Facelift (34 page)

“I saw you on television.” That’s stops me cold.

I freeze. “You did?”

“We were watching the news the other night.” He clears his throat. “There was a spot about Gabe’s park reopening and Marla pointed you out in the crowd.”

“Yes, it was a big event. I have some more news for her today. Some news I’m not sure she’s going to be very happy about.”

“Uh-oh.” Harry’s brow collapses into furrows of worry. “Are you sure you have to tell her then?”

“Afraid so.” I feel a little like the cowardly lion having to march into the wizard’s chamber. With trepidation balanced out by a healthy dose of irritation, I head toward the bathroom where she’s hiding. I lean against the door facing, mustering strength I don’t have. Then I knock.

No answer.

I look toward Harry. He gives me an encouraging nod, reminding me of when I urged him to speak to Marla when she hid in my bedroom. I smile back at him, take a deep breath, and try again, more forcefully.

When she continues to ignore me, I begin as if I’m with Izzie when she was twelve years old. “Marla, I know you’re in there.”

“I’m
in
seclusion.”

“Seclusion is when someone goes to a monastery, not one’s boyfriend’s.”

“He is not my—”

“Come on, open up.” I feel as weary as Dorian Gray at the end of his life, tired of the pretenses and charades. “I need to talk to you.”

The door opens a crack. “What’s wrong?”

Her face surprises me. She’s wearing no makeup, but her features aren’t as lopsided as they were right after surgery. Her skin, however, has a red cast, like she’s experienced a very bad sunburn. Around her eyebrows bits of skin flake off like she’s molting.

“Marla, your face! It looks . . .” I can’t say she looks like an insect. “Like you’re, uh . . . healing.”

She purses her lips. A twitch at the corner of one eye reveals her doubt. “What’s wrong?” Perfectionism and selfishness fall by the wayside when Marla’s focus turns to a crisis. “Is it about Isabel? Has she done something else to herself now? She hasn’t gotten a tattoo, has she? Or pregnant?”

The concerns I had about telling Marla shrink under the force of her judgment. “It’s not about Izzie. It’s about Cliff.”

She opens the door wider. “Is he all right?”

“I imagine he’s doing just fine.” Actually I don’t want to imagine anything of the kind. “Or not. I don’t know.” I cross my arms over my stomach as if that will suppress the wobbly feeling inside. “He came to see me before he left.”

“Left? Where’d he go?”

“To Vegas. To elope.”

Shock widens her eyes. “He didn’t!” Her brow crinkles, and she smooths the spot with her forefinger. “Well, if he was going to marry anyone, then I guess I’m glad he chose you.”

How far have we come? When I was nowhere close to her motherly dream for Cliff to now I’m ideal compared to Barbie.

“At least we know each other, Kaye, and—”

“I didn’t go to Vegas, Marla. He took Barbara.” I bite out the name, forcing myself not to call her Barbie or any other name that comes to mind.

“What? NO!” She slams the door back against the wall and barrels into the hallway, shouldering me out of the way. “Where’s my phone?”

“It’s too late.” I follow after her. “They left over a week ago.”

She comes to a sudden halt in the den. She lifts her shoulders in an awkward movement, squaring them. Harry stands frozen in place as if unsure what to do or how to respond. She tilts her head toward the door, and Harry slips out the entrance, the bolt sliding into place. And I’m left alone with Marla.

I feel bad for him, like he’s been dismissed by the queen. “Harry could have stayed.”

“This is about
family
.”

“But this is
his
apartment.”

“He doesn’t mind.”

How does she know? “He has a nice place.”

“It needs some updating. Maybe we’ll hire you to do that.”

I sigh. “Don’t rearrange this man’s life.”

She wheels around on me. “It’s my business, isn’t it?”

“I care about Harry. And you.” The latter isn’t as hard to say as I thought it might be. It’s as if the years of difficulties have become fuzzy with distance. “Why are you denying he’s your boyfriend? Usually when a woman sleeps with a man—” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Marla doesn’t move a muscle. Not even a twitch. “Are you two . . . married?”

“Heavens no. And we are not”—she lowers her voice—“sleeping together.”

“Could have fooled me.”

She lifts her chin a notch.

“It’s none of my business. Just please, try not to hurt him. I mean, he’s a nice guy. Be kind to him.”

She stares at me as if I’ve accused her of torturing the man. “So when did Cliff and . . .
that
woman . . .” Her mouth twists.

I am starting to feel sorry for Cliff’s new bride. She doesn’t have any idea what’s in store for her. “Over a week ago. They’re married by now and enjoying their honeymoon.”

Surprisingly that last word doesn’t bring a bitter taste to my mouth. But Marla wobbles. Her hand juts out to balance herself against the sofa, then she sits on the coffee table. Even her slight weight is too much for the delicate legs and the table tips. I grab her before she falls. She clutches my arms, and I help her stand. Her hands begin to tremble. When I get her situated on the sofa, she tips her head into her hand. “What was he thinking?”

I have no answer.

“Doesn’t he know how ridiculous he looks? Going around with a woman who’s . . . barely that! It’s one thing to destroy his marriage and go out with the woman. But I thought she was just a midlife crisis and he’d realize—” She stops her tirade and looks up at me.

“I thought so too.” I shrug. “He made his choice.”

“And he told
you
? But not
me
.”

A sticky point. But I suspect Cliff cares more about what his mother might say, even Izzie, than facing my wrath. Where once that would be painful to admit, now I don’t much care. “He had to tell someone. Maybe it was easier to face me.”

Marla flexes her hand as if in a conscious opposition to what she might otherwise do. “The next time I see him—”

“It’s too late now.” Silently I hope she won’t treat Barbara the way she treated me—as an interloper. My magnanimous attitude surprises even me. There was a time when I would have gladly helped with Barb’s water torture. But not anymore. She and Cliff aren’t worth the energy it takes to ratchet up my emotions. “I’m sorry, Marla.” And I am. About the news. About Barbie. About everything. “Maybe Cliff sees something in Barbara that we haven’t.” Maybe she sees something in him that I’m blind to.

Marla snorts. “I suppose marriage to Cliff isn’t easy.”

“That’s an understatement.” I sit next to Marla on the sofa. “They’re both going to have their work cut out for themselves.” There will always be someone younger, someone in better shape. Not to mention how easily Cliff gets bored.

“So you actually want their marriage to work out?”

I cross my legs and give her question a moment of contemplation. I never thought I’d wish for Cliff’s marriage to another woman to be successful. Maybe my heavy hope is buoyed by the salt of doubt. But then again, who needs more upheaval? Izzie certainly doesn’t. It would be nice if her parents were steady and unwavering at last in their relationships. “At first, I thought a plane crash would be a good answered prayer.”

Marla nods her agreement.

“But that would only hurt Izzie more. And another divorce? I don’t want that. Not for Cliff or Barbara or Izzie. Like it or not, she’ll have to see her dad occasionally.”

“And her stepmother.”

“Yes.” That’s a bit harder to swallow. “But it’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure of anything. We’ll have to make it as right as possible.”

“How can you do that?”

“It’s what we women do, isn’t it? We spruce up bad situations to make them as nice as possible.”

Her eyes narrow and yet amazingly appear the same size. “You’re a stronger woman than I ever could be.”

I laugh. “Oh, I don’t know, Marla. I think you give me a run for my money.”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been a coward for years.” She waves her hand as if shooing away an irritating thought. “How are you doing with this new turn of events?”

Her question stuns me. Has she
ever
asked me how I’m doing? Even when Izzie was born? “I’m okay.”

She looks dubious at best. “And Isabel?”

“She says she doesn’t care. She’s glad Cliff’s not moving back in. I think maybe she could see her father’s true character better than the rest of us.”

“I bet”—Marla wags her finger—“he gets her pregnant and they end up having kids.”

There’s a happy thought. The corners of my mouth feel weighted. “Maybe he’ll learn to be responsible this time around.”

“Do you know who you’re talking about?”

“We can only hope for the best.” A miracle, as Jack would say. And the thought of him makes me smile.

She releases a long, slow sigh. “What are you going to do, Kaye?”

I clasp my hands in my lap, my fingers encircling my bare, left ring finger. This time there isn’t a tightening in my chest. “Get on with my life. Which is what I should have done a long time ago.”

She gives a tiny snort. “Do you regret trying to get him back?”

I shake my head. “Not at all.” I tilt my head. “Well, I did at first. But now . . . no. I have no regrets.”

Marla taps her fingers along the arm of the sofa. “How is that possible?”

Her question startles me. “What do you mean?”

“I have regrets. So many regrets. How can you not regret marrying so early?”

“I regret getting pregnant before I was married. But not having Izzie. I’m sad at Cliff’s choice, but I know I gave my marriage the best I could. We all make mistakes, Marla, but I guess the best we can do is to learn from them and try to do better the next time.”

She leans back into the sofa, which seems so stiff and unrelenting. Marla’s shoulders sag. “But I’ve made so many. I feel like there’s a big scoreboard up there somewhere showing how many times I’ve made poor choices.”

Her admission stuns me, and for a moment I flounder. Does she think I’ve been judging her? “No one is keeping score.”

“God is.”

“He wants to wipe away all those mistakes and regrets and turn them into something wonderful.”

“How is that possible?”

“Well, I made a mistake by getting pregnant, and I did my best to make things right.”

“And you ended up with a husband who, I can say this because he’s my son, is pretty worthless.”

“But I also have a wonderful daughter.”

“What if she ends up like her father?”

“That will be her choice. But I don’t think she will. She’s observed things I never wanted her to see or know about, but now maybe she’ll consider them before she acts. She’ll know the other side—the side full of pain.”

Marla takes several slow breaths. With her chin tilted downward, the skin along her neck gathers like crumpled cloth. “Maybe that’s another mistake I made.”

“What?”

“Not letting Bradford’s sins rip apart our family.” Her hand tightens on the armrest, her knuckles whitening. “Maybe if Cliff had seen how devastating his father’s behavior was, then maybe he would have chosen a different path. But I tried so hard to make things as perfect as I could. So no one would have to suffer.”

I swallow hard. How I’ve wanted to protect Izzie from pain! But there is no hiding from pain. It’s better to accept it and move through it together, rather than suffer in silence. Suddenly the perfect picture Marla always tried to paint of her family is washed away and the gritty reality remains. “Did Bradford cheat on you?”

She gives a sharp nod. “Many times.”

An invisible hand fists my heart in a painful grip. Now all she has said through the years falls into place. Disappointment slams into me. It could be another reason Marla disliked me as I aligned myself with Bradford. But I had no idea he was unfaithful. Did Cliff know? “Like father like son.” I cover her hand with my own. Words pile up in my throat in a rush. “I’m so sorry, Marla. So sorry.”

She gives a lopsided shrug. “I was wrong. In so many ways.”

“I think that’s what God wants us to see. How our imperfections give us a need for Him.”

“I don’t know about that. I just know that I can’t do it anymore.” She slides her fingers into her hairline and tugs her hair back. I can see the red lines from her facelift.

“Do what?”

“Be perfect.” She gives a bitter laugh and frames her face with her hands. “Have you seen me lately?”

I place a gentle hand on her arm. “No one wants you to be perfect, Marla.”

She sniffs and looks away, tears filling the corners of her eyes.

I slide my arm around her narrow shoulders. “God doesn’t expect perfection either.”

“I always thought He did.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Not at all.” I give her shoulder a squeeze. “He’s like the makeup that covers our imperfections.”

She turns to look me in the eye. “Apparently I need to take out stock in that kind of foundation.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Teenagers spill out of my house like water overflowing a dam. They are doing last-minute preparations for the swim-a-thon, moving like schools of fish swishing to and fro, racing against the current. Jack arrives with an assortment of pizzas—cheese, pepperoni, sausage and hamburger—which fills my kitchen with a yeasty, tangy, greasy smell. Cousin It trembles with anticipation. Her pink tongue drips slobber on the kitchen floor. She stares at the table as if it’s a smorgasbord laid out just for her. The raucous noise, at times, reaches deafening levels.

While the kids jockey for slices of pizza, Jack settles at the kitchen table, tilting back the chair. He asks a cute, perky blonde named Joanne how she did on her history test.

“Ninety-two.”

“Nice.” Jack then slides a foot out and trips a gangly teenage boy, who bumps into Joanne. “Watch it there, Max.” He laughs as the boy’s face turns scarlet. He’s well aware of which boys like which girls and vice versa and has enjoyed trying to set them up. “These swimmers”—he grins at me—“have better moves in the water than on land.”