Here I Go Again: A Novel (20 page)

Inspired by his motivation, I tried riding the recumbent bike but decided I was probably still too buzzed, so I sat on the bike and shopped online instead. Everything in my Bloomingdale’s cart was some shade of pink and all my Sur La Table items were red. There’s no reason we can’t have a little color up in here. No offense, future-universe Melissa, but your taste is way beige.

After my failed workout and shopping extravaganza, I settle in to watch television in the bedroom. My teeth are brushed, my face is washed, and I’m wearing enough placenta-based eye cream to ward off crow’s-feet until the next century. I just finished viewing
Real Housewives of Shaker Heights
and now I’ve switched over to the local news while I decide which jammies to wear.

I’ll be ready to get in bed shortly, so I click on the intercom (I have an intercom system!) to see if Duke’s coming up soon. He banged around the gym forever but he stopped half an hour ago. I was all, “Settle down, Hercules! You’re already a fab trophy husband!”

I press the button and move close to the speaker. “Hey, what are you doing down there?”

“Making myself a drink.” Apparently since he never puked in my car due to Jack, Jolt, and Jäger, he still has a taste for Tennessee sipping whiskey, and his preferred method of delivery is straight up. Blech. I’d rather swill turpentine. But at least his choice of libation is less girly than his taste in tunes.

“Are you coming to bed?” I purr, as come-hither as the intercom will allow. Not to be all TMI, but the new and improved Lissy/Melissa rocks the sheer chemise. I have a whole drawer of super-sex-goddess wisps of fabric and lace from La Perla and I’m not afraid to use ’em. We were all in flagrante delicto last week and I couldn’t help but admire how ripped my back is when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m talking Madonna shoulders here. So buff!

Something must have been lost in translation, though, because Duke is all, “Maybe later.”

Footie pajamas it is, then.

I’m smoothing on a coat of Kanebo Sensai Premier the Body Cream (four hundred dollars/tub, but I’m worth it!) when something on the news catches my attention. I wander into the bedroom and press the back button on the DVR.

I rewind too far, and then I forward ahead too far, so I rewind again and just sit on the tufted ottoman at the end of the bed while I wait for the mattress commercial to finish. (Note to self: If I’m ever in a position of power, all mattress commercials will be pulled from the air immediately due to their giving me boredom cancer. Also? Any feminine protection ads utilizing clear blue fluid. Seriously, if I start leaking something out of my blowhole that looks like antifreeze, my concern will
not
be for my tennis whites.)

WGN anchor Micah Materre, all striking in a festive fuchsia suit, reports, “Investigators are looking into the automobile accident that occurred on Saturday, involving an Elgin-area science teacher and three of her students who were returning from an academic decathlon in Whiting, Indiana. Marcella Raymond’s on the scene to tell us more.”

The news cuts to a cute reporter standing out on the side of the Dan Ryan who seems none too happy to be spending her evening in the dark and cold, two feet away from semis blowing past at eighty-five miles per hour.

“Thanks, Micah. Although no one was seriously injured in Saturday’s crash, investigators are pursuing allegations that the teacher had been under the influence while transporting students.” While Marcella reports, accident footage of a dented Chevy Malibu being towed rolls on-screen. When the camera cuts back to Marcella, a couple of thuggish teenagers in stupid low-hanging pants have since pulled up and are working their way into the shot. They begin making faces at the camera and are either waving or flashing gang signs.

(Note to self: Again, when I rule the universe, anyone caught loitering in the background while a news crew is attempting to report will be summarily kicked in the face by the reporter without fear of repercussion.)

Marcella’s lips tighten into a frown when she realizes she’s not alone on-screen, but she quickly recovers and continues with the story. (Seriously, how much would she like to kick those kids right now? Especially wearing something steel-toed?)

“A spokesman for Amy Childs of Bartlett, Illinois, claims these charges are unfounded. However, Childs was arrested on the scene and school board officials have since put her on administrative leave.”

Oh, no wonder this caught my attention. Amy Childs isn’t that common a name. Of course, it’s not like this is
the
Dr. Amy Childs, plastic surgeon to the stars, maker of s’mores, and talk-show-host bestie.

I’m about to turn off the television when another picture flashes across the screen.

“Childs, seen here at a 2010 student jamboree, has faced similar charges previously. In 2003, she was arrested for failing a field sobriety test that showed her blood alcohol at point ten percent, which is above the legal limit to be considered intoxicated and . . .”

But I don’t hear whatever Marcella says next, because I’ve paused my DVR. I can’t stop staring at the photo of teacher Amy Childs.

Who’s a dead ringer for
Dr.
Amy Childs.

Am I still drunk?

I fly down the stairs to my office and immediately Google “Amy Childs.” The first entry to come up is that of an Amy Andrea Childs, a British reality television star who’s most renowned for bringing the word “vajazzle” into the public lexicon.

That’s probably not her.

I find a Facebook page with the right Amy’s picture, but when I pull up the account, it’s set to private, so I can’t tell anything about her. The online news articles show the same shot I saw on WGN and that doesn’t answer any questions. Then I have the idea to do an image search and I find a (nonvajazzled) shot of her on the North Elgin school Web site, followed by a bio.

Amy Childs has been with North Elgin High School since her student teaching days. Miss Childs attended Lyons Township High School, graduating in 1992, before pursuing a degree in secondary science education at University of Central Illinois. Miss Childs is the faculty sponsor of the NEHS Academic Decathletes and a member of the National Association of Biology Teachers. In her spare time, she enjoys knitting and collecting stamps.

Um, no.

No, no, no, no, no.

Amy is supposed to have attended college at Michigan. She went there on some science scholarship. And then she went to Cornell for med school before doing her residency at the University of Chicago. What is this biology teacher bullshit? And what about her lake house? And her famous friends? Knitting? Stamp collecting? What the
hell
?

I spend an hour scouring the Internet for any evidence to the contrary and find none. (To be fair, I did get sidetracked on the vajazzling.) (Note to self: Try.)

As for Amy? What I’m finding makes no sense whatsoever.

Looks like I’m going to have to take my stalking off-line.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lion Pride!

“Hey, Mandy, it’s Lissy—I mean, Melissa. I’m not coming in today. Tell Nicole to hold down the fort until I get back. Bye!”

I hang up the kitchen phone just as Duke walks in. “You’re taking the day off?” He flashes me a wolfish grin and stands behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist while I work the espresso maker. “Something special in mind?” He’s all enveloped in scents of spicy aftershave and fabric softener, which, when mixed with the aroma of strong coffee, is almost completely intoxicating. This is what heaven smells like.

“Special project, if that counts.” I pour a few shots of espresso in my travel mug. I screw the lid on, reconsider, and then screw it back off, throwing in heavy cream and a couple of spoons of sugar. I take a sip—mmm, like hot coffee ice cream! Perfection!

Duke kisses the back of my neck. “You work so hard.”

Ha! No one ever said that about me before.

“Why don’t you let me help you out, Liss? Shoulder some of your workload? I’m at your service—what do you need? You know how quick I am with research. Maybe you need me to run a cost-benefit analysis? Remember how detailed my sales forecasts used to be? Best in the company, my boss would say. Or, if you don’t need office work, maybe I could drive you somewhere? We should spend some time together.”

Pfft, if he wanted to spend time, he could have done that last night. But it’s nice to see him chipper this morning after all his moodiness. He didn’t get in bed for hours, and when he finally did, he smelled like Mardi Gras.

I say, “Nah, I got it. There is something you can do for me, though.” I spin around so we’re face-to-face and he’s holding me, looking all expectant. I smooth his hair back from his face. After all these years, he still has the floppy bangs and the boyish freckles. I trace my finger around his jawline, which is still totally firm.

I feel like I should get credit for his holding on to his rugged good looks, because he lives such a low-stress lifestyle. In the previous future, he had big squinty lines, and the parentheses around his mouth were supernoticeable, and he wouldn’t get injectable fillers, no matter how many brochures I brought home about them. He was always in such a rush to get to the office in the mornings that inevitably he’d miss a patch when he shaved. Plus his hair had started to gray on the sides. But now? Still sandy blond with light ends from all the time he spent running and golfing with my dad over the summer. His long-standing hotness is my gift to him . . . and the world!

Because I adore him and because I want him to be content, I suggest, “What you can do for me is pamper yourself! Make today a spa day! I’m talking the whole nine yards—mani, pedi, facial, seaweed wrap, massage. I mean, I’d kill for a spa day, but someone’s got to pay for this place, right?”

Duke drops his arms and I plant a kiss on his forehead before collecting my purse from the living room. I pass back through the kitchen on my way to the garage and give him a playful swat on the backside.

“Love you lots, mean it!”

I’ll assume he didn’t tell me he loved me until the door had already shut, which is why I didn’t hear it back.

When I open the garage, I decide to take Duke’s SUV. My XJ, while impeccably restored and
so
much fun to drive, lacks a GPS unit. I’m not quite sure where I’m going, so I need a little help.

Once I input the address, I pick some appropriate road music from the CD case I grabbed from my car. How about . . . Mötley Crüe’s “Girls, Girls, Girls.” I love the concert footage from 2006’s
Carnival of Sins
tour currently floating around the Internet. In it, the boys take the stage on choppers, so this feels like an excellent choice of driving tunes. Hey, I wonder if we’ve done business with the Crüe. (Note to self: Check into that.)

I’m driving only thirty-three miles, according to the GPS, but it takes me well over an hour to reach my destination with rush-hour traffic. I field a couple of calls from the office while I’m in the car. According to Mandy, a certain Mr. Coverdale is going to be in town the first week of December and he’d like to get on my schedule, as he’s hoping to hook up for lunch!

Oh, my God, I love my life! Daiquiris for Deva whenever she gets back!

Given the fortuitous news and my constant stream of traffic-directed cursing between my house and my destination, it never occurred to me that I might need a game plan upon arrival. That could be a problem.

I pull into an empty parking space between two rows of squat, identical buildings and I take a careful look around to make sure it’s safe. I assess that this place isn’t dangerous, but I will say it’s depressing.

The apartments all have air-conditioning units hanging askew from their windows. The buildings are long and made of that awful yellow brick so popular in the late-fifties housing boom, and even with a second floor, they’re so low that I can’t imagine the ceilings are higher than seven feet. These units must feel like tombs.

Outside, someone made a hopeful attempt at landscaping long ago, but a hot, dry summer and lack of care has negated these efforts. The few bushes that survived are scraggly and half-bare, and the lawn is bald in some spots and brown in others, with lots of old cups and wrappers and plastic bags clinging to the perimeter of the building. The trees are overgrown and loom perilously close to the apartments, one violent fall storm away from limbs crashing through roofs into living rooms.

I jump out of the car and double-check the receipt on which I scribbled the address. Unit 2D. I follow the cracked cement path to the apartment on the end, where, lacking a better idea, I ring the bell.

When no one answers, I put my ear against the dirty steel door. I hear the sounds of the TV and smell coffee, so I believe someone’s home. I ring the bell again, longer and harder this time, following up with insistent knocking.

After about thirty seconds, I hear shuffling followed by a series of locks being opened. Then the door swings in and I come face-to-face with the bathrobe-clad resident.

“What are you, another reporter? Well,
go away
. Leave me alone. Talk to my lawyer if you’re so anxious for a story. Or anyone on the city council. They’re superchatty.”

As I take in the ratty bathrobe, the dirty hair, and the skin like ten miles of bad road, I’m not even sure I have the right apartment at first. I stare into her face, searching for similarities to the girl I knew twenty-one years ago and the impeccably polished woman I met in my past-present. Gone are the buttery highlights and the flawless skin. In their place is an inch of gray roots attached to listless Miss Clairol–gone-awry ends. Her forehead is furrowed, and instead of cheek implants, her face is sunken and hollow.

If you told me this was Amy Childs, I wouldn’t have believed you until I saw the full Owen Wilson of her nose. Why is that not fixed? It didn’t, like, grow back, did it?

Amy begins to close the door, but I stick my foot inside like I’ve always seen people do in the movies without incident.