Waking Beauty (24 page)

“Hot tub overlooking the lake,” said George. “Boats galore.”

I have to admit it sounded good. I’d never been to a cottage before. “How about this,” I said. “How about I come with you, but instead of leaving tomorrow morning, we leave Saturday morning? That way I could finish out the week for Allison, give the people a couple days’ notice to find a replacement by Monday, and collect my pay.” More important, I could see Nathan in person and tell him that I wouldn’t be able to make it on Saturday night. I could kiss and reschedule (I was pretty sure lasagna could be frozen).

“That’s not going to work,” he said. “I’ve invited a couple friends to join us, and they’ll be showing up early Saturday morning. I want to have the fire going, breakfast ready. He slid the check across the table.

I didn’t pick it up. I said, “But if you have friends coming, why do you want me to go?”

“Because it’ll be fun! Besides, Don and Dawn are a couple,” he said. “I don’t want to play gooseberry all weekend.”

“Gooseberry?”

“Fifth wheel. Odd man out.” He pushed the check closer toward me. “What if we leave tomorrow night? Does that suit you?”

“After my shift?”

“Sure. What’s the earliest you can get out of there?”

“If I hustle, I could be done by eleven-fifteenish.”

“All right. Driving will be easy at that time of night. So bring your stuff to work and I’ll swing by and get you around eleven-fifteen, all righty?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Hey, why so glum, babe?” George leaned over and kissed me on the ear. Then he slid the Heaven & Earth rectangle from my hands and put it in his pocket. “You know, there are people who would kill for this invitation.”

10    

Friday. I woke up early to hit the Laundromat. As
usual it was an odious experience. Four of the eight washers were taken, one was out of order, and another was rendered (to my mind) unusable after I discovered a washed Kotex pad inside. To top it off, the rude woman with the snot-nosed triplets was there. So was the asshole student with the orange jeans. The rude woman had once caused me great embarrassment after one of her mucus-encrusted children who’d been staring slack-jawed at me for ten minutes said, “Mommy, why is that lady so fat?” “Well,” said the rude woman in a sing-songy voice, “I guess it’s because she eats too much.”

But the rude woman was nothing compared to the asshole with the orange jeans. This guy was a real Laundromat prick. The kind of guy who would hang on to and refuse to temporarily relinquish one of the rolling baskets even if you needed it at that moment and he didn’t. The kind of guy who wouldn’t give you twenty seconds of grace after your cycle had ended, who would fish your freshly washed undies out of a machine with his grubby mitts and toss them on any available surface no matter how filthy, if you happened to step outside for some air and weren’t back to empty your machine the instant it stopped spinning. The kind of guy who would fold
his clothes slowly and meticulously, one item at a time, out of the dryer, even if you were standing there with an armload of soaking sweaters. A real Laundromat scourge. Except on this day. On this day, he was far from infuriating. On this day, he enthusiastically offered me the use of his rolling basket. On this day, he cleaned his disgusting cat-hair-spiked lint out of the dryers when they finished spinning, and removed his clothes unfolded to free up the machines for me. And when the rude woman ran outside to chase after one of her shrieking rug rats, and I opened her dryer and plucked out a fluorescent pink bathing suit, secreted it under my sweatshirt, and restarted her machine, he just laughed and winked at me as if we were old friends sharing a grand joke.

Hmm.

I got the clothes home and changed. Then, for the eighteenth Friday in a row, I took the subway to my mother’s house to drive her around and help with her errands. It wasn’t that I was so inclined to assist; I had my own agenda to pursue: pick up adoption papers.

She looked confused when she opened the door and caught sight of the New me instead of the Old me.

“Mrs. Penny?” I said.

“Yes?”

“Hi.” I smiled sweet. “Allison sent me to help you out today.”

“Oh,” she said, looking even more confused, but a smile beginning to blossom in response nonetheless.

“She’s not well, so she arranged for me to take over, if that’s all right with you?”

“Um…I suppose so.” She cocked her head to the side. “You’re a good driver, right?”

She said it kind of jokey, and I thought, That’s what you want to know? Not what’s wrong with your daughter? “I’m an excellent driver. I’ve been driving since I was sixteen and I’ve never had an accident.”
Neither have I backed up over a helpless animal while toddy sodden, you cow
.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” she said all perky. “Come on in for a minute, I’ll just put myself together.” She ran her fingers self-consciously through her crispy hair. “I’m running a bit late this morning.”

I followed her down the hall into the kitchen. I could tell that she had already put herself together but felt the need to spruce up now that she had seen me. I said, “Nice place, Mrs. Penny.”

“Oh, please, call me Diane, you’re making me feel old!”

“Sorry.”

“And you are?”

“Allison, actually.”

“Oh, that’s funny. Well, as long as I have an Allison helping me out, ha-ha-ha.”

How cheerful she was. How friendly and effusive.

“Would you care for a cup of coffee, Allison?”

Care for coffee? She never offered coffee. “Sure. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. It’s made. I just haven’t had a moment to drink it yet. I slept scandalously late. It was glorious.” She poured out two mugs from a white thermos carafe and brought them to the table. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

“No, thanks. Black is fine. I just have to…” I was chewing gum. I took it out of my mouth and held it between thumb and forefinger.

“Under the sink,” she said, pointing.

When I pitched the wad I noticed a heavy sprinkling of beige tablets amid the coffee grinds and cigarette butts. She had dumped at least half a prescription of ReVia into the trash. The insomnia and dizzy spells must have been getting to her. I closed the cupboard and returned to the table. I smiled and sipped my coffee. “Mmm,” I said, “good coffee.”

“Thanks. So, this is very nice of you, helping out today. Have you and Allison been friends for a long time?”

“Well…not exactly. I’m the new roommate. To be honest, I don’t really know her that well.

“Oh, okay. I was wondering.” She smiled as if something she’d known all along had been confirmed. Obviously, she thought it unlikely that I could be my friend. That pissed me off. I wanted to let her know then that she was a burden.

“Actually,” I said, “Allison paid me twenty-five dollars to do this for her today.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. One of my faults is that I’m painfully honest.”

“No, it’s fine by me. I was just curious.”

“I told her I’d be happy to help her out, that she didn’t have to compensate me, but she insisted. She was adamant.”

“Yes, well, she probably doesn’t want to be beholden to you.”

“You think? I got the feeling she wasn’t used to asking people for big favors; it made her uncomfortable.”

She shrugged.

“Anyway, I’m sure that Allison and I will be friends once we get to know each other better.”

She sipped her coffee and smiled small. “I thought you said you were totally honest?”

How quick she was to disparage! I decided to
egg
her on and let her rip. “Well, maybe not best friends. She is kind of…I don’t know.”

“Look,” she said, sighing weary, “Allison is my daughter, and of course I—of course we have that powerful mother-daughter bond, but I know all too well how difficult she can be.”

“Hmm. She does seem a little…?”

“She’s troubled. Deeply troubled. I wish there was something I could do for her. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do. She’s just a very unhappy girl. Very unhappy and…hostile.” Sad smile. Resignation.

I tried to appear empathetic. I tried not to dash hot coffee in her face and bring the mug swiftly down onto her skull.

“You must be a model,” she said, suddenly chipper, a slight strained quality to the voice.

“Um…sort of. I just had photos done.”

“Oh, that’s exciting. How did they turn out?”

“I won’t see them until Monday.”

“You know, believe it or not, I thought about modeling when I was young.”

“I believe it.”

She jumped up and left the room. I knew where she was going. She was going to the living room to get her pageant picture. Moments later she returned with the framed photo pinched between lacquered nails.

“This was me when I was sixteen.”

“Wow. A beauty queen.”

“Miss Beef and Barley,” she said, laughing dismissively, but with obvious pleasure. “Unfortunately, that was the zenith of my career.”

“Why didn’t you pursue it?” I said, handing the photo back, already hearing the nauseatingly familiar answer in my head.

“I was too short! I was only five foot seven.”

I was just two inches away from a totally different life
.

“I was just two inches shy of a completely different life.” She stared misty and maudlin at the photo.

I used to doubt it when I heard it before. But now it seemed plausible that two inches could entirely alter a life.

I stood up and carried my empty mug to the sink.

“How tall are you?” she said.

“About five foot nine.”

“Lucky,” she said.

“Yes.”

There was, no remonstrative “Careful” as I backed the yellow Audi out of the driveway, and before lighting a Salem Menthol, my mother asked me if I minded if she smoked. “I don’t mind,” I said. “As long as you put the window down.” She put the window down; she put it all the way down before lighting up.

First, we went to the bank. She withdrew cash, and I deposited my check from George. Next we went to the Moto-Photo so she could have her passport pictures taken yet again. This time when I asked my mother if she was going on a trip, she didn’t hesitate to answer.

“I’ve been seriously thinking about going to Australia.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to go there, ever since I was a little girl.”

“Is that right?” She had never mentioned it before.

“When I was a kid, my grandmother gave me this book called
A Little Bush Maid
, about this girl named Norah who lived on this huge ranch called Billabong.” She laughed. “Ever since I read that book, I’ve wanted to go to Australia. Particularly Victoria. That’s where Billabong was.”

I remembered the book. It was very old. On the cover was an illustration of a pretty girl riding wild on a horse. I had found it stashed in her sweater drawer when I was ten. Safe and special between cashmere. I remembered that I was not allowed to read it, because she was afraid I would crack the brittle spine or otherwise mess it up.

“I still have the book. A first edition,” she confided. “I bet it’s worth something to someone.”

Our next stop was Boutique Eloquio. She didn’t buy anything, but she tried on at least half a dozen outfits. She exhorted me to try things on as well. “Just for fun!” “Actually,” I said, “I’m sort of in the market for a new dress.” Of course, the well-made clothing looked great on me. And my mother was all animated and buzzing happy to have a real shopping buddy. “Oh, you
have
to try this,” she said. “Here, let me zip you up,” she said. “Oh, that’s stunning with the belt,” she said, tightening it around my waist.

It was a bizarre antithesis to the last time she had helped me shop for clothes. Me: thirteen years old, trying to squeeze into the designer jeans she’d picked out. Both of us: miserable and hot with shame when the salesman suggests we try the
Husky department at the rear of the store. Her: digging angry fingers into the waistband of the Husky pants, insisting that I buy them loose so she wouldn’t have to come back in a month for a bigger pair. This was nothing like that. This was me as living Barbie doll, and my mother having the time of her life dressing and accessorizing me. “Oh,” she said, “I know the
perfect
pair of Pradas for that dress, if you want to pop by Holt’s after….”

Did it piss me off that I was suddenly her best pal? Yes. Was I enjoying the attention anyway? Maybe a little.

Tall Job, the snooty saleslady, was there. She wasn’t nearly as tall or as pretty as she seemed the week earlier. She was, however, a hell of a lot friendlier to me. I quite enjoyed tossing the rumpled dresses her way, kicking them out of the dressing room for her to pick up off the floor and carefully re-hang. I also liked tossing my bank card on the counter, knowing that there was three thousand dollars in my account, more than enough to cover the shimmery crimson slip dress that weighed about four ounces and cost me $490. There would be no perfect Pradas after that.

We dropped off some dry cleaning and then hit the grocery store. For the first time ever, my mother suggested we have a bite to eat in the Marché area before we shopped. We sat under a striped umbrella in the faux-outdoor café and ate at a small glass table. My mother was extraordinarily chummy and chatty. She asked me if I had a boyfriend. I told her that, unfortunately, I had somehow ended up with two. “Get it while you can!” she yelped, then threw her head back, cackling. She told me that she had recently concluded a short-lived affair with a psychotherapist widower, that she liked him but couldn’t handle his fucked-up teenage progeny or his survivor guilt. She provided me with the sweaty particulars of their sexual encounters. She told me she had been trolling the Nerve.com personals online but hadn’t found anyone to her liking. She told me she had started the Suzanne Somers diet, and gave me a detailed description of her new food regimen.
She had a small green salad and a cup of black coffee. I had a large buttered bagel and a banana smoothie.