“Well, I don’t know, really. I mean, maybe we both had salmon for dinner once. But I didn’t see a lot connecting, you know? I learned he has a John Wayne fetish and he likes to run. Other than that, I can’t really say I learned a thing about him. I don’t think you should be thinking of designing my bridesmaid’s dresses just yet.”
“Wasn’t he sweet, though?” Lilly asks.
“He was . . . sweet. Sure. But what makes you so sure I want to date myself? You keep telling me he’s just like me. What if we’re both bad wedding guests and he scares off my normal date, and then we’re left on our own? What if you’re only squaring my attendance and he’s weird cubed? What then?”
“Poppy, you promised.”
I did promise. And I wouldn’t do anything to hurt my Spa Girls. Even if it meant allowing someone’s liver to go unchecked when their coloring is yellow. I can do this. “I gotta run. I have to get some work done before I head to church, and then over the hill.”
“You’re going to Santa Cruz? Tonight?”
“My dad said the house is empty, and I want to see how much work there is to do before I put it on the market. If I know my father, it’s plenty. I’m thinking I’ll sleep there, train in the morning, and work during the evenings until it’s done.”
“You’re really going to sell it?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Listen, Jeff’s going to be here in a few minutes. I have to go.”
“Jeff? Dr. 90210 from next door?”
“Yes, the plastic surgeon. My appropriate date.”
“You’re not going alone with him into that house?”
Her fears make me laugh. She’s not worried about me facing my history. She’s more worried I’ll do it with my complete and utter opposite. “No, we’re just going to church together. Relax.”
“Poppy.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I hang up the phone, thankful, actually, that the trouble of finding a date for the wedding is gone. I mean, what does it matter? No one cares. There will be all these San Francisco socialites, and their tongues will be wagging about Morgan’s father in jail, her dead Hollywood B-star mother, and of course her early entry into motherhood with George’s Downs Syndrome son. There won’t be anyone looking at me. I’ll be that one line in the society page: “Morgan Malliard with attendants fashion designer Lilly Jacobs Schwartz and an unnamed friend.”
So this is it for me. This is my stop. Where I get off. Just me and Safflower and a house that haunts me like an unseen heartbeat.
chapter 14
I miss my favorite skirt. Not just a little bit, mind you, but as though a piece of me is missing. As I wait for Jeff, I realize I’m not in my comfort zone here. That skirt was like a second skin. But more than that, it’s who I became. I saw myself in that skirt. Even now, looking in the mirror, I see a mirage of the colors, though I’m clearly wearing the cream skirt Lilly made me. The longer I wait for Jeff, the more I realize this facade isn’t working for me. I slip out of the skirt and step into my running pants and Stanford sweatshirt.
Coming out of the office and knowing I look like I’m headed for the trees, I refuse to look into a mirror. There’s this niggling within me that reminds me I don’t want to send Jeff any type of message that I care what he thinks. I’m glad he’s going to the wedding with me; I’m glad we’ll be a desirable couple by all outside appearances. But truthfully, I wonder if my friends aren’t starting to reject me already. They’ve always known how I dressed, how I dated, what was important to me. Why all of a sudden do they expect me to bend to their idea of normalcy? As if Lilly’s hair fetish and Morgan’s princess ways were ever normal to begin with.
My spa weekend has only served to stress me out further. Spa Del Mar’s new masseuse didn’t know her acupressure points and kept pushing all the wrong spots. I wanted to grab her hand and show her the right way, but I refrained. I seethed silently instead. Well, I mostly refrained, after I corrected her a few times. She got annoyed, and all I could think was, Honey, think about the poor clients who are paying for the yin-yang massage with neither the yin nor the yang!
I look at my watch, and Dr. Jeff is definitely late. He said an hour, it’s been ninety minutes, and while that may not seem like much in doctor time, to me, it’s made us late for church. Well, not exactly late, but later than I want to be to get settled. I glance at my watch one last time and become disgusted with myself. Like I need some big, strong man to rescue me. Please.
I open the door and look both ways. Jeff is nowhere to be seen, so I sneak out into the dark night, locking my office door behind me. I climb into the Subaru and start it up, noting that Jeff’s office light still burns bright. I’d feel rejected if I wasn’t so relieved.
As I’m pulling out of the parking lot, a dark shadow crosses the darkness before my car, and I slam on the brakes. My heart is in my throat as I see the muscular frame of Jeff, mere inches from my front bumper. I’ve killed my car from letting out the clutch so suddenly, so I start it up again and roll down the window.
“Are you crazy?” I yell out the window. “You about gave me a heart attack.”
“That’s guilt, not your heart, and that’s a medical opinion.”
“You should know,” I counter.
“You were going to be a no-show. Here I was going to drive you to church, even treat you to tofu after the service, and you were just going to dismiss me. Like we never even talked earlier. Do you think the blonde would do that to me?”
“Where did you come from?” I ask through ragged breaths, my hand still clutching my chest. Sheesh, he scared the daylights out of me.
“I was just locking up the front door when I saw you get in your car.” He pushes a button, lighting up his watch. “I was a half an hour late. Why didn’t you just knock on the door, Poppy? I know you have an idea what that time means in doctor time.”
“I figured you had better things to do. Doctor time being so valuable and all. I’ll bet you’re ready to bill me now, just for waiting.”
He walks around to the window that I’m yelling out of and puts his hand over the window’s ledge. “Park your car. We’re going to church in style, which unfortunately rules out the thought of a fake SUV in most people’s mind.”
“This is a nice car. I got it for a great price from some skier who took it to Tahoe twice a year.” I pat the steering wheel. “Yes sir, great deal and it’s all mine.”
“I’m sure there’s a jealous cross-country skier out there somewhere.”
Looking up at him, I can feel his warm breath, he’s so close. His expression makes me smile. Jeff and I may be an experiment in differences, but in a lot of ways we understand one another and can laugh at our opposite natures. Of course, I question if peace at any price is really peace. “I’ll meet you there, all right? I don’t want the singles seeing me drive up in a fancy sports car. They’ll get the wrong impression of what I’m about.”
“I don’t think they will, actually. I think you’re just afraid you might get attached to luxury. Do you get some sort of high from standing out in a pseudo SUV in Silicon Valley?”
I rev the car’s engine to show him I’m ready to leave, and he laughs.
“It’s a Subaru, Poppy. It lacks the effect you’re going for. Come on over; I’ll show you what really revving an engine should sound like.” He laughs, and I rev my engine again. It’s a perfectly reasonable sound. My car rocks, thank you very much.
“Do you know,” I ask him, “that a bigger engine puts more smog in the air? With global warming—”
“Poppy, you’re freaking me out. Go park your car and let’s go.” He motions towards my parking spot. “We’re late as it is. I got wrapped up in work, but sitting here arguing isn’t helping the matter.”
“We? There’s no we. And we’re late because of you. I’ll meet you at church.”
“I thought you said there was no we?” He laughs at me. “No,” he says, opening the car door. “We’re going together. You have to practice being
with me for the wedding dates, anyway.”
I thin my eyes at him. Since when has a guy ever wanted a practice date? He thinks I was born yesterday. “I’ll meet you there.” I try to wrestle the door from his clutches and finally pull it shut.
“Now who’s bad for the environment? Two cars to the same church? Tsk, tsk. Those toxins are on your head. What is that? Two acres of rainforest?”
“I’m going to Santa Cruz after the service. I have to check on something, so it’s a matter of practicality. I wasn’t thinking ahead earlier.”
“I can go to Santa Cruz tonight. Katie is always up for a trip to the ocean. She purrs like a kitten over that hill.”
“Katie?”
“My car.”
“You named her?”
“People understand me better when I say that Katie needs a checkup. It’s a built-in excuse. They don’t know if I’m getting my daughter to the doctor or my pet to the vet. It’s a great cover.”
“And you think I’m weird?”
“I do, actually. But I like you, anyway, Poppy, and I always have. Even when you were mean to me and pulled my hair— I mean, parked in my spot. There’s something intriguing about a woman who never changes her clothes. Think of all the money a guy could save with a girl like you. Doctors appreciate practical women. I assume you just have to feed the cat. You do have a cat?”
“I change my clothes!” They just all look the same. “And yes, I do have a cat. Her name is Safflower and when she graces me with her presence, she’s fabulous.”
Jeff leans in on the window frame, “So what’s going on in Santa Cruz? Do I get to see the house that Dr. Poppy grew up in?”
“Jeff, let’s keep this business shall we? You get your office space, I get my wedding date. My friends are happy, you’re happy, everyone’s happy.”
“Except maybe you.”
Truer words were never spoken. “Global warming can wait.” I gun my engine, which sounds plenty powerful to me, and pull away from Jeff, leaving him standing in the parking lot alone. I catch a glimpse of his outline, with his arms open to the sky in question, in my rearview mirror. But I feel no guilt. Well, very little guilt, anyway.
As I leave, I reassure myself I’ve just escaped a bondage of my own making. Jeff is one of those temptations a woman over thirty just shouldn’t trust herself with. He has all the right words, makes all the right emotions bubble up within me, and I think a healthy distance is my way out from under a disaster in the making. With Jeff’s charm, and those devastating blue eyes, and me in yet one more bridesmaid dress, there’s no telling what could happen.
Arriving at the church, there’s a line waiting for parking spots, and I take my place in it, putting in an Enya CD and trying to retreat to my place of peace. Someone pounds on my window and about knocks me into the backseat. I push the window button only to be bellowed at. “You’re in the wrong line!”
“For a parking spot?” I ask.
“Yes,” he shouts. “Over there! Over there!” He’s pointing and doing a little dance, to show he means it.
“Let’s not get too excited, sir. This is church.” And me, without my lavender spray. He could use a squirt.
“Move! You’re blocking traffic!” he yells again.
Why this suddenly breaks my resolve, I don’t know, but it does and I steer my car around the screaming man, who by now is red as a beet and still dancing. As I pull around him, I roll down my window. “Before church, you might want to consider anger management.” Sheesh, or a heaping helping of Prozac. And this is from someone against drug intervention, unless chemically necessary, of course. With this guy, I’d write the prescription myself if I could.
I pull out of the parking lot, and for some reason, my childhood comes nipping at my toes like a rogue wave. Somehow I want to go home. I want to walk into my Santa Cruz existence and leave this one behind. Granted, it’s just an idiot in the parking lot, but his energy has me unable to walk into church tonight. Seeing Jeff with his normal, Sunday-night harem of women who want to marry a doctor won’t help matters.
I drive in a trance for forty-five minutes before my head clears and I can finally hear the music in my CD player. The CD must have changed several times over because Jeremy Camp’s gravelly voice invades my thoughts vapidly. It’s like I’ve entered my own Narnian wardrobe and suddenly notice all the dark canopy of redwoods over the roadway. As I hit the summit of this road I know by heart, my car drives on instinct, traveling the path back home.
This is for Mom, I tell myself about selling my childhood home. I can see its little beachside cottage siding in my mind, and it brings a smile when I remember the good times that once inhabited its walls. It’s the painted version I see. Before I hit age ten and the house and my life started to dilapidate.
“I’m just going to look at the house and figure out what needs to be done.” In and out. In and out, I repeat to myself. “I refuse to let a material thing have any control over me.” At this, I look up through the sun roof. “But You’ll help me with that, right?”
There are tragedies in life that play over in the mind like a recurring nightmare. I squeeze my eyes shut against the home movies. I hope for a new ending when they play, only to be disappointed that, in fact, I’m not dreaming, but reliving history I cannot change.
I can’t swim fast enough.
I can’t pedal quickly enough.
And I can’t run far enough from those thoughts.
“Maybe my father is right. It’s time to go home and finish this.” The stars are blinking in the darkened sky. Parents certainly leave their mark. When you grow up and realize their flaws, it’s but a moment before you realize you’re left to clean up the mess they created. And then start one of your own in your own family. Which is precisely why I don’t have a family.
The house, which I expect to find dark and eerie, is lit like a lighthouse when I approach the driveway, and I find myself blinking several times and looking at the surrounding landmarks to make sure I’m in the right place. I shiver as I think my father and Sharon are still in the house, not vacated as they told me. The last thing I need is to hear more about their move and their future as foster parents. Since neither one of them is the parenting sort, I can’t imagine what that’s about. If it wasn’t Sharon’s relatives, I’d wonder if they thought they might increase their income as foster parents. Once they find out it means less schmoozing and travel, I shudder to think what it will mean to the kids.
“What on earth?” I say, getting out of the car.
There are trucks along the street, and even one in the driveway, and I see a bustle of activity going on inside the house. My ears are assaulted with a constant, rhythmic banging.
I slowly make my way up the path to the house and find the door open slightly. I push it open, and see the house has been stripped down to the studs, and there’s a strong scent of bleach.
“Excuse me,” I call out to the workers. I step out onto the porch for one more look at the address. I am indeed in the right place. Each worker looks my way and then summarily ignores me. “Excuse me,” I repeat. “Who’s in charge here?”
There are men everywhere, some of them looking at plans, some of them pounding, and all of them ignoring me. It looks as though I’m employing the entire town of Santa Cruz, and on a Sunday night, this cannot be an inexpensive thing.
Oh, Daddy, what did you do? One thing about my father, he’s usually very free with other people’s wallets and I’m sure he thinks he did me a favor here—that the sale will pay for all this.
One of the workers looks at me finally, rolling up plans in his hand, and nods his chin towards the back of the house. “You need to see the man?”
I nod. I guess I need to see the man. Naturally, I imagine pulling back the curtain in The Wizard of Oz because I’m quite uncertain of who “the man” is.
As I step through the rooms, the house is nothing like I remember it. It’s funny how your childhood home looks in your mind—so much bigger. And
all the things that made it home are now stripped and painted over. Gone is the musty scent from the ocean and decrepit carpet of various bacteria strains. UC Santa Cruz probably could have found enough germs for antibiotics research to last for years. The carpet is gone to reveal the beaten oak hardwood floors underneath, stained and tattered by ancient nail marks. A small portion of the floor is being stripped by a loud, humming machine, and there the floor looks like fresh, raw wood.
I walk slowly, looking at each and every change and meeting the gaze of questioning construction workers. What could this be costing? I’m drawn to the backyard and step out onto the evening porch, which still looks exactly the same. I hear the familiar roar of the waves in the distance as I close my eyes and allow the emotion to wash over me. It smells like the beach, and I feel the touch of my mother on my fingertips.
I look heavenward. “Why leave me with this? I was thirteen, Mom.” Of all the things she could have done to finish off her will, this was a final slap in the face of my father. He never took it that way, though. For that, I’m grateful.
“Poppy.”
I open my eyes to see Simon’s hulking frame talking on a Treo. I blink a few more times, wondering if I’m seeing a Santa Cruz mirage of sorts. Which would never be too normal. Simon comes towards me, placing the phone in his pocket, and I just keep blinking, wishing I had my tryptophan supplements or ylang-ylang to dab behind my ears for calmness.
“Are you talking to yourself?” he asks.
“I suppose I am.” I close my eyes once more, and Simon’s still there when I pop them open. He looks good under the moonlight. His bulky, muscular frame is masculine and offers protection. I’m not exactly thinking like his doctor when I look at him under the moonlight.
“Poppy, it is Simon.” He gives me his sideways grin. “Are you trying to decipher that? Or having trouble with those hallucinations again?” he quips.
Calm, Cool, and Adjusted Page 16