What a Girl Wants (4 page)
“Patents, Mom. Yes, I’m doing about three a month, but six right now.”
“That’s nice. Hank! Come in here before your food gets cold!” She turns back to me and I notice, not for the first time, that my mother is really beautiful. She has nearly no wrinkles, and her skin is supple like a fresh apricot. Her gray eyes hold a certain sparkle that belies their bland color. Why she put up with my father all these years mystifies me. Although he did let her name me Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale, so maybe she had more choices than I give her credit for.
My father comes lumbering out of the family room, zipping up his pants. Why watching TV with his pants zipped is too great a feat, I’ll never know. I’d buy him some bigger trousers, but they already hang on him like an elephant’s backside girth.
He looks at my mother, while smoothing his hand over his balding head. “You couldn’t wait five minutes?”
“It’s your daughter’s birthday.”
Dad looks at me and nods. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.” And there you have it. The longest conversation we will have all year.
“So are you seeing anyone, honey?” My mom’s eyes grow wider with hope.
Dave nearly spits his potatoes out through his nose, but he stays quiet for once. What’s the deal? Usually he’d say something like, “Ashley dating someone? Not unless you’ve seen bacon in midair. Did pork take flight today, Dad?”
Dad laughs at his unspoken joke anyway and then Dave laughs out loud. Sophomoric humor reigns in the Stockingdale family, and once it’s begun it will quickly degenerate until my mother intercedes. Suddenly I’m longing for the intellectual stimulation of a good allegory discussion on a science-fiction movie. I should have gone to Seth’s.
My father’s laughter mingled with Dave’s raucous cackle creeps into my invisible barrier. My nose stings as I ward off the tears. Not because of the idiotic humor; I’m used to that. Because no one truly cares that I’m thirty-one today. Not one person. My best friend has left me for a husband, and I’m standing in the world all alone with the three people I resemble the very least in this world. There has to be a place for me. There just has to be.
All three of them, with forks halted, stare at me with gaping mouths. “No, Mom, I’m not seeing anyone.” The silverware begins to clink again.
“What about that nice guy you were with at Brea’s wedding?”
“He was the best man, Mom. He’s married.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” my mother says with exasperation. “Who isn’t married these days? Are you trying at all? You’re a pretty girl, Ashley. The boys must look your way sometimes.”
Trying at all? Now I cough back a laugh. “Well, I’m thinking of dressing like Lara Croft and Tomb Raiding in my spare time. Do you think that might catch Mr. Right’s attention?”
Dave laughs with me, and it’s odd, this sudden feeling of kinship with a man I wouldn’t normally choose to be with. Ever. But then we are laughing at me, after all. Still . . . I glance his way, but he’s deep into the roast.
“Is Lara like Scarlett O’Hara?” My mom’s gray eyes blink repeatedly. She is not stupid . . . so why does she pretend that I can still be the belle of the ball? In her day, women got married out of high school. It was simple. Everyone did it. It’s not the same game anymore, now that masters and doctorates are as common as ants, and church weddings are scarcer than valuable stock options.
I decide it’s best to drop the Lara line of thinking. “What about you, Dave? Is there anyone special in your life these days?”
My parents’ heads whip around like metal rushing to its polar opposite. “Is there someone, honey?” my mom asks.
I have to cover my mouth to avoid the thrill I garner from such a childish and cheap trick. I’m thirty-one, but get me with my brother and I am immediately eight years old again, taking inordinate amounts of pleasure in watching him squirm. If I ever hope to grow as a Christian, I think I need to avoid my brother.
Dave acts the part of lecherous playboy, but in reality he’s scared of women. He seems attracted to the type who can’t question his authority. Most of his dates have been from third-world Asian countries, and they rely on Dave for English translation. I’m sure driving a bus in a place where American cars are considered substandard doesn’t afford him the best opportunities for meeting women, but when I think this way I actually feel sorry for him. So I avoid it at all costs.
Dave shakes his head and grunts; a perfectly acceptable form of communication in the Stockingdale home. I’m an avid creationist, but that’s not to say I don’t see the argument for evolution in my brother.
My mother’s attention quickly turns back to me. After all, it is my birthday. Why should Dave have all the fun? “Ashley, I saw in the paper that boy you dated in college got married. His wife is just a darling, little blonde thing. I saved the paper for you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Because that’s what I really wanted to see to make this birthday complete.
Mom rises from the table as if she cannot wait to show me the wedding day that should have been mine. I give her a tight-lipped smile as she hands me the newspaper, pointing to my ex-boyfriend and his “darling” bride. She is darling, and that ticks me off because she’s probably about ten years younger than Eddie. At least I receive the satisfaction of seeing that Eddie has lost most of his hair.
“They’re a cute couple,” I say, sliding the paper back toward my mother.
“Did you see her dress?” She slides the paper back toward me. “It looks very rich.”
I was thinking more like Barbie meets
American Idol,
but I keep my opinion to myself. Why must I be a Christian in my own childhood home? It’s the hardest test of them all. I try Dave’s
modus operandi
and grunt a reply, but it doesn’t produce the desired result.
“Ashley? Did you see her dress?” my mother asks again.
“Yes, Mom. It’s beautiful. She’s a peach.” Another clamped-mouth smile injected here. “I’m sure Eddie is ensured pure bliss with such a gorgeous dress as that beside him.”
“Now Ashley, what did Eddie ever do to you?”
Um, dump me because I wouldn’t sleep with his slimy self after a
drunken binge at a fraternity party.
“Nothing, Mom.”
“Sometimes I think that religion of yours makes you so judgmental. We didn’t raise you to not enjoy other people’s good news.” My mom pats my hand. “It’s not becoming. I would think God wants us to love one another and be happy for another’s happiness.”
Mom, your God resembles Winnie the Pooh more than the biblical
model.
“Love rejoices with the Truth,” I say. The truth is that Eddie slept his way through Santa Clara University while he used me for all his “intellectual” dates. I was the
girlfriend du jour
when the occasion called for some semblance of professionalism.
I look up across the table to see Dave studying me then glance down guiltily to his food. He shovels in the rest of his meat and potatoes, pushes back from the table, and, still chewing, swings his arms into his leather jacket—the only decent piece of clothing he owns.
“Are you going out, Dave?” Mom asks, her voice going up an octave.
“Yeah, I got plans,” he says, ducking his head to actually help swallow the enormous amount in his mouth. His eyes flicker to me. “Happy birthday, Ash.”
“But Dave, you haven’t had cake!” Mom cries.
“Later. I’ll catch a piece later.” He’s out the door, leaving me flabbergasted that (1) he was somewhat decent for a minute and (2) he gets to leave on my birthday and I’m stuck here.
My father grunts and then belches. Apparently having made more room, he finishes his meat and slogs back to his never-ending football fest without a word to me or a thanks to my mother for preparing his meal. I see my mother’s spark die. It’s been thirty-four years, and every night she’s hopeful something in my father will change. Yet it never does. How I wish I could tell her what Brea told me about expectations and not having them if you want happiness, but I can’t. I cry every time I try, and emotion is not tolerated in the Stockingdale home.
I help my mother clear the dishes, and then together we sit down to eat some cake. I eat quickly. I just want this over. “I should get home, Mom. Tomorrow is Monday.”
“I’m glad you could join us for dinner, Ashley. You don’t look a day over twenty-six.” She pats my back.
That’s little consolation to me today, considering I feel fifty-six. “Thanks, Mom.” I watch her take my father his coffee and my world shifts. Brea is off and married. My family doesn’t really know me, and I’m a full-fledged, card-carrying member of the Silicon Valley Reasons. “This is not how I intend to spend my thirty-first year on this earth.”
“What, Dear?”
“I’m going to get a makeover,” I announce. She smiles her “Isn’t that sweet?” grin. I kiss her cheek and get ready for the Real World after a brief visit to this alternate universe. Oh yeah, Mama, bring on the engineers, fresh-roasted coffee, and snaking traffic. Monday in Silicon Valley: Go!
I
t’s seven a.m. and I schlep all the files from my car to my office. Jim Bailey, the mail guy, rescues me at the doorway.
“Ashley, how was the weekend?” Jim clucks the side of his mouth and winks. “Did you do the wild thang?”
It’s far too early for this. In what guy manual is it written that women want to be talked to like this? Because I really need to get my hands on that book, and put it in the section called Ways to Make Sure You Never Have a Woman in Your Life.
“The wild thang? What’s that, Jim?” I flutter my eyelashes innocently. I am not known around these hallowed halls as the church girl for nothing. To his credit, he visibly blushes and his freckled face turns into one bright shade of autumnal red.
“Don’t mind me, I was just being friendly. You got anything going out yet?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.” Watching him slink away, I now feel guilty. I didn’t mean to take the John Wayne out of his day. Call me old fashioned, but I just don’t care to be asked if I did
it
this weekend. Is that too much to expect? But now, of course, I feel guilty for making him feel so bad about himself. And I hear my mother’s voice chastising me for being judgmental.
Purvi Sharma, my boss, waltzes in with an equal bushel of legal-sized envelopes to the ones I brought home with me, and drops them on my desk. “What’s wrong with Jim? Are you picking on him again?” She laughs. Purvi is a dream to work for. She’s from India, glad to be here in America, and makes the most of every day and every situation.
She doesn’t let the uptight VPs rile her when they need something. After watching people starve in the streets of Calcutta, she sees creating technology patents as rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Stress is not something that gets to her. But of course, half the time it doesn’t get to her because she rolls it down to me. Still, I wish I possessed her inner calm. Not her workaholic, insane hours. But her peace.
When a VP comes storming in my office, I just freak about the deadlines and other companies swooping in to steal the deal because I haven’t fought hard enough for patent approval. My whole world goes into a tailspin as if technology as we know it—nay, that fate of all humankind—will cease to exist.
I really need to get out more.
Purvi has one son by a husband who is still in India, and everything revolves around the boy. There’s a lot to admire about Purvi, but her stance on sexual harassment—and the mail guy’s comments—is decidedly rooted in historical eras, and not one of her better qualities. She thinks of SH as an American thing, and she finds the whole concept hilarious.
You sue when a man notices you’re beautiful
and makes stupid comments? Only in America. Only in America.
In my country, they’d give your family many cows, you’d say goodbye to
your family, and we’d be done with the entire mess. Case closed.
But, of course, in some parts of her country, women are supposed to cover everything with skin on it and walk behind their husbands, so I don’t make mention of the hypocrisy. Or the fact that she’s not living in her country, nor that her husband isn’t liv- ing with her. Purvi shoves more files towards me, and I watch and wonder over her as she exits.
Dianna Kendal is outside Purvi’s office. A bit of a stereotype, this one. Purvi’s opposite in many ways. She dresses quite provocatively at work, and she’s a single mother to a four-year-old girl. No mother should dress like she does. By Dianna’s mere, yet carefully-measured actions, she lets every man know she’s available. I watch the dance she does with both fascination and disgust because she’s the type of woman that no man would take seriously. She practically shouts that she’s the kind you sleep with but don’t marry.
I know so many single mothers at the church. They are solid Christians who made a mistake and devote themselves entirely to their children. Dianna is not that type of mother. She’s the kind who would make the same mistake again and again if given the opportunity. And she looks for it at every corner.
Whenever Dianna speaks to a man in the office, she must suddenly bend over for something to give them a glimpse of her cleavage, which is pressurized in a torture chamber of a bra. If there’s an easier way to tell a man you’re the kind who sleeps around readily, I don’t know what it is. But I’m watching Dianna, and she’s leaning against her desk with her head swaying, licking her lips slowly.
Jim Bailey is losing the battle not to stare, then fumbling around to gather her mail. It’s like watching a bad beer commercial in my very own office setting. Oh, the joy.
My office phone rings, and it’s Brea, according to caller ID. I know Brea is probably at home in hysterics because she’s worried about me and the news of her pregnancy. She’s left me ten messages and three e-mails already. I must get it through to her that I am Ecstatic about The News.
I pick up the phone without a hello. “Enough already. I’m so stinkin’ happy for you, I want to run through the forest in a tiger-striped thong and shout my enthusiasm through the trees!”
“Ashley?” John’s voice sounds confused and I wince. I have just given my best friend’s husband a visual.
Blech
.
