by Kristi Rose
“So what you do here, but there. And Miami is first on your list?”
“It was. But in order to get the right location there, I’ll have to purchase a building and lease it out. Which I’m open to doing. I quite like the idea of owning real estate. But I was led to think I might not qualify for the loan.” I twist my earring and think about the cold, matter-of-fact tone of the lender.
Stacy nods, lost in thought. Does he see cute little numbers swimming in his head? Do they quickly come together in combinations like outfits do for me?
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“Let me look at the numbers first. I’ll give you a rundown of scenarios once I get through them.”
I continue to twist my earring and nod. My fate is in his hands.
“Jayne,” he says, pulling my hand from my ear. “Relax, let the numbers be your guide.” My hand is cradled in his. He’s a master at caressing; his strokes are perfect, not so light you think it’s a bug and not so heavy you wonder if any skin is left behind. I want to entwine my fingers with his. I want to rub my thumb over his knuckles. But I do nothing, committing the feeling to memory for when my naughty free telly subscription runs out.
I wait for him to continue.
“She doesn’t get it, Dad,” Cordie says without looking up from the phone’s screen. “It’s a Star Wars reference. Dad likes to think he’s the Yoda of numbers.”
“Ahh,” I say, feigning a clarity I don’t possess.
“What I mean is that the numbers will give you the direction; they’ll empower you.”
I slide my hand from his. The act imitates a lingering caress. I quickly stow mine under my leg to hide the quivering mess it’s become.
You can’t have him.
I glance at Cordie.
“So other than the food, how’s Pippa working out?”
“She’s teaching me yoga.” Cordie flashes me a smile.
“It’s impressive how limber she is. Yesterday when I came home she was doing the splits but up along the wall.” He runs his hand vertically for added clarity.
“Yes, impressive,” I echo. I reach into my bag and pull out a fortune cookie. I’m in desperate need for some direction, and if Stacy thinks it can be found in numbers I think it can be found in a fortune cookie.
“Did you get that here?” Cordie asks.
“No, I carry them in my purse. Sorta inspirational support.” I glance quickly at Stacy. “Or for when I’m peckish, like now. Want one?”
I hand one to Cordie and she snatches it up greedily.
“Should you be eating those here?” Stacy asks.
“It’s not against the law,” I say and crack mine in two.
Cordie waves her around. “It says I’ll be rewarded with riches.” She beams up at us.
I glance down at mine. It’s blank except for lottery numbers on the opposite side.
I sigh with disgust and flick the paper across the room just as Amit steps up to the table with our food.
Chapter 15
Pippa and I arrive at Heather’s with snack food and cocktails in tow. Pippa’s made a dip the color of puce and the odor of sweaty socks. She’s paired it with sprouted chips and I make a mental note to get the first sample and if it’s wretched find a way to accidentally knock it to the floor.
Unable to land a sitter and unwilling to miss our bimonthly girls’ night out, Heather’s invited us to descend upon her place. Tyler will be milling around but we’ve done this before. We don’t get together to get rowdy but more to enjoy each other’s company. Heather’s house, laid out rambler style, is sparsely decorated, as she’s had to split half of everything with her soon-to-be ex, Justin.
She has a warm and inviting kitchen, painted robin’s egg blue with white crown molding, white cupboards, and dark wood floors. I’ve never thought much about the inner workings of a kitchen, requiring only a stove to cook things and a refrigerator to keep things from spoiling. Oh, and running water. It’s been months since someone used my oven and longer since I have. But something about Heather’s kitchen draws me in and I find myself hanging out there. She has a built-in desk as part of her kitchen, an idea I think brilliant. I need one in my flat so when I work I’ll be close to the snack food. I imagine if I had the same setup my desk would look similar to Heather’s. Covered in newspaper, loose paper, books, and the like. Mine might also have a few used tea mugs and chocolate wrappers.
Within a five-minute span, we’ve all arrived. Josie is mixing cocktails in the kitchen and I’ve had my covert sample of Pip’s dip. It’s so good I’ve had several more bites.
It just goes to show someone, whose name rhymes with Macy, lacks a refined palette. The food my cousin creates may be unique in presentation and, yes, odor, but quite tasty.
“There’s veggies in there. Like cauliflower. You should go easy lest you explode from providing your body with some much-needed quality food,” she tells me and dips a chip.
“Hmm, that explains the odor. But I’ll suffer through; brave the odds to get in my recommended daily allowance. And real chips would be a lot better but—” I shrug and continue to dip.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Have you been drinking those smoothies I’m making you every morning?”
“Green should not be the color of a smoothie. Smoothies should be pink or purple.” At least the ones I get from drive-thru places are and those are wonderfully worth every penny.
Pippa rolls her eyes. “There was one that was purple.”
“No. That was a dark, dark, dark poo color.” I reach for a loaf of bread someone placed on the counter next to a handful of tomatoes, probably with the intention of making bruschetta. Likely Josie, who’s still mentally on her honeymoon.
“It had chocolate in it.” She takes the bread from my hand. “It’s food like this that keeps that extra cushion on your hips.”
By that she also means my arse.
“I like my hips,” I say and reach for the loaf.
She steps out of reach, the bag behind her back. “You won’t when you’re forty.”
“Can’t I enjoy today, Pippa?” For such a free spirit, she’s always had her eye on the next day. Always trying to undo the wrongs of the yesterdays and perfect the tomorrows.
“Fine.” She tosses the bread to me. “Pig out. We can share a flat in our single, lonely elderly years and lament on all the things we would have done differently, starting with bread.” She spins on her heel and stalks off into Heather’s living room, where she drops to the floor and begins to stretch out.
“What was that about?” Josie asks from behind me.
After placing the loaf on the counter, I move away from the food. “I’m not sure.” It’s a wee bit like a chess match, trying to move the pieces around and not having all the information. I try not to be buggered by how blooming awful I am at chess. “Hey, do me a favor and ask her. Later. After she’s chilled out a bit.” I slide the tray of drinks off the counter and wait for Josie’s response before I set out to deliver them.
“Heather,” I say, handing her one light on booze, as she’s ultimately in charge of a child once we all leave. “How’s the job hunt going?”
“Awful. I’ve landed nothing permanent. I wonder if it’s because I tell them about—” She jerks her head toward her child before continuing. “I mention that we’ll be out for a week in three months when he has that brain study. I want to be honest, not surprise them after the fact, but I’m thinking being honest is hurting me.” She chugs her drink, finishing it off before I’ve handed out the rest, and then places the empty glass on the tray.
“Isn’t that discrimination?” I ask and we all turn to Josie, the lawyer in the group.
“Only if you can prove it. And in this case, that would be difficult.” She walks into the living room with the blender and refills Heather’s glass.
Heather says, “It’s got to get easier. Really, it has to. I don’t know how much more I can take
.”
“It’ll turn around soon. You’ll see.” Kenley pats her hand.
“Not if my luck continues.” Heather stares into her drink.
I arrange the food on the counter and remember when Mum looked as hopeless as Heather does right now. Even surrounded by family and friends, Mum had still required professional intervention. Medication and counseling.
I follow Paisley into the kitchen and stop her by grabbing her arm. “We need to keep a better eye on Heather, makes sure she’s not sliding into depression.”
Paisley looks over her shoulder to where the rest of our group sits chatting. “Jeez, you’re right. I’m a terrible friend. I’ve been so consumed with my own drama I forgot about how awful it is to be divorced and trying to figure it all out again.” Paisley, divorced over a year ago, would know best of all of us.
“Are you all talking about me?” Heather calls from the living room, her teasing tone laced with a crispness that bodes of hidden anger.
“No,” Paisley says, her eyes darting to me in panic.
“Paisley was making fun of me,” I say, improvising.
“About what?” Josie asks.
Our gazes shift to each other, Paisley and I, each apparently asking, “Now what, genius?”
“Your sign.” Paisley points over my shoulder.
I turn to where a small wooden framed sign hangs. It’s one of those inspirational mantras posing as home decoration and Heather’s hung it over her coffee pot as if the reminder is needed as she starts her day.
It reads: Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ~ Elizabeth Stone
“Yes,” I say. “She asked if that’s why I didn’t want children. If I was afraid.”
Paisley nods as if she’s onto something and says as she faces the group, “Right, but she said the reason why wasn’t because of the constant angst but because of the similarity to being pecked to death by chickens.” She turns back to me and winks. A few of the friends chuckle, so Paisley and I do as well.
“Your mom has that saying posted in her house,” Josie says, pointing a finger at Paisley.
“That’s where I saw it,” I say and hear Paisley let out the breath she must have been holding.
“That’s a terrible saying,” Heather says. “There’s nothing like having a child and spending every day wondering how you’ll make them happy, keep them safe, and get them to adulthood.”
“Sounds stressful. Like being covered in chiggers. I spend an unusual amount of time avoiding chiggers,” Paisley says.
“Or like being stung, repetitively, by a swarm of bees,” Josie adds.
“How about being covered in honey and set out on an ant bed?” Pip says.
Some of us wince before laughing, but the group has deteriorated into giggles and sayings about torture and children. Even Heather’s chimed in with a few.
This. This is what a circle of friends is about. Helping one up when they have fallen, sharing laughs, and tears, and heartbreak. I press my hand to my chest, thankful for this eclectic mix of women I call friends and make a silent wish and prayer that nothing comes to fracture this.
As the laughter dies down, Heather turns to Pippa and asks, “I thought you enjoyed children?”
“Oh, I do. I’m not like Jayne. I’d love to have a large brood and a house with a wrap porch and, well, you all know.” Pippa looks at her toes, reaches out, and grabs them, pulling herself forward into a stretch, her face buried in her knees.
If I had a lantern that housed a genie who was in the business of dispatching wishes, my first would be to give Pippa the family she desperately longs for. A place she can call her own. My second would be to make sure my folks were set up to live comfortably, and my third would be the for the obvious: three more wishes.
“Are you leaving again anytime soon?” Heather asks, her hand trembling as she takes a drink.
“Well,” Pippa says, moving into child’s pose. “That depends.” She looks at me.
“On what?” Josie sits on the floor next to her, her legs tucked under her.
“On whether I get this job I applied for,” she mumbles.
“What job?” Paisley asks.
I wait, wondering if she’ll tell them. My superstitious cousin would never be able to forgive herself if she shared and then failed. Almost always we find out events after they happen and if, on the off chance it’s before, it was purely by accident.
Pippa sits up and back on heels. “It’s a job at a yoga institute in India. It’s where I go every summer.” She waves her hands in front of her as if wiping away the words. “But that’s all I’ll say.”
One look at her face is all it takes to see how desperately she wants the position. What I don’t tell the group is that aside from my family, the institute is where she found a second home, a place to heal her wounded heart.
I hold up my hand showing my crossed fingers.
Josie wraps an arm around Pippa and hugs her. “Good luck. You’ll be a blessing to any employer.”
“Yeah, Pippa. Good luck. I hope you’re more successful than I have been.” Heather toasts her with her glass.
“I’m sorry it’s been a bloody headache for you,” Pippa says.
“That’s okay. But if you get this other job, do you mind handing me over the one you have now? I’m thinking working for Stacy might be just the thing.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t amount to more than fifteen hours a week. And can I say here that they are the pickiest of eaters? They wanted mac and cheese so I made them mac and cheese.”
“With nutritional yeast,” I tell the others.
Pippa transitions to lotus position. “Can I help that I want the gastrointestinal tract of my fellow man to be healthy?”
“Seriously though, Pippa. If you get tired of the job....”
“What’s this about?” Kenley asks Heather point blank.
For a woman so gutted it is quite admirable how Heather keeps her composure long enough to put her glass on her coffee table before bursting into tears.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she wails, hands over her face. “I’m a pathetic mess.”
At the first sob, we all descend upon her. Kenley, sitting closest, is next to her rubbing her back.
“Heather,” Paisley says, crouched at Heather’s knees. “Going through a divorce is awful, awful, awful. Doing it with a child has to be even more difficult. Add in that your son has medical issues... Hon, you need to give yourself a break.”
“I can’t. I just can’t.” Her sobs increase and we all look at each other. Josie, ever practical, gets up and makes more drinks. The sound of the blender gives us the moment we need to collect our thoughts. I search for encouraging words.
“I’ll text Doug and let him know I’m staying here tonight,” Kenley mumbles under her breath after a glance at Tyler.
When Heather looks up, her face tear ravaged and puffy, Josie says, “We have some serious business to get to and it looks like it’s going to need liquid courage. Before this night is over, Heather, I guaran-damn-tee you’ll have a plan.”
“But I needed a plan yesterday.” She looks at Pippa.
Pippa, with her teal streaks fading, her demeanor just as soft, says in a matter-of-fact voice, “Heather, if I believed letting you take the job with Stacy would improve your current situation, I’d let you take it. But Stacy’s hoping after Cordie adjusts more, makes some friends, and starts to click then he’ll put her in aftercare. He wants her with friends. He doesn’t want her hanging out at home alone.”
“I thought he said he was looking for a nanny of sorts,” I say.
She shakes her head. “That’s what he tells Cordie.”
“I still want it,” Heather says, her words hitching now that her cries have eased.
“Heather,” Kenley says. “What good will it do you if you only have the job for a few days?”
Right, so things have gotten seriously weird here. I look to Paisley for guidance because she’s the one with the closest experience. But she’s looking at Kenley, who is related to Heather. Even if it’s by marriage.
Kenley’s looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Oh for the love of God.
See Jayne take charge.
“Heather, love. You seem...er...focused on this situation with Stacy, though it doesn’t sound like it could really work out. Aren’t you doing temp work? Isn’t that steady?” I swear I try to probe gently.
To everyone’s surprise, Heather leaps from the couch “But don’t you see? It’s perfect. Cordie needs a mom. I am a mom. I love children.” Her face is still red and puffy from crying, but the slanted inward pull of her brows speaks of her fierceness. “I need someone to help me get on my feet. To be with me. I’ve tried this love thing, twice, and it hasn’t worked out.” Her voice wobbles with the last bit and my heart melts.
“Dex?” I meant to say it in my head. Not intending to push her when she’s out so far already.
Heather snorts and shakes her head. “Ha, Dex.” She stares off and whispers, “Lord I loved him. But he didn’t love me back.” She looks at Paisley. “The night he dumped me I got wasted, hooked up with Justin and—” With a sweep of her arm, she says, “The rest is history.”
I take in all my friends and wonder if they have hidden heartbreak like Heather. Likely so. I suppose we all do on some level. And look what it’s done to them. To all of us.
Fear. That’s what this is about. Fear of being alone, of not being chosen, and fear of wondering if she has what it takes to go it alone. For Heather, putting the pieces back together has to be one of the most difficult tasks, much like wandering a pitch-black hallway looking for the missing pieces and the way out.
“Oh, hon,” I say and turn her to me. “Being with Stacy, or any man for that matter, isn’t going to make it perfect. It’s only going to complicate matters. What you need to do is figure out what it is you want and where you want to be this time next year. Take it in steps. One day at a time.”