t have anyone to send them to.”
“I’ll send you flowers to let you know how happy I am that we’re going to be working together. I’ll expect a thank-you note.”
“No, you won’t.” I called her bluff.
“What about Bo? Don’t people send him presents? Aren’t there people in his life who spend time with him who deserve a thank-you?”
“I’m not writing Dee Dee a thank-you note. You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of his grandparents. When is his birthday?”
“He’ll be one in July.”
“I’m sure people will send him gifts for his first birthday. You should say thank you. You should say thank you on these,” she said, holding up an ecru card with a ladybug in the upper right-hand corner and a bright red line running along the bottom. I had to admit, they were adorable. But I was having a hard time reconciling Lissy’s nose ring with the ladybug stationery she was hocking. Maybe that was part of the problem. People saw Lissy and thought tattoos, not thank-you notes. Discrimination has many forms.
“If I ever need to send thank-you notes, I promise, I’ll buy the ladybugs. But right now no one is sending me gifts, or fruit baskets, so I’m all good.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. What was the matter with me? Here I was telling her that I wanted to help her, but at the same time refusing to actually buy anything from her. What kind of sense did that make? If there was one thing that my breakup had taught me, it was that women needed to support each other. We needed to pick each other up when we fell on our faces. We needed to cheer each other on when we were in need of encouragement. We needed to buy the damn insect stationery even if we had no need for it whatsoever. “You know what?” I said, reaching for a box of cards, and then another, and then one with dancing turtles adorning the perimeter because I’ve never owned correspondence cards decorated with dancing turtles and suddenly couldn’t figure out how I’d ever managed to live without them. I tucked a green-and-yellow-striped pad under my arm, and piled leopard-print thank-you notes, and a cute glass cube holding square note cards that said “While you were out” on the counter, too, even though I was fairly certain that I would need them never. It didn’t matter. Lissy needed me to need them. “I’ll take these.”
“All of them?” Lissy asked, a little confused, a little amused, and a lot appreciative.
“Yes. All of them. I write a lot.”
“I thought you said you don’t know anyone and don’t talk to anyone.”
“I didn’t say anyone ever writes me back.”
Lissy broke into a girlish laugh. Surprisingly, so did I.
“Wonderful. You’re sort of my first customer. How depressing is that? I’ve been open for two years, and no one even knows I’m here.”
“We’re going to change that. You have a real niche, and as far as I know, there’s nothing like this anywhere around here.”
“How do you know that? You hadn’t left your house in more than a month until you came to story hour.”
“That’s true, but I’ve been here long enough to know what’s what,” I lied. It was important that Lissy have faith in me. I needed to have faith in me, too. “I’m telling you, I haven’t seen anything like this. The only thing that comes close is Papyrus and that’s like the McDonald’s of stationery stores—mass-produced and overexposed. They don’t have dancing turtles. I can promise you that.”
“Well aren’t you just a snob in normal girl clothing,” she teased.
“Totally. I was the biggest bitch in the world back home. I only became nice once I moved here and got dumped. You know how it is, perspective and all that.” I couldn’t help but smile. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed the company of women until right now. Antonia was like a sister—I’d always have her—but new friendships reminded me that maybe I still had something left to offer people. Maybe I wasn’t as useless as I was making myself believe.
“Do you really think you can help me?” Lissy asked, but it was more of a plea.
“Definitely. I’m looking forward to it. I need to be useful to someone on this earth other than Bo. Trust me, I can do it.”
“Okay. Let’s get started!”
“I’m excited!” I said. “We’re going to turn this place into the most popular store in town. We’re going to get people talking. I promise!”
I picked up a package of bumblebee cards, headed to the back corner of the store, and dropped it on the floor. “Let’s start with these. Go through all the boxes, and anything with insects or nature items on them should be over here in this corner. Sound good?”
“I need to ring up your order first,” Lissy said.
“Right! I almost forgot.” Lissy rang up my note cards and dropped them into a white plastic bag. I handed her my credit card, the one Owen paid for, and my insides burned. I had no idea how, but I was going to break free of him. I didn’t want
his apologies, or his excuses, or his money. I took care of myself for a long time before he came along. I could find a way to do it again.
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” Lissy said. “And promise you’ll try to come to the library on Wednesday. Bo seemed to really like it. It’ll be good for him.”
“Wednesdays work just fine for me.”
Without saying another word, Lissy and I set about changing The Stationer into a place where women who either didn’t know me or didn’t like me would want to buy their stationery.
Chapter 7
I WOKE UP early Monday morning to the sound of my ringing phone.
“Claire!” Owen screamed into my ear more loudly than was necessary. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing. I’m in bed. Why are you yelling at me?” I asked.
“I just spent the entire weekend being harassed by psychotic women who got my number off Craigslist. What the hell is the matter with you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t appreciate you speaking to me in this manner,” I growled, sleep choking my voice.
“Take it down! Take it down right now, Claire! These people are unhinged!”
“You’re unhinged. I’m sorry I can’t talk right now. I have a busy day ahead of me.” I hung up. I stretched my arms above my head, and wiggled my toes, and rolled across my bed, and laughed, because waking up to the sound of Owen’s frantic voice made this the best morning I’d had in forever. I quickly showered and dressed, and waited for Antonia to come in and force me to get up. I heard the door creak, and then her flip-flops flip-flopping off the back of her feet. I knew she was expecting to find me lying on my side facing the wall, the green-and-beige-paisley Roman shade I’d had specially made for the master bedroom windows pulled down so that it touched the sill, which was exactly how I was when she left my room last night. But I wasn’t. I was up and dressed and standing at my dresser fastening earrings to my lobes when she entered. Today was a new day.
“Oh, look at you! You look great! I thought I was going to have to drag you out of bed again,” she said.
“Nope, not today. I feel much better. Owen has been getting crazy phone calls all weekend, and you’d be surprised what that does for my mood.”
“Seriously?” Antonia replied, which wasn’t nearly as supportive a response as I would’ve liked.
“Seriously. But aside from that, I woke up this morning and realized that I actually do feel a little bit better. I think moving is going to be the answer to a lot of my problems, and I can’t think of any reason why Owen would care if I move, except for the fact that he’s currently very pissed off at me for the Craigslist thing. But I kind of love that.”
“Take it down, Claire. You made your point.”
“Have I?”
“If you want to move then you need him calm and on his heels. Right now he’s neither of those things.”
“Fair point. Fine, I’ll take down the ad, and then I’m going to ask him to have lunch on Saturday. I’m going to take control of this mess. I’m control-alt-deleting myself. A reboot, as it were.”
“Fantastic! That’s going to go a long way toward helping you feel like you have your life back.”
“Totally. And as part of my reinvention, I need a little pampering. It has occurred to me that I never got the facial he booked for me.”
“You’ve had bigger problems than blackheads.”
“That’s true. But Owen promised me a spa day, and I think I deserve one. In fact, I think I deserve it now more than ever, don’t I? I earned the right to have clear pores if nothing else.”
“I like where you’re going with this.”
“Me too. I booked an appointment online for this afternoon. Screw Owen, and screw Dee Dee, and screw the fact that they were screwing each other and that’s why he wanted me out of the house. I deserve to have an afternoon to myself. I’m taking it. Today.”
“Fabulous! You can never underestimate the power of beauty treatments if you’re trying to lift your mood. This is not going to be a time in your life that you’ll remember fondly, but you’ll get through it, and you’ll look back on it, and when you do, I think you’ll be so proud of yourself for taking control of your life, and for treating yourself. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, actually.”
“I haven’t been ready to until now. But honestly, I’m so tired of feeling sorry for myself. It’s been almost two months. At some point enough has to be enough and I’ve decided that enough is enough today, you know?”
“God, I wish I could go with you, but I need to work. And babysit, I presume.”
I glanced at the clock. It was 6:30. Bo would be up any minute. “Can you? I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you. I know you’re not here to babysit so I can get facials, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m really looking forward to it. My appointment is at one o’clock. I’m going to take the train in so I can read a magazine or something on the ride. I’ll get my facial and come right home. Maybe we can cook dinner together tonight? Would that be okay?”
“It sounds great. I’m going to work this morning to get a few things off my plate, but then I’ll take Bo for a walk after lunch, and we’ll see the relaxed, restored you when you get back.”
“I love you,” I said. I leaned over and squeezed her.
“Love you back,” she said. “There’s a pot of coffee downstairs.”
Bo started to whine, and I stood and pulled ballet flats onto my feet, instead of the slippers that I usually wore these days. If wearing shoes made me feel this good, I could only imagine what a facial would do for my spirits.
“Good morning, buddy!” I sang as I peeked my head into Bo’s room and found him sitting upright in his crib, tugging at a stuffed zebra that hung from his circus-themed mobile. He smiled as I scooped him up and hugged him close before laying him down on his changing table to give him a clean diaper, a pair of blue sweatpants, and a long-sleeve onesie covered with fire engines. “Did you sleep well?” I asked. I liked to think that he could understand what I was saying, and looked forward to the day where he’d actually answer me back. “I slept great, Mommy. Thank you for asking,” I imagined him saying. I wondered what his little voice would sound like, and if he would call me “Mommy” or “Mama.” I loved his little baby phase, and I didn’t want to wish it away, but still, it was so hard not to think about what would come next. What would our life be like this time next year? How different would we both be?
I sat him on my lap and fed him his bottle before getting down on the floor with him so we could play with giant blocks that my mother had sent and he loved more than anything. By 11:00 he was asleep again, and I laid him back in his crib and poked my head into Antonia’s room. “I’m going to head out. Are you sure this is okay?”
“It’s more than okay. Go. I’ll see you later. Figure out what you want to have for dinner. I’m in the mood for pasta, so stick in that genre,” she said.
“You got it,” I said. I left her door open a crack and skipped down the stairs. I reached into my bag, and removed a note I’d written for Antonia on one of Lissy’s frog cards. I thought about how I used to write notes for Owen when he traveled, how I’d tell him that we loved him and would miss him and he didn’t deserve any of it. Antonia had been with me for everything, and had never betrayed me, and I’d never written her a note even once. Until now. I propped the card up on the counter against a container of raisins, her name written across the envelope in a green Magic Marker, and headed for the door. Husbands aren’t the only ones who deserve love letters. Best friends, the ones who will be with you until death do you part, deserve them even more.
I REALLY SHOULD’VE been doing this more often. I’d basically spent the last ten months in some kind of zombie trance where I completely forgot that life existed outside of my house, and as it so happened, life was still pretty freakin’ awesome. I changed into a soft white robe and the most comfortab
le foot-massaging flip-flops I’d ever worn in my life, and settled into a chaise in the relaxation room. Truthfully, I didn’t care if the esthetician who was going to do my facial ever claimed me. I’d be perfectly happy just sitting in this room listening to Enya play through the speakers and drinking cucumber water. Before I could refill my cup, a woman appeared and whispered, “Claire?”
“That’s me,” I said quietly.
“I’m Maya. Please, come with me.” She led me down a hallway and into a small, dimly lit room with an adjustable bed that was covered with soft blankets and pillows. “I’ll wait outside while you change. You can hang your robe on the back of the door. I’ll knock before I come back. Do you need anything?”
“No. I think I’m great, thank you!” I said. Maya closed the door softly behind her and I lay down on the heated bed, my body under a plush comforter, music playing, candles lit, and all I could think about was how this was the best gift Owen could’ve possibly given me if only he hadn’t given it to me so that he could sleep with his girlfriend.
Maya returned and placed a cool washcloth over my eyes, and painted my face with a clay that was supposed to minimize my pores and make me look ten years younger. I don’t know how long I lay there before I fell asleep, but I dreamed of Chicago—the paths I used to jog on, the churros Rick Bayless served at Topolobampo, the townhouse I lived in with its little courtyard and its high ceilings and the best pizza place in the world down the street. I dreamed of Chicago as I fell asleep, and so I fell asleep happy.
I woke to Maya gently shaking my arm.
“I’m so embarrassed I dozed off,” I said.
“Don’t be. That’s the sign of a good facial. You should be relaxed enough to fall asleep. It’s a compliment.”
“Oh, good. Honestly, Maya, that was dreamy.” I wrapped my robe around me and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“Would you like some lemon water? Or a glass of prosecco?” she asked as she walked me back to the locker room.