A Girl's Best Friend

by Kristin Billerbeck

  Lilly is addicted to Lysol. Apparently, bad smells are her trigger.

  Poppy is addicted to good, clean living and natural oils. I have no idea what her deal is. But I have a feeling it’s related to endorphins.

  I’m addicted to needing someone, like your standard orphan puppy. My trigger is loneliness. I hate to be alone— and yet, generally speaking, I’ve always been alone. There were always people around, but no one ever paid much attention. My mother didn’t want me, and my father was too busy for me. Somehow I’ve always thought being married would solve this cycle, and my loneliness. But right now that seems like an exceptionally stupid way to go about things. Especially when I could’ve always just gone to the spa for fulfillment.

  Or perhaps I should have just gone to the pound and gotten a little toy poodle to cart around in my bag at all times, like all the movie stars. Perhaps then I might have avoided the bad-engagement phase of life, which led to ignoring what my father was up to and the necessity of getting a job and moving out of my dad’s penthouse. To think a dog might have solved it all.

  But the important thing in the addictive cycle is to break the response. So when I was completely tempted to kiss my lawyer? I didn’t. I fought the temptation with all that I’m made of, and I’ll continue to do so. This is what we call progress!

  I’m addicted to Spa Del Mar, too, because this is the one place where I know my friends will always be here for me. Cell phones stop ringing (they don’t usually work out here, although once in a great while we get lucky–or unlucky as the case may be). I know that when I speak here at the spa, someone will listen. They won’t be running off to their next meeting, unless it’s a papaya facial, and I can totally forgive that. No one has anything more important to say than, “It’s time for your papaya facial.”

  “I am pathetic, you know?” I toss my Coach overnight bag onto the bed.

  “Sure, we know that. The three of us are pathetic. I do believe that’s what made us friends in the first place,” Lilly offers.

  “I’ve discovered I’m addicted to people,” I say. “I can’t be alone.”

  “Like a codependent?” Poppy asks.

  “Sort of, but I can’t really find anyone to be codependent with, so I think I’m just dependent. ‘Insert current boyfriend here.’”

  “You should get a dog,” Lilly says.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking!” I answer, amazed that my friends and I think so much alike.

  “You might want to wait until you find out about the charges, though. They don’t let dogs in prison.”

  “Lilly!” Poppy chastises. “Ixnay on the isonpray.”

  “I may not be concierge material, but I do know my Pig Latin, Poppy.”

  She laughs. “We really should have taken a language at Stanford.”

  “Obviously.”

  “So what are you going to do about this addiction to people?”

  “We all have addictive behavior, Lilly. You’re addicted to Lysol, and maybe success, too. Poppy’s addicted to clean living, and getting everyone else to live her way. She’s a control freak of sorts.”

  “As I said, now that you’ve figured us all out, what do you intend to do about it? And I don’t really see my Lysol addiction as all that upsetting, actually. Bacteria-scented rooms are worse. And how is Poppy running 10-Ks and living clean bad? I mean, have you seen the girl’s body lately?” Lilly looks over Poppy and lifts her skirt above her knees. “Now, if we could only get her to actually show that body off a bit.” Lilly sighs. “That’s her addiction—bad clothing. She’s got the body of Jessica Simpson in Daisy Dukes under the style of Whoopi Goldberg. That ain’t right.”

  Poppy sighs and rolls her eyes. “No one wants to see me in Daisy Dukes.”

  “No one wants to see anyone in Daisy Dukes,” Lilly says.

  “What about your inability to commit to a good man, for fear you might miss the success boat?” I ask Lilly pointedly. “As if getting married will get in your way?”

  “I’m not afraid to get married,” Lilly says, dismissing me, because clearly she doesn’t want to talk about Max. “Poppy, at least let me make you a pair of jeans. You would rule the sidewalk in a pair of my jeans.”

  Poppy shakes her head. “Too stiff. I don’t like denim.”

  “Oh no, my jeans are like butter. They will hug you and your curves like buttah, I tell you.” Lilly raises her eyebrow and rethinks her strategy. “Natural fibers. All-natural fibers, and you look good, too. How bad could it be?”

  “You’re avoiding the subject Lilly. I’m on to you.”

  “I’m not avoiding the subject. I’m changing the subject. I just don’t understand what your delving into addictions has to do with me. Let’s focus on why you have to have a boyfriend, all right?”

  She looks at me and sees my frustration, and I can see her guilt well up on her expression. “I’m sorry, Morgan. You’re addicted to people. That’s a good step for you to figure that out. We just need to find you a decent person to be addicted to.”

  “I think I’m going to stick with my faith from here on out. I wonder if being an evangelical Christian, I’m eligible to be a nun.”

  “Nuns don’t get pedicures every week,” Poppy reminds me.

  “It’s that whole living simply thing,” Lilly agrees.

  “I might be living more simply than the nuns if the feds get their way.”

  “Would you stop?”

  “We’re here for you Morgan. This could be your—” Poppy cuts herself off.

  “You can say it. My last shot at freedom. My last visit to Spa Del Mar for a very long time.” I put my head down. “Well, you know Martha Stewart lost weight in prison; maybe that will happen for me. I’m going to be an optimist. Maybe I’ll meet a cute prison guard.”

  “Martha wasn’t a six to begin with, Morgan.” Lilly shakes her head. “And aren’t the prison guards women?”

  “How would I know?” I pull the pink envelope from my jacket pocket. “I have a letter here from my mother.”

  After a moment in which both Lilly and Poppy blink at my non sequitur, Lilly shakes her head. “Oh, be careful with that. My biological mother came to visit me, and I only got abandoned all over again.” She takes the envelope from my hand. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

  “Will you tell me what it really says?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” Lilly opens the envelope carefully, and I watch as her eyes scan the contents. The letter is short, and when she’s done Lilly looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “Your mother experience is better than mine.”

  “Let me see it!” I grab the letter from her hands and allow myself to focus first on the beautiful script my mother had. “She was such an artist,” I say. It’s so strange to think after all these years my mother had something she wanted to say to me.

  May 7, 1985

  Dear Morgan:

  If you’re reading this, most likely the cancer finished its job, and I am on to the next level of living. I have asked Grace Henry to give this to you when she thinks you are old enough to hear it. There is so much I want to apologize for, so much I should have done for you, but I suppose this is the way it’s supposed to be. Your father will marry again, and find another woman to fill in where I was so inadequate. I wanted to be a good mother, but there was nothing in me, no reserves and no motherly instincts. Everyone told me that I’d find them, they were there dormant in me, but I found that this wasn’t true. Being a mother involved offering something of myself that simply wasn’t there.

  You probably remember that your father and I had a combative marriage. We were not in love when we married, but I thought his care of me would fulfill something I’d been missing in my own experience. He thought he might train me to be the right kind of wife who would be accepted into his world. For the most part, I think we achieved our goals, but the crack in our great plan was you. We could fool the whole of San Francisco, but we could never fool you, my love. You saw who we really were. I wish that I
’d taken the time to grab you up in my arms and hug you with all my strength. It’s what I wanted to do, but it was too late for you. You were afraid of me, and I can’t say I blame you.

  I’ve asked Mrs. Henry to make sure you get an education, and I have prayed that if there’s a God, He will hear my prayer and not let you make the same mistakes. You are a beautiful treasure, Morgan, the best thing I ever did in this lifetime, and I want the path to be easier for you. Get an education. Make your own money. Know that I loved you, even if I didn’t know how to show it. I will always love you, Morgan. When I think of some of the things I’ve said to you, I feel the cancer in my bones, and I think I deserve it and more. Be love, Morgan. Don’t let them break you.

  All my love,

  Mom

  My friends are flanking me, their tears as apparent as my own, but my first awful thought is, This is a day late and a dollar short! Get an education? Be independent? Thank you, Mrs. Henry, for handing this to me after the Feds came with my less-than-independent name attached to a grand-jury hearing.

  My friends hug me from each side. “I think Mrs. Henry gave this to me a little late. I could have used the ‘make your own money’ advice a little earlier in the process.”

  We all laugh through our tears.

  “Let’s drive into town and see a movie,” Lilly says.

  “And eat at that fattening steak place,” Poppy adds.

  We both look at her, surprised that she’d not have a lecture for such a suggestion.

  “Vitamin B12,” she says, and we giggle. “And vitamin B6.”

  “That is not going to help you detox tomorrow, during your facial and massage,” I remind her.

  “No, it’s not,” Poppy admits. “But we’re about breaking our addictions this weekend, aren’t we?”

  I grab my friends’ hands, and I praise God for their friendship. As I stand on the verge of legal uncertainty, I have to say that they are my constants. They remind me that God is up there, and He is listening.

  My emotions are in full tilt as I discover just how much my mother and I were alike, and how we both looked in the wrong places for love. Actually, in the same man. My father may not be evil, but he is certainly not a reservoir of love. His well ran dry a long time ago, and he filled the coffers with gold instead. I’ve thought about calling him a million times, but right now, I’m so confused I’m just happy for the respite.

  “So? Steak?” Poppy asks.

  “Steak,” I answer, feeling a bit like I’m enjoying my last meal. But the thing is? I’m going to enjoy it.

  My mother loved me. She had an odd way of showing it, but in order to break this addiction, I have to show it, and build on this letter of encouragement.

  “I love you gals!”

  “What’s not to love?” Lilly asks.

  We get dressed for dinner, and I allow Poppy to dab my wrists with essential oils that will lead to calmness. This definitely beats buying shoes, and it fills a far deeper need. The words of my favorite hymn come to mind: “Here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.”

  In my mother’s way, that’s exactly what she was trying to say: share your heart with the right people, and seal it from harm. Okay, maybe I’m taking liberties. But my mother loved me. Right now, I could sit in prison with this thought. It changes everything.

  chapter 23

  Steak. Filet mignon, to be exact, and it was only the beginning. We indulged in Caesar salad, minestrone soup, and tiramisu—all served with several glasses of Diet Coke. Literally, they could have rolled us out of the restaurant, like Violet Beauregarde out of Willie Wonka’s factory.

  “Let’s go to the movies!” Lilly says when we exit the restaurant.

  “Chick flick.” Poppy agrees.

  “Poppy, what’s gotten into you? What about detoxing to purify our systems before tomorrow?” I ask.

  “So we’ll get acne after the facial. Big deal. We survived puberty, we can survive this. It’s not like any of us have dates, except Lilly, and she doesn’t even care.”

  “Are you not feeling well?”

  “No, just ready to have some fun.” Poppy claps her hands together. “Let’s boogie.”

  “What is going on?” I ask. “We know your type of fun has nothing to do with eating badly and watching a chick flick. You do realize we’ll have to get popcorn and candy at the theater.”

  “It’s the rule,” Lilly adds with a shrug.

  “I want to break my addictions, too. Why should you guys have all the fun? I need my own issues, don’t I? I don’t want to be left out. Besides, I’m practicing to get on Survivor.”

  “The TV show?”

  Poppy nods.

  “No offense, Poppy, but I think what you eat now is closer to what they’re going to give you on Survivor. Don’t go getting taste buds now. It will totally harm your chances.”

  “I can’t imagine who would want to be on that show. I mean, unless you’re looking to lose weight, what’s the point?” Lilly adds.

  “It’s about facing your fears, struggling against the elements, and winning, proving to yourself you can do it,” Poppy says enthusiastically.

  “To prove what? That you can live on bugs? When are Americans going to actually need this skill?” Lilly asks.

  “I think that’s Fear Factor,” I clarify for Lilly.

  “Still, don’t you wonder what other countries think of us and our entertainment? We want to watch people eat disgusting things. How weird is that?”

  “It’s strange,” I agree.

  We get into the Beamer, which is currently being tracked by the feds according to George. He told me they would, and also that I won’t be allowed to leave the county without permission. This is before anyone finds me guilty, I might add. This is after the charges are read. So much for a free country and innocent until proven guilty. I fear I’ll be bidding good-bye to Spa Del Mar, and I think that’s why I was so anxious to get down here for one last hurrah.

  We’re just arriving at the theaters when Lilly’s cell phone rings, and we all groan. Apparently, the phones work out here, and I have to say, being free and gorging ourselves on fattening food was a very liberating experience. It was like I was flying! (Of course, now I feel nailed to the ground by fat calories, but that’s another story.)

  “Lilly Jacobs Design,” she says into the phone. “Uh-huh. Yes. Right.” More waiting. “I’ll be back soon.” She clicks the phone shut and stares at us, the lights from the parking lot highlighting her face and her flattened, pomaded hair. Lilly is under the distinct impression that big hair makes her less professional. In actuality, the pasted look is not for her. Max has tried to tell her that, as have we, but daily she applies a litany of flattening products on her hair. At least she’s not going to the salon for straightening anymore. She learned her lesson when her promotion went to someone else the last time. I guess we all take baby steps, don’t we?

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “Max. I didn’t actually tell him I was leaving town.”

  “Are you nuts?” I squeal. “Why not?”

  “His mother came to town by surprise. I think it was good timing that I left.”

  I just shake my head. “You know, how about if I show up at Max’s house and claim to be his girlfriend, because I’ll tell you, I’d have that man to my father’s store before he could finish his next column.”

  “Come on, the movie’s starting,” Lilly says.

  “Not for us, it’s not. We’re going to the spa. I’m going to see if they’re offering a hot-stone massage and lobotomy session for you, Lilly.”

  “Why are you so anxious to get me married off? What if Max’s mother disowns him? Won’t you feel bad then?”

  I laugh out loud at this. “Lilly, you would never allow yourself to fail at anything you set your mind to. We’re going home, and you are going to meet Max’s mother. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly have a stellar experience with my own mother.
What makes you think Max’s will like me?” She drops her head in her hands, “Oh gosh, guys. If you only knew.”

  “Max loves you, and it behooves a mother-in-law to like her daughter-in-law. The daughter-in-law is the key to unlock the grandchild door. If you didn’t love him that would be one thing, but you’re just completely warped. We’re going to fix your addiction, change it from Lysol to a view of the Bay. A view you can only get in Max’s house.”

  “Why is it such an issue for you? You should be more worried about Poppy trying to get on Survivor.”

  The truth is it’s easier to worry about Lilly’s garbage. Lilly’s stuff can be fixed. Mine is completely out of my hands. “Do you know how the frog in the water gets really comfortable, when in fact he’s sort of reaching the boiling point?”

  “I’ve heard that story.”

  “That’s what you’re doing, Lilly. You’re boiling over in your own filth, and spraying Lysol isn’t fixing the problem. You’re like a walking bacterial infection, and you won’t take Max, the antibiotic.”

  Poppy shakes her head. “It would be a good analogy, but you shouldn’t take antibiotics. They’re making infection impervious to the antibiotics.”

  “Do you mind? It’s an analogy. Not medical advice.”

  “It’s not a very good analogy is all I’m saying.”

  “It’s good for Lilly; she hates bacteria. I’m trying to show her she’s becoming what she hates because of fear.”

  “I thought we were going to the movies.”