She, Myself & I

by Whitney Gaskell

  Actually, the thought had occurred to me.

  “Pah. Of course not. Be serious.”

  “Come on, coward, stop stalling. Let’s just go in and get it over with,” Paige said.

  She turned and walked purposefully up to the house, her rounded belly leading the way. I trailed behind her, feeling like I was twelve years old and about to be punished for shoplifting a lipstick at the mall. Which I didn’t really do. My friend Dee Dee Miller did it, only she slid the lipstick into my handbag without telling me, so of course I was the one who got busted.

  Paige rang the bell, and then pushed the door open, not standing on ceremony. We could immediately hear them—voices raised, Mom’s shrill and fast, Dad’s irritated.

  “I am not going through this again, Stephen,” Mom said.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Dad replied.

  “That’s typical. You always have to demean me.”

  “How am I demeaning you?”

  “By calling me ridiculous! It’s condescending and patronizing. I won’t stand for it.”

  Paige and I looked at one another, and my sister raised her eyebrows. A sickly mass formed in my stomach. Just like that, I was a little kid again, hiding in my bed, the coverlet over my head, smothering me with safety, while my parents raged at one another a floor below.

  “Let’s just go,” I whispered, pulling on Paige’s sleeve.

  “No way. If they’re going to pull this shit, they’re going to face the consequences. Come on, I think they’re in the kitchen,” Paige said, striding off in that direction.

  I hesitated for a minute and then skittered after her. When I got to the kitchen, Mom and Dad were standing on opposite sides of the butcher block island. My mother had her hands on her hips and her eyes were narrowed, and Dad’s arms were crossed in front of him.

  “What’s going on?” Paige demanded.

  “It’s none of your business,” Mom told her. “Hi, Mickey honey, how are you?”

  “Fine,” I said, my voice faltering.

  “Of course it’s my business. This is exactly what we’ve all been worried would start happening when you got back together,” Paige said.

  Mom lifted her hands up in front of her, palms facing outward. “Paige, don’t start with me,” she said wearily.

  “No, Blair, let’s just tell them what’s going on. I think they should know,” Dad said.

  “Fine. You tell them,” Mom said. She turned around and poured herself a cup of coffee and then sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Your mother told me today that she wants to call the wedding off,” Dad said.

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and rubbed my arms, thinking, I knew they’d screw it up, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.

  “So we’re thinking about going to Vegas for the weekend and eloping instead,” Dad continued.

  Paige and I turned to my mother.

  “Vegas?” I said.

  “And what, have Elvis marry you?” Paige asked dryly.

  “Are you guys serious?” I asked.

  My mother shrugged and sipped some coffee. “I’d love to get married out in the backyard, with our lovely daughters and Nana and Ben and all of our friends there. But not if you three are going to sulk and act like we’re torturing you.”

  “What’s going on?” Sophie asked, walking in the kitchen, Ben in her arms. She was wearing a denim skirt and black T-shirt and had pushed her hair back with a pair of sunglasses. Ben reached up and grabbed the sunglasses and tried to stuff them in his mouth. “No, baby, those are too expensive for you to use as a chew toy. Did you all know that mixing graham crackers with baby spit produces a material that could be used to patch airplanes? Why does everyone look so grim? Mick, did you finally tell them about med school?”

  I froze, staring at her in shock. The realization of what she’d done registered on her face.

  “Oh . . . oh. Um. Sorry, Mick,” Sophie said, looking stricken.

  “Tell us what about medical school?” Mom asked.

  “Don’t tell me, you forgot to send the financial aid forms in. You know that if you don’t get them in on time, you can kiss a scholarship good-bye. And then you’ll have to take on student loans, and forget about it, you’ll be paying those back for thirty years,” Dad said.

  “Stephen, shhh, Mickey’s trying to tell us something,” Mom said.

  And then they both turned and looked at me, waiting. They didn’t look at all apprehensive. After all, it was me, Mickey, the daughter who—the shoplifting incident aside—never gets in trouble. When Paige was a teenager, she’d broken curfew a few times, returning home with the fruity scent of wine coolers on her breath. And on Mom’s regular sweeps of Sophie’s room, she’d uncovered everything from a half-empty pack of cigarettes to birth control pills. Not me. I didn’t have any practice in disappointing them.

  Nothing like starting big, I thought.

  “I’ve decided that I’m . . . not going to medical school,” I mumbled. I sat down at the kitchen table, to the left of my mother. There was a pen mark on the top of the table, from when I was in high school and making signs for my student government campaign and the purple marker I was using bled through onto the table. I stared hard at it.

  “What did she say?” Dad asked Paige.

  “Mickey, speak up,” Mom said.

  “I said . . . I’m not going to medical school,” I said louder.

  “What? But . . . why?” Mom asked.

  “What do you mean you’re not going? Of course you’re going,” Dad said.

  “She doesn’t have to go if she doesn’t want to,” Paige interjected.

  “Yes she does,” Dad said.

  “Says who? She can make her own decisions,” Sophie insisted.

  “No she can’t,” Dad said. He folded his arms in front of him.

  “Stephen! Mickey, we’re just a little confused. I thought you wanted to go to medical school. I thought it was your dream,” Mom said.

  “No. It wasn’t my dream. I thought it was something I’d like to do, but . . . I don’t know. I liked the idea of becoming a doctor more than the reality of it. I don’t like blood,” I said.

  “So be a dermatologist,” Dad said. “They don’t have to deal with blood.”

  “Stephen,” my mother said again.

  “What? It’s the best job in the world. All you have to do is prescribe zit cream to teenagers and you have a license to print money. Tell her, Paige,” Dad said.

  “Don’t look at me. I don’t think she should go if she doesn’t want to,” Paige said.

  “Dad does have a point. If Mickey was a dermatologist, she’d be able to give us free Botox treatments,” Sophie said.

  “That’s true,” Paige said thoughtfully.

  I stared at my treacherous sisters. I couldn’t believe they were willing to sell me out just to have some toxins injected into their foreheads.

  “Paige! I thought you didn’t believe in that. I thought you said you were going to age gracefully,” I said.

  “That’s easy to say when you’re twenty-two. Wait until you get to be my age, you’ll have a different perspective on such things,” Paige said darkly. She pulled a chair out from the table, and the legs screeched against the floor as she sat down.

  “We’re getting off point,” Mom said.

  Ben started to hoot with displeasure.

  “I think he needs a change,” Sophie said, sniffing around his bottom and wrinkling her nose.

  “I’ll do it,” I volunteered, standing eagerly.

  “Nice try,” Sophie said. She tucked Ben under her arm and carried him out of the room like a football. I sat back down and watched her go, envious. Maybe I should get pregnant, too. A baby seemed the perfect excuse to get out of unpleasant family gatherings.

  “What would you do if you don’t go to medical school?” Mom asked.

  “Blair, don’t start. She’s going to medical school,” Dad said.

  “No, Daddy, I’m not. And you can
’t make me,” I said, crossing my arms in front of me. “I’m . . . I’m going to culinary school.”

  “Culinary school?” Mom repeated. She pushed back a lock of hair that fell in her face.

  “But you can’t cook,” Dad said. “Remember that cake she made when she was little, and she mixed up the baking soda and baking powder? It tasted like a shoe.”

  “This is so typical. You’re still treating me like I’m a child,” I said.

  “Where is this cooking school you want to go to?” Mom asked.

  “Well . . . I was thinking of applying to the Culinary Institute of America. But then the chef at Versa suggested that I take a year off and apprentice somewhere, and then if I’m still serious about it, I should consider going to school in Paris,” I said slowly.

  “Paris? As in Paris, France? And just who’s going to pay for that? Do you have any idea what the exchange rate is over there now? Forget about it!” Dad exploded. His face got very red, and droplets of sweat beaded up on his forehead.

  “Stephen, that’s enough. You’re not helping,” Mom said. She took a deep breath. “So, that’s your plan? You’re going to apprentice at Versa for a year and then apply to cooking schools?”

  “No. Not exactly. I’m not going to be working at Versa. In fact, I’m handing in my notice tonight. But Kevin told me he’d help me find a position in another restaurant,” I said.

  “You’re quitting? Why?” Dad asked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “But Mickey, sweetie, if you can’t hold down a simple waitressing job, what makes you think you’ll do any better working in a kitchen? And would you really rather take on a backbreaking, menial-labor job than go on to medical school? I know it’ll be a challenge, but you’ve always been a wonderful student,” Dad said, switching tactics. Now he spoke to me in a soft, reasonable tone, painting a picture of what my life would be like in the restaurant trade—long nights of hard work, minimum wage, no guarantee that I’d ever climb beyond the position of fry cook—compared to the rarified environment of medical school. I knew he was just trying to manipulate me, but damn it if it didn’t work. All of a sudden, my mouth tasted sour with fear. Was I making a huge mistake?

  “I can hold down a job, Dad. I’m quitting because I’m involved with my boss, and I just found out he was married,” I said, and then clapped my hand over my mouth. Where in the hell had that come from? I looked around, and saw that now Dad was staring down at the table, clearly embarrassed, Mom’s forehead was creased, and Paige looked distant, absentmindedly stroking her rounded stomach.

  Sophie walked back into the room, Ben in her arms.

  “What did I miss?” she asked.

  “Your sister was just telling us that she’s . . . well . . . changing jobs,” Mom said slowly.

  “Okay. Look. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t know if I’m meant to be a chef. But right now, at this very moment, that’s what I want to do. So I’m not going to rush into anything, I’m not going to make any life-altering decisions. I’m just going to take a year and try it out. If I like it, I’ll continue on and go to school. And if I don’t, I’ll figure something out then,” I announced.

  “I think that sounds very sensible,” Mom said.

  “You do?” Dad asked.

  “You do?” I chimed in at the same time.

  “Yes, I do. Mickey’s right, she’s young, she should take some time to figure out what she wants in life,” Mom said.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said. I turned to look at Dad, who was still staring at Mom, his mouth slightly open.

  “I guess your mother’s right,” Dad said finally. “Take a year. See how it goes. Did you by any chance happen to defer your admission to medical school? So you could get in again if you changed your mind?”

  “Not exactly. But if I do change my mind—and I’ll tell you right now, I don’t think I will—but if I do, I’ll just reapply,” I said, and he looked somewhat mollified at that.

  No one said anything for a few minutes. Other than the loud tick-tick-tick of the kitchen clock and Mom’s occasional slurps of coffee and Ben’s coos, the room was oddly quiet. I looked around. It hadn’t changed much since I was a kid. There were the same cream painted cupboards, the tiled countertops, the wide-planked oak floors, even the same white refrigerator that had once been the place where our report cards and pictures were posted. Now it was mostly empty, except for some snapshots and Ben’s birth announcement.

  “So . . . um. You guys really aren’t going to have a wedding?” I finally asked.

  “What? What did I miss?” Sophie asked.

  “Mom and Dad are going to get married at one of those Vegas drive-through chapels,” Paige said.

  “Tell me you’re kidding,” Sophie said.

  My parents exchanged a look.

  “I think that depends on you girls,” Mom said slowly.

  It was our turn, my sisters and I, to exchange looks. Paige was contemplative, Sophie serene, and I knew that we were all in agreement.

  “I think you should have your wedding here,” I said.

  “Definitely,” Paige said.

  “You can’t do it without us,” Sophie said.

  “But . . . will you girls still be my bridesmaids?” Mom asked.

  “On one condition,” Paige said. “We need to find nice dresses. Because so help me God, I will not stand up in front of everyone we know, fat, pregnant, and wearing shrimp pink satin.”

  Mom laughed. “Okay, no shrimp pink satin.”

  “Good, that’s settled. Now, what’s for lunch? I’m starving,” Paige asked, and she went to the refrigerator and began to rummage inside.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I timed my arrival at Versa for four o’clock so that I’d be able to get in to see Oliver before the rest of the waitstaff arrived. But some of the cooks were already there, chopping vegetables into neat piles, oiling the grill, and scraping their knives against a sharpener, a sound that gave me the shivers.

  Ansel shot me a knowing look as I was lifting my hand to knock on the door.

  “What?” I asked irritably.

  “Nothing. Just stopping by to see the boss man?” Ansel asked. He grinned and stroked the sparse hair of his stupid goatee. In fact, Ansel had entirely too much facial hair, from the overgrown sideburns to the silly little mockery of a beard. His hair was so long, he wore it back in a ponytail when he worked.

  “Is he in there?” I asked.

  Ansel nodded. “Yeah, he said not to bother him. He’s going over the supplier’s accounts.”

  I shrugged this off and rapped my knuckles against the door.

  “Go away,” I heard Oliver yell. I opened the door and walked in.

  “Didn’t you hear me, I said . . . oh. Mickey,” Oliver said. He put down his pen and looked at me. I could tell he was trying to gauge my mood. Was I going to yell at him? Cry? Offer up a blow job? “Come on in, close the door behind you.”

  I pushed the door closed and then stood behind the visitor’s chair, my hands resting on the back. I wasn’t afraid—hell, I wasn’t even that angry anymore. The initial rage I’d felt had burned out quickly, leaving me with the sour aftertaste that comes when you realize that not only have you been taken advantage of, you left yourself open to it.

  “Go ahead, sit down,” Oliver now said, his face opening into a smile, obviously deciding that charm was the way to go. I couldn’t really blame him—it was a technique that had worked beautifully on me in the past.

  “No, I’m fine standing,” I said. The chair felt like a shield, plus it gave me a place to rest my hands, so that I wouldn’t undermine what I was about to say by crossing and uncrossing my arms or playing with my hair. “And I’m not going to stay long. I just came by to tell you that I’m quitting. Effective immediately.”

  The smile vanished. “You’re on shift tonight.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, you can’t just quit on me, it’s unprofessional,” Oliver said. N
ow a frown tugged his mouth down, and his eyes shone with disapproval. Manipulating bastard that he was, I knew it was just another ploy, only now he was playing on my sense of propriety.

  “Yes. But not nearly as unprofessional as sleeping with two of your waitresses,” I said, holding up two fingers for emphasis.

  “What? Is that why you’re upset? You know I’m not seeing anyone but you,” Oliver said. He stood up and came around the desk and reached out for me. I flinched.

  “Don’t touch me,” I warned him.

  He put up his hands, palms outward, and then leaned back against the desk. The chair was still between us. If I had to, I could knock him in the shins with it, an image I took comfort in.

  “Talk to me,” he said, the charming smile back.

  “Why are you pretending that nothing’s wrong? Your wife was here last night.”

  “So?”

  “Jesus, Oliver, I waited on her. It was mortifying, I kept feeling like I owed her an apology,” I said.

  “I told you—we’re separated,” Oliver said. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and neither did I.”

  “Are you separated legally, or just by distance? Because when you left together, the two of you looked pretty cozy,” I said.

  Oliver shrugged and folded his arms together. “It’s complicated. We’ve been married for eight years, we have a daughter together.”

  “Uh-huh. And how does Sarah factor into all of this?” I asked. I could see that my words surprised him.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Oliver said. “What does Sarah have to do with anything?”

  “You’re fucking her,” I said.

  “She told you that?”

  “No. She didn’t have to.”

  “She just likes to flirt with me, that’s all, that’s the kind of girl she is.” Oliver smiled and held out his hand to me. When I didn’t take it, he stepped forward, and leaning one knee against the chair, he slid his hands around my waist. Suddenly he was kissing my neck.

  I couldn’t believe it, but my body was actually responding to him. How was it possible? I knew that he was a bastard, and even so my breath caught as his hands slid up under my T-shirt, stroking higher until he got to the lacy edge of my bra. It was one of the many lingerie sets I’d thrown money away on just to impress him, to turn him on. Remembering this was like being hosed with icy cold water.