“The portrait,” I said quickly. I assumed my pose, adjusting my chin, my heart still racing. “We should—”
He glanced across the room. “Colie,” he said. “It’s done.”
“It is?”
“Yep.” He turned around and walked over to the easel, dropping his brush into the coffee can. “I put the last touches on about an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up then?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You just looked like you were having a good dream.”
I got up and stretched, then started over to the canvas. “Okay. Let’s see it.”
He dodged in front of me—he could be awfully quick, that Norman—and planted himself right in front of the easel. “Hold on,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I told him. “I have waited and waited. You promised.”
“I know, I know. And I will show you. I just—I just wanted it to be special.”
“Special.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Look. Let me cook you dinner tomorrow night. And I’ll get it all set up and unveil it, make a big deal. So you’ll get the full effect.”
“Norman,” I said, suspicious, “if you are just jerking me around . . .”
“I’m not,” he said solemnly. “Cross my heart.” And then he did, for good faith. “Dinner and the unveiling. It’ll be awesome. Trust me.”
“Okay,” I said. It was like a date, a real date. “I’ll be here.”
We said good night, and as I started walking up around the house I remembered my dream. It came to me suddenly, making me stop in midstride.
I’d been at the beach, kissing a boy. I could feel the sun on my face, bright and warm like in the afternoons on the back stoop of the Last Chance. It was a good kiss and I was enjoying it; I pulled my head back and smiled at the boy, who smiled back.
It was Norman.
“Oh, my God,” I said. I stopped walking. Cat Norman was on the edge of the porch, licking his paws, and he glanced up at me, startled.
You looked like you were having a good dream, he’d said. And when I’d told him everything, he stayed there, close to me, until we were even.
Suddenly, I saw lights coming down the road. Fast. I heard the car before I saw it, gravel crunching and rattling underneath as it got closer.
I walked around Mira’s porch, wondering who would be coming so late. The little house was bright; Isabel was home, sitting out on the front steps with Frank, the guy she’d met on the Fourth of July. I could see the end of her cigarette glowing—she always smoked more when Morgan was away.
The car turned in to the driveway, scattering rocks, its headlights stretching past the trees before flooding the porch. It was the Rabbit. Isabel stood up, shielding her eyes.
“Who is that?” I heard Frank say.
The car sped up to the house, swerving slightly, before coming to a sudden, jerking stop. The driver’s door opened, and as the light came on, I could see Morgan.
“What happened?” Isabel was already saying, as Morgan ran past up the steps. She’d left the car going, the high beams on, so I could make her out plainly. Her face was red and blotchy and she had her hand over her mouth. She also had something around her neck, something yellow and fuzzy-looking.
Morgan ran through the living room to the bathroom. Isabel dropped her cigarette in the dirt and quickly followed her.
I came a little closer, sticking to our side of the hedge. Frank turned off the car engine and lights, and suddenly everything was much quieter. He stayed outside.
“Morgan!” I could see Isabel through the half-open kitchen window. She was banging on the bathroom door. “Open the door!”
There was no answer. Isabel banged harder.
“Morgan, come on,” Isabel said. “You’re scaring me.”
Isabel, scared. Now that was something I hadn’t seen before.
Frank walked inside, hands in his pockets. He stood a respectful distance from Isabel, watching, before he said, “Should I—?”
“Go,” Isabel said, waving him off. She didn’t even look at him. “I’ll call you later.”
“Right, right.” He was already backing away. This was not a place for the weak of heart. I waited until he was gone before moving on to the porch.
“Morgan!” Isabel was yelling now. “Open this door!”
No response. I stepped inside.
“This is crazy,” Isabel said. She didn’t look at me either, but somehow she knew I was there. “Tell me what happened,” she said to the door. Then, more softly, pleading: “Morgan.”
“Maybe we should just—” I began. But that was as far as I got.
“You’ll be so happy, Isabel,” Morgan said from behind the door. Her voice was choked and tight, and I had to listen hard to understand her. “Because you were right. So go ahead and celebrate.”
“Just tell me what happened.”
The doorknob rattled, taking a second to catch, and then Morgan stepped out. She was in the outfit from that morning, but now it was a wrinkled mess, with one big rip along the front hem of the skirt. She had a bad scrape on her knee. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she clutched a Kleenex in one hand. It was a Hawaiian thing—a lei, I remembered suddenly it was called—hanging around her neck. It was yellow and looked dirty, like it too had been through something big.
“Jesus,” Isabel said, looking at her.
“Go on, Isabel,” Morgan said, gesturing at her with the Kleenex. “Pat yourself on the back. Do whatever it is you right people do.”
“What are you talking about?” Isabel said. “Look what you’ve done to my skirt, for God’s sake.”
“You were right all along!” Morgan shrieked. “And I know how much you love to be right. How you live for it. So do your little dance or whatever. Get it over with.”
Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”
“Why should I?” Morgan said. Her voice was high and unbalanced. “You know the whole story, start to finish. You were always so proud of yourself because you had Mark all figured out.”
Isabel looked at me. I looked at the floor. We could hear Morgan breathing, fast and jerky, like hysterical people in the movies. I wondered if I should leave.
“Okay,” Isabel said in a calm voice. For once, I wished there was music—loud music—playing. “Was there a girl there?”
“Of course there was!” Morgan screamed. “There was a girl living in the hotel with him. And do you know what she was? Do you?”
Isabel sighed. “A stripper?” she asked.
“Yes!” Morgan pointed at her with the Kleenex as if Isabel had won a prize. “And what else?”
“I don’t know,” Isabel said softly.
“Yes, you do,” Morgan snapped. “Come on, Isabel. This is your game, baby! Take a guess. A wild guess.” I watched the lei move as her chest heaved.
“I don’t want to guess,” Isabel said. “Why don’t you—”
“Oh, no,” Morgan said, holding up her hand. “You have to. I’ll give you a hint. She was also his”—and she crooked her fingers, making quote marks, and for the first time I noticed the ring, Morgan’s touchstone, was gone—“blank. Fill it in.”
Isabel looked at the floor. I’d never seen her so quiet. “Wife,” she said softly.
“Exactly!” Morgan shrieked. “And here’s the bonus question. The big enchilada. The brass ring. Ready?”
“Morgan,” I said.
“Ready!” Morgan yelled over me. “She was also—blank. What? What is it?”
Isabel looked out the kitchen window. All I could hear was Morgan breathing.
“Go ahead! She was also—what? What was she, Isabel?”
And then Isabel, in a voice so sad it could break your heart, said, “Pregnant. She was pregnant.”
Morgan threw up her hands. “That’s right! Pregnant! With his kid! You win the couch and the car and the dinette set, Miss Isabel. You win the showcase showdown and all the money. Congratulations!” She
was screaming now. “Congratulations!” And then she turned around, walked down the hallway to the bedroom and slammed the door so hard it shook the floor beneath my feet.
I looked at Isabel.
“Great,” she said. “I win.”
We waited an hour for Morgan to come out. Then another.
By two-thirty A.M., when I was nodding off again, Isabel told me to go home.
“There’s no point in you sticking around,” she said, standing up. “I’ll sleep on the couch and she’ll be fine in the morning.” She looked back at the bedroom door. I could tell she wasn’t so sure.
“I can stay,” I offered.
“No.” She was already stretched out on the couch, reaching up to turn off the light on the end table. “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I walked to the door and pushed it open. I could see my bedroom light from the porch, bright and waiting for me.
“Hey, Colie,” Isabel called out behind me. The living room was dark now and I couldn’t see her.
“Yeah?”
“What were you doing out so late, anyway?”
“Norman and I were finishing the painting,” I told her. “It’s done.”
“Great,” she said, yawning.
“He’s making me dinner tomorrow,” I added softly. “We have, like, a date.”
“Really?” Now she sounded more awake. “What time?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Dinnertime, I guess.” Norman was never one for exactness, exactly.
“Come here first,” she said. I could hear her turning over, her voice muffled as she settled in. “And I’ll help you get ready.”
“You will?”
“Absolutely.” Now she was drifting off, her voice soft. “Everything will be fine tomorrow. Just fine.”
I shut the door softly and crossed the lawn, cutting through the hedge to Mira’s. I passed her bedroom on the way to mine; she’d fallen asleep with the light on, listening to a tape on her headphones, one of which—of course—was missing an earpad. It was still running as I turned her Walkman over and peered down at it, recognizing the tape instantly. I slipped the headphones off and pulled the blanket over her, then lifted them to my own ears, closing my eyes at the sound of my mother’s voice.
“I don’t believe in failure,” she was saying in that confident, breezy way. “Because simply by saying you’ve failed, you’ve admitted you attempted. And anyone who attempts is not a failure. Those who truly fail in my eyes are the ones who never try at all. The ones who sit on the couch and whine and moan and wait for the world to change for them.”
I smiled. I had heard those words so many times before. And as I kept listening, I walked to Mira’s window and looked at the moon.
It hung brightly in the sky, a bit yellow, ripe and waiting for me. Then I glanced down at the little house. The porch light was on now, and I could see someone sitting on the steps. Someone with her head in her hands, a dirty lei around her neck, sitting under the light of Mira’s moon.
“If you try anything,” my mother went on, her voice building, “if you try to lose weight, or to improve yourself, or to love, or to make the world a better place, you have already achieved something wonderful, before you even begin. Forget failure. If things don’t work out the way you want, hold your head up high and be proud. And try again. And again. And again!”
Try again, I thought, thinking of my night with Norman as I looked down at Morgan, remembering how she’d been so happy that Mark had chosen her. And I wondered where that shiny ring was now.
Try again.
chapter fourteen
The next morning Norman and I were the only ones who showed up for work. Morgan was on the schedule, but I opened alone; luckily it was slow, so I could handle it by myself. I’d thought it might be strange to be with Norman now, but it wasn’t. We just ate fat-free potato chips and played Hangman, listening to the radio while he huddled over a grocery list—secretive as ever—planning the Big Dinner. Still, I was glad when two-thirty came and I could close up and go home to find out what was going on.
“It’s crazy, Mira,” I heard Isabel say as soon as I walked in. “This morning I get up and drive all the way to Starbucks just to get her some of that special snotty coffee she likes so much, and she locks me out! She’s been over there crying and playing Patsy Cline ever since. This is bad, Mira. This is really bad.”
I walked in to the back room and saw Mira sitting at her drafting table, with Isabel on the couch beside her. They were both drinking iced tea with somber looks on their faces. Through the window facing the little house I could hear music. Sad music.
“Her heart is broken,” Mira said, sticking her pen in her hair. “You’re just going to have to ride it out.”
“But I should be there. I’ve always been there when she was upset like this. I just don’t get why this is suddenly all my fault.” Isabel looked terrible; her hair was in a sloppy ponytail and she was wearing jeans, a torn red T-shirt, and no makeup whatsoever. She saw me looking and snapped, “I thought I was only going out for a second.”
“Fine,” I said. I was not going to get on her bad side today.
“She has to blame someone,” Mira explained.
“Then blame Mark!” Isabel slammed down her tea glass. “He’s the one who cheated on her, married someone else and got her pregnant. All I ever did was—”
“Tell her he was no good. That he was lying to her. That she was going to get hurt,” Mira filled in. She shook her head ruefully. “Don’t you see, Isabel? She’s embarrassed. She’s humiliated. And when she looks at you, she knows you were right all along.”
“But I didn’t want to be right,” Isabel protested. “I just didn’t want her to get hurt.”
“But she did,” Mira said. “And until she gets over the shock and comes to her senses and gets angry, you just have to keep your distance. The timing is bad too, with the eclipse and all. Everything’s out of whack.”
Isabel rolled her eyes. “But it’s my house, too,” she grumbled. “I can’t even get to my clothes.”
“Give her time,” Mira said, looking down at the drafting table. “Or better yet,” she said brightly, “give her a card.”
“A what?”
“A card!” Mira said, gesturing grandly to the boxes behind her. “There are thousands of ways right here to console her on a loss. Just pick one.”
“He’s not dead, Mira,” I said.
“He should be,” Isabel said darkly.
“Go ahead,” Mira said cheerfully. “Take one. Take several.”
Isabel walked to the shelf and pulled down a box. Mira bounced in her chair, smiling at me.
“So,” she said. “Ready for that big date?” I’d told her about it that morning, during our cereal session.
“I guess,” I said, and she smiled at me.
Isabel opened up a card and read aloud. “ ‘I am so sorry to hear of your terrible loss . . . but I know that time, and love, will heal all wounds and that your little friend will live on in your heart forever.’ ” She looked at Mira, eyebrows raised.
“Dead hamster,” Mira explained. “Try another one.”
“Okay,” Isabel said, opening a second card. “How about . . . ‘There comes a time when we all must accept the loss of someone who may not have been truly real but was very real in our hearts. I know this loss affects you in a way some might not understand. But as your friend, I do. And I am so sorry.’ ”
“Dead soap opera character,” Mira said. “That’s not right either.” She got up and went over to the boxes, rifling through them. “Let’s see. How about a dead ex-husband? Or a dead former flame?”
“These are all too nice,” Isabel said. “What we need is a good, nasty, empowering card. But nobody makes those.”
Mira turned around, took a pen out of her hair, and then jabbed it back in another spot. She was thinking. “We could,” she said suddenly. “Of course. We’ll make a card. How stupid of me!” She went back to her chair, jacke
d it up, and pulled out a blank piece of sketch paper, folding it in half. “Okay,” she said, licking the tip of her pen. “What should it say?” She looked at Isabel.
Isabel looked at me.
“The truth,” I said. “It should say the truth.”
“Truth,” Mira agreed. “So maybe, the front should say something like . . . ‘I am sorry for your broken heart.’ ”
“Perfect,” Isabel said.
Mira bent over the card, writing with smooth strokes. Underneath, she drew a heart with a jagged line down the middle. “Okay,” she said when she was through. “Now we need the inside. This is the hardest part.”
We considered this. Cat Norman walked through, looked at the three of us, and sat down with a wheeze.
“ ‘I am sorry for your broken heart . . .” Mira read off the front. “but . . .”
“But,” Isabel said, “ ‘he was a rotten, cheating rat bastard and you deserve better.’ ”
“Bingo!” Mira said, whipping another pen out of her hair. “Perfect. And . . .”
“And,” I said, “‘As your friend, I want you to know that I love you and I know you can get through this.’ ”
“Excellent.” Mira was scribbling madly. “Wonderful. You know, I like this concept—revenge cards. Straight and to the point.”
“You should start a new line,” I told her as she finished it up with a flourish, then turned it over to sign her name on the back. “Give it a snappy name. Leave the death business and take up empowerment.”
Mira looked up. “You’re right.” She thought for a second. “I know!” she said excitedly, pointing her pen at me. “Heartbreak Diet. That’s what I’d call it. I’d make millions.”
“You would,” I said, smiling at her. “There’s even more heartbreak out there than dead people, I bet.”
“Okay then,” Isabel said, walking over and signing the card in red felt-tip marker before tucking it under her arm. “Wish me luck. I hope this helps.”
“Good luck,” Mira said.
“Good luck,” I said. “Are we still on for later?”