My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

by Rene Gutteridge

  “But if that’s true, it scares me that it takes such extreme measures to bring this side out. You know that pink dress I bought for the party I went to with Edward?” She nodded. “He hated it. He was embarrassed to see me in it. And nothing has been the same since.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I sighed. “You helped me pick it out. Plus, you’ve had . . . a lot going on. And truthfully, I wasn’t even sure I was right about the whole thing. Maybe the pink dress was too much.”

  “You looked beautiful in it, Leah. Absolutely stunning.”

  “At the end of the night, I felt like an idiot.”

  “If that’s how Edward made you feel, then you’re right to question this.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  I stared at the tile. It all seemed so unbearably real sitting in Elisabeth’s kitchen, talking about it.

  “I feel like I’ve written my own doom,” I finally said.

  “What do you mean?”

  I shook my head and shrugged off the comment. I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Edward in twenty minutes.”

  “You’re going to break it off?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to.”

  I stood and Elisabeth hugged me. Then she said, “If things go badly, don’t forget, Cynthia is just one creepy voice away from a sure victory in this situation.”

  Spring sunshine warmed my shoulders as I walked down the sidewalk. Freshly sprouted leaves adorned the trees lining the boulevard. Birds twittered and rustled.

  The afternoon was perfect. Perfect for people in love. I was in desperate need of a barf bag.

  I stopped in front of David and Shelley’s, a quaint corner shop with a gold awning perched above arched glass windows that framed beautiful displays of three-, four-, and five-tiered wedding cakes. I looked at them through the windows. One boasted golden yellow frosting with slightly lighter-hued roses stacked on each tier of the cake. Shimmering glitter gave the appearance of soft dew resting on each petal. I had hoped Edward would be waiting outside for me, but when I glanced beyond the cake, I could see him browsing inside.

  I stayed there and watched him. He looked like a stranger to me, and it made me unbearably sad. But this man that I’d dated for more than two years seemed at best like a distant relative. I knew what I had to do. I stood there for a full minute, praying for strength. When I looked up, Edward was watching me, and he waved me in with a bright smile on his face.

  I clutched my handbag and headed inside, rehearsing exactly how I would approach Edward. I needed to be kind but firm. Kind but firm. Kind but firm.

  Immediately a lusciously sweet aroma filled my nostrils and swept me into a momentary state of sugary delusion. I pictured myself in a gorgeous wedding dress, taking a huge bite of something cream-filled and moist and— “Hi,” he said, taking my hand. “I see sugarplums dancing in your eyes.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. There was definitely something sugary dancing in my eyes.

  Kind but firm? You’re already melting like chocolate under a heat lamp.

  “They’ve got the most amazing samples,” Edward said, guiding me toward the counter where two women waited to help us. “I’ve already tried the buttercream, and I swear it is the best cake I’ve ever had in my life. Maybe we could go all out and choose a different flavor for each tier!”

  “How many tiers do we need?” I said with a nervous laugh.

  A sloppy, goofy grin covered his face. I’d never seen anything sloppy on Edward. He was the most pulled-together man I’d ever known. “Maybe eight!” He laughed.

  I managed a jolly chuckle that I knew made Jodie roll her eyes. I wished she would stop pressuring me. It was all about the timing. I had to wait for the right time to segue from wedding cakes to permanent breakup. It was not going to be easy.

  Edward pulled me from one display to the next, talking with so much excitement I felt like he’d just discovered a new . . . well, whatever it is physicists discover. I found myself not just looking at the cakes, but looking at him. I’d never seen him smile this much, at least with teeth showing. He was a very reserved person. So every time he looked at me with that silly grin, my heart pitter-pattered, and I hadn’t felt that since the third week we were dating.

  I tried to ignore my heart by focusing on the wedding cakes. A woman named Della was now accompanying us around the room, pointing out cake features like we were in the market for a Volvo. I didn’t know there were so many different options when it came to wedding cakes.

  I knew I would never get the chance I needed with Della streaming behind us. After a few minutes, I said to her, “Maybe you could give us a moment to think some of these wonderful options through.”

  “Of course,” Della said, stepping back and returning to her spot behind the counter. Edward was still grinning.

  “I love the one with the three tiny tiers on top,” he said, pointing to a cake in the corner. “But I also love the one that is covered with roses, where they look like a waterfall cascading down the side.” He squeezed my hand. “Speaking of waterfalls, I think you’re really going to enjoy our honeymoon.”

  A nervous wheeze crept into my chest. “Honeymoon?”

  I hadn’t even thought of a honeymoon. How could he do all of this in three weeks?

  “We’ll talk about that later. After we’re finished here, we’re going to meet Cynthia.”

  Cynthia? A flush of heat strangled my neck. How did he know about Cynthia? Maybe I was going crazy. Maybe I was the only one who didn’t really know I had a split personality.

  I could hardly get the question out, but I managed to ask who Cynthia was, bracing myself for an answer I didn’t want to hear.

  “The wedding planner,” he said. “You’ll love her. She’s really emotional and high-strung like you are.” He slapped his hands together. “So, if you could have any cake in the world, what kind of cake would you want?”

  Steady. Steady. I looked into his dream-filled eyes and tried to remind myself that as charming as Edward was being inside this glorious house of sugar, there was another side of him, a side I had known much longer than this one . . . a side that functioned from day to day with a passionless, predictable determination to structure every single element of his life.

  “I have to say,” Edward continued, “I’m very partial to the buttercream. I want you to taste it, and the chocolate marble too. I know how much you like chocolate, and—”

  “Edward . . . Edward, wait.”

  He slowed his rambling to a crawl and glanced down as I took his hands in mine.

  “What? What’s wrong? You don’t like buttercream?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  Kind but firm. A part of me wanted to scrunch up my hair and slip into something more Sybil, but instead I simply gathered up as much courage as I could. “Edward,” I said, as assuredly as possible considering my neck was hot enough to warm a small office building, “we need to talk.”

  Chapter 23

  [She clutches the blouse.]

  I stood at the counter of Olivia’s, one of the nicest clothing stores for men and women in the district, a two-hundred-dollar purple silk blouse in my clutches. The woman behind the counter, hardly wide enough to cast a shadow, glared at me with severe eyes made worse by how tightly her hair was pulled on top of her head.

  And I hadn’t even said a word yet.

  But “Greta,” as her gold-plated name tag read, sensed I didn’t belong. I found it amazing how easily this could be sensed. Belonging in this world wasn’t just about the expensive clothes. It was an attitude.

  I didn’t let Greta’s glare distract me, though. I slapped the blouse on top of the counter with such force that Greta took a step backward. I looked behind me. The class, mingling among the clothing racks as Marilyn had instructed, was stealing glances, watching and waiting to see what I would do, to see if I would pass the test.

 
Over at the men’s counter, there was Robert, also trying to complete his task, which was to argue that the backside of a new pair of slacks was cut too small and that he’d blown it out not because he had a big butt, but because the slacks were too small. The man behind the counter had such an astonished look on his face that I almost laughed.

  I focused back on Greta.

  “What is the problem again?” she asked in her prissy accent.

  “I decided this blouse is too expensive.” That was my task. To return a high-priced item to a high-priced store, claiming I couldn’t afford it.

  Greta looked down at the blouse, her neatly trimmed and lined eyebrow arching with immediate disapproval. “You decided this is too expensive,” she said slowly, eying the price tag.

  “I want my money back.”

  “Ma’am, returning a blouse because it is damaged is appropriate, but returning it because it’s too expensive is simply not acceptable. Obviously,” she said, raising her hands and gesturing toward the store, “this is an expensive store.”

  “I realize that. But I want my money back. I made the mistake of believing I could afford this, and I can’t. Here’s the receipt.”

  The woman surveyed the receipt, and I glanced over at Marilyn, who looked surprised at how forthright I was being. I returned my gaze to Greta.

  “And you want to know something else?” I asked her.

  Greta looked like she did not want to know something else.

  “This blouse is not worth two hundred dollars.”

  “It’s a designer blouse,” Greta retorted.

  “I don’t care if it’s made of gold; it’s just a stupid blouse. I can get this same kind of blouse at Wal-Mart for fourteen dollars. Did you know that? In purple too.”

  “Let me assure you,” Greta said, “that you cannot.

  This is silk. Real silk.”

  “Synthetic silk actually feels better. Maybe it’s just me. Plus you can wash it.” I pointed to the receipt. “And I’d like cash back, if you don’t mind.” I realized my voice was very loud, because when I glanced around the room again, everyone, including the class and the other customers, was watching me.

  “I’m going to need to talk to the manager,” Greta said.

  “You can’t think for yourself?” I asked.

  Greta’s eyes narrowed. “Fine.” She opened the cashier’s drawer. “But let me just ask, ma’am, that you don’t shop here anymore until you can afford the clothing.”

  The muscles in my jaw protruded as Greta counted back one hundred and eighty-two dollars to me, with some change.

  “Wait a minute!” I snapped. I could feel the entire store grow still and quiet. “You shorted me!”

  I felt something brush against my arm. Marilyn had stepped up beside me, but I ignored her. I was handling this just fine. I certainly wasn’t going to be ripped off by a snooty, overpriced store like this.

  “Ma’am,” the woman said, becoming flustered as she, too, realized everyone was looking at her, “there is a ten percent restocking fee on all returned items.”

  “A restocking fee?” My voice climbed. Marilyn touched my arm, but I shrugged her off. “A restocking fee? Are you kidding me?” I grabbed the blouse off the counter.

  “Ma’am!” the woman snipped. I whirled around, found an empty hanger on the holding bar at the end of the counter, put the blouse on it, and marched to the back wall, where I hung it with the rest of the overpriced purple blouses.

  “There!” I shouted. “I’ve restocked it for you. So you can give me all my money back!”

  Marilyn was touching my arm again. “Leah, you’ve really done just fine. We don’t need all the money back. This was just an exercise in—”

  “I want the rest of my money back,” I said, staring directly into Greta’s smoky-lined eyes.

  “A restocking fee covers more than just hanging up the blouse,” Greta replied sternly.

  “Like what?” I crossed my arms. This was going to be good. “Does a restocking fee cover the number of footsteps it takes you to cross the floor to go hang it up? Does it cover the number of keystrokes it takes your fingers to reenter it into the system? I can see how that could cost well over fifteen dollars.”

  “Ma’am, you’re extremely out of line here,” Greta said, looking at Marilyn as if she could help. Didn’t she wonder why Marilyn, who was dressed this evening like she might be an extra from the movie Flashdance, was standing there with me? I looked over at the men’s counter where Robert had finished up and started to walk out. I spotted Cinco, who was standing by the ties, watching me.

  “I’m an unhappy customer,” I said, my jaw thrust forward. “Since when is an unhappy customer out of line?”

  “You’re unhappy because you don’t make enough to shop here,” Greta said, her words as cold as her eyes. “So why don’t you try Wal-Mart next time? You can probably get a good two-for-one deal, all right?”

  I stomped my foot, causing both Marilyn and Greta to jump. “I am not leaving this store until you refund my entire bill to me!”

  Marilyn took my arm. “Come on, Leah; it’s time to go.”

  “What?” I asked as Marilyn swiftly removed me from the store by way of firm grip on my biceps. “I’m solving a problem here. And her name is Greta!”

  Marilyn stopped once we got to the corner, and the entire class followed closely behind. Marilyn looked like she’d just witnessed a horrific crime. The rest of the class stood still and quiet, encircling us.

  “I was on a roll in there,” I complained. The class looked at me with wide eyes. “What? You’re all acting like I wasn’t solving the problem. I was solving the problem.”

  “Addressing conflict isn’t always just about solving the problem, Leah,” Marilyn said. “Robert was able to get his money back while remaining calm and collected.”

  “I was calm and collected!” I said, realizing in a detached way that I was shouting. “I just didn’t think it was fair that they charge a restocking fee! Robert blew his britches out! Now, that’s worth a restocking fee!”

  “The idea of the exercise was to confront an embarrassing situation with grace and dignity,” Marilyn said.

  “What did you think I was doing back there?” I asked, throwing up my arms.

  “Leah, you don’t really seem like yourself tonight,” Marilyn tried. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. And I would like to take issue with your claim that I did not handle myself with grace and dignity. It takes a lot of grace and dignity to point out that Wal-Mart sells purple blouses too.” I shot each class member a confident smile.

  “Now,” I said, “if you would like a prime example of how not to handle oneself with grace and dignity, I would be more than happy to provide an example.”

  Marilyn opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off by thrusting my left hand out into the middle of the crowd. I waved my fingers to help them notice the ring. Several oohs and aahs indicated everyone had taken full notice.

  “A prime example of not handling yourself with grace and dignity would be to tell your boyfriend of two years you want to marry him when in fact you really don’t want to marry him. Now, that is neither graceful nor dignified. Especially when you continue with the lie well into wedding cake plans and picking out invitations.” I twiddled my hand again, just for effect. “Yes, that’s right. As you can see, I’ve learned a great deal in my conflict resolution class, so much so that I’m going to end up marrying a man I don’t love simply because I can’t stand to hurt his feelings.” I raised a finger. “But, I did pick out a fabulous cake! Oh, you can’t even imagine it. As far as unique goes, this, well, this takes the cake. It’s hot pink. I didn’t even know they made hot pink. Sure, my fiancé was a little worried it might be too much, but I don’t think anyone’s even going to notice the color due to the Olympic event-like ring of fire that will be surrounding each tier.”

  I looked around. Everyone was staring at their feet, humiliated for me, I was sure. Every
one except Cinco. He was staring at the ring, and then he looked me in the eye. Shame overwhelmed me. I could tell he was hurt.

  With my voice cracking, I said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go decide what kind of wedding dress I want to wear to the wedding of my nightmares. Good evening.” And with that, I strolled past the class, past Olivia’s, and to my car, where I locked myself in and had myself a good cry.

  I had not been able to do it. I wimped out. And not only that, I was so horrified at myself that when it came time to pick out the cake, I totally lost my mind. Edward wondered out loud if the cake was too much, but I told him modern wedding cakes were an expression of creativity. So that’s what we ordered. A hot pink cake set aflame. It looked like a Las Vegas sideshow.

  But to Edward’s credit, he just seemed happy to be picking out a cake. Deep inside, I knew I’d tried to ambush the whole thing by ordering the most repulsive cake I could find. And I knew Edward had a strong aversion to hot pink.

  My plan had backfired, though. Edward thought the fire was cool, even though he didn’t catch my joke about my finally getting my flaming pancakes. I’d told the joke on the way to Cynthia’s. She’d already drawn up our wedding invitation and was just missing our guest list, which Edward promised to pull off the spreadsheet he’d created the year we sent out joint Christmas cards.

  Cynthia had even planned out the ceremony, including the music, reassuring us that of course anything could be changed to our liking, that her plan was just a starting point.

  A starting point?

  All I could think was that it was an ending point . . . to life as I knew it.

  But how could I complain? I wasn’t a strong enough person to stop all the nonsense. Every time I would dredge up an ounce of courage, Edward would mention Gammie and how all of her dreams for him were getting ready to come true.