Once Upon Another Time (5 page)

“Aubrey!  Are you
in here?”

How she’d found me,
I’ll never know. 

As the
click-click-click of her stilettos fast approached the tiny stall, I swept the
air with the fan to clear the smokiness, sending a vaporous cloud swirling
toward the ceiling.  I tossed the cigarette butt into the toilet, just as Laura
pounded on the stall door.  Startled, I lost my grip on the fan and watched as
it took a dive into the bowl along with the cigarette.

“Aubrey!  Come out
of there right now,” Laura demanded, while still pounding on the door.

“All right, just
stop with the banging!” 

The metal door
latch screeched as I slid it open and shimmied my way around the door. 
“Wonderful,” I said, planting a hand firmly on my hip.  “You made me drop my
little battery operated fan into the toilet.”

 “That’s not all
that’s going to be in the toilet if Fendworth finds out you ran out of the
hearing.  Listen, I know you thrive on trench warfare and heaven knows I only
wish I could lob legal artillery the way you can, especially when push comes to
shove, but this case was a breeze.  I don’t get it,” she said with a dismal
air.  “Were you really that
bored
?  And what the
hell
was that cryptic
message about?  The one you whispered in my ear before you shot out of the
boardroom.”

Looking past her
to stare at the bland beige walls, I wondered how I was going to explain that I
had no recollection of even leaving the boardroom.

“Um, cryptic
message?”

“Yes, something
about people’s thoughts invading your mind, like little gremlins.” 

I felt like
telling her,
I tried to explain the abbreviated version last night when I
told you about how it all began with a bump to my head
. 

I recall the goose
egg on the back of my head was nothing compared to the disassociation I’d felt
with my body when it happened.  Like my toes and feet had disconnected from my
Capri covered legs and my brain was floating above my head like a fluffy
omelet.  When the voices in my head began, I tried to find scientific answers. 
So I searched the internet and found that it was possible that solar activity
from the blue moon combined with the bump to my head might have caused some
type of hallucination.  Not that I could have been positive of anything that
was happening, as hallucination and hearing voices are also hallmark signs of
schizophrenia.

“Oh, that,” I
said, trying to hide the sound of surprise in my voice.  “What I said was
Rossi’s stupid comments were grating on my mind like annoying little gremlins.”

“Hmm,” said Laura
looking at me quizzically.  “Whatever,” she said.  “It doesn’t matter.  Rossi
had already hung herself.  All I had to do was tighten the noose.  Everything
went well.  Still, Fendworth’s going to get his boxers in a bind.”

“It’s not as if I
had purposely tried to commit career suicide, it’s just that…”

 I stopped short
of asking her advice on how Miss Manners would have handled the situation of
seeing a dead person appear before her eyes.

“The fact is,” I
said dryly, “I guess I just snapped.  What else is there to say?”

Laura squinted at
me as if she were checking the odds of her portfolio against the stock quotes
on the exchange floor.  A half-inch square sapphire stone glittered on the ring
finger of her right hand as she folded her dainty arms across her ample Armani
clad bosoms, while one perfectly tweezed eyebrow shot up.

 “What the hell is
wrong with you?  I’d blame your unusual behavior on last night’s fiasco because
of how sick you got, but--”

“I got sick?  Like
puking sick?”

Laura nodded.  “Yeah,
don’t you remember we were talking to Trudy Knox, you know, the sporty brunette
that chairs the symphony league?  We were in the restroom at the restaurant and
you practically pushed her down trying to get into the stall.  You overshot the
toilet, but not a big deal.  I’ll tell you the rest later.”

“Oh-my-God,
there’s more!  But--”

“Here’s the thing
Aubrey, you haven’t seemed like yourself for weeks.” 

Technically
speaking, it
wasn’t
me and I wasn’t even sure if it was all a dream.  I
reached out and ran my hand over the top of Laura’s head to see if she was
real.

“What are you
doing?” she said and pushed my hand away.

Everything that
was happening
was
real.  Everything that constituted the last three weeks
of my life, and everything that was going to happen, everything I had ever
imagined could or would happen--did happen!  Although I’d accepted these things
and accepted the fact that I saw my dead husband, for some reason the supernatural
enormity of it all hadn’t fully sunk in until now.    

MATT WAS
REAL
!

 “Hey,” said
Laura, her voice echoing in the bathroom.  She reached out and placed a hand on
my shoulder.  “What’s the matter?” 

Her soft, sappy
tone triggered an odd reaction. 
Is that watery stuff bubbling in my eyes
actual tears? 

All at once, I
felt slammed with a ton of emotions, as if I’d just lived the five stages of
grief all over again.  Denial that I’d somehow connected with the spirit
world.  Anger at why it was happening to me.  Bargaining with God to give me a
chance to talk to my husband and tell him I love him.  Depression over feelings
of guilt that I had caused Matt’s death, and acceptance--well that shocking
part had just sent me over the edge.  I gave a hard stare at the floor, trying
to keep my sudden upheaval of emotions at bay, while thinking about my son,
Nicholas, whose pet chameleon had recently died. 

Escaping from his
cage, I found him days later under the living room sofa in full rigor with his
tiny mouth wide open as if he’d tried to call for help.  We planned a backyard
burial, but Nicholas couldn’t lay him to rest.  He took comfort in playing with
the chameleon, hopping it across his bedroom floor as if it were a plastic
action figure, while at times, getting the chameleon’s stiff little feet
tangled in the looped carpeting. 

I didn’t see the
harm in having him pretend his pet was still alive.  It seemed like a good way
for him to work through his grief.  Not much different from the way I had
worked through my grief after Matt died.  Not that I pretended he was still
alive, but I took comfort in writing letters to him telling him about our son
and various stages of our lives, and that I was sorry I wasn’t a better wife
and oy vey--the guilt!  I needed Matt’s forgiveness.

So there I was
almost seven years later,
still
writing letters to a man who was six-feet-under. 
And though I’d dreamed hundreds of times about Matt coming back to me one last
time like Sam came back to Molly in my favorite movie “Ghost,” and although it
didn’t happen in a romantic scene with a potter’s wheel and passionate hearts, by
all accounts Matt
had
come back to me.

“Aubrey, c’mon
tell me what’s wrong,” Laura said. 

I cleared my
throat and raised an eyebrow.  “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why are your
eyes welling up?  The last time I saw you cry was at Matt’s funeral.  Something
is going on!”

“I’m not crying,”
I scoffed.  “I’m having an allergic reaction to my mascara.”  I quickly wiped
away a fat tear traveling down my cheek.  “So much for allergy-free products.”

 “No way,” Laura
said waving a finger in the air.  “I know you better than that.  It’s work,
isn’t it?  It’s all that pressure from taking on too many cases, right?”

Just play
along.

“I guess I never
could fool you.” 

“Listen,” said
Laura, “you give off an air of being indestructible because of your super-lawyer
and supermom powers, but there are days when you need to take that big “S” off
your chest.  If you don’t learn to relax, you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

“Hmm, maybe I
already have,” I said in a morose tone.  “Don’t be surprised if men in white
jackets come and get me.  Promise you’ll visit and bring me cigarettes.”

“Stop being such a
drama queen,” Laura squawked, “I’m serious!”

“I am too!”

“Gaahh,” she said,
as she turned on her heels and stared into the mirror at me.  “Look,” she said,
tousling her hair with her fingertips.  “You’ll need an excuse for why you left
the hearing so abruptly.  Tell Fendworth it’s
that
time of the month and
you had an emergency.  Broach that subject and guys always turn into squeamish
jellyfish.  I guarantee that’ll squelch any inquiries from him.”

“Hmm,” I muttered
under my breath.

“Come on,” she
said as she clomped off toward the door.

“You go ahead. 
I’ll meet you back in the office.”

“You sure?” she
said, turning to look back at me.

“Yes.  And you’re
not getting out of my office until you tell me everything that happened last
night.” 

“Okay, but
hurry.” 

I nodded and
waited until Laura left before searching the restroom for something I could use
to fish the fan out of the toilet.  By sheer luck, someone had left a coat
hanger on the sink.  I thought of how naked my ring finger looked, as I reached
for the hanger with my left hand.  When Matt died, I swore I’d never take off my
wedding ring.  People always noticed the ring, a platinum band with a small
emerald cut diamond, which I tended to twist absentmindedly between my left
thumb and forefinger during conversation. 

People would
always ask me, “So what does your husband do?” 

I always imagined
myself shouting, “Stop asking me that question!  I’m a widow, a
twenty-eight-year-old pregnant widow!”  I wanted to shout this through a
bullhorn at anyone who asked, and any random passersby who didn't ask, so I’d
never hear that question again.

Two years later, I
relinquished and took off my wedding ring.  As the years passed, people would
always ask if I had a boyfriend, to which I’d respond, “I think I’m late for an
appointment.”  Eventually, I grew tired of the never-ending questions. 
No,
I don't have a boyfriend.
 
Yes, once a widow, always a widow.
 
No,
I'm not happy about it, but I have a beautiful son and great friends.
 
Could
you please pass the salt!

The automatic
flush turned on while I wrestled with the fan.  With enough G-force to pull a
small elephant down into the city sewer, the fan was stuck, while Lady Gaga’s “The
Edge of Glory” shrilled from my cell phone.  The caller ID confirmed it was my
assistant, Ashley.

“Aubrey?”

“Yes,” I said, as
I yanked on the hanger and tried to wiggle the fan loose.

“Mr. Fendworth
came looking for you.  I think he’s on a rampage.  He looked upset.”

“Did he ask where
I was?”

“No, he just
growled and left when he saw you weren’t in your office.”

“Smarmy office
snitches,” I said under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Never mind, I’ll
be right there.” 

Tugging hard on
the hanger, the fan popped from the bowl, and I tossed it along with the hanger
into the trash. 

Hurrying down the
hall on the fourth floor to take the elevator up to the twelfth, I questioned
why my life had always been so odd, which reminded me of the e-mail I had
received at home that morning.  Just for the heck of it or maybe out of sheer
desperation, I’d taken a personality-slash-dating-compatibility test for an
online dating service.  I was somewhat giddy until I opened the e-mail and
realized it was a
rejection
letter.  I could finally relate to the shock
those poor clucks feel on The Apprentice when they get the signature kiss-off
of “You’re fired,” from The Donald.

Melanie Hatcher, a
paralegal at our law firm who has had so much cosmetic surgery she looked as if
she was wearing a Kabuki mask, had encouraged me to sign on with the dating
service.  I didn’t know how I was going to side step the humiliation.

Aside from my
friends, my own son had been asking me why I didn’t date.  He compared me to
Sallie, the divorcee who lived next door who God forbid, was never without a
date.  The woman’s body was like a nightly amusement park.  For all I knew her
name could have been listed in the city guidebook under “entertainment.”

While punching the
elevator button, the shriveled up ficus plant stuck in a large brass pot
sitting on the floor in the corner of a small seating area drew my attention. 
Metaphorically speaking, at thirty-five years old my love life was reminiscent
of that withering tree. 

As I stepped
inside the elevator and pushed the button for the twelfth floor, a quake of
mortality sounded in my head like the gonging of Big Ben. 

The elevator
chimed.  Before the doors were even halfway open, I placed one foot into the
lobby and came to an abrupt halt.  Not twenty-five feet away, senior partner Henry
Fendworth was rounding the corner from the back offices into the lobby-slash-reception
area.  The bushy-haired forty-two-year old with pellet-sized blue eyes, who wore
the constant expression of a man fighting dandelions, ran the office like
Patton’s Third Army. 

He walked past the
chrome-trimmed black leather sofa and two vintage suede box chairs.  The tapping
of his steps on the rosewood flooring echoed in the high ceilinged lobby as he
approached the receptionist.  His robust stature impeccably decked-out in a
white shirt, red tie, and gray pinstriped pants with his signature red
suspenders.  His wife had him on a diet that made him as ornery as a toothy
alligator.  However, speculation was that Fendworth was having more than just
weight-challenging issues with his bossy, controlling wife, who was twenty
years his junior.  The leggy redhead with a well-toned midriff who got most of
her exercise cleaning out her shoe closet had just hired a sexy Latin personal
trainer by the name of Rico.