What Looks Like Crazy (15 page)

She mopped her eyes. Her hands trembled, and she dropped her glasses. I reached for them and handed them to her. “I like your new glasses, by the way,” I said.

She eyed them for a moment. “I'd forgotten I even had them. I'm lucky if I can find my way home these days; that's how bad my memory is. I walk around feeling dazed at times. I glance up at the clock, and I'm shocked to discover what time it is. I'm just not
with it
right now, you know?”

“Stress does that.” I waited until she seemed calmer. “Okay, listen,” I said, falling back on my role as a therapist. “You've been dealing with a lot of stuff. Too much stuff,” I added.

“Do you think I'm crazy?” she blurted.

Her question caught me off guard. “No, I don't think you're crazy. Why do you ask?”

“It's just the way Roy talked to me,” she said. “Like I was some insane person or something,” she added. “He made fun of me.”

“How do you expect him to act? He was trying to mooch off you, and you confronted him. That's what happens when you confront people who are trying to use or abuse you. They sometimes get nasty. But what is your alternative?”

“Being a doormat,” she said.

“I'm really proud of you for standing up for yourself, Alice,” I told her, “but you need to ward off this sort of thing in the future by being more cautious and assertive where people are concerned. You have to put firm boundaries in place or people will continue to take advantage of you. We can work on that.”

Alice shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Dr. Holly—” She paused. “I mean, Kate. I can't really afford therapy.” More tears, a quick laugh. “I probably need a ton of it, but I just don't have the money right now.”

I sat there quietly. This is where I often get myself into trouble. I see a person in pain, and the thought of paying my electric bill flies right out the door. “I've been known to take some cases pro bono, Alice.”

“Oh, I could never do that.”

“You could pay me later. Or you could make small payments when you are able. It doesn't matter. What matters is getting you healthy.” I had real reasons for wanting Alice to keep coming to me. That she had admitted to being a doormat, that she had such low self-esteem and hadn't the first clue about setting boundaries, smacked of childhood abuse. It would not be easy getting her to open up: children of abuse learned at a very young age to keep secrets.

“I'll think about it,” Alice said.

A block from
my house, I saw my mother and aunt turning in to my driveway. I parked beside them a moment later and found them pulling boxes from the back of their monster truck.

“We have dishes and cookware and everything else you could possibly need for your kitchen!” my mother said, excitement and pride lighting her face. It faded quickly, and her eyes widened. “What happened to your wrist?”

“I fell and fractured it,” I said with a shrug. “I'm fine.”

“Did you have to go to the emergency room?”

“Only briefly,” I said, knowing my mother would freak if I told her I'd actually undergone surgery without calling her. “It's a minor injury.”

“I hope you weren't drinking when you fell,” she said. “You know what a problem we had with Uncle Bump. You can't be too careful, since you probably inherited his genes.”

I looked at Aunt Trixie, who shook her head in sympathy for me. “I'm trying really hard to stay on the straight and narrow these days, Mom.” I started to take the box from her, but she shooed me away.

“You shouldn't be lifting things with a broken wrist. Just unlock the door and let us inside.”

I stabbed my key in my lock and pushed the door open. Mike rushed out happily to greet me. I heard a scream and turned, just as my mother let go of the box. It hit the ground with a thud—but fortunately I didn't hear anything shatter.

“Whose dog is that?” my mother cried as she climbed inside the truck and slammed the door.

“She's mine, and she's harmless,” I said.

“Don't you know I was almost mauled to death by a dog?” She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I came
this close
to dying.”

“You didn't almost die,” Aunt Trixie said. “I was there, remember? Stop acting like a nincompoop and get out of the truck.”

I leaned forward and picked up Mike. “Look, Mom,” I said. “She's very friendly. And she has puppies. You should see them; they're adorable.”

“Could you make me a cup of coffee?” Aunt Trixie asked. “Well, never mind—you do have a broken wrist. I'll put on a pot. I need a good caffeine kick after hanging out at an estate sale this afternoon. Let your mother sit out in the truck if she likes.”

It was unlike Aunt Trixie to get annoyed, but she could get as irritated with my mother as the next person could, especially if she was tired.

“We're going inside for coffee, Mom,” I said. “Feel free to join us, okay?”

The coffee was already poured by the time my mother came into the house. “Where is that hound of Satan?”

“She's in the laundry room eating her young,” I said. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I suppose,” she said grudgingly.

The telephone rang. I picked it up. There was no answer, only breathing. I hung up.

“Who was that?” my mother asked.

I checked the caller ID and was not surprised to find that the number was unavailable. “My neighbor has been on my case about the sculpture,” I said. I handed my mother the petition. “You've heard me mention Bitsy Stout?”

“The religious zealot from across the street?” Aunt Trixie asked.

“That's the one. She and, it seems, other church members find it offensive.”

My mother read the petition. “She's full of hot air. Take a look, Trixie.” She handed it to my aunt.

“Maybe you should just ignore her,” Aunt Trixie said once she finished looking it over.

I had no intention of telling either of them exactly what I'd been through over the statue.

The phone rang again. I didn't bother to pick it up.

Jay's voice came on my answering machine. “Hi, Katie,” he said in his toe-curling voice. “Just checking to see if you're okay and if you need me to spend the night again,” he said. “I can make you forget your pain. I can wear those boxer shorts you bought me with the big red lips. You know how you love those boxers. Give me a call.”

My mother's mouth formed an O of surprise. “Jay spent the night here?”

“It's not what you think.”

“You should return his call,” my mother said before I could explain. “I think he'd take you back if you asked nicely.”

I smiled grimly, determined not to let her get me riled. “You think?”

Mike suddenly reappeared and sniffed my mother's ankles. She jumped and almost spilled her coffee. “We should be going, Trixie,” she said.

“Not till I see the puppies,” my aunt told her as she hurried into the laundry room. Mike followed her, tail wagging.

My mother gave a grunt. “You bought that dog so I would stay away, didn't you? Admit it.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, Mom. Nobody in their right mind would shell out good money for a mutt with wiry hair.”

 

I waited until
I heard the Junk Sisters pull away in their big truck before I returned Jay's call. He picked up on the second ring. “My mom and my aunt loved the message you left,” I said.

He chuckled. “I like playing to an audience. How are you? I tried to call you at the office earlier in the day, but you were with a patient.”

“It was a madhouse. No pun intended,” I added.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“I just finished, as a matter of fact,” I lied, knowing I didn't need to see him. “Listen, I really appreciate your babysitting last night, but I'm fine now.”

“Was that a brush-off?” he asked.

“I have a lot of stuff to do,” I said, “and I'm really tired. And one of my patients is missing, and I need to try to find him.”

Silence at first. “Tell you what, Katie,” Jay said after a moment. “How about I back off? That way I don't have to beat my head against a brick wall trying to figure out what you want or don't want from me.”

We hung up. I stood there for a moment, trying to swallow the mammoth-sized lump in my throat. I checked the puppies and put a clean towel in the box. They were cute little buggers. I picked up the runt and studied him. It bothered me that he didn't seem to be gaining weight like the others, and he wasn't as active.

I put him down and picked up one of the larger pups and held him to my ear, listening to the grunting sound he made and shivering when he took my earlobe in his mouth, obviously mistaking it for his mother's nipple. Sometimes little things like that can make a world of difference when you're hurting inside.

After a few moments I returned the squirming puppy to his siblings, and he scrambled between their furry, warm bodies. I gave Mike fresh food and water and handed her a dog biscuit, which she gobbled.

I popped a frozen chicken pot pie in the microwave, and went upstairs to change into baggy jeans. Back in the kitchen, I ate my pot pie and dubiously regarded the boxes of dishes and cookware. I remembered the promise I had made to myself to start eating healthful food.

I finished my dinner and checked the time. Saturday night, eight p.m. What did an almost-divorced woman do on a Saturday night? How many times had I asked myself that question? I had dreaded the weekends with all my heart when I first left Jay. Weekends with Jay had been spectacular, filled with yummy sex, bubble baths, steamy showers, breakfast in bed, and more yummy sex.

I could feel a pity party coming on, and that annoyed the hell out of me, since I had officially given them up after the night Mona and I had spent drinking too much wine beside her pool. I'd ended up with the mother of all hangovers and a resolve to stop whining and start living again.

The psychologist in me stepped forward. Okay, so I had experienced a huge emotional slip, brought on by the night I'd spent in Jay's bed and the night he'd spent in mine taking care of me. Why did love have to hurt so much? Even worse was knowing that I had the power to stop that hurt.

I could call Jay and he would be here in twenty minutes, and in a matter of hours I'd be moving out of Mad Ethel, with her plumbing problems and ugly kitchen.

And I'd be right back where I started. Back to worrying 24-7 about Jay, back to questioning his every move, watching him close down on me, and feeling the relationship slip away.

Either way, it hurt.

I sat at the table, drumming my fingers. If I had a patient in such a predicament, I would tell her to get involved in something that would make her feel better. Start a project, maybe.

My eyes automatically went to the kitchen walls and their outdated wallpaper. Anybody would be depressed living in a house with such an ugly kitchen. After all, the kitchen was the heart of the home. I tried to imagine coming home at the end of the day to an attractive kitchen, and I got a good feeling just thinking about it.

I tried to think of all I knew about removing wallpaper, and came up with zero. Fortunately the large home improvement store not far from me not only offered classes but their employees were also fairly helpful. How hard could it be?

I walked into the laundry room and announced to Mike my decision to redo the kitchen. She stood in her box and wagged her tail with great enthusiasm. By the time I climbed into my car a few minutes later, I was convinced I was on the right track.

Inside the store, I quickly grabbed a shopping cart and searched the aisles for the wallpaper section. Although Mona claimed hardware and home improvement stores were a great place to meet men, I figured most men
worth
dating would be
on
a date, seeing as how it was Saturday night. Which didn't say much for me as a woman, since I was there; plus, I couldn't imagine Mona being in a hardware store to begin with.

A high school kid who could have passed for Richie Cunningham of
Happy Days
was restocking shelves in the paint and wallpaper department.

“I want to strip wallpaper from my kitchen wall,” I announced.

He nodded. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Nope.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I don't expect it to be fun,” I said.

“What kind of paper is it?”

“It's an old house. No telling how long the paper has been up.”

“Is it vinyl?”

“No.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Look, I know I can do it. I just need instructions.”

“You'll need a scoring tool,” he said. He led me to a shelf and picked up something that resembled a doorknob with notched teeth on the underside. He explained how it worked to perforate the paper. Then he reached for a plastic container of wallpaper gel. “You use a paintbrush or roller to apply this gel to the paper, and you let it sit for maybe half an hour before you start scraping. You may have to repeat the steps several times. After that, you'll want to sand over the whole thing.”

“That doesn't sound so bad,” I said.

He shrugged. “I suppose there are worse things.”

I put the items in my cart and pushed it toward the wallpaper samples. There were dozens of patterns from which to choose, and I got excited just thinking about my new kitchen. “I'll come back in a few days and select the paper,” I said.

“Have you ever put up wallpaper?”

“No.”

“Uh-oh.”

 

I was on
my third pot of coffee—if I took it slow, I could manage it with my wrist in a cast—and the morning sun was peeking through the curtains by the time I'd reached the bare walls in my kitchen. I had worked through the night. My hair was sticky with the wallpaper-removal gel, and I had several thin strips of paper plastered to my cast, my arms, and my bare legs.

I heard the click of Mike's toenails as she entered the room and looked about. She had come in several times during the night to watch. Since I'd already been up, I had checked on the runt and made sure he nursed every couple of hours.

“What do you think?” I asked Mike. “A little more sanding here and there, and I'll be finished.”

Her tail did a little wag before she made her way to the back door. I let her out. While I waited, I slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, crossed my arms, and put my head down. I was bone tired. Stripping wallpaper, especially with only one hand, is no picnic. I had no idea why I'd chosen to work all night. Probably because the job had sucked so bad that I figured if I stopped, I'd never get back to it. Or maybe I was so desperate to start feeling better about my life that I was just clinging to anything that might bring a ray of hope my way.

You used to be a lot of fun, Kate.

I closed my eyes. I knew Thad was right. Despite my shaky formative years, I'd managed to emerge optimistic and eager about my future. I'd derived great pleasure from helping people.