by Ashley Drew
But it went just a bit differently.
I handled myself throughout the first half of dinner, managing a please when I asked for the pepper and a thank you when Jamie offered me another glass of wine, and granted, I was brief and didn’t delve into details, I told them about seeing Nick and meeting his fiancée. Their inquisitive eyes told me they wanted more than, “It was nice seeing Nick after all of these years. Riley seems really nice,” but they didn’t press me for answers, which I appreciated.
At one point, I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe, Mom was right all along, that a reconciliation could be easy if I simply stopped fighting it.
But you know how people say there is a calm before every storm?
Enter storm.
“Well, I’m glad you and Nicholas were able to catch up after all this time,” Henry said, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee as I sopped up the last bit of my blackberry pie.
With blackberry season at its August peak, the bushes behind the house were ripe and thriving, practically begging to be picked and turned into delicious pieces of crusted heaven.
I quietly cursed Anabel. Her plot to soothe me with delicious food continued. I will indeed leave here at least twenty pounds heavier.
“Is Riley that nice, young woman that works at that women’s shelter in San Francisco? The one we met when we had dinner at Kelley’s that one night?” Jamie asked Henry, and my fork immediately fell from my grip, clanging as it hit the plate.
My eyes darted to Jamie, and I wanted nothing more than to take that word nice and throw it back at him. “You met her?”
Henry quickly shot Jamie a knowing look, scolding him like a disobedient child before returning his eyes to mine. Something told me Jamie wasn’t supposed to divulge that information, and he looked apologetic as his eyes widened with regret.
“It was a couple of months ago,” Henry started, his nerves evident in the way he fidgeted with the spoon, stirring his coffee and then resting it on the tablecloth, only to have picked it up again, sticking it back in his cup. “Jamie and I decided to stop in for dinner, and she was there. Nicholas introduced us.”
“So, you knew about their engagement.” It was more of an accusation than a question.
He hesitated as I caught a nervous swallow move slowly down his throat. I knew the last thing my father wanted was to piss me off. Hell, I wouldn’t want to piss me off. The solution? Don’t say anything to piss me off. “Yes. We did,” Henry said as I noticed Jamie subtly mouth an I’m sorry.
Abruptly, I reached across the table and jerked the blackberry pie toward me, taking the knife and slashing the crust across in two swift movements. Digging the pie server under the part that I cut, I flung the piece onto my plate as purple juices splattered across the white-linen tablecloth. I stabbed my fork into it and brought the piece quickly to my mouth.
With my mouth full (yeah, I know), I asked him, “And it never even crossed your mind to tell me about it?”
“Would it have mattered, Corinne?”
I stopped chewing and stared at Henry. My eyelids blinked as if they were fluttering at a mile per minute, to the point of feeling heavy and achy and stars started to appear behind them.
Why was I getting bent out of shape over this? Regardless if I had known or not, it really wouldn’t have mattered. I still would have been engaged to Cooper. Nick still would have been engaged to Riley. Case closed. Right?
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Henry apologized before continuing, “but Evelyn agreed it’d be best if Nicholas had told you on his own.”
I’d dropped my fork on my plate upon Henry mentioning Mom and her participation in Operation Don’t-Tell-Corinne. And she wondered why I hadn’t returned any of her calls.
I bursted out in an uproar of laughter, though nothing about this was remotely funny. “Wow! Mom knew, too. So what? The three of you are like The Three Amigos now? Confiding in each other and shit? What a joke.”
My laughter subsided, and we all grew quiet. My eyes stayed locked on the half-eaten pie in the center of the table.
“You know,” Jamie cut through the silence, “Nicholas seemed really happy when your dad told him about your engagement.”
Nick knew? I glanced at Jamie, my irritation quickly melting into a puddle of woe. “He did?” I asked, like I was disappointed that Nick would have that reaction to my engagement. For some reason, I’d hoped that his happiness for me hadn’t been genuine at all.
“Do you still have feelings for him?”
My irritation returned, and anger seethed in my eyes as they zeroed in on Henry. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Henry, let’s not have this conversation right now,” Jamie urged, and it was the only smart thing he’d said since I had met him.
“You’re overreacting, Corinne,” Henry ignored him, returning my glare. And it was the first time in a long while that I’d seen any sort of contempt in his eyes. “I already apologized for not telling you, but I can only assume your reaction is a result of your unresolved feelings for Nicholas.”
“I’m fucking engaged!” I yelled at him, my breathing rapid and heavy, and in a heated rage, I picked up the blackberry pie and chucked it across the table, and the three of us watched as it collided with the white wall—a mix of black, blue, and purple splattering wildly in every direction like a Jackson Pollock.
Okay, so I fluffed that last part for a more dramatic effect. I didn’t really throw the pie even though every pissed off nerve in my body contemplated it. It sure as hell made for a better ending than the uninteresting scene that actually played out: me walking out on them in a fit of anger.
And now here I am, tossing number twenty-two...twenty-three...twenty-four...
Suddenly, my cell phone rings to the Wicked Witch jingle from The Wizard of Oz, signaling an incoming call from my mother. I catch toss number thirty into my glove and set it on the bed next to me, making a mental note of my record for later on when I retreat back to my pity party.
“Well, if it isn’t the Wicked Witch of the East,” I say nonchalantly as I pick up.
“Oh, would you look at that? It’s so nice to hear an actual voice pick up instead of a recording telling me I can’t leave a message because the voicemail box is full,” Mom teases. “So where did you find it?”
“I’m sorry, but my voicemail box is full because someone decided to blow it up with a million messages. Most people can usually take a hint when they call a person several times and don’t get an answer, but I guess you’re not most people. And where did I find what?”
I open the guest house door and make my way toward the house to stuff my face with more of Anabel’s cookies. Henry and Jamie are at work, so there’s no chance of running into them. Beams of warm light trickle down from the cloudless sky and lightly sweep across my sun-starved skin. I hate how I’ve allowed such a gorgeous day to waste away because I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself.
“Where did you find your phone? You lost or misplaced it, and you just found it, right? Because my sweet daughter would never ignore her mother’s calls,” she challenges me as I let myself into the side entrance of the main house. “And I see that your ringtone for me hasn’t changed. I told you, how about that Get Your Freak On song by, what’s her name, Missy Etheridge? I like that one. Make that my ringtone.” She starts to sing the tune, unable to finish the lyrics.
Though she is hanging by a thread on my very last nerve, I can’t help but break a smile at her attempt. “Elliott, Mom. Missy Elliott,” I correct her, hiding my smile behind the agitation in my voice.
“Yes, that’s her. That’s the song. That tune is catchy, wouldn’t you say?”
“I agree that it’s catchy, Mom, but I highly doubt you phoned me to chat about mainstream rap chicks.” I walk through the kitchen and grab a cookie sitting on a plate on the counter, making it number nine for the day. Nine damn cookies that feel like nine extra pounds hanging off my gut. “So let’s just cut to the chas
e because I’m not really in the mood for small talk right now.”
She bellows a laugh. “Gosh, I guess there isn’t anyone else to blame but myself for that sassiness of yours. One thing I know for certain, I took the right baby home from the hospital twenty-four years ago, because you are definitely my daughter.”
I can argue with my mother about many things, but this is one argument she wins. There is no denying who I get my spunky attitude from. Evelyn Bennett never takes no for an answer, and never count on her to back down on an argument. Unless, of course, she is arguing with me. There isn’t anyone else in this world that is more stubborn than I am, and yet, how she was able to forgive my father so easily still perplexes me.
Chomping on my cookie, I walk to the sun room, the prettiest room in the entire house. I love how every ounce of sun pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling over every inch of the room, not leaving anything untouched. The old Steinway still sits at the far corner, and I swear I can hear the ghostly sounds of Chopsticks and Heart and Soul echoing somewhere in my memory. The outdated couch with the hideous floral upholstery remains on the opposite end of the room, beneath the window that overlooks the driveway. It’s the same couch I would prop myself on every day at six o’clock, where I’d wait patiently for my daddy to come home from work while the delicious scents of my mommy’s home cooked dinners followed me and my growing appetite.
I take a seat on that couch, wishing I could rewind life and go back to a time when my world wasn’t so complicated, when laughter and fun were easy to come by, when seeing my dad at the end of the day brought me joy and excitement instead of resentment and heartbreak.
A slight hesitation interrupts the silly banter between my mom and me, shifting the mood of the conversation from playful to serious.
I scold her for the first half of our conversation, asking her how she could keep Nick’s engagement news from me. She didn’t have a good reason other than not wanting to upset me.
“I wouldn’t have gotten upset! Why do you and Henry keep saying that?”
“Honey, listen to yourself. You are upset. Can you honestly tell me you’re not? And he’s still your father. You need to quit this first-name basis crap.”
I ignore her, rolling my eyes.
“And don’t roll your eyes at me,” she adds because she knows me all too well.
“Whatever. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
She obliges, steering our conversation toward my dad and Jamie and bringing up that awful first dinner with them. She, in turn, scolds me for my immature behavior and hostile attitude toward Jamie. Six years ago, I would have never imagined my mother defending the man who wrecked her marriage.
“How do you do it, Mom?” I ask, lifting my feet onto the couch to hug my knees. “How do you forget the past and move forward?”
She heaves a heavy sigh. “Oh sweetie. The past is not something you forget, even if you try.”
“It sure would make life simpler if we could forget all the bad, wouldn’t it?”
“No doubt about it. I’m sure it would, but I’m almost positive it would also make life mundane, don’t you think? Can you imagine only knowing the upside to life? You’d be Miss Susie Sunshine twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for at least seventy years of your life and—”
“Seventy years?” I interrupt her thought. “Why only seventy years? The average life span is about eighty.”
“I know, I know. But let’s get real, honey. By the time a person hits seventy anyway, they might as well be out of commission, if you know what I mean. Your hair turns white, that is, if you still have some. Worrying about your teeth accidentally coming out at a restaurant becomes a reoccurring issue. And let’s be honest, nothing down there works the way it’s supposed to. So for all intents and purposes, life starts going downhill after seventy. Can I continue now?”
I giggle into the phone.
“My point is, I don’t think we can appreciate life and all the good that comes with it unless we experience the downside of it. Think about it this way. When we moved to the east coast and experienced the extreme seasons, didn’t you have a far greater appreciation for the mild and sunny year-round California weather?”
“Man, I hate the sticky, humid New York summers. There is nothing worse than being drenched in your own sweat while waiting for the six train in the awful humidity of the subway at nine in the morning.”
“Exactly. And I’m sure the weather there in Santa Cruz is just perfect, isn’t it? Now, I’m not comparing life to the weather, but you get what I’m trying to say,” she pauses. “Corinne, I’m never going to forget what happened in the past, but I don’t ever want to forget. I’ve said it before, and I will keep on saying it. You can’t live life with regrets. You won’t ever forget the bad, but you can forgive and let go. That is how you move on.”
With advice like that, it makes it all the more difficult to stay upset with her. I grab one of the couch pillows, pulling it into my chest as I find comfort in my mother’s words. Still, I’m just as confused as ever. “Then how do I forgive?”
“Unfortunately, honey, I can’t tell you how to do that. That’s something you have to figure out on your own.”
If I haven’t figured it out by now, I’m afraid I never will.
After I hang up with my mother, I call Cooper, realizing how the craziness of the past few days have somehow kept him out of my mind, and I suddenly feel guilty. When he doesn’t answer again, I grow slightly irritated, but I can only assume his lack of effort in contacting me has everything to do with his workload at the office.
My boredom drives me to the computer on my desk in my former room. The old machine still has life in it, and when my desktop loads and the AOL log-in pops up, I smile. My old screen name automatically appears in the prompt—HotShot68—and I sign on. It wasn’t the screen name I wanted, but since Nick set up my account years ago, it was the one I was stuck with and never got around to changing.
As I aimlessly explore through the browser, I remember how Nick and I would spend hours instant messaging each other, even after being together the entire day, or how we would find the strangest chat rooms to go into just to read the odd conversations people would have. And as if by some telepathic force, it isn’t long before I’m greeted with the sweetest instant message.
KelleyNick1715: Hot shot.
Did I really hate that nickname? Because my flushed cheeks, racing heartbeat, and fat smile smeared across my face beg to differ. If I smile any wider, my cheeks might fall off my face. I reply to his message the only way I know how.
HotShot68: Chicken shit.
KelleyNick1715: :)
Who knew that something as simple as a colon and closed parenthesis could break me out of this funk? Separately, they punctuate the English language: a colon separates a fact from its given description or explanation, while a closed parenthesis ties up a thought aside from the main point (or used to clarify). See what I did there?
But together, they create the best show of emotion that has ever graced my computer screen.
KelleyNick1715: Fancy meeting you here.
KelleyNick1715: What are you up to?
HotShot68: :X
KelleyNick1715: Are we speaking in symbols now? Or not speaking, hence the lips-sealed symbol...
HotShot68: You started it.
HotShot68: :P
KelleyNick1715: Guilty as charged. So why won’t you tell me what you’re doing?
HotShot68: You’ll think I’m a loser.
KelleyNick1715: Try me.
HotShot68: Let’s just say my fat ass is ten pounds heavier. And mindless TV is no joke.
HotShot68: Did you know that paternity tests can be conducted while a woman is still pregnant?
HotShot68: You can thank Maury Povich for that little fact.
KelleyNick1715: Wow. You really are a loser.
KelleyNick1715: JK.
HotShot68: Ass.
HotShot68: :)
KelleyNick1715: What do you say I rescue you from Maury, and you join me for a little adventure?
HotShot68: Adventure? I’m intrigued...
KelleyNick1715: Okay, I’m exaggerating on the adventure part. Just a little one day road trip down to Big Sur tomorrow for a photo gig.
KelleyNick1715: You interested? I could use the company.
Hmm, let’s see. Spend another day feeling sorry for myself locked away in the guest house, or spend a day with Nick on the road?
Like that’s even a question.
HotShot68: You had me at adventure. :)
I blame Pantene Pro-V for the mess I’m in right now.
We’re driving down Highway 1 on this crystal clear blue day, coasting along the Pacific while the wind whips Cori’s hair into a tangled—but certainly gorgeous—mess and drowns every part of me in the scent of vanilla.
Vanilla shampoo. Cori’s shampoo. Her scent was a part of my life for as long as I can remember. She would walk into a room, and even with my eyes closed, I knew it was her. Or whenever she’d sleep over, I knew which pillow belonged to her because her scent stuck to it like glue.
So you could only imagine what it would be like smelling that scent every day of your life, and then one day, it’s just—gone. Not counting the times I would find myself in the shampoo aisle at the grocery store, even when shampoo wasn’t on my shopping list, drowning my pathetic sorrows in that scent.
And then all of a sudden, it’s everywhere: in your bar, on your clothes, in your car. There’s no escaping it, no matter how hard you try. I swear I tried. I tried really damn hard, but I was a fool for thinking I could. So, I did the only thing I could—I stopped trying.