Unscripted

by Natalie Aaron

  “You’re so sweet,” I say as I hug her. He’s resisting all right.

  A short time later Tarina arrives and gives everyone a hug hello. Judging by the weathered smile lines around her eyes, I’d say she’s in her mid-fifties. Her black hair is held together by one of those leather ponytail holders from the 1970s, and she’s wearing a multilayered colorful skirt and a blue velvet vest with gold buttons the size of quarters.

  Isabelle and Tarina decide the best place to set up is in the living room, right in front of the balcony, so the breeze can help clear the smell.

  The smell?

  The few stragglers left on the balcony have all come in and are mingling about, munching on appetizers and watching Tarina with suspicious curiosity.

  Tarina takes out four plastic square containers from her oversized bag and fills them up with warm water. As she makes trips back and forth from the kitchen, Ty and Isabelle bring four chairs in from the dining room and set them up in a row, facing the balcony.

  Tarina then removes four metal boxes from her other bag and plugs them into two extension cords. They’re about the size of a cigar box, painted silver and blue with a white keypad. Attached to each box is a small, rectangular object that Tarina calls an “array.” After Tarina places an array into each container of water, she wipes her hands on her skirt and turns to the crowd.

  “So. Has anyone ever done this before?”

  The majority of the people shake their heads no.

  “Great!” she says, rubbing her hands together. “Footbath virgins. I love it.”

  Ew.

  “The way it works is simple. You place your feet in the water, it’s nice and warm, I add a little salt, next thing you know, positive and negative ions are drawing out the toxins from your feet, and voilà, we have toxin soup!”

  Polite laughs circle the room.

  “I’ve seen it help people with chronic pain, parasites, liver issues, kidney issues, skin problems, I could go on and on. You just have to see it to believe it. Now, I wouldn’t normally recommend mixing this with alcohol, but this is a party after all. If you come to me for private sessions, it will be clear liquids only, I’m sorry to say.”

  Like vodka?

  “So, I need four volunteers,” Tarina continues as she steps closer to our group. “Don’t let all of the cords scare you. I’ve never electrocuted anyone. At least, not yet. Who’s game?”

  We all laugh dutifully and wait for the first victim to volunteer.

  I feel Nancy’s hand on my arm. “We’ll do it!”

  Nancy. I shouldn’t be surprised, or annoyed. As I stated before, I only have myself to blame here. We take our seats and remove our shoes. Nancy is grinning and squirming. I sort of want to push her off the chair.

  Two more women take the chairs next to us (a couple of Isabelles, by the way). The men are over by the table, glancing surreptitiously at us as they fill their plates with food.

  At Tarina’s request, we place our feet in the water. She then places a large bowl full of salt on each of our laps, to ground us, she explains. Nancy nods as if she understands completely. I guarantee she has no idea what this woman is prattling on about.

  Tarina instructs us to place our hands in the bowl of salt. Interesting. Once I get over the fact it’s congregating beneath my nails, and itching my wrists, I have to admit it feels kind of nice. Cool and relaxing. She walks over to each of us and shifts the salt, covering our hands completely. Tarina then tosses a pinch of salt into each of the baths, walks over to the boxes and punches something into the keypads. I guess it’s beginning because there are little bubbles coming out of the rectangular thing.

  “How is everyone feeling?” she asks.

  “Relaxed. Wonderful, my feet are tingly,” says Nancy as she flexes her right foot.

  Hmm, I don’t feel anything. Except of course, now that I’ve lost the use of my hands, my nose is itching like crazy.

  Tarina looks to me. “Fine, relaxed,” I say. “Well, my nose is a little itchy.”

  The Isabelles laugh and Nancy gives me a displeased look.

  “Well, it’s driving me crazy,” I whisper to her in my defense.

  “Don’t focus on the itch. Focus on the toxins pouring out of your body,” Tarina says as she roughly rubs my nose with a tissue.

  Ah, relief.

  I look down at the water. The bubbles have now turned an iced-tea-brown, which is overtaking the clear water like an oil spill. Gross. I peer over at everyone else’s water, and it’s all brown like mine. What? We have the same toxins? Not likely.

  “I find this process is most effective when people have a release,” Tarina says as she shuffles the salt around in my bowl. “Each of you should share a negative emotion that you would like to release.”

  Of fucking course. This time I glare at Nancy. She smiles innocently at me. Yeah, I get to blame her as well, now. I avoid Tarina’s gaze and look to the Isabelles. I’m not sharing jack.

  I glance down at my water. The brown is now morphing into a bright orange and there are spots of green wafting about. My stomach turns slightly. I look over at Nancy. Her water is still brown, but there are aggressive patches of yellow trying to take over. Weird.

  “Think of something that has been troubling you lately,” Tarina prods. “What are your fears? Your insecurities? What are you missing in life?”

  What am I not missing? I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I am not going to let this woman get to me. No more pity party.

  Isabelle #1 raises her hand and says she’d like to go first. Fine, lady, you can take my turn too.

  “I’ve been living my life out of fear lately. I think…I think I stay in bad situations too long because I’m afraid of the alternative.” She straightens her back. “I want to learn to embrace change and take my power back.”

  “I release my fear of…” Tarina leads.

  “I release my fear of change.” She smiles.

  “Good job.” Tarina gently pats Isabelle #1 on the back.

  “Hey, what are those little floating bits?” Isabelle #2 asks.

  Tarina inspects the water. “Heavy metals,” she answers authoritatively. “What about you? What would you like to release?”

  “Can someone else go next?” Isabelle #2 asks shyly.

  By now the remaining eight have gathered around, peering into the water curiously. I look at Nancy since it’s not going to be me.

  Nancy flexes her knee and looks around self-consciously. “I’d like to release my fear of change as well.”

  Ha! Total cop out.

  I glare meaningfully at Isabelle #2. I’m not budging. And apparently, neither is she. She looks down at her water, seemingly mesmerized by the alleged heavy metals. I do the same. My water is now chocolate-brown, mixed with greasy-looking patches of green. And my ankles are stained with a light brown circle. It’s revolting. I want to get my feet out of this water.

  I look up and Tarina is looking at me expectantly.

  Jesus. Just get it over with. You’d like to release your fear. Just say it and move on.

  “I’d like to release…” my insecurity, my hopelessness, my fear of the future, my loneliness, my self-doubt, my self-pity. Will.

  Tears begin to sting my eyes. I can’t believe this. No. No. No. Do not cry, you big baby. What is with me? Why do I always want to cry at the most inopportune times?

  “Abby?” Nancy asks, looking concerned.

  I shake my head, begging silently for a minute to pull it together.

  Suddenly Tarina is standing behind me, her hands making circles on my back. “Let it out. It’s okay. You’re with friends here.”

  Oh my God, hippie woman, stop touching me. Tears start streaming helplessly down my cheeks.

  Mother f’er.

  I unconsciously yank my hands out of the salt bowl and wipe angrily at my face. I can feel the sticky clumps of salt peppering my cheeks.

  I’m actually crying. Crying in a room full of beautiful strangers, with my feet stu
ck in some disgusting pool of sludge.

  “Let it out,” Tarina pushes. “I release…”

  “We should go,” Nancy says, looking around. “Can we get towels?”

  “She’s close to a breakthrough,” Tarina says in a tight voice.

  “Yeah, I’d really like to go. I think I’m detoxed enough.” I pull my feet out of the water, holding them precariously close to the floor.

  Acknowledging defeat, Tarina brings a pitcher of water to us and pours it over our stained feet. I grab Isabelle’s proffered towel and quickly dry myself. I glance at the group; they look incredibly uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact with me.

  I should be embarrassed. Mortified. But I’m not. Sure, I want to get the hell out of here and boil my feet to get the funk off, but I don’t feel that bad. It’s actually sort of tragically funny.

  In a blur, Nancy pulls out her purse and hands Tarina a check. We say quick goodbyes to everyone and dash out the door.

  The minute my shoes hit concrete it starts. The uncontrollable laughter. I’m doubling over, grabbing Nancy’s arm for support. She joins in, escalating quickly to the donkey gulps she usually tries to suppress.

  “Are you having a nervous breakdown?” Nancy asks between breaths.

  “Yes, I think I am. I can’t believe I did that.”

  “Me neither. You still have salt chunks on your cheeks.” Still laughing, Nancy hasn’t regained control of her body, so she pokes at my face with her sleeve.

  “Did you see their faces?”

  “Yes. Too much. Oh here.” Nancy hands me a card.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s…Tarina’s…card. She wants you to call her for a private session.” Nancy breaks out into the donkey laugh again.

  “Do I kill you now or later?”

  “I can’t wait to tell Stephanie.”

  “Don’t you dare. What a nightmare. I’m never going anywhere with you again.”

  “Come on, when is the last time you laughed like this?”

  “This is a lucky fluke. God, this is so gross. I have to wash my feet!”

  “I know. They feel sticky now. We’ll get the yogurt to go.”

  “So, do you think that was total bullshit?” I ask.

  “I honestly don’t know. I did feel…something. And, look what happened to you.”

  “Was that a good thing?”

  “I think it was. But seriously, are you okay?”

  I inhale the sea air and look up at the sky. It’s a clear night, and I can actually see the stars. I feel oddly peaceful, calm even.

  “Believe it or not, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”

  When I get home, I immediately jump in the shower and scour the sludge residue from my feet. Afterward, I check my email and right there, in bolded black, is an email from Will Harper. The subject line reads “Sorry.” My hands are actually shaking as I double click on his name.

  Hi

  I was cleaning out my inbox today and I found your email sitting there in my junk folder, a place I would never expect to find an email from you. So forgive me for the late reply. Very sorry to hear about the show, this is a fantastic business we’ve committed ourselves to, isn’t it? I’m assuming by now you’re already slaving away on another show, but let me know…

  I’d love to catch up. Coffee this week?

  Best,

  Will

  So I may be jobless, and I’ll never be an Isabelle, but none of that matters. Will Harper wrote me back.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  This morning, I was wide-awake and out of bed at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m. The reason? Today is Will Harper day.

  It took me two days to respond to Will’s email: Two, nail biting, eyebrow-pulling, excruciating days later. I didn’t want to seem too eager, so I held off. And it turned out to be a good decision, because by then I actually had something to write about.

  It turns out, the company that produced Matchmaker is making yet another dating show and they asked me to come on as a segment producer. When I informed them that I am now a producer (which in hindsight was insane because let’s face it, beggars can’t be choosers), they seemed more than willing to give me that title. So, although it’s not going to change my career predicament, it’s still a paycheck, and the job starts in a week.

  I sent a carefully constructed, semi-jokey email back to Will, and to my surprise, he replied minutes after I pushed the send button. He said how pleased he was that I found something and then asked me to meet him for coffee, and that coffee is today at 1:30.

  Now, I’m not stupid. I know I can’t read into this. It is just coffee. People in my business have coffee or lunch or drinks all the time. It’s a way of staying connected with your colleagues. So that’s how I have to look at it…a little networking, with a dash of caffeine.

  With the man you want to drug and keep in your closet forever and ever.

  So this morning, when I hopped out of bed full of nervous energy, I decided to be proactive and finish unpacking and decorating at least one room. At 7:00 a.m. I called Nancy (since I knew she’d be finished with her boot camp class) and begged her to open the rest of the living room boxes. Afterward, I gently nudged her out, and ruthlessly emptied the contents onto my hardwood floor.

  It’s now an hour later and I’m surrounded by heaps of wadded-up newspapers, picture frames, books, candles and various knickknacks that I realize are destined to live homeless on my floor for at least one more day. I have no idea where to put this stuff, and I’ve lost the brief flash of motivation that landed me in this circle of clutter.

  The least I can do is throw away the newspapers, so I grab a garbage bag and load up, vowing to set this bag aside for recycling, just like the flat stack of boxes that are leaning against my rumbly old olive-green refrigerator.

  I glance at the red rooster clock hanging above the stove. It reads 8:30. Jesus, is that it? All that lovely productive energy has morphed into plain nervousness and I still have an agonizing five more hours before I see Will.

  I’ve already talked to Stephanie and Nancy to death about my plans today so I can’t really call either of them to obsess about it. But if I’m completely honest with myself, the one person I want to talk to the most is Zoë. Not just about Will, but about everything. It’s been a blur with the moving, and then, well, with the not moving, so I’ve successfully avoided really thinking about her, until lately. I miss her.

  I look down at my hands and notice the tips of my fingers are ink-stained from the newspapers. Maybe I’ll just take a shower now, or as I like to call it, a trickle, in my tiny, low-pressure coffin. It’s cramped and dark, and, although the landlord boasted that it has one of those rainfall showerheads that provide even cascades of water, it’s so clogged with little green deposits that the water zigzags out in sharp shards. I usually spend the first few minutes of my shower plugging little holes with my fingers, hoping in vain to smooth out the stream.

  After what seems an hour, I finally emerge and wrap a towel around my head. I walk to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee brewing and then add “call landlord” and “get new showerhead” to my list of to-dos on the fridge. Opening all of my cupboards two or three times I search longingly for something to eat. My choice is between cereal, some stale crackers and Nutella. Damn it, why can’t I ever drag my lazy ass to the market? It’s probably because Zoë and I used to go to the store together. It was part of our Saturday morning ritual. Breakfast out, then the grocery store. A chore I only found palatable because of Zoë. She has a way of making even the most mundane things fun.

  I want to call her, but I don’t want to be the first to back down. I feel like she essentially threw our friendship away over an apartment. Of course, she could say the same about me, I suppose.

  Stephanie thinks that Zoë has always been a self-centered, selfish person. And maybe that’s partially true, but she can also be generous and kind and supportive and funny. And I miss her. Everyone has flaws, those traits that ann
oy the hell out of you. But if the good outweighs the bad you deal with it. So that’s it. Zoë may be on the shallow side, but I love her anyway.

  Fuck it. I’m calling.

  I glance over at the phone in the living room and notice that the light on the machine is flashing. I walk over and push the button.

  “Abby, hi, it’s Zoë. Goddammit, I miss you. Look, I don’t understand how this went so wonky but I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, and I just really wanted to say hi and tell you I how much I miss you. Call me, if you want. I hope you want to. This is so weird. Okay. Call me. Did I mention I miss you?”

  Without giving it a second thought, I pick up the phone and dial Zoë’s cell.

  “Hello?”

  “Zo?”

  “Abby, is that you?”

  “It’s me.”

  “I didn’t recognize the number, even though I just dialed it like a half an hour ago.” Her voice sounds shaky and nervous.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but I swear to God, I’ve been thinking about you all morning and just decided to call you. I swear.”

  “Shut up!” She giggles, breaking the tension.

  “I swear on my mother’s life. We have ESP. Zo, I’m so sorry. I should…”

  “No.” She stops me midsentence. “I’m the one that should be sorry. I never should have put Doug first. You come first. I could have waited to leave.”

  “No, no, you were right. You can’t put your life on hold for me. You gave me ample time to find a place. You offered me your furniture. Oh shit, did you pick it up?”

  “I did. But why didn’t you take it?”

  I search my head for a polite response, but opt for honesty. “I guess I was pissed and I didn’t want your charity.”

  “We-e-ell,” Zoë drawls, “if we’re being honest, it wasn’t total charity. I didn’t really want to deal with moving it to storage.”

  “Ha. I knew it. I should have taken it, I’d have a nice comfy couch now.”

  “You can still have it! We’ll have someone bring it over.”