Do-Overs (9 page)

-20-

Unreality vs Reality – Reality Zip

“It was a nice day,” my dad said later as just Mom, Dad, and I sat in the den by the fire. All the various relatives had left. The dishes were done. The enormous amount of leftovers had been put away or given away.

“Yes it was,” said my mom as she sipped her cup of tea. “I think next year for Thanksgiving we’ll go on a cruise and let someone else do the cooking.”

“You said that last year,” I reminded my mom.

“And the year before,” Dad added. “Well, I’m all tuckered out. It was a hard day of eating and watching football and then eating some more. You womenfolk don’t stay up all night gabbing,” Dad said as he made his exit.

“This is the nicest part,” said mom. “I’m so glad you’re home Lottie Bug.”

“I haven’t heard that name in a while,” I said with a smile.

“Come sit close and I’ll share my afghan with you.”

I moved over on the sofa with my mommy, just like I was three again. Life was a lot easier then.

“I feel like we’re in one of those coffee commercials,” I laughed.

“So, Lottie Lambert, decaf or regular?” my mom played along. “Seriously, I’ve missed you. I thought after two and a half years I’d get used to you not being here all the time. But some days I just miss you more.”

“I miss you too, Mom. Especially when I have to do my own laundry or eat cafeteria food.”

“It’s been so crazy since you got home. Now we have peace and quiet. And at least an hour before the Double J’s get home. So, tell me about your new school. Have you made new friends? Do you like your classes?”

“Yes, I have made some wonderful friends. Yes, I do like my classes. You already knew all that from phone calls and texts. Ask what you really want to know.”

“Okay, have you met any cute guys? Did you ever get to talk to that one you thought was really hot? What was his name?”

“I’ve met lots of cute guys. Just not the right one.”

“Lottie, you’ve got to give them a chance.”

“I know mom. I just don’t want another episode like I had with the skank at OU. I’m making sure this time not to get hurt.”

“I guess it is time for some wise momma words. I heard this saying once. I don’t know, maybe it’s a famous quote. But, it is some good advice. ‘A ship in a harbor is safe. But that’s not what ships are made for.’ Lottie Bug, you’ve got to step out there and live your life, whether it is to find Mr. Right or just meet some nice guy and have fun. Not every guy is deceitful and malicious like that jerk at OU. Some are pretty special, like your dad.”

“My daddy sure is special.” I was thinking of poor Olivia and how evil in the form of her stepfather had shattered her innocence. I wanted so badly to confide this with my mother, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t my story to share. It was a conversation that had never happened and yet it weighed on my heart every time I looked at my beautiful suitemate—which made me all the surer that it was better that she didn’t know that I knew. What a burden it must be: not just the horribleness of having a tragedy in life, but to be constantly reminded of it by the over-sympathetic and pitying looks that surround your everyday.

“Lottie, what’s wrong? You look heartbroken.” Yes, it was better for me not to know, as every thought I ever had instantly played itself out on my face. A poker player I would never be.

“I’m okay, Mom. Just a sad thought. You know my transparent face better than anyone.”

“Now my little tugboat, who is this guy you definitely don’t like and will never go out with?”

And so I told her about Al Dansby, trying to make sure I only told the things that had happened in our current reality. Which wasn’t much. Because of the do-overs all that had really transpired between us was him helping my mother get my granny panties out of a tree, and him asking me out for coffee and not showing up. Not much of a love story in our current time sequence. What I couldn’t tell my mom was the spark of electricity there had been as our eyes met for the first time, before the flying spaghetti. Or how gallantly he picked up my books and the kindness in his words before Taylor announced that my pants were unzipped. Or how beautiful his voice was as we ordered coffee together in the student center. Those wonderful encounters that set my heart racing should have been the beginning to our happily-ever-after, yet they were just part of a fairytale that never happened.

When I finished my short narration, my mother had a perplexed look on her face.

“Oh,” she said. “I’d say he seems nice, but I guess not, as he stood you up. I’m just confused, Lottie. Not much to him but one conversation.”

Right then I decided to explain to my mom about the magic eraser. If anyone would believe me, she would. If I could explain to her how I kept redoing bad situations, she’d understand.

But she wouldn’t. No sane person could ever understand. It was just too farfetched. Only a crazy person could believe it, and she hadn’t shown up for lunch.

“You’re right mom. He’s just a drop dead gorgeous guy who doesn’t have the common decency to tell me if he’s not going to show up for coffee. Who knows, he’s probably gay anyway.”

On that my mom gave a rip snort laugh. “Oh, Lottie. That’s a different prospective. I hear the garage door. The girls must be home.” And as usual, the moment they returned the world quit revolving around me, and went back into its
proper
rotation around the twins.

-21-

Empty Platitudes and Purses

The break ended too fast as always. The weekend had been taken up with an Oklahoma sacrament, the annual OU/OSU football game. My family made the holy pilgrimage to Norman without me. Although I did want to enjoy the tailgating festivities and see my OU friends, I just didn’t feel like seeing the ex-boyfriend or enduring the know-all looks from his friends. A quiet weekend of catching up on term papers and Lifetime movies was more therapeutic. Wounds were healing, but it would take more than six months to recover from the ex’s deceit.

I returned to campus in panic mode, as there were only two weeks of school left to finish papers and finals. My first evening back major trauma erupted in the K’s suite that had nothing to do with boys or clothes—a rare occurrence.

“No, no, NOOOOOOO!!!!” screamed Kyra. “It just can’t be!”

We all ran out into the hallway to see what had happened. Who had died? Who had been dumped? Was it rapture time and we’d all been left?

Kyra sat slumped in the floor of the hall cradling her laptop like an infant. The other K’s surrounded her with empty platitudes and words of sympathy.

“I can’t believe it,” Kyra sobbed. “Not a week before finals. It just can’t be.”

Kasha asked what the rest were too afraid ask. “Did you have your files backed up?”

“No.” And then came the loudest sob of all. I discreetly slunk back into my room. Kyra needed space during this time of mourning. What we all hoped would never happen, yet we always knew could, had become a reality for poor, poor Kyra. Her computer had crashed and she had lost all her term papers.

I looked over at Stina. She was frantically inserting a memory stick into her laptop. “There but for the grace of God go I,” she said. “It’s backup time.” I quickly followed her example. I felt bad that Kyra didn’t have a magic eraser too. But wait, maybe I could help her out. Where was mine? I’d rewind the last hour and just nonchalantly remind her to back her computer up and
voila
she wouldn’t lose all her work after all. I reached in my bag for my trusty friend. Not there. Wrong purse, I remembered. I’d put it in my red one when I went home for the break. Red purse. Red purse. Where was my red purse? I would not have a meltdown. It had to be there somewhere.

“Have you seen my red purse?” I asked Stina.

“Not recently. Let’s see, I borrowed it two weeks ago to take to that party. But, I brought it back. I promise I did. I did, didn’t I?” Stina said losing confidence the more she spoke. She jumped up and started pulling dirty clothes out of the bottom of her closet searching for the purse that only thirty seconds before she was sure she had returned.

I was doing likewise in my closet. There was that black cami I had been looking for and somehow my silver hoop earring was in there too. But no red purse.

“I’m trying to remember. Yeah, you did. I used it last week. Think. Think. Think, what did I wear it with?” I mused. “I used it on Monday.”

“Yeah, it gave just the right pop of color with your black pants and jacket,” said Stina suddenly channeling Stacey on
What Not To Wear
.

“I remember, I was so pleased with how that outfit turned out, I took it home to wear on Thanksgiving. But, then I went with jeans and a hoodie. It was just one of those kind of days.”

“The big question here. What did you do with it when you got back?” prodded Stina.

I grabbed my car keys and started for the door to go and look if it was still in the trunk. Then it hit me. I didn’t bring it back. It was all still hanging in my closet at home. No red purse. No magic eraser. No way, no how could I fix Kyra’s computer disaster.

The look on my face must have been horrific because Stina said, in her most comforting tone, “It’ll be okay Lottie. You can borrow my Coach knock-off if you want. I know it’s fake, but most people never realize it.”

I was texting my mom before Stina could finish her generous offer of the loan of her most favorite accessory. Ding went my phone. My mom had texted me back. Yes, my purse was there. She’d keep it safe for the next two weeks until I came home for Christmas. Ding came her next answer. No she would not drive it the three hours to school. I could just use one of my ten other purses.

Two weeks. I sat on my bed stunned. Until three months before I never even imagined the ability to redo life’s mistakes. Without it I felt like a Greek god who had become mortal. How could I cope? I was afraid to leave the safety of the dorm without my trusty friend. I didn’t have six hours to spare from studies and finals to drive home and get the eraser. I tried to figure out the math. If I did over part of the time, it wouldn’t make any difference. A six-hour round drive was still a six-hour round trip, no matter how magical my school supplies were.

“Woe, you must really be attached to that purse. You look like you lost your best friend,” said Stina with a nervous giggle. I must have had a scary, tragic look on my face. It was time to get a grip. I could survive a short time in the present. I’d just have to be very careful where I went. What I did. Who I talked to. Oh crap! That had never worked for me before. I doubted it would work then.

-22-

Being Mortal

Once Again

Of course I overslept the next morning and headed out for class in the first thing I could find to throw on—dirty yoga pants and a hoodie. I was such a fashion statement in the making. I slunk into
Señora Aburrida’s
class five minutes late realizing I had the wrong notebook.

“
Señorita Lambert. Buenos días. ¿Porque estás tarde? ¿Siempre estás aquí temprano
?”

I had no idea what she was saying. I just smiled and said, “
Sí
.” Half of the class died laughing. The other half looked as confused as me. When I had had my little pink friend I had gotten into the habit of waiting until someone translated and then rewound class so I could look like I understood. To be honest I wasn’t learning much Spanish, just how to be quick on the draw with the redos.

Things progressed in much the same pattern throughout the day. Perhaps I had grown just a little codependent on my pink helper? I had become lazy at watching what I did or said as I could always fix my mistakes. For the next week and six days (not that I was counting, of course) I would have to be ever vigilant.

After my disaster of a Spanish class, I headed back to the dorm in hopes of a quick shower and clothes that didn’t smell of a two-week-old workout. Hurrying, as I didn’t have much time for a miracle transformation, I didn’t see him coming until we were face to face. Sweet Mother of Pearl, he looked good. I didn’t. Nowhere to hide. No way to change things. But it didn’t matter as “Morning,” was all Al Dansby said and then he walked on by.

I pondered that encounter for the rest of the day and then the night. What had that one word meant, “Morning.” By the next day at lunch Stina, Rachel, and I had analyzed and dissected that brief encounter to every subatomic particle.

“I think he was just embarrassed about standing you up for your coffee date,” was Rachel’s diplomatic hypothesis.

Stina kept insisting, “You looked so bad, he didn’t recognize you.”

“But he sounded miffed. Or almost disappointed. He was the one who didn’t show up, not me. What would he have to be all huffy about? He didn’t sit there for eighteen minutes and then have that skanky Taylor come in. . .” Oops. Had I said too much? Taylor had only come in the first reality not the second because in the second I never went. Fortunately everyone was too busy hypothesizing on Al’s “morning” that they weren’t listening to me anyway.

“Maybe he had just been running late. He said he had a meeting. They always go over,” said Rachel still trying to be the peacemaker.

“But then he could have asked someone if they saw you. How long would he have expected you to wait?” countered Stina.

“Maybe he sent word with someone and they couldn’t find you,” said Rachel.

Or maybe they did find me, but being the warm fuzzy soul that she wasn’t, she didn’t tell me. Was it just me, or had Taylor made a point of talking loudly about Al and Butch when she knew I was there? Could she be so deceitful that if Al had asked her to tell me he was running late, she wouldn’t tell me? Yes, yes she could. Then all of the sudden I had another epiphany. I had shown up the first time. But then I did it over and I never went. Maybe he came later and I wasn’t there. Originally I had talked with Taylor, which I had almost just blurted out to my friends, but then I hadn’t. She could have reported back to him that I wasn’t there. And ironically she was telling the truth. Anyone he might have asked would have reconfirmed that I wasn’t there. With my little flick of an eraser I had changed from being the stood-up-y to the stood-up-er and probably had erased any chance of being asked out for coffee with Al Dansby ever again.