Perfect on Paper (15 page)

New Year’s Eve in a San Francisco emergency room, even in a fancy Pacific Heights emergency room, is a freak show. There are no other words to explain it appropriately. It was barely six o’clock when I got there, and the waiting room was already packed with weirdos. It was hard to tell who was on drugs and who was truly in pain. I could only imagine what it would be like as the night wore on.

After my fall, I had crawled to the side of the path and had sat there for about ten minutes. My ankle hurt so much that I couldn’t imagine trying to make it to the ranger’s cabin at the bridge entrance. So I’d just sat there in a state of semi-shock and waited for someone to appear. The next joggers to come by were a friendly married couple, and they’d helped me back to the main road where their car was parked. They drove me to the emergency room and let me use their phone to call McKenna, who was now on her way to pick me up.

I looked at the X-ray technician. “Is it broken?”

She helped me off the cold table and into a wheelchair. “Sorry, only the doctor is allowed to tell you that.”

“Oh.”

She winked. “But you’re young, you’ll heal fast.”

Uh, thanks for the tip, Miss Confidentiality.

Thirty minutes later, I had a cast up to my knee, a set of crutches under my arms, and an appointment with a specialist for the following week. I was also still in my sweaty, dusty running clothes. Only two hours earlier I had been thinking about what to wear to Hunter’s party. Frick.

I crutched back into the crowded lobby, where McKenna and Hunter were waiting. McKenna ran over and put her arms around me.

“Oh, sweetheart, you poor thing. Are you okay? How did it happen? Does it hurt? How long will you have that thing on your leg? And how in the world are you going to shower?”

I looked at her and tried to smile. “I tripped over a branch on the jogging trail. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was running, and boom, I went down like a portfolio of Enron stock.”

“What sort of pain medication did they give you?” Hunter said.

“I have no idea.” I pulled out the prescription from my pocket and handed it to him. “They also gave me something in the casting room, and it’s making me feel really woozy.”

He looked at the prescription. “Vicodin. Good, it’ll help you sleep tonight. We’ll fill this on the way home, but first I’m going to ask the doctor what they gave you in there, just so I know. I’ll be right back.”

He left me and McKenna by the door and walked over to the triage desk. McKenna watched him with a dreamy look in her eyes, then put her arm around me. “All right, we need to get you home and comfortable. Let’s think about what you’re going to need. How long do you have to stay off your leg?”

I leaned forward and rested on my crutches. “The doctor said I have to spend a week on the couch with my leg propped up. If it swells up too much, it’ll put pressure on the cast and start to throb.”

“Ouch. That sounds terrible. When Hunter gets back he’ll pull the car around, and then we’ll take you home and get you settled.” She put her hand on my back and wiped off some of the dust still coating my fleece. “We also need to get you cleaned up. I’ll help you shower.”

“Can I watch?” An old man in a pink tutu with waist-length pink hair looked up at us from his seat and grinned. No teeth.

Nice.

“All right, you’ve got
InStyle, People, US Weekly, Entertainment Weekly, Glamour,
and
Cosmopolitan,
plus your standard chick-flick classics:
When Harry Met Sally, Clueless, Sixteen Candles, Notting Hill, Legally Blonde, Love, Actually,
and
27 Dresses.
” McKenna propped my leg up on a pillow and handed me the remote.

“Uh oh, we forgot to get
Top Gun,
” I said.

“
Top Gun
is a chick flick?”

I held both my hands up in the air. “Hello? Volleyball scene?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’ll bring you that one tomorrow. You’re sure you don’t want me to stay with you tonight?”

“No, no, go to Hunter’s party. This is his big night, and I don’t want you or Andie to miss it just to babysit me.”

“You sure?”

I picked up
People
magazine and shooed her away. “Yes. Now get out of here. I need to catch up on my celebrity gossip anyway.”

“All right, all right. I’m going. I’ll come by to check on you first thing in the morning.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Mackie.”

So that’s how New Year’s Eve, the night my once-perfect fiancé married someone else, went for me. No fancy party, no perfect dress, no perfect kiss. Just me, my DVD player, and my Vicodin. And I didn’t even have any ice cream in the freezer.

The next year had to be better.

My first day back at work after the holidays was, well, a pain in the ass. I know that sounds really crude, but maneuvering around on crutches totally sucks. Just getting myself showered, dressed, properly caffeinated, and out of the apartment before 8 a.m. had me ready to flop back into bed.

When I crutched out of my apartment building, the crisp January morning air smacked me in the face like a
Jerry Springer
guest. I wished I’d worn my hair down, because my ears immediately felt like they might chip off at any moment. I had about a third of my hair pulled back into a loose twist clasped with a thick silver clip, the rest hanging straight down my back. Several strands of my hair fell loosely to my chin, and I hoped it looked like it was supposed to be a bit messy on purpose, because the truth was that I was disheveled and exhausted. I hadn’t been dressed and off the couch in nearly a week, and the last thing I could be bothered to worry about was my hair.

I wore a backpack full of stuff that would normally be in my purse, and as I crutched along, I was suddenly hit with the familiar sensation of being back in high school, when a backpack was as much a staple as the unfortunate scrunchie. For a moment I was on the way to my locker before first period chemistry. I started humming “Tearin’ Up My Heart” by ’N Sync, but then I quickly realized that anyone currently in high school was probably in diapers when that band was popular. That made me feel about 90 years old and snapped me out of my morning daydream. Ouch.

I continued to crutch down the street and could practically see the grass growing on the way. The path from Fillmore down to California was on a slight but definite slope, and I was totally scared of taking a wrong step and biting it. After what seemed like forever, I finally made it to the bus stop and crutched to the back of the line for the number 1, also known as the Chinatown Express, for its voyage through what the casual observer might mistake for a village outside of Beijing. I knew I should take a cab to work, but I felt so ridiculous for the way I’d broken my ankle that I was determined to overcompensate by being strong and independent.

So I sucked it up and took public transportation.

“Here, take mine.” A fresh-faced boy wearing a suit that was way too big for him jumped up and motioned for me to take his seat on the bus.

“Uh, thank you.” I couldn’t believe how young he looked. Was he some sort of high school intern? I sat down and hoped no one would bump into my leg. Then I looked out the window at the dark sky, which looked much darker than it had when I had left my apartment. I prayed that it wouldn’t rain.

My prayers weren’t answered.

Within two minutes it started to pour, and I wondered how in the world I was going to manage getting off the bus once we reached downtown. And then I wondered how in the world I was going to manage being downtown once I got off the bus. I decided that the ride home that evening would definitely be in the back of a cab. Score:
Toughing It Out, 0; Wimping Out, 1.

“Let me help you. I’m getting off, too.” The prepubescent in the suit took my arm when we reached my stop, and he even insisted on walking me to my office and holding his umbrella over my head.

“You’re so sweet to do this. Seriously, thanks so much,” I said.

He smiled. “It’s no problem.” I don’t think his voice had even changed yet. I gave him my card and told him to call me if he ever needed a fake ID.

When I finally hobbled into my office, I used a crutch to shut the door and sat down at my desk. I looked at the window and saw that it was still pouring outside. I’d been at work for approximately three minutes, and I was completely exhausted.

Holy crap.

“So how’s it feeling?” Andie said.

“So much better,” I said. “I’ve pretty much got the crutch thing down, and I gave up the GI Jane attitude weeks ago and now take cabs to work. And at least I can drive if I need to.” It was Sunday afternoon a few weeks later, and Andie, McKenna, and I were having lunch up in Marin, about fifteen minutes north of San Francisco across the Golden Gate Bridge.

“You’re taking cabs to work?” McKenna said.

I nodded. “It’s costing me a small fortune, but it makes my life so much easier. And Jess said I could work at home anytime it’s raining or if I’m too tired to come into the office, which I’ve been doing about twice a week.”

“You can stay home anytime you’re too tired to come into the office? I wish I could swing that deal,” Andie said.

“So when do you get the cast off?” McKenna said.

“Tuesday. If everything checks out at my doctor’s appointment, they’ll switch me to a walking cast.”

“Cool.”

“I can’t wait to be able to walk again. Cynthia’s wedding is a week from Saturday, and I really don’t want to go on crutches. Sitting at the singles table again is going to be hard enough.”

“Like a walking cast is going to look any better with a cocktail dress? I don’t think so,” Andie said.

“Thank you for reminding me,” I said.

“So, any word on that big account yet?” McKenna said.

“Adina Energy? Not yet. But the rumors are flying that the announcement will be made next week, when I’m in the New York office,” I said.

“So it’s still looking good?”

I smiled. “Yep, very good. This could be a huge step forward in my career.”

Andie patted my head. “Glad to hear it. You certainly deserve some good fortune.”

“Thanks, honey,” I said.

“Hey, speaking of honey, have you done anything with those greeting cards yet?” McKenna said. After breaking my ankle, I’d finally decided to bite the bullet and let her and Andie read my Honey Notes. To my delight, they both thought the idea was fantastic.

“Still coming up with ideas nearly every day. Want to hear one I wrote after some kid helped me on the bus and made me feel like a total grandma?”

“Shoot,” Andie said.

“Okay, the front of the card says:
Ever wish you were a teenager again?
”

They both nodded.

“And when you open it, it says:
Honey, apparently you’ve never suffered from an unfortunate outbreak of adult acne.
”

Andie laughed. “Classic. Remember that summer when you had that acne on your back?”

“Uh, you mean my bacne? Don’t remind me,” I said, making a face.

She put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Oh, I’ll keep reminding you, my dear. That’s one thing you can count on.”

Two hours later we were on the way home, winding through the cobblestone streets of Mill Valley, perhaps the cutest town in Northern California. It was full of quaint restaurants, coffee shops, art galleries, and boutiques. And the weather was always perfect. The three of us had spent countless weekend afternoons in the main plaza, drinking coffee and people-watching and fantasizing about actually being able to afford a house there.

“Hey, did you guys hear that Hillary Weston is pregnant?” McKenna said.

“Again?” I said. “Is that three?”

McKenna nodded. Hillary had been the first one of our college friends to get married. We were only 23 at the time. It was like one minute she was opening beer bottles in the door jamb of our dorm room, and the next she was picking out china patterns. It had scared me to death.

“I’m never having kids,” Andie said. “People who have kids are way too annoying. I don’t want to be that annoying.”

I laughed and turned to McKenna. “What about you? Do you still want to have kids?”

She nodded and smiled. “Someday, yeah.”

“And you definitely don’t?” I said to Andie.

Andie shook her head. “No way.”

“What about you, Wave? Still not sure?” McKenna said.

I nodded. I wondered how they could be so sure about what they wanted when I was the one who’d nearly gotten married—and I still didn’t know.

“All those girls from college are all so grown up now,” I said. “But look at me, still heating frozen dinners in the microwave.”

Andie laughed. “I love your cooking allergy. It’s like my commitment allergy. You know, the other day my mom told me that she feels like a failure because apparently she didn’t teach me how to land a man.”

“Land a man?” McKenna said. “Are you kidding me?”

Andie shook her head. “No joke. Her exact words were
land a man
.”

“Wow,” I said. “What did you tell her?”

“I asked her if she wanted another martini with her breakfast.”

I looked out the window. “Is that so scary that I nearly got married without knowing if I even want kids?” I said.

“Life is scary,” McKenna said.

I looked at her. “That sounded like avoiding the question to me.”

She laughed. “So you said your ankle’s feeling better?”

Andie laughed too.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “No wonder Aaron didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with me. Seriously, you guys, look at me. I need at least nine hours of sleep. I can’t cook. I make fun of people who drive minivans. I have thirty-five pairs of black shoes. How am I cut out for breast-feeding and bake sales and PTA meetings?”

“I have forty-five pairs of black shoes,” Andie said.

“I’m a mess,” I said.

“Oh, be quiet,” McKenna said. “You’re not a mess, you’re just getting to know yourself better. That’s a good thing.”

“But what if all I’m learning is that I’ll never be ready to grow up?” I said. “It seems like everyone I know has grown up and knows what they want out of life, and I’m still eating cereal for dinner.”

“You’re plenty grown up,” McKenna said. “Look what you’ve done with your life after a pretty rocky childhood. Getting an academic scholarship to college isn’t easy, Waverly. You need to give yourself a little credit.”

I sighed. “Yeah, but I can’t blame everything on my dad, you know. If I hadn’t come along, he might have had a real shot at a baseball career. But look at him now, bitter and wondering what could have been, stuck with a daughter who throws like a girl.”

McKenna squeezed my arm. “It was his choice to become a father, Wave. And it’s not your fault that your mom got sick. You need to stop feeling guilty about being born.”

Her words made me think of what Jake had said when I met him. Did I really feel guilty about being born?

“What did Aaron think about that?” Andie said.

“About my dad?” I said.

“About your mom, your dad, everything.”

I shook my head. “We didn’t talk about it that much. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me.”

McKenna took a deep breath. “Seriously, Wave, you’ve got to start trusting people to believe in you.”

I looked down and bit my lip. “I trust you guys,” I said softly.

“We don’t count,” Andie said. “We didn’t almost marry you.”

I looked at both of them. “You two are always so logical about everything. Why am I the one who is always freaking out?”

“There’s one in every group,” Andie said. “Keeps things interesting.”

I leaned forward and turned on the radio to find a U2 song. “Okay, that’s enough out of you two.” I paid the toll at the Golden Gate Bridge and drove back into the city. We wound our way through the streets of the perfectly manicured Marina district, past the grassy parkway of the Marina Green field and the adjacent yacht harbor. The area was still full of joggers, kite flyers, and volleyball players trying to make the most of the weekend before the sun set and Monday reared its ugly head again.

After I dropped off my friends, I parked my car and walked up to my building. Once inside, I put on my pajamas and slippers and pulled my hair back into a low ponytail. Then I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and walked into my office. When Whitney had moved out, I didn’t have much to put in there at first, but eventually I’d bought a nice oak desk, a chair, and a bookcase. To add a bit of personality to the room, I’d recently sprung for a heavy mustard-colored wooden chest, a thick rust-colored area rug, and a series of framed black-and-white pictures of random people posing for some random photographer from the 1940s. Mainly I used the office for paying bills, surfing the Internet, and writing the occasional letter, birthday card, or thank-you note. And now that I worked at home once in a while, the five-second commute was pretty sweet.

I booted up my computer and added a few more Honey Notes to my growing list.

Front: Afraid that your childhood will haunt you forever?

Inside: Honey, it will. Now get over it.

Front: Dreading sitting at the singles table?

Inside: Honey, as far as anyone knows, your boyfriend is performing heart surgery and thus unfortunately could not attend. Or, if there are hot guys there, you are totally available. Work it as you see fit.

Front: Wondering if the whole white picket fence thing is for you?

Inside: Honey, not everyone has to be June Cleaver. Now go get yourself a facial.