Laughing Down the Moon (11 page)

How was it that this still constituted a crisis? Heather and Elizabeth had been friends with me long before they were friends with Mickey, but I knew from Trisha that they still saw Mickey occasionally and they had not once called me. Was the point of Dr. Browning’s vintage TV program viewing and crisis analysis to show me that I’d lived through what I’d considered to be catastrophes? Would I fail her therapy if I instead learned that I still suffered the same youthful angst? Or had I failed at life—at being an adult? Well, Goddess, there was a grim thought. Wait; maybe Elizabeth and Heather’s temporary exclusion wasn’t really a crisis now. Was it? My feelings were hurt, but was that a crisis? No, not really. Probably not, anyway. Okay, Dr. Browning, this assignment may have worked. I guessed I’d find out once I saw them.

I checked the time, trying to leave so that I wouldn’t get there before Trisha arrived. Hmmm. Did needing a buffer-friend put this at crisis-level? No, I didn’t think so. I inspected what I was wearing: a black pencil skirt, my black cowboy boots, turquoise beads and a pale blue shirt. The pale blue would never do—it made me feel too vulnerable, so I changed it and the beads for a deep red cable-knit sweater and an onyx choker. Red enhanced personal strength and onyx would absorb any negativity so that I wouldn’t have to absorb it myself, just in case there was any. Fingers crossed there wouldn’t be, but why take any chances? I checked the time again. Four forty-five. Okay. It wouldn’t take more than ten minutes to drive over to The Chatterbox, so I could at least finish
The Facts of Life
episode before leaving.

Jo was nowhere to be seen in the second half of the episode, so I killed time by making small talk with Dwight upstairs in the office. I tried anyway. Dwight was more interested in listening to me fret over seeing Elizabeth and Heather than he was in talking back to me. He did bob his head encouragingly though and he raised his scaly foot a few times as if to say, “Easy there; it’ll all be okay.” I hoped he was right about that.

I said goodbye to Dwight and carried two empty coffee cups to the kitchen sink downstairs. I thought a coffee might be nice and then reconsidered. I was jumpy enough. Tea perhaps? Pagans in need of assistance sometimes used specific teas, and with my apprehension, I thought I might benefit from a protection tea. The magic didn’t really come from the tea, but rather it came from the ritual that accompanied making and drinking the tea. Most cultures have good luck and protection practices such as the smashing of plates at weddings to protect the bride and groom, or the wearing of a crucifix to ward off demons or even carrying a rabbit’s foot or some other trinket to protect one’s luck. After checking off the list of flowers and herbs I’d need, I discarded the idea. The co-op shopping list I had made that morning had valerian and elderflower at the top. A protection tea without those two ingredients would just be, well, just tea.

Since the magic came mainly from the intention and the requests behind the actions, I decided instead to imbue a few household tasks with requests for protection. I wasn’t taking any chances and had a feeling I’d be greeted with at the very least, a low level of animosity. I wasn’t as worried about Heather who had always been cheerful and nonjudgmental, but I was expecting some backlash from Elizabeth who usually seemed to be in a huff over something. I asked the powers that be for some protection from negativity as I looked after a few mundane chores. I straightened up the kitchen even though it didn’t need it, checked the mail, watered the windowsill herb garden, threw on my pea coat and a white woolen scarf, and then finally admitted it was time to leave.

On the short drive to The Chatterbox, I convinced myself that it would be just like old times, only without Mickey. Elizabeth and Heather would be glad to see me, I’d be happy to see them, and it would all feel normal. When I entered I saw them both tucked into a corner booth so I had time to secure a smile to my face before approaching them. Elizabeth was overdressed, as was usually the case, in a burgundy silk pantsuit. Her deeply parted dark blond hair was swept back on one side with an oversized sapphire-encrusted barrette. Heather was dressed more appropriately for a neighborhood restaurant. She wore a pine green cardigan with a teal camisole beneath it. Her style ran to delicate, yet simple lines, and she wore a choker of yellow glass beads interspersed with small metal squares. Her dark, chin-length curls were pulled back from her pale forehead with a thin green headband. When she spotted me, Heather jumped up with a genuine smile. She hugged me tight.

“Oooooh,” she exclaimed, “good to see you! Good to see you!” Her voice muffled itself in my scarf. Elizabeth, on the other hand, waved without smiling and said, “Allura.”

She didn’t stand up, so I skipped the hug. I slid into the booth next to her so I’d be across from a friendly face instead of Elizabeth’s scowl. I smiled to myself as I realized how much Elizabeth resembled bitchy Blair from
The Facts of Life
. She sighed as she scooted to make room for me. I had beaten Trisha there. Damn. Why hadn’t I looked for her car outside before coming in?

Heather and I got caught up on news, as Elizabeth kept silent. Heather told me things were better than great between her and her partner Julia. A brief flicker of guilt and apology crossed her face when she said this. I wasn’t sure if it was for me and the loss of Mickey or for Elizabeth and the loss of Daniel, but I didn’t care—it was so good to see her. She said her job was going well. I lied and told her mine was too. No sense in my bringing us all down since Elizabeth decided to do that for us as she complained about her new position at a private school. She hated the principal and according to her the teachers were all incompetent morons.

I eyed Heather as Elizabeth droned on. Heather had put on a little weight, which she had needed, and she looked bright-eyed and happy. Her cheeks had a glow and her curly hair looked more buoyant than ever. She looked…I checked my breath, no…she couldn’t be. I snuck a peek at her beverage. It appeared to be cranberry juice. It could have gin or vodka in it, I reasoned. When I glanced back up into her eyes and saw her looking like she was dying to say something, but at the same time, didn’t want to say anything, I knew—she was pregnant! I raised my eyebrows, not knowing if I should ask out loud. I didn’t have time to further debate whether or not to ask.

She squealed, “Yes, I am! I am!”

We both shot up out of our seats and hugged each other, jumping up and down beside the booth like we should be carted off to a sanitarium. I started to cry a little out of happiness for her and Julia. I held her at arm’s length to get a good look at her, and she had started to tear up as well.

Elizabeth, her voice a paper cut, asked, “What are you two talking about?” Her face was impassive and her eyelids low, apparently bored with our excitement.

I looked at Heather and she nodded.

“Heather is going to have a baby!” I exclaimed, hugging Heather one more time before sliding back in to the booth beside Ms. Crabbypants.

“I am! I’m due in June!” Heather was all smiles as she, too, slid back into the booth. She changed her mind, scooted back out of the booth, yanked open her sweater and pulled her camisole up to her ribcage. She turned so we could admire her nonexistent baby bump.

“Hello, little one,” I said, leaning out of the booth to rub her still flat abdomen.

“Huh, really,” Elizabeth said. “I would have thought,” she leveled a gaze at Heather, “that you would have shared this news with people you actually see long before you shared it with those people you don’t see.”

Heather beamed and said, “I haven’t shared it with anyone but Julia and my doctor yet—you two are the first to know!”

“Don’t you mean Allura was the first to know? You must have told her at
some
point.” Elizabeth’s face was now angry and red.

“She didn’t,” I said. “I just guessed now.”

“Whatever.” Elizabeth sighed and tossed down the remainder of what I knew to be her favorite drink, a Captain Diet. As the ice cubes cascaded toward her upper lip, I hoped they wouldn’t come flying out all over the place. We didn’t need any more fuel for her bad mood.

“Honestly, Elizabeth, I didn’t tell anyone yet. Allura guessed, that’s all,” Heather said.

“Maybe it’s easier to notice the differences when you don’t see someone for a while,” I said. Why was I trying to console her? She was going to choose her own reaction, wasn’t she?

“I’m just very happy that you are the first two to know…well, Trisha, too.” Heather was still trying to make amends.

“Trisha already knows?” Elizabeth looked askance.

“No, but I’m going to tell her as soon as she gets here.”

Heather looked at her tiny art deco watch then up at the door. I could tell, as the furrow between Heather’s eyebrows dissolved, that Trisha had just come in the door. Trisha slid in next to Heather after quick hellos. She shrugged off her lightweight tan down jacket, shivered in the cream-colored Henley she wore and then pulled the jacket back on. She readjusted her messy topknot that had come undone and was cascading halfway down her shoulders. With her pale hair and this outfit, she made me think of a field of wheat, graceful in a gentle fall breeze.

That pleasant image was shoved aside as Elizabeth drilled Trisha regarding any prior knowledge of Heather’s pregnancy. Elizabeth was so ferocious that the good news was almost hard to recognize as good news. She seemed to want to turn it into a point of contention, to make it about her being the last to know rather than an event to be celebrated. I realized I did not miss Elizabeth’s company at all, and that some losses, as Dr. Browning might refer to my having fallen out of touch with Elizabeth as, were gains in disguise.

Trisha, Heather and I all lost interest in trying to appease Elizabeth. The conversation turned to brighter topics such as the quirky décor, the old-school board game selection and the variety of patrons. Our voices dwindled to silence as the appetizers were ceremoniously set on the table between us. The ensuing munching turned to squeals, guffaws and yelps as Heather and I played
Atari Frogger
on one of The Chatterbox’s big-screen TVs. I couldn’t get my frog through the river of rushing logs, but Heather was a natural. Her frog was successfully crossing his third level of the game. Elizabeth was pointedly silent as Trisha cheered Heather and me on. But then, during a lull between players as I once again sacrificed my frog’s life to the almighty upstream logging company, Elizabeth decided to share.

“You know, you really disappointed us when you left Mickey just when she needed you most,” Elizabeth said.

Before this statement fully registered with me, I was thinking it sounded like a sad old country-western song. Then it hit me that she was talking to
me
. Heather looked surprised. Trisha’s face pulled into a grimace as if smelling something foul. I gathered that when Elizabeth said “we” it was really only “she” who was disappointed. Trisha began to speak, but Elizabeth cut her off.

“Addictions are medical conditions, Allura,” Elizabeth chastised. “Would you have left her if she had just been diagnosed with cancer? That’s basically what you did.”

Oh my Goddess, did she really just say that? It was rare that I wanted to punch someone or to run away from a scene; I usually fell somewhere in the middle of the flight or fight spectrum, but in this case, I wanted to throw a left hook right up under Elizabeth’s jaw and then run, thereby satisfying both fight and flight urges. I was at a bad angle since I was seated next to her, so instead I took a deep breath.

“Elizabeth,” I said, exhaling, “Mickey left
me
.”

“Whatever,” she countered, “you deserted her emotionally before she left you.” She angled her eyes at the approaching waiter and spat out, “I’ll have another.” The waiter blanched but quickly recovered. He asked the rest of us if we wanted more drinks or appetizers. We said no through apologetic smiles.

“Elizabeth,” Heather and Trisha said in unison. Trisha went on, “it isn’t fair to–”

“It isn’t fair to leave someone when they have an addiction!” Elizabeth announced to us and to the rest of The Chatterbox’s patrons.

What a hypocrite. Wasn’t this something like the eighth time she and Daniel had broken up? And wasn’t each breakup due to Daniel having an affair with some co-worker or bar friend? If that didn’t sound like an addiction, I don’t know what did.

“Why’d you leave Daniel?” I asked, not interested in playing fair anymore.

“What?” Elizabeth shook her head as if to better understand my question.

“Why did you leave Daniel?” I wished I weren’t sitting so close to her. Her anger was tangible, and I hoped she wouldn’t hit me.

“I
had
to leave him because he had an affair!” she screeched. “How dare you compare me to you!”

“So, was his affair with a woman or with a bottle? Because you know what? There’s not a whole hell of a lot of difference,” I said, my voice so calm that it actually scared me. Inside, though, I was pissed because she made me swear in anger, which to me always seemed like giving away a shred of power to the person who made you do it. And so much for the “do what ye will and harm none” adage I tried to live by.

“Excuse me,” I said before getting out of the booth.

My legs were shaking, but they carried me to the restroom, where my plan was to collect myself. I locked the door behind me, turned around and gripped the edges of the sink with both hands. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Through my eyelids, the overhead bulb cast dark red and bright blue patches separated by zips of yellow. I took another deep breath and considered practicing some laugh yoga. The thought made me smile, so I opened my eyes. The mirror reflected a cool, calm version of me and made me wonder how many people had an exterior that belied the boiling blood in their veins and raging acid in their bellies.

I turned on the tap and let the icy stream glide through my cupped fingers. Then I figured as long as I was in the restroom, I might as well pee. Not only would I feel better, it would give Trisha and Heather time to slap a muzzle on Elizabeth. This confrontation wasn’t exactly the hostility I’d prepared for—it was worse—but I’d lived through it. I made sure my skirt wasn’t tucked into my underwear and flushed with the toe of my cowboy boot. Perhaps that’s what Dr. Browning wanted me to understand about crises. They weren’t always the ones you armed yourself with worry lines for, but usually you came through unscathed. Did she want me to see that worry was futile? If so, kudos to Dr. Browning.