Not To Us (5 page)
Authors: Katherine Owen
“Here,” says a too-familiar voice. My rescuer shoves a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill into the outstretched hand of this Satan of a person.
I turn with gratitude and find myself staring into the sympathetic vivid green eyes of my former best friend, Carrie Shaw. The entire community of Bainbridge Island seems poised to hear how I’ll react and respond in this crucial moment. I move, willingly, as if in a play and perfectly deliver my lines. “Thank you.”
Wow. It’s been almost four months, since I’ve seen this woman who systematically tore my life apart, worse than cancer ever could have done, and all I can say is
thank you
because I live by decorum and manners and saying
fuck you
openly in a grocery store, especially, Safeway, is just not done.
The impudent Safeway checker packs up my groceries, keys in the cash return on her register. The change gets sent automatically down the change maker machine. I stare at it for a moment and then look over at her. “Keep it. Save it up for a dermatology visit, hon.”
I hear Carrie’s familiar laugh from behind me. Blindly, I give my former best friend a tight smile and head out to my car at a frantic pace.
I’m reeling. I have just seen Carrie. I have been assailed by an employee of Safeway. Could my life take any bigger of a turn? I guess I now need to visit the bank and find out what the hell was going on with the bank account. I surely couldn’t call Robert. I’m sure Carrie was already on the phone to him reporting my faux pas.
I am thinking all of this as I slowly load up the groceries in the back of my SUV with one hand. I still can barely use my left arm. It has been more than twelve weeks
—
twelve weeks since the surgery. Dr. Liston has assured me that this is normal. Normal for whom? I want to know.
“Ellie,” Carrie calls my name as I struggle with the last bag.
“I’ll pay you back,” I say, glancing over at her.
She stands next to me, resplendent in a tailored pair of black linen pants that show not one wrinkle and a white silk blouse that enhances her perfect cleavage just so. Her long auburn hair is swept up from her face in a diamond clasp that I recognize and know to be real. Her green eyes sparkle and her make-up is perfect.
Carrie Shaw looks like a million bucks standing there. I dissolve to five and dime status, no better than Monopoly money. I am worth
nothing
and look the part, too.
“You look great,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m great,” I say sharply. Carrie gives me the once-over. I lift my head in defiance at her scrutiny. “All cured. No side effects,” I say wryly. “Kept my hair and everything. Thanks for asking.” I give her one of my brilliant smiles
—
one of my cheerleader smiles of the old days that are automatic. Yeah team!
Carrie laughs. “God, I miss you.” She touches my left arm and I cannot move it because I will be in pain, which Dr. Liston has said, again and again, is normal. I give a little shrug instead.
“I miss you, too.” I apparently have said this aloud and she stares at me, waiting for me to share even more.
I can’t do this.
I close the back of the SUV. “I have to get going. Go to the bank and figure out what is going on with the account.”
She nods in silent contemplation. A shadow crosses her face. “Robert isn’t depositing money in that account any more. I thought you knew that? Maybe, the alimony and child support haven’t kicked in, yet?”
I realize that she is trying to help me figure this out, but I am not appreciative in this moment. I’m angry because she’s done this to me. And, I have
no one
. And, she has
Bobby
.
“I’ve got to go,” I say in this barely audible voice.
“We’re getting married.”
It’s as if a physical blow has landed into my chest. I struggle to take in air and hide my face behind my long hair as I confront a parade of emotions beginning with excruciating pain and ending with utter bewilderment. I find an inanimate object just past her face and just silently nod. “Robert wanted to wait, but I want to get on with things. Build a life together, you know?”
I cannot speak. Her words have left me powerless, helpless in the Safeway parking lot. I may never be able to go grocery shopping again. The havoc that this little foray for groceries has cost me is just too much. I cannot bear this kind of pain, so much worse than cancer. But, I just stand here and stare at her. Finally, I glance at my watch. It’s eleven in the morning.
“I have to go,” I finally say. “Nicholas has a game today. He’s playing varsity.”
“Oh, yes. We’re going to try and make that.” Carrie gives me this beautiful, defiant look.
“Please, don’t,” I say in this wan, faraway voice. “I have to be there for him. Go another time when I can’t…be there.” My eyes fill with tears. “Congratulations, Carrie. I hope you two will be very happy.”
I have attained guaranteed angel status in heaven with these words. I’m ready to go to heaven, right now. Truly, I would welcome death this very minute after this conversation. I numbly get into my car. The tears start to flow freely as soon as I reach the first stop light. “Fuck!” I scream in my car after I have ascertained that no one on Bainbridge Island can possibly see or hear me. Shaking, I take the road toward home to my empty house and vacant life.
≈≈
Hours later, I’ve returned from the mother ship, Gene Juarez Hair Salon and Spa, in downtown Seattle. The receptionist was sympathetic as soon as she caught sight of my tear-streaked face. I was ushered back to Raul, where he shampooed, colored, cut, and styled my hair. My body from my head to my toes was cured: scrubbed, clipped and painted. One of the assistants was kind enough to rush over to Nordstrom’s and came back with a complete outfit, including lingerie and shoes for my son’s basketball game. Apparently, I needed it all.
Luckily, my American Express sailed through, when the bill for $876.53 came up on the cash register. Thank God for the small stuff, too, huh? Hopefully, I can hang onto my editor’s job, so I can eventually pay for all of this.
I drive off the ferry in a rush to pick up Emily from all-day Kindergarten. I casually wave at a few neighbors who recognize me as I race off.
I glance down at all my finery: new designer jeans, a light blue angora sweater that apparently sets off my eyes and summer skin tone, and a white leather jacket with rabbit fur that I never would have bought for myself. The strappy sandals with four inch heels in a shiny black patent leather show off my pedicure of red-painted toenails. The shoes are all the rage, according to my stylist.
“Even in January?” I’d asked.
She’d given me a withering look. “Especially in January. After what you’ve been through, Ellie, you can wear them in any season.”Several members of the Gene Juarez staff now know my life story. All are on my side. People on my side of things is just what I need to show up to the basketball game where I’m sure to find Robert and Carrie
—
the happy, newly-engaged, soon-to-be-married couple. I have to look my best. The Gene Juarez staff threw in my make-up session for free. God is on my side today. I stare at myself in the car mirror. I look like a
million
and one
bucks
. I’m determined to look better than Carrie Shaw soon to be Carrie Bradford by at least a dollar in the looks and style department.
Late; I swing into the parking lot of Wilkes Elementary and spy Emily standing on the sidewalk, looking forlorn. I park the car and do the unthinkable: I get out. Parents are not allowed to leave their cars, trained to keep the traffic moving, but I just park in defiance and deference and physically walk over to my youngest child.
I’m not sure she recognizes me at first. She looks past me for another minute.
“Have you seen my mother? She looks like a bag lady?” Emily asks with a laugh.
I sweep her up with my good arm and kiss her. “Hey baby. Come on. Let’s go home and get you changed. We have to be at the Nick’s game in just over an hour.”
“Mom, you look . . . amazing,” Emily says. I help her into her car seat, while the whistles from the parking staff start blowing all around us because I’m holding up the line. I give Emily my biggest smile and just ignore them.
“Thanks, Em.”
“I mean it, Mom. You look so beautiful, like Giselle or something.”
This is high praise.
Enchanted
is Emily’s favorite movie and Amy Adams as Giselle is my daughter’s current crush. I slide into the driver’s seat and grin back at her in the mirror. I’ll have to write a personal note to Gene Juarez’s staff for this moment alone.
≈ ≈ ≈
Let The Game Begin
P
erhaps, I have overdone it with the Gene Juarez day spa visit. Or, it’s my newly-single divorcee status wreaking its own brand of terror on the community of married women in the Bainbridge High School gymnasium. The reconnaissance of me is either open or covert, where these females, once comrades, regard me full of disdain and defensive posture or pretend not to. It’s unnerving, but I hold my head high and stride toward the home team bleachers with a contrived yeah-team smile and do my best to control the trembling. All of us release audible sighs, as Emily, Mathew and I settle into the stands.
Nicholas is already over to us. “You came,” he says in wonder.
“I said I would.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, but I didn’t believe you.” Nick grins up at me. “You…Mom, you look great.” I blush at his compliment.
“Go get ‘em, Nicky.” He gives me another elated smile as he heads off to warm-up with his team.
Mathew touches my leg. I look over at him in surprise. “Mom, I’m…you do look great,” he says. I nod, grin over at him, and lightly move my left shoulder, connecting with his.
“Thanks, Mattie.”
“You’re going to be okay, right?” Mathew asks. He glances at sideways, looking worried.
In that moment, I realize how much my children have been frightened by this whole cancer ordeal. Personally, I always believed Michael. I always knew I was going to be okay, but it’s suddenly clear to me I’ve been less open at delivering this reassurance to my children.
They’ve just seen the disintegration of my life with their father. I feel bad for not recognizing their fear about losing me. Truth be told, I’ve lost more of myself in the divorce from Robert and in the loss of Michael. I haven’t focused on my children at all. I grimace at this realization and vow to change that beginning now.
“We’re going to be okay,” I pronounce for the group.
Emily takes my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze hers back. Smiles light up the faces of my children with this declaration. I just wish I’d said it weeks ago.
Elaina Shaw, Michael and Carrie’s sixteen-year-old daughter, comes into the gymnasium. She speaks briefly to my son. I see the undeniable hints of first love between them and watch as a mother and feel a tinge of sadness. How special that first love is. I wish I didn’t have the burden of experience that brings along the inevitable recognition that it will not last.
Nicholas says something to Elaina that makes her laugh and I see the joy and elation on her face as she stares up at my oldest son. He says something else to her and then, she glances up at me and waves. I wave back. Then, I have to look away or I might start to cry.
Oh. This is going to be one of those memorable, painful nights.
I’ve already gone through so much today. I’m not sure I can take it. I concentrate on the growing crowd.
There’s the familiar rumble of footsteps on the bleachers. I look up to see Elaina coming towards us.
“Hi Ellie. You look fantastic. Nick’s so glad you’re here. I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to him,” she says.
Elaina has called me,
Ellie
, forever. I grin over at her. I’ve known her since the day she was born. I love this girl. She has auburn hair, just like her mother, and incredible blue eyes. She is sweet, loyal, vivacious, and wonderful. There isn’t a better match than Elaina Shaw for my Nicky.
