The Perils of Pauline

by Collette Yvonne

  There should be a ninth symbol, special for me and my type of situation: the suffering waffle, representing the eternal sticky entrapment of pure wishy-washyness.

  As I drive home, the singing bowl tucked back in its dragon box on the seat beside me, a wave of fatigue washes over me. I have to make and serve dinner, slam-decorate the tree, tuck the kids in bed and read them an abridged version of The Night Before Christmas. I’ll be up well past midnight wrapping presents. I don’t even have a dinner plan. Usually I make homemade pesto pasta and Caesar salad on Christmas Eve: everyone loves this long-standing family tradition but I’m not sure if I have any basil cubes or pine nuts in the freezer. Donald always took care of the salad. Will the kids notice if I skip the ritual this year and heat up a frozen pizza? I’m such a joke. Tenacity. Mental toughness. Shoulder your arms, soldier. I pull the car over and sit with my forehead on the steering wheel for a few minutes. Then I walk around the car taking big gulps of air and dab at my temples with a mittenful of snow.

  Stepping through the kitchen door, my nose fills with the scents of ginger, pine boughs, warm butter, and garlic. My mother and Shae are standing in front of the counter rolling out cookie dough. Am I hallucinating? Shae is wearing an apron, one of Mom’s aprons, the one with the kittens.

  I peek over her shoulder. “What kind are you making?”

  “Gingerbread. My Mom always made gingerbread people and horses and stars and things on Christmas Eve and we hung them on the tree.”

  I give her a little hug. Shae’s Mom died when Shae was only 14 years old.

  “I like the apron. It suits you.”

  Shae grins at me. “Shut up. Go look in the living room.”

  Mom and Shae follow me in and everyone jumps up and yells, “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

  Now I know why everyone deserted me in the store this afternoon. They’ve been busy. The Christmas tree is all set up and decorated.

  Serenity crouches down beside the tree to rearrange a teetering pile of wrapped gifts. I see one bearing a tag that says “To Mom,” from Jack and Olympia. As I bend over to pick it up, Serenity sets her hand on my arm. “Better not shake that one.”

  “This box better not come with breathing holes.” I glance over at Jack who is giggling.

  “No, it’s breakable that’s all.”

  Looking up I see our Christmas star from home, the one Dad always hung, presiding over all. Mom must have brought it with her. As always, it’s tilting precariously, but it’s perfect. I stuff the lump in my throat back down.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it. Thanks, guys.”

  I’m still wearing my boots and coat, and the gift box per Merriam Webster from Michael is still tucked under one arm. I bend down to slip the red and gold box under the branches. My temples start pounding again so I rub them hard. My mother looks at the box and then at me, opens her mouth to say something, and then closes it again. “We made pesto pasta for dinner. Come and eat.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Reconnaissance

  Reconnaissance: A mission undertaken to obtain, by visual observation or other detection methods, information about the activities and resources of an enemy or adversary, or to secure data concerning the meteorological, hydrographic, or geographic characteristics of a particular area.

  —Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  I can’t believe how much work it is to go out of town for a few days. For one thing, I have to prepare the house for Mom. Meaning I have to hide the evidence of a things Michael. I don’t know why I’m taking a risk keeping a secret cache of damning photos, notes, and lovers’ mementos, but I can’t bring myself to burn the goods. The explosive collection is, of course, carefully squirreled away in a box in the darkest corner of my bedroom closet with a pile of purses and shoe boxes heaped on top. No one will ever notice it here. No one except Mom that is.

  I heave the box out of the closet and, against my better judgment, lift the lid. On top is a batch of photos taken at the cottage that Michael printed. I flip through the shots and cringe at the one where I’m leaping and dancing through long grass, arms raised, pretending to be a sylph: one boob is swinging straight up, nipple pointing at the sky while the other is zooming off in the opposite direction toward my armpit.

  I love Michael’s pencil drawings the best. There’s a smiling naked couple that looks remarkably like us walking together, hand in hand, down a sidewalk; the woman is looking back over her shoulder and smiling. In another drawing, another naked couple who looks like us is lying together under an apple tree and, in a third favorite, is a series of frames depicting the man embracing the woman: each successive frame shows him sprouting wings on his back.

  There’s a thick file folder containing printouts of six months’ worth of our emails: Michael loved to write to me at length about books and music and movies. There are the poems on sheets of birch bark that he wrote during our weekend at the cottage and a collection of handwritten quotes and notes on exquisite cards. I pick one up. It says, “I want too much when I’m with you. Longingly, achingly, M.”

  What a mess I’ve made of things. I feel like running to Michael right now and wrapping my arms around him. But I know I can’t do that. Michael was firm: I have to be sure. That’s a no-holds-barred, all-or-nothing step that I can’t take yet. Or ever.

  Because deep down, I’m suspecting a box of heat-of-the-night love letters isn’t going to be enough. Morning always comes with dull grey laundry, and the box will grow dusty in the back of a closet as we tear each other apart in the glare of the day.

  Meanwhile, what if someone finds this box? I should burn the whole works but I can’t bring myself to do it, yet. I have to leave my car at the Shuttle Park. The box can go in the trunk. First-rate security all for $5 a day.

  Checking my watch, I realize I’ve wasted an hour mooning over my Michael stuff. I have to leave for the airport in an hour. That’s loads of time. Anyone who has ever been in uniform is capable of bugging out from anywhere to anywhere in less than 5 minutes.

  Oh crap. Unless their mother shows up early to “help” that is. Downstairs I hear Jack yelling, “Mom! Grandma’s here.”

  Dammit. She wasn’t due for another half an hour. Now I have to somehow try to sneak the box past her to stash it in the trunk. Tucking the box under the bed, I hurry downstairs to greet her.

  I show her the sitter notes: phone numbers, health cards, where to find stuff, the usual. I hand her two bottles. “Here’s Jack’s and Olympia’s chewable vitamins. The prenatal ones are for Serenity of course. Make sure they brush their teeth before bed. That’s about it.”

  Then I show her George’s paw kit: “There’s his paw wax which needs to be rubbed on the pads every morning and here’s a bottle of liquid glucosamine—he gets two capfuls twice a day. And his vitamins and nail file. There’s plenty of dog food—it’s stored here in the cupboard, and he can have some of these anti-inflammatory dog treats that Dr. Loewen is trying him on, they have all the omega fatty acids in them. His booties and leash are over here in the basket beside by the door; get Olympia to show you the way to tie them on so George can’t get them off. Never leave the booties on once he comes in or he’ll chew them off. Those stupid boots cost more than my leather coat. Oh, and don’t forget to rinse his feet off if he does manage to sneak out. There’s a dip bucket and towels under the sink. Mom, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, dear, I’ll give the children their vitamins. Are you sure George doesn’t still have the Red Mange? Look, he’s scratching.”

  “He never had the Red Mange. The vet thinks he has an allergy so be sure to give him his antihistamines.” I point to them in the cabinet above the sink. “He likes it if you wrap the pill in cheese or bacon.”

  Mom presses her lips together in a way that means George will be lucky if he gets a fresh kick up his itchy ass once in a while.

  Then I run back upstairs to pack. I upend the contents of the Michael box i
nto a second, smaller suitcase and zip it closed. I’m a genius of course. Now I can waltz right past my mother carrying all the evidence for safe deposit in the trunk of my car.

  Minutes after I plop the trunk lid down with a self-satisfied smirk, my plan springs a leak. Mom wants to use my car while I’m away. Her brakes need servicing. She’ll drop me at the shuttle.

  Looks like I’m taking the evidence to Calgary with me.

  At the airport check-in, the ticket agent apologizes: I’m being bumped. No explanation why, but the next flight doesn’t push off for hours, and then I’ll have to wait for several hours more in Chicago for my connecting flight, which means I won’t arrive in Calgary until well after midnight. I don’t want to greet the New Year in a skin-drying pressurized cabin while trying to steady my drink across the potholes of the polar jet stream.

  I have to get on that plane. I get an idea thanks to Bibienne who knows a million ways to wiggle her way into business class. I will have to tell a little white lie but the slate wipes clean at midnight, right? All’s fair in love, war, and holiday travel.

  I limp over to the ticket agent and in a whispery voice I say, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to try to get me back on this flight. I have serious medical conditions. My cardiologist says it’s okay to travel but I shouldn’t get too tired.” I rest my hand over my heart and moan softly to emphasize the situation. “A long delay could be too hard on me.”

  The ticket agent stares at me for a moment and sighs, “Alright then, please go sit down and I’ll see what I can do.”

  I walk, slowly, slowly, back to my seat, favoring both legs because I can’t remember which leg I used to limp over to the desk in the first place. From the corner of my eye I can see the agent talking to her supervisor and then they both look over at me. I try to make my face look as pinched and wan as possible.

  A few minutes later the agent comes over pushing a wheelchair. “Good news. I’ve got you back on.” She pats my shoulder. “We’ll help board you. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Best little white lie ever. The ticket agent arranged for an aide to help me with my carry-on and I got boarded first. In business class! If this plane goes down before I get a chance to atone for this duplicity, I’m going straight to the blackest greasiest oil pans of hell.

  Trouble is the attendant who wheeled me aboard is the one now offering me a free beverage from the drinks cart. Can people with heart conditions drink alcohol? I better not push my luck. I’m forced to choose an orange juice without the vodka.

  Calgary International is madness but de-boarding is a snap. The attendant wheels me straight over to the carousel and we watch for my suitcases. I tell the attendant that it’s always a cinch to spot my bags as they are cherry red and wasn’t I clever to choose a color that is easy to spot?

  Where’s my luggage? The carousel turns and turns but no cherry red bags appear. All the plain luggage is soon plucked off the carousel leaving an empty turning track. How quickly the karma wheel diverts my progress and spins me into the alleyways.

  The baggage claims agent leans way over the counter and explains, in a loud measured voice—as if she thinks maybe the wheelchair means I’m slow in the head—that my bags are still in Boston. Or maybe they went to Atlanta? She assures me they will be located and couriered to me, by the latest, tomorrow night. She wants an estimate of the value of the contents of the bags. Clothes and sundries: $900. Bag of incriminating lover’s notes: priceless.

  The agent also needs an address and phone number. I give her Donald’s info and ask the attendant to take me to the cab stop. Finally I’m settled in the back seat of a cab. I haven’t had a chance to call Donald yet. He’s sure going to be surprised to see me. I smile to myself as I dig in my purse for my phone. When I talked to him yesterday he had no plan for New Year’s; he was going to order in some grub, watch TV and turn in early. Poor guy. He said all those last minute meetings nearly killed him. I was planning to wait and call him from the lobby of his apartment building but now I think I should give him a little more warning. He might want to pick up the place before I step through the door. But maybe not too much warning in case Lindsay is there with him. Not, of course, that I ever had any thought of trying to smoke Donald out of hiding with my little surprise visit. That would be wrong and pathetic.

  As I dial his number, my heart is tripping around in my chest. How strange. I’m feeling nervous about seeing my husband. I use my free hand to grope in my bag for my lip gloss and comb.

  Donald answers, sounding upbeat. He sounds so close which, of course, he is.

  “Hi Donald, guess what? I have a surprise for you! I’m here.”

  “Here? You’re in Banff?”

  “Banff? No, I’m in Calgary.”

  “You’re in Calgary?” Donald sounds distressed.

  “Yes, I’m in a cab, this minute, on my way to your apartment!”

  “Oh no.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m in Banff.”

  I am certainly not going to drive all the way to Banff in a junker. I make my way to the car lot and locate my ride. It’s licorice black and pretty, pretty. Just looking at this sweet set of wheels makes me feel like the woman in me just had her hair backcombed, her eyelashes curled and her skirt hiked up from behind by the hired hand. Her panties are pink and frilly and wet.

  The woman in me is planning to put that man of hers in a world of hurt when she gets to Banff. Donald explained that the Banff thing was a last minute change of plans. “Everyone” decided to take off for a couple days of recreation in the mountains. “Someone” has a condo that sleeps eight. “No reason you can’t join us,” said Donald. “If you set out now, you can make it here well before midnight.”

  I drive out of Calgary straight into a blizzard. By the time I reach Canmore I have whiteout blisters on my fingers and sore shoulders from stuffing them into my ears. I follow a couple of Freightliners into a truck stop for a coffee break. The waitress at the counter says with these conditions there’s no way I’ll make it all the way to Banff before midnight; the highway will soon be closed.

  I’ve never welcomed in a new year in a truck stop before. With the sun rising in my rearview mirror, I drive into the mountains. Truck stop coffee plus the solid rock rise ahead throws a sober shudder into my New Year’s morning. One little rockslide and I’ll be screaming down into one of the chasms that decorate the shoulder of the twisting road, only a hollow heartbeat away from my hubcaps.

  I locate the right mountain and the right condo and Donald greets me with a chummy hug at the door. He introduces me to Todd from the office and Todd’s girlfriend Tina. They’re sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and chatting with Lindsay. Donald is dressed but Todd is still in a robe over his boxers and Lindsay and Tina are both barefoot and clad in skimpy silky pajama bottoms and tiny spaghetti strapped tops. Maybe it’s too much truck stop coffee but it feels like I’m crashing a cozy foursome.

  Donald points his arm at the mountains in the window. “You missed Rob and Scott; they went off to kill themselves on the double black diamonds.”

  “Who are Rob and Scott?”

  “The IT guys. I told you about them before didn’t I?”

  Right. Rob and Scott. Donald talks about those guys all the time, usually in an envious tone; they’re two of the most single and whacked guys on the planet. They spend all their spare time jumping out of airplanes, rappelling down mountainsides and sneaking out of hotel rooms in the middle of the night. I tell them about my lost luggage.

  Lindsay says, “I’d loan you some things but nothing of mine would fit you.”

  I turn to Donald. “I need to take a shower and a nap.”

  A few hours later I wake up and check my watch. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Pulling on my jeans and blouse, I go out to find Donald sitting on the couch in the living room, tablet on his lap. The condo is deserted. Donald rises immediately, “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.
” I sit in an armchair. “This feels so awkward. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “No, I’m glad you came. Surprised. But glad.”

  “Really? I don’t know, Donald, but this whole setup feels a bit too much like a private pajama party.”

  Donald stiffens for a moment and then throws up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He says, in a soft voice, “It’s not what you think it is. Honest. I have my own room, all by myself.”

  “I think I had better go home. Today.”

  “No, please, I want you to stay.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Donald sounds so earnest that I have to believe him. “I came because I wanted to have some time together without the kids and everything. So we can talk.”

  “I want that too.”

  I don’t know what to say next, where to start. Donald looks uncomfortable.

  “Let’s not do it now. I’m still tired. And I have no clothes. Not even a toothbrush. Can we go shopping?”

  At dinner in a pub, over a giant platter of suicide wings and deep fried pickles, Rob asks me if I know how to ski.

  I did, once upon a time. But I’ve had two pints, and Lindsay is listening so I toss my head and say I go skiing all time. Every day. All year round.

  “Have you tried blading?”

  “Sure. Blading is great.” I haven’t got the foggiest what blading is.

  Lindsay pipes up: “Awesome. Tomorrow we should go on a few runs together.”

  “Love to.”

  Alrighty then. Blading lessons. First thing in the morning.

  Might as well coat me in batter and dip me in boiling oil because now I am in a deep fried pickle.