by Cathy Lamb
Figuring yourself out will come easier on the river, I guarantee it. Plus, the dinners there are good. My brothers and I went last month.
Sincerely,
Jake
Rein your heart in, I told myself. I so did not want to make another mistake as I had with Eddie. I so did not want to get hurt again, to have to deal with grief or loss or the pain that would come like a roaring train when Jake was no longer interested in me.
But I couldn’t help myself!
I e-mailed him. Yes, I would love to come. Thank you. I was so glad he couldn’t see me jumping up and down for joy, doing a wiggle dance, then pretending to play an air guitar.
Our backyard date had been a night I will never forget. Want romance? Here it is: Jake had hung his own trellis with white lights. He had a caterer come in with dinner and dessert. The tablecloth was white, my flowers went into a vase off to the side, there were candles all over the backyard, and he even had music on. Piano solos, blues, rock.
We had shrimp and lobster pasta, salads, hot breads, tiny chocolate pecan pies for dessert, coffee, wine. So scrumptious.
The conversation was better. “Tell me about your family,” I asked.
He was one of four boys. They all lived in Oregon, his parents were still married, and they travelled together. “You mean, your family is normal?”
He laughed. “Your family isn’t?”
I laughed. I tried not to be bitter. I noticed that he noticed, but I changed the subject. He turned the conversation back around to me. He somehow knew I was a legal assistant. I told him where I worked. After I got done being petrified I told him some amusing stories from work and, surprisingly, he found me very amusing. I asked what he did, and guess what?
He’s an engineer. He builds and repairs bridges.
A bridge builder. Now, isn’t that perfect?
He played songs on the piano, and I sang along with my scratchy voice. He didn’t sing so well, either, but it was funny, and fun, and by the early morning hours we were into some of the grit of real life.
“I was married when I was twenty-five, Stevie. We were officially divorced when I was twenty-seven. I thought I would be married once, that I would stay married for the rest of my life. I never, ever thought I would be divorced. My parents have been married forever, and I assumed, and wanted, the same happy life and marriage.”
“What happened?”
“My ex-wife decided I did not need to know a number of things about her before we married. She was a kleptomaniac, she had massive credit card debt, she’d been married twice before and neglected to mention it, and she had a criminal record for check fraud. I’d had no clue. None. I was an idiot.”
My stomach clenched with sorrow for him. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago. I don’t see her, I don’t talk to her, but I thought you should know.”
We talked about her for a while, and how one lie after another had been discovered. “What about you? Married before?”
“Yes, I was.” I gave him the bare outline of the information that he needed.
“There’s more you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” he asked.
I stared up at the stars. Truckloads. “Perhaps I’ve left a few details out. I can’t talk about them quite yet, Jake, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be mysterious, or cagey, I just—”
“It’s okay.” He picked my hand up and kissed it. “You can tell me when you’re ready.”
We talked and laughed until three o’clock in the morning, and he walked me home. He didn’t try to kiss me, but by then I was envisioning jumping into bed with him and rolling around until the roosters cock-a-doodle-do-ed.
That night I pored over the new clothes I had bought with Phyllis. I tried all of them on again with my new haircut. I thought of Jake. I wasn’t comfortable yet with my new body, but I couldn’t continue to be such a massive frump when around any corner at all—even in Portland, because he was working there for the time being—I could run into him.
So. My clothes. I would wear them, starting tomorrow. I got two trash bags and whirled through my closet tossing out all the plain, ill-fitting stuff.
In my bed that night, staring at the Starlight Starbright ceiling, I asked myself if I could ever trust enough to fall in love. I hadn’t been in love with Eddie. I don’t even think I loved him when I married him.
So was I capable of letting go enough to fall in love with a man? My answer: I don’t know. Trust has always been an issue for me, a debilitating, gnawing issue, and you need trust for love.
But Jake? The man with daffodils, irises, and baby’s breath in hand?
Maybe, oh, maybe.
I saw my uncle’s ads for his state senate campaign on TV.
He was shown on the steps of the state capitol, buttoned up in a suit, his white shock of hair perfectly brushed down. He was the Establishment, a group of wealthy, influential white men who do all they can to keep the status quo, to keep women and minorities down, down, down, down below them.
But Herbert knew what was best! He stood for morals and values. He slapped a hand into his palm. He had the Bible to back him up. “This is about keeping marriage honorable, a union between one man and one woman. Not two men, not two women, not a woman and her dog. This is not about discrimination,” he said, sanctimony dripping from his lips. “This is about upholding our moral values. This is about not sanctifying what is wrong, morally wrong. “This is about keeping marriage the blessed event that it is. My wife and I have been married for forty years. We have two children and one adopted child my wife and I took in out of the goodness of our hearts. We’re a family, a traditional American family. Let’s keep it that way.”
I thought about “our family,” our “traditional American family.” I thought about the anniversary party.
Vomitous, all.
If Jake found out that Herbert was my uncle, would he run for the hills?
I planted blueberry bushes for Lance and three camellias for Polly. The blooms were pinkish reddish heaven. I cut back a bedraggled trumpet vine that I had faith would grow again, and I planted marigolds and a pink clematis near the picket fence. I planted sunflower seeds in a sunny spot and hoped for the best.
I also had sod delivered. So I cheated and didn’t plant grass seed. I found the sod by chance. A neighbor’s son’s friend was planting it on the property of a shoe company, and they had extra and needed to get rid of it. They hauled it over, all stacked up, and dumped it off. I was so excited I nearly did a jig.
Now, it was a terrible amount of work over many long days. I had to rent a rototiller, get all the weeds out, flatten up the property, blah blah blah, but when I laid it down, exactly as instructed, voilà.
Instant pretty.
The best part? Jake saw me with the rototiller and said, “You are a woman after my heart, aren’t you?” He helped me with the rototilling and I got to watch his muscles flex, and ladies, if I could have swooned away, I would have. He helped for hours while wearing a black tank top, which made me feel faint. And afterward we sat out on my deck and ate chicken sandwiches, and he was still sort of sweaty, and messy, and I’m surprised I didn’t pass out, my sexual emotions getting the best of me.
When he left that night he said, “There’s nothing sexier than a woman with a rototiller,” and I said, “Your rototilling could make me roar.” He laughed, winked at me, confirmed our date, and went home while I blushed so hot I thought I had internally combusted.
I stared at the Starlight Starbright ceiling for a long time that night, visions of muscles and a sweaty man tickling my mind.
When I walked into work with one of my new outfits on, Cherie stopped in her tracks, a bunch of stressed-out, slobbering newbies around her, and said, awed, “Would you look at Stevie? Wow! Wow!”
And the stressed-out newbies took a minute away from their stress and grinned at me, and so did other people, who came out to see what the commotion was about and told me I looked great,
and then Zena sauntered up and said, “Hey, Sex Goddess! Seeexxxxx Goooddddesss!”
I giggled and felt myself blush, and people clapped and cheered, which made me feel as if they liked me, so I blushed more.
I loved my job but I needed a second one, so I sent out more résumés and applications that night.
The economy is terrible here in Oregon. Twelve percent unemployment. But still. There had to be something out there.
I looked at my budget again. Anemic. Frightening.
I have mentioned that, haven’t I?
Okay. I took a deep breath.
Maybe I could be a chicken.
I typed out another letter.
Cluck cluck.
I stripped and sanded a rocking chair with a broad headrest.
I asked it questions: If you had to compare your life to a garden, what would you see in it? Dead trees and bushes, stuck in the middle of winter? Weedy? Swamped with too much water? Drought filled? Blooming with a pink dogwood tree, tulips, daffodils, and gladiolas? What do you need to cut out of your garden to make it better? What do you need to add?
What is your name, chair?
My name is Hope.
Flowering purple vines, huge pink blossoms with red centers, yellow daisies, bees, butterflies, a tiny turtle, a blue birdhouse and birds.
Hope. I painted it as such.
On Monday I dressed up in my new clothes and was buried in paperwork on the Atherton case.
On Tuesday and Wednesday I dressed up in my new clothes and was buried in paperwork on the Atherton case.
On Thursday I dressed up in my new clothes and was buried in paperwork on the Atherton case.
And on Friday evening, dressed up in my new clothes and working late for a case for Cherie, I took a few minutes to sort through the boxes and I found it.
Hello, Dr. Dornshire. Good to see your letter.
It was a miracle.
It was case-shattering. It was harsh and blunt, and it was damning against the hospital because they were clearly at fault.
It was damning against Crystal, because a copy had been sent to her.
She had never disclosed the letter, which she is required, by law, to do.
What else could I find?
I pulled my keyboard toward me and got on the Internet.
How funny that the hospital had been “unable” to locate Dr. Dornshire.
He was right there. I was staring at a photo of his face, surrounded by a whole bunch of African children outside a medical clinic. He was smiling in his green scrubs. They were smiling.
I was not smiling.
I spent a lot of time staring at my Starlight Starbright ceiling that night. Interestingly enough, my hands were not shaking.
On a Tuesday night, Portland’s most loved TV anchorwoman passed out, on camera, live, her head hitting, then bouncing off of, the desk in front of her, her auburn curls spilling about.
The cameramen and producers were so shocked they initially didn’t do anything. It was Grant Joshi who immediately helped her, ordered an ambulance, and cradled her in his arms.
Some viewers later thought the tears falling from Grant’s eyes indicated he was madly, passionately in love with Polly. See? Those rumors about them being lovers were true! He was heartbroken! He loved her! They were incorrect. Grant and Polly were simply, truly wonderful friends.
And his wonderful friend had almost starved herself to death. I flew to the hospital.
Polly took time off immediately from the station, and me and Lance drove her from the hospital to the clinic four days later. I drove The Mobster. Lance couldn’t drive, because he couldn’t stop crying and actually had to lie down on the backseat because he was hyperventilating. “Honey, pass that bag back,” he called to Polly. Polly did so, pale and weak. He breathed in and out of it, passed it back. She breathed in and out, then Lance took it back. She patted her heart. “We’re going to get help, heart. We’ll be okay.”
Her boss, Leroy Mussen, was an asshole and started threatening her. If Polly didn’t come back to work by the following Sunday there would be an “or else” she would have to deal with.
But even Polly knew that she was done.
Simply put, she would die if she didn’t get help.
Me and Polly held hands as I drove. We didn’t say much.
We had been through this before. What else was there to say?
Jake and I had talked by phone many times, and he was waiting outside my house when I drove up after returning from the clinic, as we’d discussed. He took me right into his arms as I cried for Polly. When I was done crying on his shoulder and his shirt was a wet rag, he brought me inside and made me chili and cornbread. We ate together, he lit a candle, he cleaned up, and I cried some more. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure Polly was going to live. She was so thin, so frail, that I worried she’d have a heart attack.
That man got me into bed by myself. “Sweetie, you have to sleep now. I’ll lock up and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
At midnight he left and I curled up into my pillows and thought of Polly and felt sick, and then I thought of Jake and I felt warm and cuddly…then I felt guilty for feeling warm and cuddly and fought with my insomnia, and then I dreamed about Sunshine not eating until she fell into her own shadow and died.
16
Portland, Oregon
The response to Polly’s collapse was immediate and loud. The station was besieged with calls about her health, and gifts and cards arrived by the box load. At the end of two weeks, Leroy Mussen was raving and told her that if she didn’t come in, that night, to do the news, and all future nights, he would fire her.
I begged her not to leave the clinic, and so did Aunt Janet and Lance. Herbert wasn’t there because Polly had told him not to come. I’d heard the phone conversation. “Dad, you’re a leper. I can’t stand you. Thinking about you makes me want to blow in a bag. If I envision your face, I want to hide. If I think of how you smell like a pipe I want to puke. If I think of that mausoleum-slash-prison that you live in I want to swallow Drano. Don’t come.”
But Polly was resolute about going back to work. “I’m going.”
“Honey, please!” Lance said. “I’ve got enough money for all of us. Quit the job. I’ll give you $1 million! Two million!” He wrung his hands. He was serious. He regularly offered to give us money. We always, always declined. “I can barely knit anymore I’m so worried about you—I can barely knit! See my hands, they’re exhausted! Blistered!”
Polly got dressed up and put on her makeup, even as a barrage of doctors, nurses, and counselors urged her not to.
“Don’t worry,” she told all of us worried people. “I believe in vengeance, and I’m going to go out and get it.”
We had no idea what she was talking about, and she wouldn’t give us any more clues. I drove her to the station and stayed with her.
Polly was treated as the well-loved celebrity she is at the station, mobbed by people hugging her, telling her they hoped she was better. Grant didn’t bother to hide his rampaging feelings. He hugged her, cried, asked how she was—could he do anything for her?
She thanked him and Kel for the flowers, two bouquets. The candy. Two boxes. The books, crosswords, and other things they thought might relax her, which filled two boxes.
Leroy Mussen came around, with his small, thin, beaked nose and balding head, and said, “Get ready, Polly.”
She did the news with a smile, but at the end of the newscast she had a surprise for all the viewers. (This would be the vengeance part.)
“And now for a bit of personal information, folks.” She smiled, but her eyes were sad. “You may have heard a few rumors about my abrupt departure and my head-banging incident recently. You may have heard that I’ve had a nervous breakdown or I’m on drugs. Neither is true. What is true is that I suffer from anorexia nervosa. I’ve been fighting this terrible disease since I was thirteen years old. I remember looking at myself in the mirror at the age of ten and believing I was fat. M
y father told me that I was and I believed him. (More vengeance.) My body issues have been long lasting and, frankly, now and then, they seem to take over my life and I can’t control them. This is one of those times. I have been in a clinic since leaving the station, getting treatment and counseling.”
She paused for a moment, smiled through sad eyes, and said, “Unfortunately, though, our station manager, Leroy Mussen, has told me that if I don’t leave the clinic and come back to work full-time tomorrow I will lose my job.”
I heard a collective gasp in the control room.
Ahhh. I sat back, crossed my arms, and laughed. Here came the vengeance on hyper-speed.
Leroy hissed, “Goddammit. Shit.”
“Although I love my job and I love working with Grant, and all my coworkers here at the station besides Leroy, I love staying alive more, and as much as I will miss all of you, I am going to have to quit work here. I hope that after my six-week stay at the clinic I will be better, and with the support of my family and friends and a good counselor, I hope to conquer this disease once and for all.”
Leroy Mussen screamed, “Take her out! Close off! Go to commercial!”
Oh, but people there must have hated Leroy Mussen. Perhaps this was their vengeance? It was obvious they loved Polly. No one moved. They didn’t go off the air, they didn’t go to commercial. The cameras stayed steady.
“And,” Polly said, with a cheeky smile, “it would be nice to have a job. In six weeks, if you know of anyone who is hiring, please let me know!” She smiled again. “For KRNZ News, this is Polly Barrett. Good night and thank you, Portland. Thank you for the kindness you have shown me these last two weeks.” She turned to Grant, waiting for him to say good night to the viewers.
Grant did not say good night. Instead he got all choked up and wobbled out, “Polly, you are the bravest, kindest, most beautiful woman I have ever known. And”—he turned back to the camera—“if Leroy Mussen, our station manager, fires Polly because she’s going to a clinic to get better, then I’ll quit.”