“My being a vet isn’t as strange as you think,” she says, as she attaches the nozzle to my upper thigh. “This procedure is called Endermologie, and it started as deep-tissue massage for injured horses. Then an esteemed colleague realized the amazing side effect. None of the horses had any cellulite.”
I rack my brain, trying to think if I’d ever seen cellulite on Secretariat. Definitely none on Seabiscuit.
All of a sudden, I feel a pulling on my skin, and I grab onto the edge of the table so the machine doesn’t suck me in—though clearly I’ve already been sucked in.
The Exorcist vacuums the machine over me like I’m a saggy couch, explaining that the motorized rollers are lifting, stretching, and spinning, to increase collagen production and make the skin smoother. And best of all, we’re getting rid of the hardened connective tissue, though I was kind of used to that old hardened connective tissue. Isn’t it the only thing holding me up?
“I feel the problem leaving your skin,” the Exorcist intones. I suddenly picture her dangling a cross over my dimply thighs. And why not? Cellulite is clearly the work of the devil.
“Do you feel the subcutaneous fat and the toxins breaking down?” she asks grandly.
Actually, I feel the social contract of the twenty-first century breaking down. I’m an attractive intelligent woman with an Ivy League law degree and a good sense of humor, and I’m lying here with an Exorcist, a vacuum cleaner, and a slim hope of thinner thighs. Yes, civilization as we know it is about to come to an end—or else it’s advanced beyond our wildest dreams.
When the Exorcist finally turns off her whirring machine, she pats the back of my thighs.
“Good start,” she says definitively. “We’ll do this twice a week. Fourteen more sessions. I’m sure you’ll see some improvement.”
Twice a week for seven more weeks? That’s a longer commitment than George Bush made to being a compassionate conservative.
“I don’t have that kind of time. I’m leaving for the Caribbean,” I tell her.
Her eyes light up. “It’s not unheard of for clients to take me with them on vacation,” she says eagerly.
I think about that one for a minute. My own personal exorcist on call day or night to break down my subcutaneous fat—not to mention breaking down my bank account.
“Thanks,” I say, managing to get off the table and stand on my own two feet. “I’m flying solo.”
Chapter NINE
FOR ABOUT THE SEVENTEENTH TIME, Emily calls from her dorm to ask me if I’m really going to be all right by myself at Thanksgiving. I’m determined to put up a brave front, so I shrug off her concerns.
“It’s only a holiday about eating a dead bird,” I say lightly. “Plus, I’ve never liked cranberries. Gravy is always lumpy, pecan pie is bad for you, and who wants to eat sweet potatoes slathered with marshmallows?”
“You love marshmallows,” says Emily, who knows me too well.
“Only in s’mores and Rice Krispies treats,” I say. “Besides, you’ll enjoy being with Dad.”
“You’re sure Daddy’s not going to have that woman with him?” Emily asks.
“No, you’re going to Grandma Rickie’s, like always. Daddy would never go to his own mother’s house with Ashlee.”
“Please don’t say her name out loud,” says Emily. “It makes me sick.” The other phone line rings. “Hang on a sec,” I say seeing caller ID flashing Adam’s number. “You’re brother’s on line two.”
Instead of putting Emily on hold, I hang on to the phone with my left hand and pick up another portable with my right. With one phone cradled to each side of my head, I’m surrounded by my children.
“Hi, Adam,” I say.
“Hi, Mom. Listen, I just wanted to check in. Are you sure you’re going to be okay for Thanksgiving?”
“Yes, I’m going to be fine,” I say.
“How’s Adam?” Emily asks, from the phone on the left.
“Your sister wants to know how you are,” I say turning to my right as I play, well, telephone.
“Tell her I’m fine.”
“He’s fine.”
“But I’m worried about you,” Adam shouts, trying to get some attention.
“He’s worried,” I report dutifully to Emily.
“Me too,” says Emily, loudly enough that I’m pretty sure Adam has heard without my being middleman. Or middle mother.
“Why are you worried?” I ask, holding both phones close to my mouth so I can talk to my two children at once.
“Because you’re our mother.”
“Because more people commit suicide during the holidays than any other time of year,” Adam adds helpfully.
“I’m not committing suicide,” I say.
“What did you say about suicide?” screams Emily. “Suicide? I knew it. You’re depressed.”
“Of course she’s depressed,” says Adam. “How could she not be? We won’t be with her.”
“It’s unhealthy to be alone at Thanksgiving,” says Emily.
“The only thing in life that’s probably
not
unhealthy is missing a carbo-calorie-laden Thanksgiving dinner,” I insist. “And I’ve planned a lovely getaway. Of course I’ll miss you, but I’ll be all right. What bad can possibly happen on a beach?”
“You could forget your sunscreen, get skin cancer, and die,” says Emily, who’s apparently more upset about all this than I’d imagined. “Or even worse, you just suffer and I have to leave school and take care of you.”
“No, I’d take care of her,” says Adam heroically.
“I’m the daughter. I get to do it.”
“You couldn’t even sit through
Terms of Endearment
,” scoffs Adam. “As soon as Shirley MacLaine started hollering for morphine, you ran for cover.”
“Did not. I had to go to the bathroom,” retorts Emily.
The moment every mother dreams of. My children are bickering over who gets to sit by my bedside and give me the cyanide pills.
Still, the stereophonic screaming is starting to give me a headache. I gingerly place the two phones on the desk, facing each other, and walk away. Let the kids battle this out. I have to pack.
But I don’t pack lightly enough.
“You’ll have to check that bag. It’s too big to go in the overhead,” says the flight attendant at the gate, as I try to board the plane at Kennedy airport. It’s Wednesday of Thanksgiving weekend and, as expected, the terminal is in turmoil.
“But it’s a carry-on,” I tell her, tugging at the leather tag on the Tumi bag. “Look. It says so right here:
carry-on
.”
“Only when it’s empty. Now it’s way overstuffed.” She pokes her finger at the bulging bag and shakes her head. “Let me guess. You needed six pairs of shoes for three days away.”
“Five,” I say defensively. “Though to be honest, I probably didn’t need the pink mules since I had beige ones. But honestly what would you wear with the Marc Jacobs white eyelet dress?”
“Not beige,” she says wrinkling her nose.
“Exactly. But I needed beige to wear with a khaki skirt.”
“I see your point.”
Behind us, people in line to board the plane are getting a little restless. But that doesn’t put a crimp in our leisurely conversation.
“Do you mind unzipping your case?” she asks me.
“More security checks?”
“No, I’m just dying to see the new Marc Jacobs dress. I think Lindsay Lohan wore it to a movie premiere last week.”
I heft the bag up on the table and start to open it.
“Excuse me, miss,” says the next man in line, obviously eager to get on the plane. “If it would help speed things along, I have some Calvin Klein underwear I could show you.”
The flight attendant eyes him dubiously, probably because he’s not even carrying a suitcase.
“Why don’t you just board,” she says to me. “Take your carry-on. I’ll stow it for you later in the first-class closet.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved to be on my way. “And take a look at the dress whenever you want. In fact, take the whole dress if you want.”
Three hours later, rushing between terminals in the San Juan airport to catch my connecting flight, I start to wish I’d checked the overstuffed suitcase after all. Or at the very least, that the attendant had confiscated the dress and a few pair of shoes and made the bag a little lighter. I arrive at the gate sweaty and out of breath with three minutes to spare. Predictably, there’s an announcement at that very moment that the plane will be two hours late.
I drag myself and my bag over to the airport’s food court where, no contest, Cinnabon beats out Salad King for my business. With my sweet treat in hand, I sit down at a small plastic table, alone. Around me kids run up and down screaming, babies howl, husbands and wives argue over who has the boarding passes. The din is unbearable. Yet suddenly even the tumultuous family scenes all seem very appealing to me. Adam and Emily were right that it hurts to be by yourself over Thanksgiving.
I check my watch. Only an hour and fifty minutes left before my flight boards. What to do to pass the time? I could buy a few more Cinnabons, but that probably guarantees I’ll get a personal phone call from Anne Cole asking me never again to appear in public in one of her bathing suits. No, I’ll just read the
People
magazine I bought—and see which celebrities split up this week. I glance at the back cover, which has an ad from Citibank warning about identity theft. How fitting— because I’m pretty sure someone has stolen my identity. What else could have happened to the happy lawyer-mother-woman-wife who always had a family around her at the holidays? Where did she go?
Oh, buck up, girl. She’s right here. Stop wallowing in self-pity and pull yourself together. I fumble in my leather tote for a ballpoint pen. I don’t need a turkey to remind me to be thankful. In the white space around the ad, I carefully write “Ten Reasons Why I’m Grateful.” Then, just to be safe, I cross out the “ten” and write “five.” Now’s not a time to put myself under extra pressure.
Adam.
Emily.
I pause and chew the end of my pen. Is that cheating? Yes, definitely. I turn the magazine around and start again.
Five Reasons I’m Grateful.
Adam and Emily.
A job I like that gives me satisfaction.
Good friends.
Curly hair that doesn’t frizz too much in humidity.
Okay, now for number five. I know there’s a five. There’s probably fifty if I really think about it, but I just have to come up with one more. That’s not really hard.
5. I like who I am.
I study my list carefully and give a little smile. After everything that’s happened recently, I’m doing pretty well. I always knew I was resilient, but I think I’ve surprised myself. It’s not the circumstances of your life that make you happy or not, it’s how you face them.
I toss away the mostly uneaten Cinnabon and wipe the sticky frosting off my hands. As I turn around, I’m hit squarely in the face by a flying French fry, propelled by a seven-year-old boy.
“Very inventive,” I say to him, wiping a bit of ketchup off my cheek. “It’s not every little boy who can make a slingshot out of straws.”
His parents look horrified, but I flash them a big smile, determined to accentuate the positive in everything. At least until I have to put on that bathing suit.
The pictures on the Web didn’t lie. Virgin Gorda’s white-sand beaches are the most gorgeous I’ve ever seen, complete with hidden coves and oversize rock formations. The water is sparkling and my spacious pink stucco cottage is charmingly propped up on stilts, giving me a breathtaking view of the sailboats that dot the harbor. Perfection. I feel a little pang as I realize that the cottage has a second bedroom. If only Bill hadn’t been so stupid, we could be here with the kids, all of us together. If only if only if only. If only pigs had wings. I can’t think about what isn’t; I’m here for what might be. And today what might be involves a long walk on the sunny beach and a swim in the salt water. Tomorrow, with my new island tan (definitely better than the spray-on variety), I’ll think about looking for Kevin. I already know he lives on the other side of the island. It will take a long drive over undulating island hills to find him.
I put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and slip my feet into my rubber flip-flops. Those four other pairs of shoes, not to mention the skirts and sundresses, will probably never leave my suitcase. And, oh yes, I brought along two bulky sweaters. The Weather Channel reported the Caribbean at a balmy eighty degrees, but standing in thirty-degree New York, I couldn’t quite imagine balmy. The unwritten law of vacation packing is you take it all and never wear any of it. And somehow, I never learn. Next time, I’ll do the exact same thing.
Stepping outside to go exploring, I breathe deeply. The sweet smell of freesia fills the air. The island isn’t exactly overinhabited. I see beach on one side and scrubby island vegetation on the other. As I walk down a quiet dirt road, two goats start to follow me. And to think that Adam and Emily were worried that I’d be alone.
In the warm bright sunshine, the idea of looking up Kevin is starting to seem a little dim. No reason to think we’d have any more in common now than we did back in high school, when I was on the fast track to Columbia and he was just fast. We were quite a pair, Kevin in his black motorcycle jacket and me in my little cotton cardigan. Talk about opposites attracting; I once told him we made about as much sense together as a penguin and a zebra.
“But those do make sense. They’re both black and white. They have a lot in common,” he had said earnestly.
I’d marveled at his wisdom. At the time, his meaningless reply seemed so brilliant that I was sure only I understood Kevin’s genius. He’d held my hand as we walked away from school together, in the flush of first love. We’d skipped out of class—a new experience for me, but that was Kevin’s bad boy appeal. He made his own rules, and I was dazzled.
But how desperate am I, looking up the boy I kissed in high school? Our relationship would all seem very innocent now. His hand never got above my knee, but I broke his thumb anyway. I swear it was an accident. One night, he leaned in for a last good-night kiss just as I was closing the car door. Slam, bang, snap. Kevin showed up the next day with his arm in a cast. He never spoke to me again. The darnedest things can end a relationship.
My little walk has taken me into town, where I wander by a sail shop, a store selling fishing bait, and a pretty outdoor café. I sit down at one of the metal tables, shaded by a red and white Campari umbrella. Every café in the world seems to have the same sunshade. It could be the company’s become more famous for their umbrellas than their liquor.
“Welcome,” says a tall island waiter who’s made his way slowly to my table. “Drink?”
“Sure. How about a Campari and soda,” I say, feeling a new loyalty for the brand that’s been kind enough to shield me from sunstroke.
“Campari? Never heard of it. But I can offer some excellent local rums,” he says in a lilting accent.
Did the rum people pay for the chairs? I’d hate to support a nonadvertising beverage. “Rum is fine. What do you suggest?” I ask.
“I’ll mix you something special. I’ll make it a double,” he says, giving me a little wink.
While waiting for my double I-don’t-know-what, I idly watch the street scene in front of me. A low wooden fence separates the café from the street, and some native children in bright red shorts and bare feet run by, followed by a couple of barking dogs. A man pulling a cart of fruit smiles at me and hands me a fruit across the fence.
“Guava?” he asks. “Just picked. Fifty cents.”
“No thanks,” I say politely.
“Mango?” He holds out the fresh, sweet-smelling fruit, but I shake my head no.
“Here.” He puts it on my table. “For you. My gift. Happy Thanksgiving.”
That’s nice of him to celebrate Thanksgiving, considering that Virgin Gorda is a British territory. The only reason we got to have the turkey-and-pumpkin-pie feast in the first place was because the Pilgrims fled the English colonies. Thank goodness all is forgiven and we can enjoy the blessings of Elton John.
A few yards away, I notice a woman sitting on a mat, weaving a beautiful reed basket. Some tourists stop to admire her work and choose one to buy from the stack next to her. Maybe I should tell Rosalie there’s a business opportunity down here for her. If her raffia nests and crocheted squares aren’t a hit, she could always set up a Campari stand.
A good-looking man walking by stops and props himself against the fence next to the basket weaver. He opens the Coke bottle he’s holding and takes a long sip. His hair is streaked blond from the sun and he’s deeply tanned. His face is lined in that sexy crinkled-eyed way that makes men look athletic and rugged—and just makes women look ragged. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with ripped-off sleeves that accentuate his broad shoulders and muscular arms.