Calm, Cool, and Adjusted

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Calm, Cool, and Adjusted Page 9

by Kristin Billerbeck


  He gives me one last puppy-dog look. “Please think about it.”

  I’m not made of stone. It’s a ridiculous notion I’d never consider, but Simon’s smile forces a nod to indicate I will think about it. Realistically, I’ll think about Simon, and that’s not good. Simon couldn’t commit to playing golf on the same course two days a week, much less a woman. What kind of man makes a woman an offer like her own clinic anyway? I think he’s been watching too much reality television.

  Mary, my other client, is more than done with the massage portion of her treatment. She sits up and pushes away Brian. Her eyes laser at me as she awaits her adjustment. Simon notices too. “She’ll be right with you. This is important.”

  Simon takes me into a corner by my private office. I can smell the light scent of his aftershave. “I’ve known you for a lot of years. You used to have a smile that brightened the entire office, but it’s wearing down. You’re taking on too much of this place. You need to get out more and be with other natural health people to encourage one another.”

  I feel hopeful at his words. The romance of being taken away from all this is every girl’s dream. The reality, my nightmare.

  “Simon, enough of this, all right?” I say it, but I don’t move away and our proximity stirs something within me that I haven’t wanted to admit. So I go straight back to business, the safe topic. “I believe in this mind-body connection, but I’m not a New Ager and nearly everyone in my field is. I am a Christian and I believe the energy of the Holy Spirit is the most cleansing type of energy. Where are you going to find people like that in my line of work? On a little island no less. You may be good, but you’re not a miracle worker.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or you?”

  “I dance to the beat of my own drummer. I don’t want a health spa.”

  “Your own drummer? Then what’s the purple skirt about?” he asks, looking at my trendy, Sharon A-line skirt.

  I feel myself starting to get hot. Why has everyone taken to analyzing me? Fixing me? I’m the one who offers advice. I fix people. This is my gifting. “Simon, I have to go to work.”

  He waves over his shoulder without turning around. “Think about what I said; you won’t get a better offer or an easier shot.”

  I don’t answer him. I just change the paper on the table and motion for Mary to lie down, awestruck at how small she feels after Simon’s muscular frame. I suck in a deep breath and get her in the right position for her adjustment, but my mind wanders into the lush greenery that is the Aloha Spirit.

  The bell rings in the foyer and I look over the swinging doors to see the blonde I saw in the convertible yesterday in the parking lot. “I’ve got to run,” I hear Simon say to her. He kisses the blonde on the lips as he walks outside. I flinch at the image. Naturally, with his money, he’d be toting a trophy woman to his events. An elegant lady like Morgan who could hold her own at all his business events. (Well, like Morgan except for the screaming into the cell phone part and the public discussion of divorce. Morgan would never resort to such commonness.) I try to focus on Mary’s back and swallow the lump in my throat.

  “Simon really does want a personal chiropractor,” I whisper aloud. The revelation is like a cold shower on a brisk day. And that’s all he wants.

  She’s not good enough for him, and she’s not even divorced yet. Why are men such idiots? How can they start huge companies and yet succumb to something so common as a blonde in a convertible? I wonder if Simon neglected to tell me she was coming to Hawaii as well. She’ll probably get one of those quickie foreign divorces with a man like Simon on the line. A girl like that doesn’t catch and release.

  “You know, there’s nothing wrong with telling the man how you feel. The worst he can say is that he’s not interested. He’s leaving, so what does it matter?” Mary stands up and slings her large handbag over her shoulder. I start to comment on how bad that is for her back, but I quickly clamp my mouth shut.

  I shake my head. “It’s not like that.”

  She pats my shoulder. “Whatever you say, Poppy. See you next week.”

  I follow Mary into the foyer and watch her leave. “Poppy? You all right?” Emma asks while munching on a wheat-free bread stick. “What’d you do to Mary? She didn’t even pay.”

  “Huh? Oh yeah, I’m fine. I probably made Mary run late. She’ll pay next week.” I point back at the tables. “Send in the next patient.”

  When I get back into the examination room, Brian is just finishing up with another patient’s warm-up massage. “I’m here,” my patient, Claire, says. “You’re running late; that’s not like you. I’m feeling neglected.”

  Claire drips with diamonds and high-end clothing. She’d feel neglected if her Visa bill wasn’t ten grand this month. Besides, neglected is a strong word for your chiropractor. The expectations for any kind of service here go well beyond the call of duty. They want me to be their savior.

  It’s only nine a.m. and I need to run—at least ten miles. Wait. I’ve been made an offer and dissed by the same man in the space of thirty minutes. That’s at least another mile.

  chapter 8

  It’s the end of the work day, and tonight I get to play princess. Or as my case goes, the closest thing to it: Morgan Malliard. Although I’ve worn her blouse all day, there’s something special about climbing into her heels. I received the extensive “talking to” about my Clarks clogs with the outfit this morning, but I can hardly be adjusting people or manipulating masculine bodies like Simon’s in spike heels. So I spent the day half Morgan, half me. I was the fashion “Don’t” half that might have appeared in Glamour. Morgan’s own assessment was reserved. She gave a light cluck of the tongue followed by the words, “It’s a shame. Really it is.”

  It still makes me laugh. The things my friends value have absolutely no bearing on me. But after the long day, and Simon’s proposal and announcement of his departure, I am nervous about my date with Dr. Jeff. If you can call this farce a date. I’m wringing my hands as I pace the office floor. I have plenty of office busywork to do, but my mind is preoccupied— and I didn’t want to run and shower for fear my hair wouldn’t dry in time and I’d look like something the cat dragged in. Tonight, I’m going to do Morgan and Lilly proud if it kills me. Or Jeff, as the case might be.

  I don’t know why I’m nervous; I actually go on a lot of dates. Perhaps not a lot of second dates, but I do go on quite a few first dates. It’s just I can’t help but see the guy as a potential mate. And there’s the health factor. Simon’s back has nothing on some of my past escorts:

  One guy’s eye whites were yellow (bad liver function).

  One guy’s face was pocked red, and his nose was bulbous (too much alcohol?).

  One guy’s tongue was white (oral yeast—not enough good bacteria).

  One guy had a lack of appetite and fatigue through dinner (adrenal insufficiency).

  I don’t know why I look at men like gene pools, but it’s part of my health fetish. I can’t help myself. Lord knows someone like Simon will give his next generation a spine from the Dark Side, and yet I can still be tempted, so there has to be more.

  With Jeff Curran, MD, my fears are different. First of all, a person could never tell if his health wasn’t perfect, because he’d just cover it with the plastic version. Then, there’s the whole beauty issue. What exactly does a plastic surgeon find beautiful, and is it attainable by anyone? I mean, he deals in perfection all day long, and I’ve changed my skirt. Not that I’m thinking romantically. I’m just thinking of how I can practice for Morgan’s wedding. If I can be “normal” with Jeff Curran, I can take on the world.

  My ego’s already taken a hit today. All these years, I thought Simon had a crush on me. In fact, I thought the Hawaiian idea was his way of making one final attempt at a future with me. Then, he kisses the blonde bombshell in my foyer, and here I’m thinking he’s propositioning me two minutes earlier. It’s the ultimate in rejection. It’s been my job to reject Simon. Couldn�
�t he just leave with that image intact? Was it so hard to spare my ego?

  “You’re wearing heels?” Emma asks me as I come into the foyer.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  “Are you kidding me? You have a date with Dr. Dreamy and expect me not to watch? This is better than The Bachelor and Dr. 90210 all wrapped into one delicious package.”

  “It’s a dinner between working companions. Trust me, you’re better off with reality television at home.”

  She crosses her arms and eats another bite of a protein bar. “Whatever. I’m still sticking around. I wouldn’t miss this for anything. You never go on dates with anyone who would tempt me. This should be good.”

  “You really don’t get out enough,” I tell her.

  “Look who’s talking.”

  I breathe in deeply and open a vial of eucalyptus oil and suck in the cleansing fragrance. Now that will clear your lungs. “Do I look like I’m walking okay in these heels? Or do I just look stupid?” I ask Emma.

  “You’d never know they weren’t attached,” Emma says.

  Months ago, when Lilly, my fashion-designing Spa Girl, talked me into modeling for her fashion show, I thought I would turn into Lot’s wife pillar of salt right on the stage. I move like a penguin on a Habitrail in heels.

  “Did you see Simon’s girlfriend today?”

  “You mean that blonde?”

  I nod.

  “She’s not his girlfriend. Simon’s an intellectual, Poppy. You know that much.”

  “Didn’t he kiss her?” I ask.

  “He didn’t really kiss her. Why do you care?”

  “I don’t. I’ve just never seen Simon’s type before. I was surprised.”

  “You see Simon’s type every morning when you look in the mirror.” Emma rolls her eyes. “You two are pathetic.”

  “What does that mean?” I know I said Emma sees a lot and watches my patients like they were her own private reality show, but she’s wrong on this one. Simon does not see me that way.

  “Jeff’s nurses just left. I imagine he’ll be over here any minute. I’m going to warm up my tea before he gets here.”

  “We’re not your nightly entertainment, Emma.”

  “Oh, but you are.”

  I feel my heart pounding a bit harder thinking about my first date with an actual employed person in . . . well, in some time. The differences between us are huge and now’s as good a time as any to obsess about them. Jeff’s all about the exterior, but I’m about the interior. The daily cleansing of the heart, body, and soul. He just wants to suck it out and make the world look like Paris Hilton. I hate to admit it, but I take on a little air of superiority here and feel ready to meet him, as the bell jangles at my office. If I can survive this, I can survive anything Morgan’s wedding throws at me.

  “Wow,” Jeff says, blinking several times. “You . . . look . . . great.”

  Darn. Too much. But you can’t trust the word of a plastic surgeon either. They get paid to lie to you.

  “Thanks. So do you,” I say, pointing at his suit. “I don’t usually see your clothes. You’re always in that white jacket.”

  “So this is a truce evening, right? No talk about work?”

  “That’s a good idea.” Which begs the question, What on earth will we talk about? But I’m not going to say it.

  Emma comes in and sits at her desk staring at both of us. “Emma, shouldn’t you be getting home?”

  She just shakes her head and takes a sip of tea. I see her snap her fingers as if to say darn, she missed the show.

  “Hi, Emma.” Jeff smiles before looking back at me. “I made reservations at a sushi restaurant. Do you do sushi?”

  “I do,” I say. Not my favorite, I add silently. Jeff harbors an ability to make you believe you’re the only woman in the room when he speaks to you. I’m sure it’s a practiced art, but it’s effective. He can make my stomach tingle at the sound of his voice and I watch him with the same inquisitive skepticism I’d have for a childhood magician. As far as endorphins go, Jeff is as good as three miles or so. Which makes me wonder how truly shallow I am.

  He’s the Tom Cruise in my life. For instance:

  1. Tom Cruise jumped on Oprah’s couch like the ape in the Samsonite commercial.

  2. I know Tom dumped two perfectly good wives to find himself. (I believe he’s still searching.)

  3. I know he’s with a girl young enough to be his daughter.

  4. I know he bought his own personal ultrasound machine upon learning of his young girlfriend’s pregnancy.

  In other words, I know better than to find Tom Cruise attractive. Logic tells me to steer clear, to seek higher ground. But then, I see him in Jerry Maguire again on TBS at night, and I’m charmed senseless just like the next girl (Renee Zellweger in this case). I’m continuously reminded that I’m not superior, I am not free from his charms. Tom says, “You complete me.” And I don’t laugh at that ridiculous line. I cry—sob actually— falling for it every time.

  And don’t even get me started on my illogical crush on Johnny Depp—especially dressed as a pirate. Not healthy, I’m certain.

  I am average, one of the crowd, and Dr. Jeff Curran knows it.

  My point is there are some people with entirely too much charisma, and Tom Cruise and Jeff Curran are two of them. Perhaps Jeff’s fake white smile sets you aback slightly, but when he flashes that grin, I feel myself smiling. Even though I know better!

  “Bye, Emma.”

  “Bye,” she waves, like a seventh grader about to write in her diary.

  “Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Jeff asks me, sensing my pause at the doorstep.

  I just nod. “Two associates having dinner, am I right?”

  “So will you still hate me in the morning?” he asks.

  I stumble for a moment. “I think so, yes.”

  “Then we’re good.”

  “Fantastic.” I smile at Emma before we exit my office. She appears duly entertained, so I guess we did our job.

  Outside, Jeff opens the door to his Lexus convertible, and I nearly turn back to my office. This is normal for Silicon Valley; I understand that. I look the part, I can act the part, but what I find myself thinking is Do I really have to get into this car? It makes such a statement. I’m a snob. And not even in the right direction. I’m humiliated to get into a car that’s too nice, not too dumpy.

  I wiggle into it like a sardine into a can. This is so not comfortable. Why would anyone spend an inordinate amount of money to be uncomfortable? It’s not like you can floor it on the freeway and feel any sense of freedom. There’s far too much traffic here. If anything, I would think having a powerful car would only frustrate a person. I will say that the cream, calfskin leather is nice and the car smells good—a mixture of new car and Jeff’s aftershave. But he’s got to be six foot two, and he looks ridiculous driving this well-constructed, finely appointed roadster.

  “Tiny,” I say about the car.

  “What?”

  “The car. It’s tiny.”

  “It’s a Lexus,” he reminds me. “Nothing about it is tiny.”

  “You don’t think it’s too small for you? You’re a pretty big guy. It’s not good for your back to scrunch in this bittie car.”

  “I thought we weren’t talking about work.”

  “I’m not talking about work, just telling you that your spine gets a workout each day. When you go home, you should tuck your hands under your knees and roll your spine on the floor. It’s a self-massage that will keep you limber enough to drive this.”

  “My spine will be fine, thanks for the professional opinion. These seats hold my back like a luxury glove. Besides, I like my car. Worked hard for it.” He looks over at me, and I figure another one of my opinions is not going over well. From here on out, I’m going to practice keeping my opinion to myself.

  “It’s a beautiful car,” I admit.

  There is a definite something between us. I close my eyes and try
to focus on the energy aspect of this emotion I’m feeling and all the reasons I should know better. It’s amazing to me how someone completely wrong for you can stir your heart by the simple chemistry God created. This is where I don’t know how much brain to use and how much instinct. This is why I should date sensible men. Men who eat their oats, and don’t sow them.

  “So, I miss your skirt.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You’re right. I was trying to be pleasant.”

  At least I know he’s a terrible liar.

  “So I’ve always wondered, does it have some sort of significance? Or is it just comfortable?”

  “I have more than one.”

  “Really?”

  “They look alike,” I admit.

  “I like them, actually. They’re very retro and antiestablishment. When you see women put together all day, it’s nice to see someone who feels at ease in comfort.”

  “You’re saying I don’t look put together?” Granted, I may not, but do I need to hear it from him?

  “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that you’re your own woman, and it shows. Fashion gets to be like a uniform. I admire your spirit, Poppy.”

  “Is that so?”

  “So what was so secretive about your dinner with your father? I’ve been in suspense all day.”

  I can’t quite tell if Jeff is making fun of me. I suppose it’s all those years of being the odd man out at Stanford. I never really cared if someone made fun of me; I knew I was different. But this is a date. I didn’t come out to be ridiculed. It’s like signing up for the privilege.

  “My father’s moving to Arizona,” I answer. “He’s leaving me the house in Santa Cruz.”

  “You’re not going to commute, are you?” Jeff acts as if I’ve just told him I’m moving to Mars.

  “It’s over the hill, Jeff. It’s not in Timbuktu.”

 

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