Here I Go Again: A Novel (34 page)

I want to be more comfortable when things aren’t perfect. Perfection is overrated, and also, it makes you superhungry. If I could not launch into absolutely apoplexy at a gray hair or a tiny line or a cellulite dimple, that’d be great, because I want to be someone who’s not a slave to her appearance. I’ve come to realize that the package doesn’t matter nearly as much as the contents.

I want to worry more about what’s important and less about what others think.

Not to go all Dorothy at the end of
The
Wizard of Oz
, but I have come to understand that the only person who’s in charge of my destiny is me. If I want all of the above, then the onus is on me to make those things happen. I may be unemployed and living at home, but I can change that with a little hard work.

I decide I can start the process of becoming more me by looking the part. I strip down and then re-dress in some silly but flattering mom jeans and a still pristine Whitesnake baseball-sleeve concert T-shirt. I never once wore it outside of the house. Well, that changes today. This is who I am, like it or lump it.

While I’m bent over tying my sneaker, I spy the end of the poster board sticking out from underneath my bed. I cautiously pull it out and use the sweatpants I just took off to dust the top of it, revealing the words “
LION PRIDE
” in big letters, topped with glitter. But that wasn’t the important message on this board. I flip it over to see what I wrote twenty-one years/twenty-one minutes ago.

BRIAN, YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT KURT COBAIN (AND EVERYTHING ELSE).

I can’t help but smile.

Brian really was right.

Nirvana
was
groundbreaking, and their music is as relevant now as it was back then. I get it now. Finally. Maybe they weren’t to my taste back then, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t change everything two decades ago. And maybe that was my problem with them—they represented a new age and a new era, and that scared me because I thought I’d be left behind, like so many eyeliner-wearing, spandex-clad, Aqua Net–using icons whose packaging was just as important as their contents.

Nirvana was all about sound without any glam-rock theatrics, without any distractions or gimmicks, and that had to have terrified me, as I was made of the sum parts of my own personal stage show. Nirvana was just who they were, take it or leave it. When Cobain made the tragic decision to neither burn out nor fade away, he cemented his position as a music legend. I can’t deny that.

A denial, a denial, a denial
keeps running through my head.

You know what?

It’s probably time I download
Nevermind.

It’s also time to check on that cat.

I slowly open my door and make my way down the hallway to my parents’ bedroom. The bed is unmade and there’s a pair of Daddy’s plaid pants on his side. But I don’t allow myself to break down over what this might mean. This isn’t over until it’s over, and I’m going to have some faith, for the first time in my life.

When I’m down the stairs, I slip into Daddy’s library. I’m instantly enveloped in the scent of Royall Lyme and Wint-O-Green Lifesaver. I inhale deeply and just stand there for a minute, imagining how it felt when Daddy would hug me.

Eventually, I open my eyes again. At first glance, all is how I left it after I came home from the hospital, only his file folder of boats is missing. Then I spot an anomaly on his shelf. There are rows and rows of books, and each individual row contains books with the same covers. I pull one out and look at it.

A Civil Affair
by George Ryder.

Oh, Daddy, you did it!

His other titles all include some play on the word “civil,” like
The Civil Warriors
,
A Civil Tongue
, and
Civil Wrongs
. I quickly scan the back of one of them and it looks to be a legal thriller from the perspective of a patent attorney whose specialty involves civil engineering. This makes total sense, because Daddy’s undergraduate degree was in civil engineering, which is one of the prerequisites for practicing his type of patent law.

I’m so proud of him.

No matter what happens next, Daddy had the chance to live his dream, and my job here is done.

I peek out the front door and I notice a couple of unfamiliar cars in the driveway. Who would be here? And why? Please tell me they aren’t paying their respects or dropping off casseroles. I hear murmurs toward the back of the house and I’m drawn to them like a moth to a flame. The fate of the cat is about to be revealed.

My knees buckle when I see the cat is alive, well, and sharing a plate of bacon with Mamma.

My mother frowns. “Good Lord, sugar, what’s a matter with you? Look lahk you’ve seen a ghost!”

Okay, do not even get me started on the irony of that statement.

“Hi, honey, would you like some breakfast? Your mother made biscuits that are out of this world. Please eat some so I stop,” Daddy implores me.

I’m so overcome with emotion that I can’t say anything, instead choosing to hug him again and again and again.

“No need to cry, sugar. The biscuits aren’t really that good. I don’t make ’em with lard anymore, because your daddy and I are gittin’ fat.” Then she pinches him, but gently.

My dad grins at my mother. “I don’t know; you still look pretty good to me.” Then he grabs her for a prolonged kiss.

Clearly I have landed in the Twilight Zone.

I don’t mind one bit.

I’m not entirely sure what else to do, so I pull up a chair and I help myself to a couple of biscuits with jam and butter, and they’re seriously the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.

I’m one sip into a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice when my father asks, “Are you excited to go back?”

That’s when I begin to choke. Go back? Where? In time? In space? What’s happening? I hack and sputter into my napkin while Daddy whacks me on the back.

“Judging from your reaction, you must be excited. Prolly tard of seeing me and your daddy snugglin’ all the time.”

I tell her, “Trust me when I say I will never be tired of that.”

“I imagine the varnish should be dry by now, right?” Daddy asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“Sugar, did you not sleep well? You’re all over the map today,” my mother says.

“I’m a little groggy,” I admit.

“You’ll be glad to be home,” Daddy decrees. “You’ll be back in your own home and you’ll have those beautiful new floors.”

I have a home?! But before I can even ponder what that means, my mother says, “We don’t mean to kick you out, darlin’, but your daddy and I sure could use some quiet time. This has been truly lovely, but it’s a bit much.”

What’s a bit much?

“Plus, honey bunny, we’re leaving for Canyon Ranch tomorrow.” She gives Daddy an affectionate poke. “I mean, someone’s got to play all that golf while I redesign their spa.”

That’s when I notice the huge stacks of wallpaper and fabric samples behind her, all adorned with a Ginny Ryder Designs logo.

Oh, my God, she did it, too! She actually listened to me! She found her calling as an interior designer! And she must be great at it, if she landed a project like Canyon Ranch.

My mother begins to herd me to the front door and says, “I see you have all your stuff already. All righty, sugar! See you soon!” Then she plants a kiss on me, hands me a purse, and sends me out the door with a small whack on my bottom.

I have no idea what’s happening here, but I hope it never ends.

So I’m ready to go home, I guess. I just need to figure out where that might be. I open the purse—not a Birkin, but who cares?—and the first thing I stumble upon is my iPhone.

I have one waiting text.

Deva:
lassie rodeo, do you require my hope?

I text Deva back.

ME:
no thx, i’m full up on hope right now

My heart swells to nearly bursting when I notice that one of the cars is covered with boating bumper stickers and I see a parking permit for Diversey Harbor. Way to go, Daddy and Mamma, I mean,
Mom and Dad
. If I’m going to be a better, newer, different me, I should probably start addressing my parents like an adult.

Seriously? Everything is perfect right now.

Except . . . I have no idea where I live. But I can figure that out from my driver’s license. I start to dig around in my handbag, which is really kind of massive.

Why do I carry so much shit in my purse? I dig and dig and dig, but I still don’t unearth a wallet.

Really, what the hell?

I have all the usual stuff, like tampons and elastic bands and an iPod. I’ve got one of those small e-readers. (I read now?) (Wait, Daddy’s a writer; I guess I must.) There’s Kleenex and granola bars and a bunch of weird plastic items that I don’t even recognize. I have three kinds of hand sanitizer! What’s my obsession with antibacterials? Am I a germaphobe now? Do I live in a bubble?

Okay, this is a little ridiculous—there’s a frigging banana in this bag. I would never carry a stupid banana around with me . . . except I guess I would and I have and I do.

I am very interested to get to know the new me. What do I call myself? Am I Lissy? Am I Melissa? Neither one of those names feels quite right anymore.

I should probably call myself “disorganized,” because this purse is a holy mess. I finally dump the whole kit and caboodle onto the porch. Okay, cool, here’s a gas bill. Where’s the address on this thing? Ah, looks like I live on . . .

“Belle?”

. . . Washington Street in Hinsdale. Huh.

“Belle?”

The suburbs. I never really thought of myself as a suburban-dwelling adult, yet here I am. What else don’t I know about myself?

“Belle. Belle. Melissa Belle Murphy, what are you doing with all that stuff?”

I look up and the entire universe feels like it’s shifted. “Brian? What are you doing here?”

“I was across the street saying good-bye to my parents.”

“Oh.” I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s so ruddy and vibrant and has hair in all the right places.

“Did you hit your head or something?” Brian’s staring at me like I have three noses or an unfortunate piercing, yet he’s holding out his hand to help me up.

I’m not sure what else to say, so I respond, “I think so.”

“Well, we’d better get you checked out before we go home.”

“No, no, I’m okay. But are we going to the same home? Together?”

“That’s kind of how it works, Belle,” he says with an amused expression on his beautiful, beautiful face. That’s when I spot his simple gold band. I glance down at my hand and I’m wearing one, too.

“We’re married? I mean, we’re married! Woo!”

Brian grows more concerned. “How hard would you say you hit your head?”

“No, no, I’m fine . . . honey.” I try out a term of endearment, just to see if it sticks.

He grabs me and gives me a quick kiss. “All right, then. Let’s go home.” Then he helps me scoop all the crap back into my purse and we walk hand in hand down the driveway.

I’d say I didn’t know how this happened, but I do. The key to everything was helping my parents fix themselves.

Certainly I want to catch up with everyone from my past, but I have a feeling that everything has fallen into place exactly like I hoped it would.

When we get to the end of the driveway, I try to open the door of the ultra-high-end luxury sedan parked there.

“Um, Belle, what are you doing?”

Okay, can I tell you how much I love being called by my middle name? That’s the perfect antidote to both Lissy and Melissa. It feels so right, harkening to my past but also speaking to my future.

Everything is perfect.

“Um, we’re not driving your mom’s car, Hell’s Bells. Come on; let’s get out of here.” Brian clicks a button on the remote and there’s a weird chirping that triggers the door sliding open on a shiny new beige minivan.

Okay, that’s not mine.

Yet the Brian who’s climbing into the driver’s seat begs to differ.

And that’s when I see something that knocks the wind right out of me.

There are two captain chairs in the middle of the van and a big bench seat in the back. The chairs contain two smaller versions of Brian with my coloring, in deft concentration over their Nintendos.

They’re probably his nephews, right?

Then movement in the backseat captures my attention and I come face-to-face with a fourteen-year-old version of myself—blond hair, eyes that switch from blue to green depending on the outfit and mood, and the strong jawline capped off with a determined little chin. She’s clad in skinny jeans and a
Bieber Fever
T-shirt, and she’s holding one blingy ringy-dingy of a cell phone.

This person looks me up and down with more than a modicum of contempt. “Are you seriously wearing that heinous outfit, Mamma? You look like you got dressed at a garage sale. Or that you’re homeless and have really atrocious taste.” Then she rolls her eyes, huffs loudly, and returns to her texting.

Mamma.

Mamma?

Whoa.

Karma really
is
a bitch.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

They say a change will do you good and nowhere is that aphorism more evident than in this book. So I’d like to offer a million thanks to Scott Miller and the rest of the team at Trident. You’ve yet to be wrong, and I am so appreciative.

Also leading the change management team is Tracy Bernstein, who encouraged me to stretch, grow, and finally not base a heroine on my own life. I’m really proud of what we’ve accomplished here. And I’d be nowhere without the wisdom and skills of Kara Welsh and Claire Zion. Thank you for being so firmly Team Jen. Craig Burke, you rock, and Melissa Broder, you complete me. (By which I mean you humor and take care of me, which is the same damn thing. What Would Dick Cheney Do? indeed).

Extra big props go to my girls, starting with Stacey Ballis, who altered my future by saying, “But what if Lissy did this, instead?” Spot-freaking-on you were. I am so lucky to have you!