by Lacy Camey
Maybe she should take a visit to Doctor Hood. He could help straighten out her thoughts.
But before I ventured to make such a suggestion, Maycee interjected, “Chloe, your family should be so proud of you.”
Ignoring Maycee, Chloe continued, “And so when I applied to medical school-”
“What?” I shrieked, as I nearly splattered paint everywhere. “You applied? That’s incredible.” I put the brush down, not wanting to ruin my outfit. “But, I’m like your best friend. I can’t believe you kept that a secret from me.”
“Well, I didn’t want anyone to find out. And I can’t even keep secrets because, well, there’s always someone or something that could be-“ She stopped and shook her head. “I couldn’t keep it a secret because my dad knows everything. When Harvard got my application, before they even sat down with the acceptance committee, my dad was notified. I can’t do anything without him knowing.”
“I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t they want you to go to medical school? What planet are your parents living on?” Maycee asked.
“Planet Politics.”
“That is so backward. It’s not like this is the early 1900s, and women do nothing but bake cookies all day and clean the house. Women have ambitions now and are making a difference in the world as strong, independent, driven, focused women,” I said dramatically. Maybe I should go into politics.
“Well, I know they are, it’s just…” She sat there playing with her hands.
“Oh, my gosh, what? What are you not telling us? You’re not telling us something. I can tell. I can tell,” I practically shouted.
Other customers were beginning to look our way, so I got quieter, and whispered, “I can tell.”
Her platinum highlights in her auburn hair caused the emerald in her eyes to sparkle. Suddenly, she stood and walked toward the tea bar. “Crazy if a hurricane came here this summer. That would be an adventure for you, Maycee.” The skies were pretty gray outside. She put honey in her tea and walked back. “Has one ever hit here?”
“Don’t change the subject! And I’m sure it’s happened once. Something always happens once somewhere, I believe. Can you really not tell us? Because I can tell, you most definitely have something you’re not sharing.”
She stirred her tea and sat back down in her chair.
“For crying out loud, Chloe, what is it?” Maycee asked impatiently.
“Okay.” she blew on her tea and placed it on her side wicker table. “Why would you think my family would be hesitant for me to spend hours upon hours studying, away from them? States away from them? This fall, that is.”
“Oh, fun. A guessing game. Because they like having you around? Because they don’t want you to age from stress?” I asked.
“They don’t want you to start Botox too young?” Maycee guessed.
“Oh, I know! They’re afraid that you’ll get hooked on Ritalin since you had your little episode during finals last year.” I smiled.
Chloe laughed. “Oh, my gosh! No and no! That wouldn’t happen! Ritalin? Aw, come on, I saw the side effects. I seriously was like what’s-her-name on Desperate Housewives. You know the episode where she tried to be super mom, and she ended up being a super witch? Having those angry breakdowns and snapping everyone’s head off?”
“Yes!” my sister and I both agreed, nodding our heads. We loved that show and had most definitely seen that episode. I briefly recalled that stressed-out period of Chloe’s life, and she was exactly exhibiting those behaviors. But I wasn’t going to call her out on them. We all deserved grace through tough times.
“Anyway, that was when I was studying for the MCAT. I seriously slept like two or three hours a night.”
Looking back, I remembered Chloe did have a lot going on. From our sorority, to events with her mother, to her full load, to volunteering, she had her hands full.
“Okay, but no. Think about it.”
“Sailing? Does your dad want to go sailing for a few months?”
“Oh, he wants to go sailing, all right.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Chloe, you’re killing me here!” Maycee exclaimed.
“No, I’m not. I’m trying to get you to speculate, so I don’t have to tell you. What happens every four years?”
“The Olympics. Your dad is going to-“ I tried one last time.
“No! Think. Oh, and take your battery out of your phone right now. No eavesdropping allowed.” She motioned for us to come closer.
“Are you even serious? Are you kidding me?”
“Yes, I’m serious! I know a lot. Trust me, truth be told, Dad knew about my admissions almost as soon as it landed in the outbox at the post office in Austin. People are always watching, listening.” She shook her head. “But anyway—“
Then it hit me.
“O.M.G! What?” I exclaimed.
“Shhh!” She tried to quiet us.
“Please tell your mom she has to let me design the inauguration gown. Please!”
“Seriously, shhh. You have to keep this quiet. It hasn’t been announced yet. You two speculated. That’s it.”
“Oh, my gosh! I would just die if that happened! If I got to design her dress!” I couldn’t believe it. I immediately thought of all the fabulous parties I would be invited to one day if my best friend’s father was president. Maybe by that time, my design line would be rolling to where the first lady would wear my collection. I would be an instant splash. I’d-
“Okay,” Maycee said. “I see your hesitancy. But, look at it this way. If you’re really busy doing your own thing, studying, going to class, you might get out of the press. It might be a good thing. Like Prince William and Harry did.”
“Yeah, but they had some sort of special agreement with the press. That’s not happening here in the U.S.,” I said.
Ignoring me, my sister asked, “When is he announcing?”
“I can’t say. I let you speculate because I’m not supposed to say anything. But anyway, I just feel like they’ll want me to help campaign. I don’t know.”
“Chloe,” my sister began. “Just talk to them. I truly think they’ll be proud of you. I think this would be a good thing. You can still help in your free time, if you ever have any. And like I said, I think this would be a good thing. Stay out of the press, you glamour girl. You’re so hot! You would have stalkers galore. Besides, look at it this way. Since it’s June 2011, and you start medical school this fall, even if he did win-“
“You would already be halfway done. Sort of,” I finished.
She let out a big sigh. “I just want to roll up my sleeves and go somewhere, now. Make a difference in an orphanage or something.”
We sat and let the silence fall.
“Everything’s great and all. But, I feel like I can’t really pursue medicine because they want me to be, you know, the respectable southern wife of a politician. Hosting partings, doing charity. When really, I want to roll up my sleeves and, in fact, do charity, but not because it’s what looks good, but because I really want to do it. To make a difference. I want to go to Japan when an earthquake strikes, go to Haiti when a hurricane hits. I want to be a humanitarian.”
We all nodded, taking in the seriousness.
“Wow! That’s really inspiring,” Maycee began. “We should go somewhere. All of us.”
Leave it to Maycee.
“Yeah, okay,” I joked. “You would go?”
“Of course, I would!” She did hike that one time in college, but Maycee is totally a girly girl.
“I want to make a difference in the world, too. We should all pursue what makes us happy. Your life is a blank canvas to paint! Look at us all. All inspired to change our lives for the better,” I noted.
“Yeah, I’ll say it again. It’s pathetic. Three years since I’ve put out a new book.” Maycee shook her head in disgrace.
“Hey, isn’t that how long you and Josh-e-poo have been together?” Chloe asked.
“Yeah… well, yeah.” She sa
t on that for a while.
“Well, maybe he’s sucking the life out of you like a bloodsucking vampire.”
“Yeah!”
“Maybe…” she rolled her eyes. “But if so, he’s a hot vampire! And I’m transfixed by his persuasive powers, for sure.”
Chapter Five
Later, when we got home from painting, I started to feel my competitive nature surge to the surface, and I really wanted to prove that I had deep thoughts and was capable of journaling. Especially after painting and, well, it was raining again. It was like we lived in Seattle or something! So taking cues from my author-sister, I lit my favorite candle, made some tea, sat down in a comfortable chair that overlooked the ocean, and got started.
I stared down at my fuchsia crocodile journal filled with acid-proof paper. It was practically fire and waterproof for how much money I had spent on it. I even had my initials engraved in the lower right hand corner in a circle. N.J. So cute! Yes, New Jersey initials. At least my initials were unforgettable. I was destined to be an entrepreneur with my initials stamped as the logo.
I figured if I were revealing so many amazing juicy details of my life, I had to do it in style because, who knew, it could be an amazing hit on Broadway or ABC Family or something, like Diane Keaton’s character in Something’s Gotta Give. She sure turned her heartache into a laughing success at Jack Nicholson’s character’s expense! I liked that; maybe I could write a tell-all memoir and make millions of dollars. But, honestly, I could never do that. I was dignified. I could blog about it.
Somehow I needed to turn my heartache into something good. But alas, there I was, going off on a tangent, avoiding what I should be doing-journaling.
I stared at the careful lines. So precise. And going in the same direction. So, I got inspired and decided to write about direction. Call me Keats, Thoreau, Aristotle, a modern day philosopher, but I thought it was pretty good:
Direction:
Everyone always asks, “Do you have direction?”
Even if you aren’t actually necessarily stating your direction, in a sense, time essentially never stops. It’s always going forward. Clicking. It has a constant momentum.
Therefore, being “a being” dwelling within that momentum, you have direction.
Yes, I have direction.
I sat back in my chair and pondered as I shook my head.
Yes, I had direction.
Yes, that was deep! I should maybe be a philosopher on the side. On that note, I decided I should Google, “How does one become a modern day philosopher?” Because really, how did one?
Then, I realized my compulsion to Google was bad! I googled everything.
So I wrote about Googling.
Why must I feel the compulsive urge to Google everything? Like, is it okay for me to eat tuna every day? (I know it’s bad when you’re pregnant.) I like tuna, and I like it every other day in my salad. So, okay. Is it okay for me to eat tuna every day if I plan on getting pregnant in five years? What would happen if I got pregnant but didn’t know and still ate tuna for a month? Would I be okay?
But after journaling about Googling, I decided to take a different approach, a more narrative approach. I stayed up hours telling the entire story—how Truett and I had met at a mixer; how he had joined my plaid fabric class. I thought he was… well, on the other team, so to speak. But, no he was just determined to meet me. I wrote about how we would stay up watching movies, skipping class, our favorite pizza joint, and how I would sit in the Texas heat watching him pitch. I wrote about visiting his parents’ vineyard in Blanco, Texas.
It was therapeutic, admitting the good times we had shared. But it was true, some good things came to an end.
I wrote about how I found out he was cheating on me. I had received an e-mail from him, which was really from her, giving instructions for me to meet him at his parents’ vineyard. First class ticket, a limo picked me up with champagne. I was just sure that it was the moment; I was getting engaged. But when I unlocked the door with my key and walked up the stairs, I opened the bedroom door per the instructions in the e-mail and got the surprise of my life. No, it wasn’t a thousand rose petals scattered, nor was it incredible jewelry and a gorgeous evening gown.
It was a much more scandalous surprise.
And that was it. I turned away and walked out.
To this day, he had no idea I was there at that time; it was all her.
At the end of transcribing the story, I realized it would make the perfect movie. But what would happen in the end, I pondered.
At that question, I felt emotionally exhausted and decided to go to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, the unthinkable, most atrocious thing happened. I had a voicemail from Truett who had called while absolutely intoxicated as all get out. He probably didn’t even remember it, but I was left with the awful memories. His ramblings were not translatable except the, “Norah, I want you to know, I want you to know…” that he kept saying over and over again. You want me to know what? As soon as I heard it, I shook my head and deleted the message. I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t let myself linger on whatever it was he wanted me to know. I was the one left in the dust dealing with the emotional baggage as he flew first class into Truett-self-absorbed world.
It was a good thing I had my session at two o’clock with Dr. Hood, but it was only ten in the morning. I had all morning to let the awful feelings marinate in the pit of my stomach.
My anger seethed through my fingertips and, for the first time, I knew what I could do. I knew how to release the frustration. I could express how I really felt, instead of observations of life or a narrative. I really felt like I had something to say on paper. I flipped past the twenty pages or so, past the scribbling life observations here, and other non-congruent thoughts about feeling like a lone sailboat and an analogy of eating at a French restaurant and having my tablecloth abruptly removed from underneath me, hurling all of the gourmet food, wine, water, candles, you name it, onto my lap. You know, other disjointed thoughts.
I really was feeling it on this one.
I released my hands in front of me and stretched out my arms, fake popping my knuckles for the dramatic effect.
I would write a letter.
I began.
Dear Truett,
It doesn’t matter how you feel. It doesn’t matter how I feel. I have to make a choice.
He’ll probably haunt my memories for the rest of my life if I don’t make the choice.
On that haunting note:
You are like a pathetic, uberly, awful, creepy ghost, and you won’t haunt me. Ever! Haunt some other stupid girl because I’m not stupid!
I liked the creative flow and the descriptions with he was a monster. So I went on.
In fact, my loathing for you is like one has for someone who has maggots all over their face.
Perfect.
That was completely disgusting, but perfect.
Okay, maybe I went overboard. But it was helping. I was actually feeling slightly amused, which was slightly above the line from absolutely distraught and devastated.
Healing is a day-by-day process. I heard Doctor Hood’s gentle reminder in my memory.
But even when I’m healed, I know the love I had for him will never go away, I reasoned. Goodness, it was like the little angels on each shoulder.
Maybe that’s what it feels like, I reasoned with myself, but this feeling has to go away! I will make it go away.
I continued.
What is more awful than the fact that you called me is that not only did you rip open the band-aid that was beginning to gently heal my heart, you stirred a false sense of hope. Somewhere, deep inside, I actually thought you were, um, you know, apologizing for, let’s see, cheating, impregnating another woman, after having a perfectly PG relationship with me for years!
Furthermore, you have a wife now! Married men don’t call their exes!
I was beginning to feel better, as if I were a lawyer who had a case
to argue. My confidence was growing.
Regardless that we used to be together, you’re married now. Married men aren’t supposed to do that. I don’t care that you’re a professional athlete, you’re…
“Hey, Nor,” Chloe greeted me as she came into the sitting room with her coffee. I hadn’t even heard her come in because I had gotten so carried away with my theatrical letter. If only he could read the letter.
“What’s going on there? You should see your face right now.”
“Hey.” I forced a warm enough smile.
I saw her eyeing my journal. Yes, I actually had words written on the page.
“You won’t believe it,” I began, as I closed the journal and placed it on the side table. “Truett called me last night.”
The door I had opened to let in the morning air slammed shut loudly from the wind. Another storm was rolling in. We both jumped.
“What?” she asked, flabbergasted, and her jaw dropped. “I mean, what?”
I reached for my third cup of coffee and took a sip for that dramatic affect. Of course, she was as shocked as I had been.
Chloe looked at me, waiting for more.
I sighed heavily. “He called me incredibly-Irishly wasted. Voicemail.”
“I’m so sorry. I know that must have been so hard on you. You should have woken me up.”
I placed my coffee back down on the table and shook my head.
She asked curiously, “Do you still have it?”
“No, I deleted it immediately after I heard it this morning. It was just too painful to hear again.”
Feeling the anger rise within from retelling the story, I stood. Unable to even stand still, I started pacing, hands flying in the air.
“Gosh, he’s such a disgusting pig! I just want this over. This is the worst thing ever. Why can’t he just leave my life? Even if I try to choose to forget him, there’s the internet. His Facebook, his Twitter, he’s in the papers, on ESPN. This isn’t like the typical breakup scenario for most girls. How do I… what am I supposed to do?” I cried.