The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (9 page)

I'm curled up on the musty bed,

fixating on the fact that my mother

doesn't even seem to care that I've come

all this way to visit her.

I'm lying here,

trying not to breathe the stagnant air,

staring at the awful painting on the wall,

wishing that Michael were here.

If Michael were here he'd make

some wise-ass crack about that painting.

He'd help me to see the
humor
in all this.

He's always been the best at that…

And suddenly I'm overcome with

the need to hear his voice—the soothing

timbre of it, the all-is-well-ness of it,

the Michael-ness of it.

I start rooting around in my purse

for my phone, thinking that I honestly

don't know what I'd do without that guy…

I mean, sure, he can be a pain sometimes.

But, then again, so can
I.

I can be a royal pain in the butt…

I'm lucky he even puts up with me.

And I need to tell him that—
right now!

But I can't find my damn phone…

I rifle through my purse, gripped now by

an overwhelming urge to apologize to Michael

for every mean thing I've ever said or done.

And when I finally dig out my phone

and dial my beloved's number—

it goes straight

to voice mail.

He probably turned his phone off

during Samantha's concert

and then forgot to turn it back on.

He's
always
doing that.

So I call Samantha instead.

She tells me she's having an amazing time.

She tells me her solo today was awesome.

She tells me to give Grandma a huge hug for her.

And I promise her that I will.

Then I ask her to put her dad on the line.

But she says his room is down the hall,

so she's not sure if he's back yet.

“Back from where?”

“From dinner.”

“Didn't he eat with
you?”

“No. He went out with Brandy.”

Brandy…?
My stomach clenches.

“You mean…Tess's mom?”

“Do we know any
other
Brandys?” she says.

I force a laugh at Sam's quip.

Then I say, “I didn't know

she was up there with you guys.”

“She's the other chaperone,” Sam says.

“She recruited Dad. Didn't he tell you?”

No.

He did not.

It goes

straight to voice mail.

Again.

I try to ignore the images

that come gushing

into my mind—

Michael and Brandy at a tiny table

in a romantic restaurant…

Michael's eyes fixed on hers…

Brandy's lashes fluttering…

her thick red hair glowing

in the candlelight…

Brandy's knees shifting

under the table

to press against his…

And that's

when I notice

the rhythmic thumping sound,

the ecstatic moans

pouring in through the skin-thin wall

from the room next door.

With trembling fingers,

I dial Michael's number again.

But it goes straight to freaking voice mail!

So I do the only thing

I really
can
do

under the circumstances:

I call room service and ask them

to bring me up a massive slice of mud pie—

pronto!

Michael finally calls me back

and apologizes for not phoning

the night before.

He says he went out to dinner

and then he had to monitor the hotel corridor

to make sure there were no shenanigans.

He says he's really sorry, but by the time

he remembered to turn his phone back on

it was two in the morning, Cleveland-time.

I don't tell him

I was wide awake

at 2 a.m.—

lying in bed trying to block out

the orgasmic groans of my bionic neighbors,

who were still going at it.

I don't tell him

that I tossed and turned

all night long.

And I don't ask him

why he neglected to mention

that his dinner companion

was Brandy.

Because I am sure

that it simply slipped

his mind.

I am sure

that I'm making way too big a deal

out of this.

I am sure

that absolutely nothing happened

between my husband and…that woman.

I mean,

she's happily married.

And so are Michael and I.

I am sure…

Did I come to Cleveland

to drive myself bonkers

worrying about my husband

having a torrid affair?

Hell no!

I came here to visit my mother.

So I grab a cab

and head over to the hospital.

But the rest of my day

zooms downhill fast.

I don't feel

like talking about it.

Suffice it to say

that the time I spend with my mother

is about as satisfying

as a bowl of cold chicken soup.

She doesn't

take the slightest

comfort

from my presence.

The only
good
thing about being here

this weekend is that Dr. Hack is out of town.

So at least I don't have to endure

that ulcer-inducing chuckle of his…

When I head to the airport

on Sunday night,

I feel as if I've run a marathon

and didn't even make it

to the finish line.

I make up my mind

not to talk to Michael about Brandy.

Because I already know

exactly what he'll say if I do.

He'll say that jealousy

is a useless emotion.

This is because Michael doesn't have

a single jealous bone in his body.

In fact, Michael is such

a thoroughly
un
-jealous type

that he could walk in on me—

nude, in bed, with my lover

(if I had one,

which, of course, I don't)

and if I told Michael that we were

just playing Scrabble, he'd believe me.

So, I will
not
talk to Michael

about Brandy.

I'm searching my purse

for my keys

when the front door swings open.

There stands Michael in his nightshirt,

his paint-speckled hair adorably tousled,

beaming at me like a sleepy sun.

“Welcome home, world traveler!” he says,

spreading his arms wide

and sweeping me into a hug.

Then he dips me back and kisses me—

like he's trying to reenact that famous photo

of the sailor kissing the nurse in Times Square.

He's kissing me

like a man

who has truly missed his wife.

He's kissing me

like a man

who
worships
his wife.

He's kissing me

like a man who would never

cheat
on his wife…

Or is he kissing me like a man

who doesn't want his wife

to suspect he's having an affair—

like a man

who's as guilty

as sin?

I'm in the backyard,

snapping some Match.com photos

of Alice wearing glasses

(going for a more “quirky intellectual” look),

when she stops posing,

and says, “Okay. Spill it.”

“Spill what?” I say.

“Well,” she says, “it's obvious

that you're upset about something

and that you don't want to talk about it.

But it's also obvious that if you
do
talk about it

you'll feel a trillion times better.

So you might as well tell me everything

right now because I am not going to

let up on you until you do.”

I learned long ago

that sometimes it's easier

just to go with the Alice flow—

so I tell her that Michael spent the weekend

in Sacramento chaperoning with Brandy.

And she says, “You mean Tess's mom?”

And I say, “Do we know any
other
Brandys?”

And she says, “Holly. Get to the point.”

And when I can't bring myself to go on,

she crosses her arms over her chest

and says, “Oh, don't be an ass.

Michael would never be unfaithful to you.”

And I say, “Who said anything

about Michael being unfaithful?”

And she just gives me a look and says,

“The point is, Michael would never betray you.

Not even if Brandy threw herself at him.

Which I'm sure she didn't.”

And I say, “What
makes
you so sure?”

And she says, “I mean, think about it—

Brandy runs an animal shelter, for chrissake.

She's a Decent. Human. Being.

Besides, you've known her for years.

Do you really think she'd do that to you?”

Whoa…Alice is right…

Brandy's a sweetheart…

She'd never try to steal my husband!

I feel like a boulder's just

rolled off of my chest.

But then Alice says,

“Besides, I never believed that rumor.”

And the boulder rolls right back on.

“What rumor?” I say.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she says.

“I thought
you
were the one who told
me.”

“Told you what?”

“Well…there's a totally
unfounded
rumor

going around about Brandy and her husband Colin…

that they're…that maybe they're splitting up.

But I know it's not true.”

And I say,
“How
do you know?”

And Alice just shrugs and says,

“I have a sixth sense about these things.”

And I say, “Wow…
that's
comforting…”

And she says, “I know, right?”

And I say, “I thought you said I'd feel

a trillion times better if I told you everything.”

And Alice flashes me

a very sheepish grin and says,

“Don't you?”

I'm snipping a bouquet of roses,

from the bushes that border our backyard,

trying to shake off my feelings of dread

about Michael and Brandy,

when I notice that something is wrong

with our pepper tree.

She's losing more hair

than me.

The singed tips

of her withering leaves

are curling in on themselves

like arthritic fingers—

losing their grip,

flurrying to the ground,

mounding 'round her ankles

in feathery drifts…

Something is wrong

with our pepper tree.

I'm striding down the sidewalk,

taking a break from stressing

about my husband being unfaithful

and my mother being unwell

and my book being unfinishable,

contemplating, instead,

the hearty pot of gumbo

I'm planning to make for dinner,

when I see a woman feeding a meter,

standing with her back to me—

her skull barren, deforested,

save for the fresh scar rivering

along the curve of it like a child's first

attempt at cross-stitch, or a zipper meant to keep

the woman's thoughts from escaping.

Then she turns—

and that's when I realize

that the woman whose head I've been staring at

is Beth, a writer friend from a critique group

that disbanded years ago.

Beth,

who'd seemed perfectly healthy when

we'd bumped into each other two months earlier.

She'd given me her phone number that day;

But I never did call…

We fall into a hug,

and when we pull apart,

she says, “I had a seizure. They found a tumor.

Took them twelve hours to remove it.”

“Thank God they got it out,” I say.

Beth smiles wanly.

“Well, I better get going,” she says.

“I'm late for my chemo. It makes me violently ill.

But I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay…”

As if repeating this mantra can somehow make it true.

“You
are
okay!” I say,

with exaggerated conviction.

Then we exchange good-byes and I rush off

just as the sun ducks behind a cloud,

fading everything to a steely gray.

I won't

take the time

to make that pot of gumbo today.

I'll order in from Chang's instead.

I have got to finish writing this book.

While I still
can.