He holds up a hand, gesturing to allow me to let him finish. “Is it a possibility that Lara’s success with this relationship is a self-manifestation of the relationship you had, or maybe want, with Andrew? They work for the same firm, both wealthy, and, as you say, Lara’s wrapped up in the newness and excitement…”
“Yes. Lara has what I want.” Again, not rocket science here.
“That you want with Andrew.”
“That I had with Andrew, yes!”
“That…you…want…with…Andrew?”
“That I had, that I want, yes!”
“That you want now with Andrew?”
“Dear god,” I cry, tossing up my hands, then quickly dropping them in my lap. “What are you trying to get at, Dr. Pierce? That I still love my husband? That I wish things weren’t as they were? Give me a new piece of meat to chew on, will you? Tell me something I don’t already know!”
“Okay, different angle.” He leans back in his seat. “Where is this envy, this frustration, this anger coming from? And before you say the separation, the fight with Lara, the jealousy, take a moment, breathe in and out, relax, and say what you’re feeling, deep down.”
“I’m feeling a lot of things.” I try to breathe in and out at a relaxed pace, as the doctor instructed.
“Relax and think.”
I bite on my bottom lip and stare long and hard at the Oriental rug. I try to get lost in its patterns and swirls, like I’m caught up in a therapeutic trance.
But the question of what I’m feeling begins to tear through the swirly patterns, through the peace and sudden relaxation. I don’t feel the pounding in my head anymore, but rather a tingling numbness. Dr. Pierce’s question tears through, deeper and deeper, until the answer begins to appear.
And then the answer tears harder, the swirly carpet patterns disappearing entirely, the numbness fleeing, the words on the tip of my tongue.
“Jackie?”
Tears gently begin to fill the rims of my eyes, and I allow myself to whimper out the answer, the feeling, the greatest feeling, the only feeling that means anything to me right now and ever since I returned home from Paris. “Oh, Doctor,” I cry. “I miss my husband so much. I want him back.”
Like magic, a box of tissues is pushed in front of me, and the words come spilling on out. “I’m lonely not just because I’m locking myself away in Em’s apartment.” I wipe at my tears. “I’m lonely not just because I don’t have anything in life—no job, friends all with lives of their own.” I wipe at the fresh tears and blow my nose. “And I know I can be such a brat to them sometimes. I mean, they come over and help me and take care of me the best they can. I know that. I know that!” I give a loud and hard sniffle in. “I don’t want to act like this, hurting them and ruining the dearest relationships I have. They’re all I have, Doc!” I wail into the moist tissue. “I don’t know what to do at this point. I’m so lost.”
Eventually, after a period of hard crying and pitiful sobs, I carry on, blowing my nose and dabbing at my tears in between every few sentences.
“I’m depressed my marriage has fallen apart, and I hate being broke, and I don’t like this feeling of vulnerability and responsibility and—and—and I hate it! I hate this change, I hate the person I’ve become—so needy and clingy and demanding and—and—you know!” I point a finger at Dr. Pierce. “You know, Lara’s right! She was right!” I wipe at my cheeks. “I drove Andrew off. It’s no wonder my friends are exhausted by me. It’s no wonder Robin doesn’t want to give me money. No wonder Sophie took the first chance she got to fire me. It’s no wonder—it’s—” I stop in my tracks and stare into Dr. Pierce’s eyes.
“Yes?”
“It’s no wonder Andrew left me.” I stick my tongue in cheek and look off to the side. “It’s no wonder he left me,” I repeat in utter disbelief. I slowly shake my head, coming to a horrid but honest revelation. “It’s no wonder he cheated on me.”
“Let’s not jump the gun, Jackie. Excuses for cheating now…let’s not get into that hot water. You and Andrew are going through a rough patch. You’re separated. He might be having an affair, but you don’t know. Cheating is not an excuse here.”
“It’s no wonder though, Doctor,” I say, voice a hair above a whisper. “I’m a bitch. I looked in the mirror this morning and you know what I saw?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
He patiently waits for me to expound on my statement.
“I’m empty and I feel empty because I’m so self-consumed, so selfish, so jealous and not understanding…”
I kick off my high heels and tuck my legs tightly to my chest. “Lara’s right that I need to buck up and become responsible. I’ve lived it rough before, but I’ve managed. I can’t always throw out the excuse for my behavior on having a bad home life or stupid choices or a failing marriage.”
“This is excellent, Jackie,” Dr. Pierce cuts in with a warm smile. “This is a very good breakthrough.”
“Hey, that’s what five dirty martinis and a couple of tequila shooters can do,” I say through a chuckle, and he gives me a sideways glance.
“I can’t explain it, but I feel like—like—like I see these things more clearly now.”
“Breakthroughs happen at some point,” he says with ease.
“Low points,” I say with insistence. “Low points happen. I mean, how much lower can I sink, right? Until I find a new way to fix things?”
I pause to collect my thoughts, but I’m feeling dry. “The answers are clear,” I say, “but I don’t exactly know what to do about them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like,” I set one bare foot on the floor, “how do I try to grow up and be that bigger person?” I draw my tucked leg even closer to my chest. “How do I try to become more understanding and less selfish and,” I snort, “not such a pain in the ass to everyone? Drama queen on the loose! I mean, Doc, I’ve lost Andrew…probably for good…and now Lara’s hanging by a thread…”
Dr. Pierce smiles as the alarm indicating the close of our session chimes. He turns it off and says, “That first step’s been taken. Congratulations.”
“Huh?”
“Coming to terms with the truth, the facts. You acknowledge you have things you need to work on, and now you’re ready to try. Even being honest with Lara—though that didn’t turn out so well—was a step in the right direction.”
“But it’s the talk afterwards with her that’s going to be the real step…the real tough part.”
“One step at a time, Jackie. One step at a time.”
Chapter Forty-Two
The sun’s still shining, casting a warm, orange glow over the brick square, feeding the last of its daylight to the ivy that stretches around the windows and up the old buildings that house the various antique shops and bookstores. There aren’t many people in Pioneer Square, probably on account of school coming back into session. Everyone’s either out shopping for school supplies or spending their waning summer moments of freedom on the water, the beach. Oh, how I remember those days.
The occasional flock of pigeons swoops down to pick at a discarded hamburger bun or a half-eaten corn dog. Two bums rifle through a garbage can off in the distant corner. The very faint and plinky sound of a violin or fiddle is played a street or two over.
I consider taking one of the few remaining cigarettes from my pack, but think better of it when I realize that after this pack I’ll be down to paying for its replacement with a handful of borrowed bus quarters.
I’ve run, like an irresponsible child, through all the money my friends have lent, and I don’t exactly know where to turn next. I can’t very well run to Lara and ask her to top me up. I mean, she said her giving me handouts wasn’t doing me any favors, and she’s, in all honesty, probably right.
Besides, I need to go over and have a heart-to-heart with her. I need to do some begging, pleading, and groveling, but not for money. Not this time.
I set my large Miu Mi
u handbag on my lap, pigeon-toe my feet, and stare at the line of quaint shops across the square. When my eyes run across the antique shop where I bought Emily’s globe, my heart sinks. Here one of my best and most loyal friends in the world entrusted to me the responsibility to redecorate her apartment, and what have I done? I’ve pissed it away. Aside from the charming globe, I’ve squandered nearly every cent of her redecorating funds. I’ve wasted a month-and-a-half doing absolutely nothing but sulking and causing trouble, with a few shoddy half-attempts at doing something meaningful, and now I’m really stuck between that rock and a hard place Robin was talking about.
With not much daylight to burn, I half-heartedly gather my handbag and saunter across the redbrick square, kicking loose pebbles when the opportunities arise.
I’m about to turn the corner and exit, ready to head back home to either give Lara a call or root about the internet for job listings, when I look up and into the window of the low-slung bookstore. Its front display looks like it’s gotten a makeover, books I don’t recall seeing last time now front and center. One thing, however, that remains the same, is the handwritten sign in the corner, advertising Help Wanted.
Immediately, with a grin tugging at my mouth, I decide to enter the shop.
It’s quiet inside, save for the very light tunes of Cole Porter playing in the portable CD player set up behind the register counter. The air is a little musty, like any library or used bookstore. It isn’t an off-putting odor, but kind of comforting, actually. Even to someone who hasn’t spent more than a few hours of her life in a library, and who doesn’t really read that many books, I can certainly appreciate and find the tranquility in the scent of used books and old paper.
As I pick up a ratty Seattle guidebook—it looks as if it’s at least fifty years old, beyond outdated—a friendly, male voice says from behind, “Hi there. Can I help you?”
I’m about to say, by rote, “I’m just looking, thanks,” as I usually do when I shop, unless I’m at Kate Spade knowing exactly the pair of next season’s peep-toes I want to pre-order.
“Actually,” I say instead. I look over to where the voice is coming from, just on the other side of the large table in the center of the shop. “The sign in the window,” I point at it, “Help Wanted.”
“Yes.” The stout man, hair white as Santa’s beard, puts one hand in a pocket of his olive-green corduroy trousers, and sort of balances himself with the other, guiding himself towards me with the aid of the table’s ledge. “You looking for a job, dear?”
“Am I ever!” I gasp.
I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of this before. Here I’ve been fretting about finding a job that I desperately need ever since my blowout with Lara, and certainly all this afternoon after my groundbreaking session with Dr. Pierce, and this bookstore’s been looking for help the whole while. I even saw the sign and didn’t even consider the option!
I pan quickly around the small store filled to the brim with books. Surely this place would consider hiring me. I mean, how hard could this job be? Sure, I’ve failed some jobs that even an amoeba could take on, but I’ve got to give this a shot.
“Have you ever worked in a bookstore before? A library?” the stout man asks.
“Err, no,” I say slowly. “But I’m a U Dub graduate.” My voice turns prideful. “Studied at the library there.” I can count on one hand the number of times I actually did that, but quantity isn’t really relevant right now.
“U Dub…” The stout man looks up at the ceiling fondly. “We’ve had a couple of University of Washington students work here.”
“Well I’m graduated, degree and all,” I say in my most charming voice. I need to put my selling face on. If I could work here, that’d be an instant paycheck, and I wouldn’t have to be bothered with those dull job searches.
“Communications,” I add with a bright smile. “Like books, kind of—communicating a message.” I know, I’m totally grasping at straws.
“You know this is only a part-time job?” He turns and shuffles to the register counter. “We’re talking a couple days a week, few hours a day when you do come in. Mostly afternoons, some evenings.”
He starts to fiddle with some papers. “The doctor says I need my rest, and this ain’t exactly the Mediterranean, so I can’t just close up shop and get some shut-eye for a few hours mid-day.” He chuckles and makes his shaky way back towards me, a piece of paper in hand.
I step sprightly forward, saving him the extra sluggish steps that look to pain him.
“Here you are.” He holds out the paper with a shaking hand. “Application. It’s nothing fancy. Very straightforward stuff.” He looks at me with ocean-blue eyes, wrinkles drawn all around in deep lines. “Legal hogwash I’ve got to do—standard—when hiring on help.”
“Thanks!” I look at the application. It’s been prepared on a typewriter and only asks for the very basic of information, such as name, address, phone number, date of birth, social security number, that kind of stuff, with two sections that require a more lengthy, thought-out response. About You is one of them, and I’m not sure what to make of that. I haven’t seen many applications in my day, but I’ve never come across this kind of an open-ended and broad question.
“‘Your favorite book,’” I read aloud the second question, then flash him a smile. “Thanks for the application. I’ll get this filled out right away.”
“Heck,” the man says with a chortle, “I need to hire someone ASAP, and you look like a sweet, reliable young lady.” He squints and moves in closer. “You are reliable, aren’t you?”
“I won’t come in a minute late,” I say up front. “I’ll do my very best, and I’ll take whatever you’ll pay me.”
He grins, then says, “Favorite book?”
I glance down at the paper and bite the inside of my cheek. Of all the questions in the world, he has to ask this one. This one has to be on the application!
Well, you are in a bookstore, Jackie, I think. What’d you expect?
I’m about to blurt out Tender Is the Night, a book that I recall seeing on Emily’s dresser the other day, but then I decide to tell the truth. Emily is always saying the truth is the best policy, and given my current state of affairs, I could use a dose of honesty.
“Actually, Mr….”
“Call me Tom.” He extends his wrinkled and calloused hand. “Tom Hodge.”
“Nice to meet you, Tom. I’m Jackie. Jackie…” I pause for a second. “It’s Jackie Kittredge.”
“So, Jackie, what’s your favorite book? Of all time?”
“Actually, Tom, I’m not much of a reader. I don’t read many books.”
To my surprise, his face doesn’t change much.
“I read magazines,” I say hurriedly. “Give me a fashion magazine, or an interior design magazine, or even one on architecture, and I’ll gobble it up.” I nervously hold the application in both hands.
“You want to work in a bookstore, and you don’t read many books?” His face is still blank.
I nod dolefully, wishing this spontaneous move wasn’t taking such a dive.
I set the application down on top of a pile of old hardbacks. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Tom,” I say. “I guess it is a little silly of me asking for a job in a bookstore when I don’t read any books.”
I hold out my hand for a farewell shake. “Thank you for your time, though. I won’t bother you anymore.”
Tom’s face folds into a small smile, then the smile begins to grow and grow, until he breaks into hearty laughter.
“I never went to college,” he says. “I failed high school Algebra and barely squeaked by basic mathematics. I have no formal education in business or economics, and yet, here I am, running a bookstore—the same location, same store for over forty years!”
He picks up the application and thrusts it back into my hands. “I’m just a romantic at heart with a passion for books. Who says you need a fancy business degree to run a shop?”
He pauses and ma
kes a long, yet comical, face. “Of course, the shop isn’t exactly turning major profits right now, but coming off that recession takes time.” He winks, then adds, “And who says you need to devour books to work in a bookstore? If you’re interested, I’m interested.”
My eyes light up, and I can’t help but blurt out, “Really? So you’ll consider me for the job?”
“I could use some youth around here,” he says, hobbling back to the register. “Someone quicker on their feet, sharper in the ol’ noggin.” He taps his forehead.
“Like I said, I need to take care of myself. Diabetes.” He taps his heart. “Double bypass few years back, too. The ol’ ticker needs to rest.”
He squints a wink and pushes a pen forward on the heavily scratched wooden register counter. “You fill this out right here, right now. I’ll talk to my Shirley—she’s my wife.” He says this with an endearing smile. “If she gives me the okay and you’re free on Saturday, we’ll start the training.”
“Thank you!” I cry, eagerly grabbing the pen.
“Now it is just part-time…and pay isn’t going to make you rich,” he cautions.
“No, that’s fine!”
“I’ve been looking for help for a long time now, but no one seems to want to work in an old bookstore for so few hours, so little pay…”
“Tom, this is something I think I could really use right now.”
He grins and gestures to the application. “All righty, then.”
“Thank you so much!” I fervently begin to fill out the application. “Oh, Tom, I need this job so badly. Thank you. Thank you!”
Chapter Forty-Three
“You’re here!” Lara and Sophie exclaim as I enter The Cup and the Cake.
Toting Bella in her carrier, I walk over to the table the girls are hunched over near the front counter.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Sophie says. “Glad you had this little idea.”
I’ve been wanting to talk to Lara and apologize. Things aren’t awkward between us—we’re just too good of friends, I think, for things to really ever come to that. I mean, in a way we kind of hugged it out and made up straight away afterwards, but my conscience says that wasn’t enough. I owe her more than that.
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