Here I Go Again: A Novel (7 page)

Oh, I know this one!

“Never drink boxed wine.”

Debbie—no,
Deva
—grits her teeth and inhales so hard, I’m afraid all of her ancient booby statues are going to fly off the shelves from the suction. Then she exhales so hard she blows my hair back. “Beyond that. If you listen with your head and your heart, what is the message that you received?”

I scrunch my eyes shut and I come up with an answer I don’t particularly like or agree with. “That if I want to live a happy life now, I need to have not been Lissy Ryder in high school?”

Then, in a flash, everything falls into place. I bet that’s why the bank manager in the class behind me wouldn’t advance me a line of credit for LissCom, even with my dad cosigning. And the girl I cut from the squad because her hair was too shiny? Elyse, Duke’s reunion date and divorce attorney. No wonder she went for my jugular. No wonder she wore that slutty dress.

My mind races through all the slights I’ve suffered in the past twenty years—drinks “accidentally” spilled on my new Tory Burch shoes, elevator doors not held, paperwork misfiled, parking spaces stolen, and all the vaguely familiar faces attached to the perpetrators.

Is it possible I’ve generated an entire universe of bad karma?

That thought is far too overwhelming to consider before coffee, so I vow to shove this realization to the back of my mind the second I leave this place. Like Scarlett O’Hara says, I can’t think about that right now because I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about everything tomorrow.

Deva taps a meaty digit to the tip of her nose. “Bingo.”

Now I’m mad. Anger’s a way healthier emotion than guilt. “Bingo. Bingo? What is
bingo
? What are you saying? That I need to find Doc Brown and build a DeLorean and go back to the future?” I throw my (delicate, adorable) hands in the air. “I’m not even sure how I’m getting back to La Grange.”

This is where Deva’s deep and abiding spiritual guidance comes into play. “There’s a ten twenty-five Metra train, and you can grab a cab to Union Station right out front,” she offers.

“Thanks,” I retort, failing to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “That takes care of my future. What about my present?”

“Lissy Ryder, if you turn yourself over to the wisdom of the universe, you’ll find things have a way of working themselves out.”

I level my gaze. “People really pay you for this kind of spiritual guidance?”

She nods. “Enough to buy vacation homes in Maui, Aspen, and Sagaponack.”

“Sweet.” My wheels start to turn and I’m trying to come up with a reason that Deva might need to bring me along to the Hamptons or Hawaii when I notice that she’s staring at me. I mean, she really, really sizes me up, like she’s checking me for blackheads or nits or something. I feel self-conscious all of a sudden. I touch my face. “Do I have boogies?”

With the hint of a smile, she continues giving me the whale eye. Seems like she’s having a debate inside her own head. After sixty extremely awkward seconds, she appears to have come to a conclusion. “I may have something that will help. If I give it to you, you must promise to use it carefully.”

I shrug. “Sure, whatever.” The more amenable I am here, the more likely she is to let me camp out in her extra bedroom in Aspen. I haven’t been skiing in years! But I’ll probably need new snow pants, so that’s a dilemma. Not insurmountable but—

“Give me five minutes.” While Deva goes downstairs to her shop, I find a palatial bathroom where I dry-heave a couple of times. When I’m done, I inspect myself for damages. Oh, my Lord, I could go swimming in my pores right about now, and my crow’s-feet have crow’s-feet! Also? I have a not so fresh feeling that I’m hoping stems from having slept under a yak pelt. I splash cold water on my face (and other areas) and then blot with a big, nubby piece of cloth I assume is a towel, although maybe it’s some kind of ancient fertility rag; it’s not so clear in a place like this. My dress is in here, too, so I slip out of the Ikat robe and leave it by the side of the massive sunken tub. The Spanx are in shreds. She can keep those.

Deva greets me when I exit the bathroom. She hands me a small brown vial about the size of an airplane bottle of gin. Ugh, gin. I do not want to think about liquor right now. “What is it?” I ask.

Deva cups the bottle like it’s some kind of precious gift. “This is a powerful elixir. You should only drink a drop at a time. Do you understand? It’s crucial that you’re very, very careful.”

“What does it do?” After the whole wheatgrass debacle, you can’t blame a girl for being skeptical.

“This is an ancient Incan tonic that, when used properly, will imbue you with a sense of clarity, purpose, and inner peace. An old shaman taught me how to blend it on my last spiritual quest to Machu Picchu. The fluid’s distilled from the seeded flora indigenous to the high jungle, such as the
Lupinus mutabilis
and pteridophytes, which, now that I’m thinking about it, isn’t a flower or seed so much as a vascular cryptogam, in which case—”

Noting that she’s losing my attention, Deva tries to press the bottle into my hand. I must seem dubious, so she grudgingly adds, “This will cure your hangover and help your complexion, Lissy Ryder.”

I grab the vial and stuff it in my bag. “Sold!”

As I have many things to avoid thinking about, I decide it’s time to motor. When I get to the front door, I turn and tell her, “See you later, Deva. Thanks for everything and . . .” I suddenly feel a flash of empathy for the weird little hippie girl with the stringy hair and the back brace and the big mitts, just trying to eat her lunch in peace. “. . . I’m sorry about the corn dog thing. That was uncalled-for and I apologize.”

The damnedest thing is?

I think I actually mean it.

 * * * 

M
y mother picks me up at the station, greeting me with an enormous tumbler of sweet tea. Even though my thirst is Saharan, I take tentative sips for fear that I’ll see it again all over the seats of her Volvo SUV. When we arrive home, she wants to help me plot revenge against everyone who shunned me. (As it is, I suspect Books Fatty’s mom is about to be iced right out of the garden club.) I appreciate Mamma’s enthusiasm but I’m desperate for a nap, so I escape to my room instead.

I try to lie down but the bed’s spinning, so I sit up again. My thoughts are racing, despite my attempts to avoid thinking about the night. I cue up my Whitesnake playlist and dock my iPod, hoping that music will soothe my soul and quiet my head. David Coverdale’s mournful wailing on “Ain’t No Love in the Heart of the City”
perfectly captures my mood right now. Ain’t no love for Lissy. I’m trying not to be all “Self-Pity, Party of One,” but the past twenty-four hours have been more mind-altering than Jack and Jäger.

When I recounted events to Mamma, she said the problem was that everyone at the reunion was jealous of me. I like the sound of that, but if I’m being brutally honest with myself, I can’t fathom how that might be true. Three months ago, yes, absolutely, but now?

Especially given the awesome lives they’re all living?

What do they possibly envy? My best friend who bails on me? My loving husband and his hottie? My newfound ability to pack on half a pound per day? The four hundred dollars LissCom has thus far raked in?

Before I can ponder further, I have to dry-heave again. As I race to the bathroom, I knock into my bookshelf and I hear all the touchstones of my glorious youth clatter to the floor as I hug the bowl.

When I return to my bedroom, I begin to right the fallen items. One of the pieces on the floor is an old diary. When I pick it up, I notice Debbie’s name, and right there in black and white, I’ve recounted the whole corn dog incident. I’m all self-congratulatory on the page, like I accomplished something really great that day. I sink onto my bed and start to read while David Coverdale croons over whether or not this is love.

Six hours later the sun is low in the sky and I feel sick. Only this time it’s not the boxed wine. I understand now what everyone was so mad about at the reunion. These events are going to be forever burned in my mind now.

Deva’s right—I wasn’t nice. To anyone.

The things I thought were hilarious at seventeen are decidedly less so at thirty-seven. I’m not sure I even meant to be so cutting half the time; doling out well-timed retorts was the easiest way to hold on to my power. As my mom told me on more than one occasion, “Fear’s more powerful than love.” She may have been even more concerned about my social status than I was.

I lean back against the headboard and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, all hollow-eyed and middle-aged beneath a poster of a greased David Coverdale.

Pathetic.

I’m about to call to Mamma and invite her to my pity party, but then I remember what Deva gave me. Bad as I feel both mentally and physically, I’m willing to try anything right now.

I dig around in my purse until I find the vial. I take a tentative whiff and I smell . . . root beer schnapps? I carefully unscrew the lid and tip it back. The rubber stopper permits only one tiny bead of fluid to struggle free and land on my tongue.

Whoa!

The drop travels through my system with the intensity of a rifle blast and the fire of nine thousand tequila shooters.

Definitely not root beer schnapps.

I wait a few minutes for my clarity, purpose, and inner peace, or at the very least, to stop wanting to pray to a porcelain god. Yet there’s something strangely appealing about the fluid, so I take another wee swig. My mouth feels oddly alive and my shoulders less tense as I swallow the second drop.

I repeatedly ingest minute amounts of the potion, and each time I do, I feel less queasy and my thoughts are quieted.

Maybe I’m being hypersensitive about the night, and maybe what’s in my diary isn’t so bad after all. Kid stuff. No big deal.

Each time I look in the mirror, the image is somehow softened and my edges seem smoothed. This shit’s got to be a hallucinogen, because I swear I look younger. Too bad Dr. Amy Childs is a jerk who doesn’t want to grow her business. The three of us could sell the bejesus out of this stuff to cosmetic manufacturers. The notion of Incan Pepto-Bismol/Xanax is genius.

Deva,
I say to my reflection,
you’ve completely redeemed yourself for the wheatgrass.

Over the course of the next hour, I end up chugging about half of the bottle. I’d have finished the whole thing, but I’m so, so sleepy. I’m not sure I’ve attained inner peace, but I’m borderline euphoric. Plus, the bed has stopped spinning enough for me to take a nap.

So there’s that.

CHAPTER FIVE

Time May Change Me

I wake up to the sun illuminating a swath of David Coverdale’s bare chest, just like God intended. I feel a million times better than I did yesterday. I’ve noticed that as I get older, my hangovers tend to last more than a day, which is completely unfair. You’d think with age and experience one’s liver would function more efficiently, but, sadly, that’s not the case.

I sit up and try to work the kinks out. Surprisingly, there are no kinks. None. I’m not even bothered by my high-maintenance elbow, which I screwed up from so many years on the tennis court. I practice a couple of backhands and I have total freedom of movement. This is great! Maybe I’ll lob a couple of balls against a backboard today at the park. Or, more likely, play Wii Tennis. Either way, it’s nice for my joint not to be sore for once.

I immediately begin looking for the Incan tonic I placed by the bed last night, but as I search, I realize I’m not actually nauseous and I don’t need it. I’m not spinny, I’m not achy, and my head’s no longer hosting a ten-piece brass band composed entirely of fourth graders. My hangover is officially Audi 5000! Yay!

When I hop out of bed, my pants fall down. Oh, nice job, Lululemon. You shell out ninety-eight bucks for a pair of bottoms and they don’t even last a year? Granted, I may have been taxing the elastic lately, but still. Double-plus uncool. I end up rolling the top and having the waistband rest on my hips.

While I poke around for my iPhone—where is that damn thing?—I hear the familiar sounds of my parents fighting. They’re extra-shouty today. Something about a car? I sigh. Just another day in paradise.

I hear the consecutive slamming of front and side doors, meaning my dad’s off to a twelve-plus-hour day practicing patent law and my mom’s off to . . . well, probably Oakbrook Center. Every shopkeeper at the mall knows her by name. Seriously, it’s like she’s a conquering hero when she walks through Neiman Marcus with minions running up to her displaying jewelry, handbags, and calfskin boots. I used to be so impressed by that, but now I’m not sure it’s so great.

I sort through the covers and look under the bed for the phone. Nope, not there. I can’t seem to find my Louis bag (not a Birkin, but not bad, thanks to Mamma) and I suspect it’s in there. So now I have to go for the nuclear option—calling myself from a landline to find my purse and my phone.

My perfect pink Princess phone still lives on my desk, so I pick up the receiver and dial my cell. I don’t hear my ringtone (Warrant’s “Cherry Pie,” of course) and my voice mail doesn’t kick in, either. I probably forgot the whole shootin’ match on the train yesterday and by now some little jackass like Charlotte has sent nine million texts about how Justin Bieber makes her feel tingly in her underpants.

Fucking Bieber.

Can someone explain to me why music icons have changed so dramatically in the past twenty-five years? When I was Charlotte’s age, Jon Bon Jovi made me swoon, largely because he looked like a
man
. The way he moved . . . the way he sang . . . Maybe he had long hair, but there was no mistaking the testosterone that simply oozed out of him. He was a true rock star. Girls threw their underwear at him when he was onstage. What do they throw at the Biebs? Their retainers? Their Girl Scout merit badges? That little boy is probably still smooth as a Ken doll down there. I mean, there were no LesbiansWhoLookLikeBonJovi Tumblr accounts back then.

Okay, there might be now, but definitely not then.