Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

  “You seem comfortable here now. Maybe you are more so with yourself and that translates into handling this place better. You always belonged; don’t get me wrong. You just resisted it.”

  “Can you blame me? Who would want to grow up that way…” I stop cold, realizing that I am being insensitive. This is the way we both grew up. At least I had parents. Sometimes my self-focus makes me ill.

  “I would, Mari. You and I both grew up surrounded by love. Maybe we both had reasons to resent why we were there or why we had to share everything with everybody at a time in life when we were trying to be individuals. Or a couple…” he says this last part softly and doesn’t look at me.

  I’m growing more frustrated with my inability to decide whether to turn left or right. But more than that, I’m sorry for how I left things with him.

  “What? Have you been taking psychology courses or something?”

  “I’m here to work on my PhD at Georgetown, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’m impressed. With the degree…but even more with your coming back to the shelter to help Mom and Dad.”

  “Mari, I owe them my life. You do in a physical way, but I do in a spiritual and emotional way. I know you struggled, but what you didn’t see was how jealous we were of you. All of us. We had families who couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of their own kin. You had a family that would take us all in…and never act like they were doing us a favor. I don’t know how many times your mom came up to me and said, ‘Marcus, you make our family so much richer.’” His strong voice wavers. He coughs and I do a quick wipe of my eye with my mitten.

  “I do get it, Marcus. I do now, anyway.”

  “Your mom told me you have a beau…literally.” He laughs at his obvious joke, but I’m not laughing with him.

  “Why do I bother saying anything in private to them? I told her about him last night, in confidence. I don’t miss that part of home. There are no secrets,” I rant and slam my hand against the steering wheel in defiance.

  “Maybe there is no need for secrets.” He does a “huh” shrug. “Beside, she was probably telling me so I wouldn’t get any ideas after all these years. But I am happy you have a good guy. You deserve it, Mari.”

  I stall at a stoplight so I can look into his eyes. “Thanks, Marcus. And…you deserve it too. A significant other,” I say sincerely. “You deserved me to be a better person. I left without any closure…and you meant the world to me. You did.” I look away shamed but glad to finally give him the overdue apology.

  Marcus says with a bit of urgency, “Can’t you stay longer? Why leave tomorrow? You just got here.”

  “I told you, I have an unexpected stop in New York to make tomorrow and then I fly immediately back to Tucson. I don’t even have vacation benefits yet. My boss just gave me a couple extra days because of the holiday, which happens to be a busy time of year at the resort.”

  “All that busyness is pretty convenient, if you want to ask me.”

  “I don’t. But thanks for your input,” I say, acting very much like a bratty sibling to this man I apologized to just seconds before. “Hey, that’s the house. I remember it.” By divine direction we have pulled up directly in front of the old brick house. Robert pushes open the screen door for Roberta in her wheelchair and motions for the others to follow. Soon we are barreling down the freeway singing “Over the River and Through the Woods” in notes and harmonies that don’t exist except in a vehicle filled with people who have never sung together but feel the urge to try.

  The sound of forks banging against the tables greets us when we return to the house. This is the shelter tradition to bring any latecomers to a meal so everyone can begin.

  A big cheer is let out as we cross the threshold and get the Morenos to their special table near Mom and Dad.

  “Hush. Hush,” say a few older folks as Dad approaches the makeshift podium with a small microphone.

  “A little respect!” Shouts one of the older kids from the shelter, which makes everyone laugh.

  “Well, we all know that being thankful is a year-round part of our lives. But it is a pleasure to take time on this day to really celebrate all that we are grateful for. I see…what? At least seventy people right here that top my list. I know you are hungry, but let’s give one more moment to thank the Giver.” All heads bow and a few hats come off as Dad leads us in a short but sincere prayer of thanksgiving. When he is done, he holds up his hand to motion that there is one more thing. “And for me and Sarah, we are especially thankful that we have our beautiful daughter here with us today. She is the pride and joy of our lives and has always been the spark that keeps our spirits lifted.”

  He points to me and I am, by now, crying. Marcus joins the others as they clap in celebration of my presence. I know how undeserved it is, but I am grateful just the same.

  “So, Mari,” continues Dad. “Will you do the honors?” He steps aside to reveal the dinner bell. With little grace or discretion, I wipe my nose with my sleeve and go forward thinking a million thoughts and feeling as many emotions. I realize that I always thought I could never be special if everyone was included. But now I feel it; I get it that love has room for everyone.

  And that is what makes our lives special…not fancy jobs, apartments with full kitchens, vehicles with leather interior, blond hair, the perfect boyfriend, or even deadlines to “have it all” by thirty.

  As I clang the bell in front of those people in my real family, adopted family, and those who will be family by dessert, a bell goes off in my mind, spirit, and heart. It reverberates with one pure thought.

  I want my old life back.

  New York, New Chance

  On the flight to New York, sunglasses hide my sorry, swollen eyes. Saying goodbye to my family and to the kids was harder than I imagined. I did this to myself. My new vow is to make an annual trip home each year from now on. No excuses.

  An envelope and package rest on my lap. I’m afraid to incite another round of tears by opening the contents, but our takeoff is delayed and I haven’t brought any reading material. Opening the card and gift is the only activity on the menu, other than making faces at the little boy wearing a D.C. Hard Rock Café cap in front of me.

  Instant camera images tumble from the card. These photos, a Thanksgiving tradition, end up posted along the blackboards and are featured in the shelter’s monthly newsletter and on the annual thank-you cards for donors. The first cracks me up. Dad is standing in the walk-in freezer balancing a frozen turkey on his finger. Well, trying to. The next features Mom behind the long soda counter squirting whipped cream into the mouths of Carlos and Sam, twins that live at the shelter. Another shows Mom and Dad standing by the family portrait wall that showcases every child to ever live in the home. They are positioned one on each side of the large photo of me on my fifth birthday. Each holds an end of a sign that reads “We love you.”

  I’m crying again. I have got to get my act together. Who knew I was sitting on all these ridiculous tears? It really is amazing that I function at all. One last photo remains. It is of Marcus alone by that same photo of me. His sign says “Write home” followed by his email address. I tuck this photo into my jacket pocket and place the others in my purse. The birthday card is homemade with construction paper, string, and crayons. Dad’s handwriting wishes me a year filled with happiness and tells me to report to him whether blondes really do have more fun. Yuk. Yuk. Mom’s note is a bit more sentimental:

  Dear Mari, our girl is all grown up and we couldn’t be more proud of you. Thanks for all of your help, but even more important…thanks for your presence. We couldn’t be more thankful than when we see you walk through the door. I know this is eleven days early, but I wanted to give you a gift in person for once. (And your dad says, “Save postage too.” Ha.) I sense that you are really figuring out your purpose in life. May this make the journey easier to understand, and may it serve as a reminder of God’s faithfulness. You are a blessing to all who know you. We love you, Mom and Dad. />
  Within layers of tissue paper I find a beautiful leather journal with my name engraved on it. My fingers trace the lightly imprinted pattern of leaves on the cover. As I place the card in the front of the journal, I notice a photo of me tucked between the first pages. It was taken quite a few Thanksgivings ago. I am wearing a large chef’s apron tied at the neck and flying behind me for a royal robe, a tinfoil tiara sits askew on my head, and I carry a wooden spoon ahead of me like a scepter. My delight is obvious as I lead a group of smiling people to their dining table for the Thanksgiving meal. Beneath the photo Mom wrote, “Our nine-year-old princess is gone, but our thirty-year-old princess with a servant’s heart is alive and well. Lead on.”

  My vision is so blurry from tears that I am gazing into the face of a short man dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform before I realize that the sign he carries has my name on it.

  “That’s me!” I shout with sour travel breath. He is so professional he doesn’t even wince.

  “Yes, miss. Right this way. May I?” He reaches for my fuchsia bag which, with his uniform, is a bad fashion statement. Better him than me.

  In the stretch limo I resist pushing all the little buttons on the center console and wonder what is in store for me if Gisele has a personal chauffer named Duke. Because of her devoted correspondence with Tess, I feel as if I know Gisele. At least, I know she is one fun-loving and interesting person.

  Duke opens the car door and motions for me to go forward as he retrieves my bag. The wind blows from the direction of Central Park on my right as I make my way to the gold doors beneath an emerald green awning. Maximilian holds the building doors open for me and says that the elevator operator, Saul, will be sure I get to Madame Westwood’s floor.

  “Her floor?” I say, exposing my lack of exposure to affluence.

  Maximilian laughs. “Yes. Her floor.” He introduces me to Saul. At first I pity a person who lives out his eight to five job in an elevator. That is, until I enter the elevator. It is bigger than my living room and has a much nicer couch.

  The button labeled 15 lights up. Ding. “Your destination, miss.” Saul steps out and leads me through the small entry area to a large solid door. He rings a bell that is discreetly placed beneath a light sconce. Within moments Norah greets us with a hearty hello and a breathless reprimand. “Duke was supposed to call before he left the airport! Madame Westwood is still in the bath.” She laughs at divulging this personal information. “Come. Come.” She grabs my sleeve and pulls me into the apartment. “Saul, you tell Duke he didn’t call. Now poor Mademoiselle Mari will have to wait to be greeted by her hostess!”

  I know to not mess with Norah, even though the twinkle in her eye gives away her big heart and sense of humor.

  “Forgetful men. It isn’t enough that I am a cook and mother for them all. Now I have to be their memory too! I’m too old for that. Now, Mari, come with me. I’ll feed you lunch while you wait.”

  I don’t argue and am grateful to be fed. My stomach had been too queasy when leaving home to eat the biscuits and gravy Mom and Dad had made for me. But somehow I feel refreshed and very excited for this part of my journey.

  An informal tour of the apartment…house, really…takes place as Norah casually says room names and purposes as if I have a layout just like it at home. “There…the parlor. The library. The salon. That is where she will meet with you after you eat. My room…a mess only because I devote all my time to everyone else. Over there, that is her office. Next to it, her assistant’s office. And on the other side, the room with the gold door, that is the guest room…where your treasures are.”

  “My treasures?”

  “Oh, yes. Not that I have opened them, but,” she pauses and leans her small face near to my ear, “I have heard it is quite a collection. Madame Westwood wouldn’t use a room for storage unless it was for a treasure…and for such a dear friend.” She shakes her round head in dismay. “It is a shame. Her friend. Your friend.” Her fast, consecutive pats on my shoulder are meant for comfort, but they make me laugh.

  We finally arrive at the kitchen, the kind you see in gourmet magazines. Spotless, it is colored by copper pans hanging from an elaborate rack and rich, mahogany cabinets. Beautiful crystal pieces line open shelves and contrast, yet complement, deep, ceramic bowls hand-painted in the sea blue and golden yellow hues of fine Italian ware.

  “This kitchen is enough to make a girl want to learn to cook,” I say, laughing.

  This is no laughing matter to Norah. “You are kidding with me?” All of a sudden she speaks with a foreigner’s mixed order of words.

  I shake my head, “I work a lot. And my friends and I go out. It is sort of our form of entertainment.” My words are a miniscule argument to what she is about to say.

  “Quel dommage!” She throws up her stubby hands. “You go to the cinema or read a book for entertainment. But learning to cook is part of a lifestyle…or a way of living. Goodness. I was going to feed you leftover shrimp rolls, but now I see I need to cook a meal for you. You sit and watch. I might even have you help me, Miss Work a Lot.” She points to a stool on the other side of the kitchen island. Her hands go to her cheeks as she counts off a recipe to herself and stares at cabinets and the refrigerator, sizing up whether she has the necessary ingredients.

  “It must be quick. Unfortunately, you will not see a full meal prepared. But the next time you come I will show you what I mean by lifestyle.”

  “Oh, no…believe me, I’m understanding just by watching you prep those vegetables and that…whatever those are. At first I thought they were…”

  “Frog legs! They cook up quick and delicious. And with fresh vegetables, they are beautiful. And fast enough for a working girl, I assure you.”

  This is when I start checking the doorway to see if Gisele will arrive in time to save me from this extreme culinary adventure.

  But moments after the plate is in front of me, I am licking my fingers and digging into my second garlic-butter dripping leg and don’t even notice when Tess’ beloved friend enters the room. Instead of seeing her swirl in on a cloud of chiffon and satin and sit on the other side of the island, I am shoving asparagus into my mouth as though it is chocolate.

  “Darling, you eat like a little stray cat. Didn’t your family feed you for Thanksgiving?” Gisele’s deep voice and throaty laugh fill the room and cause the copper pans to chime. Her tall and striking figure gracefully sashays around the counter to hug me.

  “Gisele.” We embrace for a few long seconds while Norah refills my plate.

  “Mari, my dear friend loved you so. I should show you all the letters I have from recent years that just rave about you and your potential.”

  “Potential?” I’m a bit surprised by her choice of words.

  “Yes, of course. She thought you had fabulous instincts with people. I would agree. Anyone who gets Norah to cook her frog legs is indeed good with people.” Gisele looks at my full plate and then at her watch. “Finish up, and I will have Duke move the bureaus around so we can get into them with ease. You do have the…”

  I raise my wrist to show her the key.

  “Ah, good. This really is exciting. Leave it to Tess to create a bit of a surprise party after she leaves us. Oh, God…I miss her already. Don’t you?”

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “Eat up. I will see you in ten minutes.” Gisele unclasps the bracelet from my wrist, fans the edge of her robe, and exits as poetically as she entered.

  I hold up a pair of legs. “Don’t you just want to pull these apart like a wishbone?”

  Norah purses her lips. “Pwwuh. Maybe you should not be a cook after all.” She stifles a laugh and rinses the sauté pan.

  The room housing the treasures is long and narrow with large windows overlooking the park. Red and purple intermingle and present a color palate of royalty very fitting with the surrounding furnishings. The function of this space had, at some point in Gisele’s history of residence, turned from sleeping and resting into
storage. Stacked in corners are hat boxes, travel steamers, hope chests, and countless packages from Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Barneys. My curiosity wants to play here all day.

  “Somewhat of a forgotten room, can you tell?” Gisele wipes a finger across a dusty windowsill and shakes her head. “Sad, but as you get older you tend to hibernate in smaller places. I have no need to roam like I did when I bought this place fifty years ago.”

  “You don’t rent? You own this?”

  “Correct, darling. In New York that is what people do. The lucky ones, anyway. And through the troubles and losses in my life, I have overall, been one of the lucky ones. Poor Tess had some rough years, yet I always envied how she found her own sense of self.”

  “She told me that she was a window dresser for Saks. That is so amazing.”

  Gisele let’s out a sigh. “She’s too humble. Silly woman. Tess was not a window dresser but a much sought after stylist. A mere window dresser does not become friends with the actual designers, my dear. A mere window dresser would not become the muse of so many that she would, over the years, amass a collection like this…” Her voice fades with awe as she reveals the contents of the first bureau, then the second, followed by the third.

  Abundance. Color, texture, depth, richness, and style galore. The miracle closet I had been privy to at Golden Horizons was obviously a very slight sampling of this glorious collection.

  “I hope you have big closets.”

  The meaning of her statement sinks in. These vintage wonders, these bits of fashion history, are mine. “What could I do with these? Other than sit and stare at them in reverence…and don’t get me wrong. I think I could spend many hours devoted to just that. But why, Tess? Why me?”

  Gisele circles around me as if sizing up whether I am up to the task of taking home such gifts. Will she close the doors and send me away? “I am only beginning to understand Tess’ faith…and apparently your own. Can you believe I even gave up drinking for faith? You know all my stories. Let’s leave my saga for another time. The answer to your question, as I understand it, is that all of this is between you and God. It is not ‘Why, Tess?’ that will lead you to the reason. It is ‘Now what, God?’” She bites her lip and turns toward me. Her hair is piled up on her head and a few stray ringlets circle the dramatic cheekbones and broad lips. “I believe the answer will find you, Mari.”