I close my computer and think, once again, about the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. I can’t remember how that story ended. Did he remove his finger and drown in the flood or what? Also, he only had a small hole to plug. The hole I’m seeing is more like Niagara Falls or Lake Meade. How do you stop something like that?
For the next several days I obsess over my research until it’s almost all I think or talk about. By Sunday afternoon, Mollie is fed up. “Enough already,” she tells me as we’re finishing up lunch at the mall. We stopped here after church to shop for some maternity clothes, since Mollie has outgrown just about everything in her closet. “Did you even listen to this morning’s sermon?”
I nod. “Yeah … we can’t change other people, we can only change ourselves. I get it.”
“But”—she points her index finger in the air—“when we change ourselves, it can change the way we see others.”
“Give the girl a prize,” I tease.
“It was a good sermon.”
“So what did it mean to you personally?” I ask.
She gets a thoughtful look. “I think it means that I need to quit focusing on Tony so much. I need to accept that he does not want to be a dad … doesn’t want to marry me. I need to let it go. Then I won’t keep seeing him as … well, as the devil.”
I frown. “You see Tony as the devil?”
“Not literally. But sort of …”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “I didn’t know that.”
“I’m not exactly proud of it. But sometimes it feels like he got me into this mess …” She holds up two tightly balled fists. “And then he runs off like a great big chicken … and I get so angry that I’d like to seriously injure him.”
“You should let that go, Mollie.”
Her fists go back down. “I know. For the sake of the baby, I’m trying to forgive him, but it’s not really a one-time-and-it’s-done-with kind of thing.”
“I can understand that.”
“Well, hopefully by the time the baby comes, I’ll have completed the process.”
I smile at her. “I admire how grown up you’re being, Moll. I’m sure I wouldn’t do half as well if I were in your shoes.”
“Speaking of shoes, I need to find some more comfortable ones since my feet seem to be getting bigger too. Mom told me that her feet grew two sizes when she was pregnant with me. Can you believe that?”
I just shake my head. And, no, I can’t believe it. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told her that I wouldn’t handle it too well if I were in her shoes. I honestly don’t know how she does it … and more than that, how she will manage to do it when the baby does come. I cannot wrap my head around it.
So I’m determined to be the best friend I can to her. If that means picking out maternity clothes and sensible shoes, I can do that. But when Mollie begs me to go to the baby department to look at the cribs and things, I start to inwardly balk. I want to tell her to get real—I mean, she doesn’t even know if she’s keeping the baby! Why make things worse by looking at this stuff? And yet I manage to keep my opinions to myself.
“Isn’t this adorable?” she says as she shows me her favorite nursery arrangement—turquoise blue baby furniture and magenta and lime green bedding.
“It seems kind of bright to me,” I admit. “Do babies really like these kinds of colors?”
“I read that bright colors stimulate brain development.” She runs her hand over the rail on the crib. “It’s supposed to increase the baby’s IQ.”
“Oh …” I wander over to a more traditional nursery setup with white painted furnishings and pale blue and yellow bedding. “I think I’d go more for this,” I tell her. I pick up a teddy bear and pretend to rock it like a baby. “More soothing.” Just then I feel someone watching me and I look up in time to see a teen girl pointing her phone at me with a triumphant grin.
“You’re Erin from On the Runway, aren’t you?” she calls from where she’s standing with a woman I’m guessing is her mom.
I know I now have a choice—I can become indignant and snarl at her … or I can smile and act nonchalant. Fortunately I have the good sense to go with the second option. She takes her shot and then I turn my attention back to Mollie as she comes over to look at the more subdued nursery set.
“Yeah … this is actually pretty nice. Much calmer.” I hand her the teddy bear and she sighs. “I can’t believe it’s only three months away.”
I press my lips together. No way am I going to stick my foot in my mouth right now. Especially with that teen girl close enough to overhear us.
“Mom told me I can move my bedroom down to the basement if I want.” She gently sets the bear against the pillow in the crib. “I can make it into an apartment for the baby and me.”
“Are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know.” She pats the bear’s tummy. “I’m thinking about it.”
It’s so hard to respond. Although I want to be encouraging to Mollie, I don’t want to encourage her to keep her baby, because I honestly don’t see how she can manage to parent a child and finish school and have much of a life. But if I tell her how I really feel, I know I risk upsetting her. Best to keep my mouth shut.
So I keep my opinions to myself as we continue to shop. I chat about other things as I drive Mollie home from the mall, telling her about the plans for our next show. “Paige got Chanel to agree to let us film there while we pick out bridesmaid dresses.” Then I tell Mollie about how Paige and I disagreed on what style would be best.
“No way.” Mollie laughs. “You stood up to your sister’s sense of style? Are you nuts?”
“But the dress Paige wanted would look weird with what Mom plans to wear. And it is Mom’s wedding.”
“But Paige is the fashion expert.”
I consider this. “Yes. Paige is an expert when it comes to fashion. But maybe she’s not the only one.”
“So you’re an expert now too?”
“Helen seems to believe in me.” I hold my head higher. “And, sure, Paige and I have totally different taste. But maybe I’ve let her overshadow me too much. I mean, I know what I like. And I kind of know what looks good on me. Or at least I’m starting to figure it out. Admittedly, Paige has helped me with that some. But I also know what I don’t like.”
“Such as?”
“Such as expensive designer clothes. I honestly don’t see why style has to be expensive.”
“And you helped me find some good deals in maternity clothes,” Mollie points out. “You actually found some pretty stylish pieces too.”
“Thanks.”
“So maybe you’re right. Maybe you do need to step outside of the Paige shadow and let your own style shine.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking.” I nod eagerly. “In fact, that gives me an idea.”
“What?”
“I think I’ll ask Helen if I can do my own kind of shopping spree for a show sometime. With cameras following me, I could gather up my own wardrobe of environmentally friendly and economically affordable threads—and do it with style.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“And I have some other ideas too. Maybe it’s time to push the envelope a little. How much haute couture can our viewers stand anyway?”
Mollie laughs. “Well, if they’re anything like your sister, they will never tire of it.”
“But what if their wallets are more like yours?”
Mollie nods. “Good point. You should go for it, Erin. I think you have some great ideas. By now you must know enough about how the show works to make some good pitches.”
After I drop Mollie off, I go directly home and start putting together a plan for shows I’d like to pitch. The first episode is “Killer Style,” and although I have gathered a lot of statistics and ammunition, I’m not totally sure how we would shoot it. I do know I would like to interview some models, hopefully ones who’ve been through some body-image struggles but who aren’t still suffering from eating diso
rders. Like Paige Geller—I’ll bet she’d do an interview. That could give it a more positive spin. The next show I’m calling “Cheap Chic.” It would be about economizing the closet—how big style doesn’t need to cost big bucks. And the third show I’m calling “Haute Green”—about how high fashion doesn’t have to harm the planet.
I think these are all good, viable ideas for On the Runway episodes, but at the same time I know Paige is not going to like any of them. Well, except maybe the body image one since she’s already agreed to it. But I’m hoping that Helen and Fran will like them and agree to produce them. More than that, I’m hoping that we can get a least one of them in the can before it’s time to go to London. I’m also hoping that I can actually carry this off. I realize that means I need to get comfortable in front of the camera. I need to exude more confidence. And to do that, I think I need to practice.
Ideally I would approach Paige and ask her to coach me. But I doubt that either one of us is ready for that. I consider asking Blake for help—I’m sure he’d be willing and probably even be good at it—but it kind of goes against my keep-the-guys-at-a-distance policy. Not that I plan to maintain this “pact” indefinitely. But I guess I want to do it just long enough to prove to my sister that it is actually doable.
Finally, I decide to ask Mollie for some assistance. After all, she seemed interested, and the distraction might be nice for her. Plus, she’s taken a number of acting classes and knows how to run a camera. I simply hope it doesn’t set her up to think she’s part of the show or cause her to feel jealous. I don’t want that. But, to my relief, she seems genuinely pleased when I call and explain my idea—and she’s still enthused after I clarify that she won’t be an actual part of the show. “It’s more about getting me ready to take on a bigger role,” I say. “Like an acting coach.”
“Sounds like fun. I’d love to help,” she eagerly tells me. “When do we start?”
“As soon as you want.”
“I’ve got an idea. How about if you come over here and help me move my bedroom stuff down to the basement? Then we can use that as our studio since it has more room.”
I gladly agree and we decide to go ahead and get started tomorrow afternoon. Mollie promises to study some of the previous On the Runway episodes in order to determine what it is I really need to work on. And I’ll bring my camera equipment so we can critique my performances.
Whether this will work or not still remains to be seen. But at least it won’t be as embarrassing or painful as it would be if I were doing it with Paige on an actual set. The worst-case scenario is that the practice doesn’t help, and I tell Helen Hudson that she needs to rethink the whole costar plan. But the truth is, I actually hope it does work, because I think the episodes I want to do are both interesting and necessary.
Chapter
5
“I wonder if you should be moving heavy things,” I say to Mollie. We’ve just started to dismantle her bedroom and I’m beginning to have second thoughts.
“Oh, it’s probably okay.” She sets a drawer full of folded T-shirts on her already-crowded bed, then stoops down to pull out another drawer.
I watch her hunched over as she tugs on the bottom drawer, which seems to be stuck, and wonder what I’d do if she suddenly went into premature labor or, even worse, tumbled down the steep basement stairs while carrying down a piece of furniture. “What would your mom say?”
She shrugs. “Mom’s not here, remember?”
I glance around her jam-packed bedroom, the same room she’s had her whole life, and it’s showing its age. Last year, her design goal in this room was to create “shabby chic,” but I think she struggled with the chic part. “You know, Mollie, I think we need to make some kind of a plan.”
“A plan?” She frowns up at me.
I bend down and help her dislodge the stubborn bottom drawer, which is stuffed with old jeans, and I set it on the bed. “Yeah. A plan. For starters, let’s check out the basement and decide where things are going to go down there so we only have to move them once. Okay?”
She nods. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
But once we’re down there, I realize we need more than just a plan. We need some Merry Maids. “This place is kind of a mess,” I say to Mollie as I pluck a string of cobweb from her hair. “I can’t believe your mom wants you to live down here.”
“Well, since they moved the laundry room upstairs, she never comes down here anymore. I guess she doesn’t clean down here too much either.”
I nod. That seems fairly obvious.
“It’s kind of depressing, isn’t it?”
I nod again. “That wall color doesn’t help much.” It’s sort of grayish beige. Maybe it’s greige.
“I remember when Dad threw a bunch of leftover paints together and mixed them up to get this.”
I look down at the carpet, which is also beige and in need of a good cleaning. Then, against the wall, there’s a beige couch and matching beige chair. “This place is like a sea of beige,” I tell Mollie.
“Pretty dreary, huh?”
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I peer at her curiously, thinking that her overly crowded bedroom is starting to look a whole lot better.
“My parents kind of want me to move down here,” she says quietly. “I think it’s so they can pretend this isn’t happening.”
“You mean the baby?”
She nods with sad eyes. “Dad’s kind of in denial. I think he’s hoping that my pregnancy will be like a bad case of the flu … it’ll eventually just go away.”
My heart hurts for Mollie, but I don’t know what to say.
“And my mom is planning to turn my room into her office,” she continues. “She thinks she’s going to start writing a book.”
I look around the dreary space, trying to imagine some way to make it more habitable. “What if we painted the walls a more cheerful color?” I suggest.
Mollie brightens for a moment and then shakes her head. “That’d be nice, but according to my pregnancy book, I’m not supposed to breathe paint fumes. It’s bad for the baby.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” I look around the room more carefully now and I suddenly begin to imagine it differently—like after a makeover.
“It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” Mollie goes over and sinks down onto the couch, and I can see the dust fibers floating through the dim light that’s coming through the high, dingy window.
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s not hopeless at all. In fact, I’m starting to get a vision.”
“A vision?” Her brow creases. “Huh?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Trust you to do what?”
“Makeover this room.”
She laughs. “I don’t think you could make it any worse than it already is, Erin. Sure, I trust you. What’s your vision?”
“Well … I’m still working on it. But you could start running a vacuum down here while I go check into some things. Okay?”
“Okay.” She stands up with a slightly hopeful expression.
“You really trust me?”
She smiles. “Actually, I do. Your room is pretty cool and you’ve always had a better sense about stuff like this than me.”
“Are you still into shabby chic?”
She shrugs then makes a sheepish smile. “When it’s done right.”
“Okay … I’m going to go pick up paint and a few other things while you do some cleaning down here.”
“Do you need some money?”
“We’ll figure that out later.” Then I head out and, hoping that I’m not biting off more than I can chew, drive over to the closest home improvement store, where I find a color called sea glass green. The guy tells me he can mix it in the low VOC kind, which makes it safer for Mollie’s baby. So, remembering that Mollie has always liked green, I decide to go with this peaceful shade of pale blue-green. While the guy’s mixing it, I look around thinking shabby chic … shabby chic … And yet nothing in this store really seem
s to fit.
But then I see a pile of rugs on sale, and one of them reminds me of a rug in my grandmother’s house—a braided rug her mother had made out of old fabric. This rug, though not handmade, is still interesting. Its soft shades of blue, rose, and green would brighten up that blah beige carpet. Then, after it’s rolled and loaded onto an oversized cart, I head back to pick up the paint. But on my way, I pass by the outdoor furnishings and spot a set of white wicker chairs and a table marked fifty percent off. However, I realize there’s no way those will fit in the back of my Jeep Wrangler.
That’s when I call Blake, who has just finished his last class of the day. I explain my dilemma, the dreary basement, and how I want to help Mollie. The next thing I know, he’s offering to borrow his dad’s pickup and help me out. Blake arrives as I finish paying for this stuff, which is relatively cheap.
“Do you need some help with the painting?” he asks as we load things into the back of his dad’s truck.
“Sure,” I say eagerly. “That’d be awesome.”
“I could call some guys from church,” he suggests. “We’d finish it really quick.”
“Great.” I glance at my watch. “I have to make a couple more stops, but maybe you can head over to Mollie’s now—I’ll meet up with you in an hour or so.”
“Will do.”
“And don’t let Mollie down there while you’re painting,” I say as he’s getting into the cab. “Paint fumes are bad for the baby.”
He nods. “Gotcha.”
Next, I go to the discount fabric store across the street. I honestly don’t know what I’m looking for, but I do have the pale green paint sample with me. Again, I’m thinking shabby chic … shabby chic. I’m also thinking I need to hurry. That’s when I notice a table of decorator fabrics that are marked down to twelve dollars a bolt. A woman explains that they’re the ends of discontinued bolts but promises they have at least six yards of fabric on each. So I grab a fairly heavy bolt of pale green and white stripes, a bolt of pastel plaid, and a bolt of multicolored pastel polka-dots. As I purchase these bolts, I have no idea how I’ll put them to use. Mostly I want something to transform the ugly beige sofa and chair as well as to create cushions for the wicker chairs.
Spotlight Page 4