Facelift

by Leanna Ellis

  My eyebrow arcs automatically, but I refrain from stirring the pot. After all, Marla seems to be in a good mood. Instead, I focus on a foil-covered pan. “What’s this?”

  “I made a casserole for dinner.” She indicates the dish on the table next to her. “We need to put it in the oven an hour before we want to eat.”

  “Marla, you’re a guest. You don’t have to–”

  “I would have called takeout, but I couldn’t find any menus. This, however”—her hands bracket the pan—“is Cliff’s favorite.”

  My heart kicks up a notch. “Is he coming?”

  “I haven’t called him yet. But don’t you think he should?”

  Oh, yeah, I do. The sooner the better! Then I glance down at my pathetic pjs and revise that thought to: After I shower and shop for a new outfit! “I better wake Izzie. It’s almost time to leave for swim practice.”

  “I already woke her.” Marla rises. “She should be ready any minute.”

  I want to ask how she managed that feat, but refrain.

  “You shouldn’t let Isabel sleep with that nasty dog in her bed.”

  “Dog?” My brain begins to clear as I remember Cousin It. “She’s always wanted a dog,” I defend my acquiescence last night when Izzie begged to take It to her room instead of putting her in the crate.

  “They’re smelly and carry vermin.”

  “Vermin?”

  “Fleas.” Marla shivers. “You cannot keep a house clean with animals living with you. It’s like living in a barn.”

  As if on cue, the jangle of a collar precedes Cousin It’s arrival. She comes bounding around the corner and jumps at me, but I yell, “No!”

  She plants all four feet back on the floor but noses my leg, her tail whipping back and forth.

  Satisfied and pleased with my forthrightness, I pat her head. “Good, girl. She is cute though.”

  “Cliff hates dogs.”

  I frown. “Yes, I know. But she’s a temporary guest.” As is Marla. But Cliff will be permanent.

  “I certainly hope so.”

  She’s not the only one. Cousin It sniffs at the table, just beneath the casserole. Before I can utter a sound, she rears up and places her paws on either side of the foil pan.

  “Stop that!’ Marla shrieks. “You beast.” She swats at Cousin It’s round, furry backside with a slotted spoon.

  I reach forward, grab It’s collar. “Come on, let’s go out.”

  “Do you think she ruined the casserole?” Marla frets over the crinkled foil.

  “It was covered.” I tug the dog toward the back door, but she puts on the brakes. Suddenly I’m embracing the dog’s middle and hefting her forward. When she catches a sniff of the cool morning air, she breaks free and runs outside. I close and lock the door, feeling the need for a tanker to pull up beside me and dump a load of caffeine straight into my veins. I rub my back where the metal bar in the sofa bed attacked me all night and walk back into the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee, Marla?”

  “I gave up coffee. It’s not healthy. Causes wrinkles, you know.”

  “No, I, uh, didn’t.” But then without coffee, I can’t see my wrinkles in the mirror.

  “I should have brought some of my herbal teas. You’d probably sleep better without all that caffeine.”

  I’d probably sleep better in my own bed too. Feeling a bit rebellious, I fill the coffeepot with water, grab the coffee tin, and pour the aromatic grounds into the filter. Wrinkles are the least of my worries today.

  “Two scoops is enough, dear,” Marla advises from her managerial spot at the table.

  I attempt a smile, which doesn’t quite emerge. Is this what Cinderella had to put up with?

  “At least that’s how I used to make it for Bradford and Cliff. The other boys never drank coffee much.” She rolls a wrist. “But Cliff thought I made the best coffee in the world. Never a complaint!”

  But I’m about to.

  “I better check on Izzie.” As I leave the room, Marla mumbles about how I shouldn’t call my beautiful daughter a name that sounds like a lizard.

  But I’m not nearly as hotheaded over Marla’s comments as Isabel who is cramming clothes in her bag. I sigh. Each morning dawns with the question: what mood inhabits my daughter this morning?

  “What is it with her? She told me last night I should style my hair. What does she want? Hot rollers? Or one of those stinky perms?”

  I tsk and settle on my daughter’s soft bed, pull the covers up over me, and enjoy the comforting warmth for a moment. I’m tempted to stay right here all day. “I’m sorry.”

  “She went through my closet this morning and told me what to wear!”

  “Really?”

  “She wanted me to wear hose, Mom. Hose! And a dress I wouldn’t wear unless it was Easter. Or a funeral. And only if you made me.”

  “It’s okay, Iz. She has different standards. It’s been a while since she was in high school or had high schoolers.”

  “Obviously. My friends would think I’m a freak.”

  “We wouldn’t want that. Breakfast is almost ready. Marla thinks you should eat before you swim.”

  “I’ll throw up.”

  “Aim in her direction.”

  That coaxes a smile from Izzie.

  With a flick of my wrist, I toss back the covers. It doesn’t take much effort to make the bed. Then I place an arm around her shoulders. “This is temporary.”

  After school I pick Izzie up and head home. It’s been a long day of transporting Marla to a doctor’s appointment, picking up more prescriptions, buying lunch for her at the restaurant, which sells her favorite chicken noodle soup. Because of course mine didn’t compare. I stayed out of the house for a couple of hours, giving Marla privacy and me a little peace.

  Cousin It greets me in the backyard with muddy paw prints on my silk blouse. After wrenching free and pushing through the back door before Cousin It can follow, I stare out the mud-smeared window.

  Marla walks over and stands beside me. “She’s been digging.”

  Izzie sniffs me. “And it smells like—”

  “Well, keep her out! So she doesn’t get it all over the house.” I step away from window. “How long has she been outside?”

  “Since you left.”

  “All day?” Iz complains.

  “Not quite,” I play referee. “But long enough obviously.”

  “I’m not a dog sitter,” Marla snaps.

  She wasn’t much of a babysitter either. If Cliff asked her to watch the baby so we could go out one night, Marla would say, “You made your bed.”

  “Guess I’ll go take a shower.” I glance down at my muddy clothes and hands and get a whiff of my new fragrance.

  But Marla beats me to my bathroom, so I settle for Izzie’s. Maybe Marla needs to powder her nose. Good thing she didn’t have rhinoplasty. It would make for a slow recovery as she likes to stick her snout in everyone’s business.

  Before I can indulge in a hot, steaming shower, the warm spray hitting the plastic curtain, the doorbell rings. Izzie is outside bathing the dog, hosing off the decking, and cleaning up the mess. I can hear Cousin It barking like a gang of robbers is about to storm the house. I wait, hoping Marla will get the door but the ringer sounds again.

  “Who could that be?” I wrap a beach towel around my nakedness and hope it’s only FedEx delivery. The deadbolt resists but I wrestle it open. It’s not until the lock clicks that I contemplate my foolishness. It could be Cliff. And toweled up is not the impression I want with my ex. Or maybe it is. But it could be a client. Not professional. Thankfully the man is a stranger. I poke my head out the door opening, edging my body as far back as possible. “Hello?”

  A stately gentleman in gray suit and sky-blue tie stands on my front porch. He has silvery, wavy hair and a decisive jaw. He carries a vase of perfect red roses. Even the roses are dressed for the occasion, each with a tiny satin bow tied around the bud. Baby’s breath and greenery fill in gaps between two dozen o
r more stems.

  “Good morning.” His tone is cultured. “I apologize for the surprise visit.”

  My towel begins to slip and I secure it in place with one well-placed hand. Squinting against the bright sunlight, I decide he’s not a delivery boy.

  “My name is Anderson Sterling. I’m a friend of Marla’s. This is the right house, isn’t it?” He glances above my head to the brass numbers screwed into the door frame. “Marla Redmond is staying here, is she not?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Is she available? I’d like to give her these roses.”

  “I’ll tell her you’re here.” I close the door, but jerk it back open. “Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” Again, I close the door, readjust my towel, and digest this new information. A friend, huh? More like a boyfriend. Odd feelings swirl through me—surprise, indignation, hope. I’m not sure which to latch onto. I decide on hope. Hope that Marla will be distracted by some man’s attention rather than paying attention to my plans for her son.

  “Who is it?” Izzie stands in the hallway in her bikini, wet from head to toe, and holding a hairy, muddy towel.

  “Someone for your grandmother. A beau.” I whisper the last part.

  Izzie blinks and the corner of her lip curls. “Really? That’s gross.”

  It isn’t quite my reaction. I don’t trust what impression Marla might make on my impressionable about-to-start-dating daughter. I grip my towel to my chest and knock on my bedroom door. “Marla?”

  “Yes?”

  I find her sitting at the dressing table. It sounds luxurious but in reality it’s just a bit of counter space with a place for a stool. Marla’s staring at the mirror with a forlorn look. But with her bandages, I’m not sure any other look is possible. She doesn’t turn her head in my direction, but her gaze slides toward me, her one good eye widening slightly. “Is something wrong, Kaye?”

  “No.” But I feel the opposite. And I’m not exactly sure why.

  She fingers the edge of a silver rimmed tray that holds a couple of bottles of perfume Cliff gave me along with makeup and moisturizer. I notice she’s rearranged things.

  “Do you want to shower?”

  “There’s someone at the door. To see you.”

  Marla’s chin lifts in a tiny gesture of triumph, then she grimaces. She touches the opening of her negligee, gliding her fingers along her neckline. Then I watch her throat convulse. Her fingers probe the edge of the pressure bandage. “Oh! Oh, no. I’m not here.”

  Are we reverting to junior high school?

  “I didn’t invite him.” Her uncanny sense of who is waiting on the porch makes me suspicious.

  “Him?”

  “Anderson.” She swivels the stool away from me, but I catch a glimpse of her profile, down-turned and pathetic. A twinge of sympathy pinches me. She puffs out little breaths, her back rounding with each one.

  I reach out to her, my hand midair. “Are you all right?”

  Slowly, her shoulders straighten. “Yes, yes, of course.” But her hand trembles. “Please tell Mr. Sterling that I’m indisposed.”

  “But, Marla—”

  “Please.” Is that desperation in her tone? She faces me again. Her lips compress into a firm line of resolve.

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  “He’s waiting.”

  “Then, should I—”

  “Tell him thank you, but I’m not ready to see visitors as of yet.”

  Or she’s not ready for them to see her. “Are you sure?”

  She gives a slight nod.

  “All right.” I turn but she stops me with a purposeful clearing of her throat. “Did you change your mind?”

  Her gaze shifts along my oversized towel and bare feet. “You are going to put on a robe, right?”

  “He’s waiting outside.”

  “No telling what kind of a place he’ll believe this is.”

  In an effort to find levity in this bizarre situation, I give her a mischievous smile and bounce my hip a couple of times. “Are you worried I’ll be a distraction?”

  Marla turns away from me. “Now you’re beginning to sound like my other daughters-in-law. They have no shame.”

  “I was—” But I halt that apology mid-sentence. Her number-one manipulative technique has always been to pit me against Cliff’s brother’s wives. Not this time. God has been teaching me so much since Cliff left, but I never knew I’d be tested with Marla once again. I square my shoulders, confidence growing. Knowing how to handle Marla will only help Cliff and me when we’re once again married. So without another word, I turn and walk back to the front door. With a slight detour past Izzie’s room, I grab a robe from her closet. It’s silky and not my usual comfy fluffy oversized one, but it’ll do.

  “What now?” Izzie asks.

  “Nothing. Just covering, so to speak, for your grandmother so she doesn’t have to face her boyfriend yet.”

  When I open the front door again, I blink back my surprise. Not only is Mr. Sterling still waiting, but he has a male companion. I sense Izzie approaching from behind. But Cousin It sticks her nose under the back of my robe. My “hi” escalates as I bat her nose away.

  My gaze shifts expectantly between the two men.

  “Hello there.” The shorter man standing next to Marla’s first suitor grins. “I’m Harry Klum. Thought I’d give Marla a visit.”

  “Oh, I see.” Is the retirement village she moved into the swinging singles of the AARP? Is the competition so fierce Marla believed she needed plastic surgery? Yet it appears she has the pick of the crop. Or at least an abundance of pickers.

  Mr. Sterling stands tall, debonair with firm creases in his suit and shine in his polished shoes. But the other gentleman looks frumpy. Can a man be frumpy? This one is short, a bit shaggy around the edges, the seams of his clothes stretched to their limit. I doubt his faded blue button-down shirt or stretch-waist, warm-up pants have ever been introduced to an iron. He looks familiar though. He holds a bunch of mismatched flowers still bundled in plastic, grocery-store wrapping.

  “Well, Mr. Klum . . . Mr. Sterling, Marla isn’t feeling well enough to see visitors just yet.”

  The skin between Mr. Sterling’s brows pinches slightly, then smooths out. He offers the crystal vase of roses to me. “If you’d be so kind as to give her these.”

  “Yep”—Mr. Klum’s forehead crinkles and remains so—“these too.”

  “Of course. And well, thank you, gentlemen. I’m sure Marla appreciates your thoughtfulness and concern.”

  The taller man turns and walks toward the black Escalade parked along the curb. When the huge SUV pulls away from the curb, it reveals another—a station wagon with fake wood siding, faded and worn, dating back to the seventies. It must be Mr. Klum’s car.

  “Uh, Miss . . .” Mr. Klum shuffles his scarred brown loafers on the concrete.

  “Yes?”

  “Is she, I mean, Miss Marla gonna be all right?”

  “She’s fine. It will take time for her to heal.”

  He scratches his mostly bald head, just a few strands of gray hair are combed over the top. “Tell her she’s missed at the village.”

  “I will.” When I close the door, juggling the vase and the bouquet of flowers, I find Izzie, Cousin It, and Marla waiting in the foyer.

  Izzie stares at her grandmother. “You’ve got two boyfriends?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, dear. Oooh!” Marla reaches forward and takes the roses from me. “How utterly beautiful.”

  “Those are from Mr. Sterling.”

  She breathes in the sweet, tender scent that was making my nose itch and touches the little ribbons on each bud. “He has such exquisite taste.” To Izzie, she says, “Always go for the money, dear. It can’t buy you everything you want, but it sure doesn’t hurt.”

  “Uh, Marla . . .” I distract her from dispensing any more sage advice by holding out the bunch of flowers, its plastic protection crinkling. “These are from Harry Klum.”

 
Marla sighs and frowns at the water dripping from the wet paper towel wrapped around the cut stems. The doorbell rings again. A panicked expression widens Marla’s good eye. She grimaces, then shifts her features back into neutral. “Who is that?”

  “More boyfriends you’d like to tell me about?” I imagine a busload of suitors from the retirement village pulling up outside. My house, I decide, would make an interesting day trip for retirees.

  Marla takes a step backward. “I’m not here.”

  That’s usually Izzie’s line. Maybe Marla will prove to my daughter how immature that response is. Or its validity.

  “Yes, you are.” I place my hand on the knob. “But don’t worry. I’ll cover for you.” Again.

  “What will you say?” She edges around the corner into the hallway and out of sight.

  “That you’re resting.”

  “Okay.” She disappears.

  “Or whacked out on medication.”

  Izzie grins at me.

  Marla pokes her head around the corner again. “Kaye—”

  “Kidding. I’ll just tell him the truth.”

  She points a shaky finger at me. “Don’t you dare.”

  No, no. We wouldn’t want to speak the truth. At least I know I’m not the only one that lies to myself. Obviously God has more work to do with me.

  But the comparison with my mother-in-law unsettles me.

  Chapter Eight

  The second I open the door, I scold myself for not checking through the peephole first. Standing in my daughter’s bathrobe is not the way I want to greet a suitor of a younger generation. Or any generation, I suppose. Whereas I was amused with Marla’s suitors and maybe a little irritated for the benefit of her dearly departed husband who I adored, this new visitor puts my mother-bear instincts on full alert.

  Propping a hand on a hip in a motherly defensive move, I stare at Gabe. His gaze dips and instant sunburn scorches his face. I follow, glancing down at Izzie’s robe, which has gaped open, revealing too much cleavage. I clutch the opening in a fist.

  “Is Isabel home?”

  “Are you and Izzie going for a run?”

  “Yeah.” She brushes past me and out the door. She’s already changed into shorts and a tank top. “Bye, Mom.”