Kissing Kate

  “Ariel, you mean?”

  “Right, Ariel. Whatever.”

  “She should be here any minute. That’s one thing I did right, at any rate, getting you some help after all this time.”

  I tried to look appreciative.

  “Oh, Lissa, I’m glad you and I stumbled across each other,” Darlin said. She helped me into my caterer’s jacket, smoothing my collar and patting my shoulders. “It’s friendship that keeps us sane, don’t you think? When all’s said and done, it’s our friends that really matter.”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  Her hand lingered on my shoulder, and she gazed at me in a way that made me nervous. “I don’t mean to pry, baby,” she said, “and it’s probably just me, reading hardship into other people’s lives because of the hardship in my own . . . but are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Well, yeah. Why?”

  “It’s just that you’ve seemed awfully down these last couple of weeks.”

  My fingers tightened on the cash bag.

  “No doubt I’m butting my head in where I don’t belong,” she went on, “but I wondered if maybe it was your friend Kate. You used to talk about her all the time, Kate this and Kate that.” She hesitated. “Have you two had a falling-out?”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. My reaction was so unexpected that it made me light-headed.

  “I’m fine,” I said, blinking hard. “And Kate’s fine, too.”

  “Truly?”

  I nodded and made myself smile. Anyway, it was crazy for Darlin to be worrying about me, when her boyfriend had just dumped her. It was just wrong.

  Darlin sighed. “You’re a good person, Lissa. You deserve good things.”

  “You, too,” I said weakly. I grabbed my walkie-talkie. “I better get going.”

  I had three back-to-back orders after delivering Mr. Rossey’s shrimp scampi, and that was good because the fast pace helped me focus. Two of the orders went to Catherine Towers, a retirement complex that smelled like Clorox and cooked cabbage. No wonder so many of the residents ordered out. The first of the two went to Mrs. Babbits, who pressed a five-dollar tip into my hand and told me to be careful, the world was full of crazies. Her warning was fulfilled forty-five minutes later when I returned with Mrs. Gladstone’s pasta with asparagus tips. I was flushed and out of breath when I knocked on her door—I’d jogged up two flights of stairs to get it to her since the elevator was slow, and I knew I was running late—and when Mrs. Gladstone saw me, she stepped back and wrinkled her nose.

  “Young ladies are supposed to glow,” she said disapprovingly. “I am afraid you have gone beyond the call.”

  I had no answer to that. On a previous visit Mrs. Gladstone had told me about an exercise class she took called “Twinges in the Hinges,” making pointed glances at my midsection as she extolled the benefits of a moderate aerobic workout. I’d seen her since in her exercise leotard and wraparound denim skirt, and she’d been wearing as much makeup as if she’d been returning from the theater instead of the gym. I’d imagined her in class, lazily rotating her feet and perhaps lifting a languid arm here and there. I doubted she’d ever perspired in her life.

  “Here’s your pasta,” I said, lifting the Styrofoam box from my carrying case.

  “Yes,” she said, lifting the lid and peering at the asparagus. “I shall have fragrant urine all evening.”

  I pasted on a smile. How sweat could be considered more inappropriate than urine was beyond me. Mrs. Gladstone was a freak. All I could think as I got back in my truck was that if Kimberly had showed up at work on time, she could have been the one to hear about Mrs. Gladstone’s urine instead of me. Or at least she’d have shared the load of deliveries, which would have kept me from running so late.

  But Kimberly didn’t log on until 6:35, a full hour after she was due to start.

  “Breaker, breaker,” she said, as I headed down Highland Avenue to Babette’s Café. “Lissa, are you there? Over.”

  I picked up my walkie-talkie, feeling grouchy already. “I’m here. Over.”

  “Will you tell me again where Fellini’s is? I think Darlin said Howell Mill and Northside. Is that right? Over.”

  I sighed. “No, it’s Howell Mill and Collier.” I gave her directions, the whole time thinking that she shouldn’t have taken a delivery job unless she actually knew the city. Of course, I didn’t know the city when I started either, but I got a map and figured it out on my own. I knew better than to bug anyone else with my problems.

  “Ten-four,” Kimberly said when I finished. “Thanks, good buddy. Over.”

  There was dead air for several minutes. The tension in my neck started to fade, and I began to think that maybe Kimberly was going to stick to her own deliveries and leave me alone. I was starting to feel the tiniest bit guilty, even, when my walkie-talkie buzzed and Kimberly’s voice blared into the truck.

  “So you know last time when we were talking about dreams?” she said. “Well, listen to what I dreamed last night. It was amazing. I dreamed I was a priestess, and serpents were winding their way up my arms, like those fortune-teller snakes from ancient Greece.” She clicked off for a moment, then buzzed back on. “But it wasn’t gross or anything. Do you think it sounds gross? Over.”

  I kept my eyes on the road. I was tempted to not even answer, but finally I grabbed the walkie-talkie and said, “Why are you telling me this? Over.”

  “Because you’ve got that book and everything. So what do you think it means? My dream, that is. Over.”

  “I have no idea. Over.”

  “We-l-l-l-l,” she said, “priestesses from thousands of years ago really did wear snakes around their arms. And Jung says we all share the same basic memories. Do you think maybe that’s what I’m tapping into? He says our psyches are made up of layers, like an onion, and the deeper you go, the closer you come to the core of human experience.”

  I exhaled through my nose. All I could think was, an onion. I am being forced to talk to an onion.

  “Kimberly . . .” I said. I didn’t go on—I didn’t know how—and after a few seconds she took over.

  “Um, actually, it’s Ariel. Over.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My spiritual name. Remember?”

  Anger lodged in my chest, and I jammed down the talk button. “Fine,” I said. “But you know what? I don’t care. And I don’t want to hear about your dreams. I really don’t.” I braked hard to avoid rear-ending the Saab in front of me. “Over.”

  Silence filled the truck. My palms were damp, and my pulse thudded in my ears. I never went off on people like that. Never. And along with a rush of adrenaline, I felt queasy, like when I was little and I knew I’d done something wrong.

  “Well, forgive me for trying to have a conversation,” Kimberly—excuse me, Ariel—said at last. “Over.”

  I winced. I turned into the Babette’s Café parking lot and cut off the engine, but I didn’t get out of my seat. I waited in case she said anything else.

  She didn’t.

  At the end of the night, I checked Darlin’s driveway from the road before pulling in to drop off my stuff. No blue Volvo. Good. I hopped out of the truck and rapped on the door.

  “Come on in,” Darlin called. “Just leave your things on the table.”

  I stepped inside the entry hall. I heard bathwater running, then footsteps on the floor above me. Darlin poked her head over the balcony and said, “I am going to have a cup of tea and a nice cry. Ariel’s suggestion. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

  “I guess,” I said. My stomach dipped because I was worried, with all the talk of crying, that she might ask more about me. But she didn’t. I set my carrying case on the floor and lay the cash bag and the walkie-talkie on the table. “So she already checked in?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago. Told me one man tipped her twenty dollars. Can you imagine?”

  I narrowed my eyes. It figured that not only would she start late, but she’d find a way to finish first. And get phen
omenal tips.

  “Next time send me,” I said. Darlin smiled, but I wasn’t joking. I headed for the door, then stopped and turned around. My heart thumped, but I made myself ask. “You going to be okay? You want me to, I don’t know, get you anything?”

  “Thanks, baby,” Darlin said. “But no. I just need to feel sorry for myself for a while.”

  “Well . . . all right. Good night.”

  “Good night, Lissa. You take care.”

  In the driveway, a dark shape moved in the shadows. Alarm shot through me, and then I saw who it was. “Jesus, Kimberly—Ariel—whatever the hell you want me to call you.” I strode toward my truck. “What are you doing?”

  “Relax,” Ariel said. “I’m not trying to force you into a conversation, God forbid.” She stepped closer, close enough for me to see the swirly purple skirt she wore over her red tights. Her hair sprouted from her head in two doggie-ears. “It’s about Darlin.”

  “What about Darlin?”

  “You know about Burl?” she said.

  “Yes, I know about Burl.” It pissed me off that she would even ask, as if she and Darlin were suddenly such good friends that Darlin would tell her something and not me.

  “You know that Burl’s family said Darlin was trying to fatten him up so that no other woman would want him?” Ariel asked.

  She lifted her eyebrows, which I interpreted as smugness, and I said, “Burl’s, what, in his forties? Why does he even care what his family thinks? Anyway, he’s skinny as a stick. He’s anemic.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The point is, Darlin’s depressed. I told her we’d take her out to cheer her up.”

  “What?”

  “She didn’t mention it? Figures. Probably assumed you wouldn’t do it.”

  I started to speak, then stopped. I glared at her. Finally I said, “What is your problem?”

  “My problem?” Ariel said. “Look. I suggested it before I started my deliveries, before I knew about your issues with the rest of humanity.”

  I protested, but she bulldozed over me.

  “Darlin was depressed, and so I stayed and talked to her because I could tell she needed to. And I told her the three of us should go out, because otherwise she’s just going to hole up in her house, and everything will be a million times worse.” She put her hands on her hips. “I would have told you over the walkie-talkies, but I didn’t want Darlin listening in and thinking we were gossiping about her.”

  I turned away. I was angry that Ariel had ambushed me like this, but I also felt bad that Ariel—and not me—had come up with a plan to cheer Darlin up. I’d wanted to do something for Darlin, but as usual, I didn’t know how.

  “She wouldn’t have listened in,” I said. “She never listens in.”

  Ariel shrugged.

  I scowled. “So when is this big night supposed to happen? And why did you drag me into it?”

  Ariel looked at me as if she couldn’t believe I was such a jerk. “Because I thought you were her friend.”

  “I am her friend.”

  “Well, good. Because we’re picking her up on Wednesday.” Her eyes darted from mine, and she spoke quickly. “We’re joining a singles’ group called the Supper Club. I read about it in the weekend section of the paper. It’s, uh, mainly for people over forty.”

  My mouth dropped open. “We’re joining a . . . ?” I stared at her in disbelief. “Oh no we’re not. I’m sure as hell not.”

  “See? I knew you wouldn’t do it.”

  “A singles’ group?”

  “It’s not for us. It’s for Darlin.”

  “Oh yeah? And what does she say about this?”

  Ariel fidgeted with the edge of her sweater. “She said, if you go, she’ll go.”

  I barked out a laugh. “Well, Ariel, there’s your answer. Darlin knew she was safe, because she knew I’d never agree.”

  “But I could tell she wanted to. She was just scared.” She lifted her head, and her expression looked defiant, like a little kid’s. “Don’t you think sometimes you shouldn’t do what you’d normally do? That maybe you should try something new?”

  Something inside me flared up, then just as swiftly withdrew. I didn’t know what I thought, other than that nothing was easy anymore and no matter what I did, things got messed up.

  Ariel’s face closed over. “Never mind. Just forget it.”

  “No. I’ll do it. Fine.” What did I care? My “normal” way of doing things sure wasn’t getting me anywhere, so why not go on a group date with a slew of desperate forty-year-olds? It could hardly make things worse.

  “Oh,” Ariel said. “Well . . . that’s great.” Now that I’d agreed, she seemed unsure of how to act.

  I frowned and climbed into the truck.

  “Lissa,” she said. She put her hand on the door.

  “What?”

  For a second she didn’t say anything, and I exhaled impatiently. Color rose in her cheeks.

  “That dream?” she said. “About the snakes?”

  I looked at her like you’ve got to be kidding.

  “No, wait, I’m not . . . I’m not trying to . . .” She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said, “I made it up. I never dreamed I was a priestess. Okay?”

  I pressed my tongue to the back of my teeth. Unbelievable. She was absolutely unbelievable.

  “Right,” I said, as if it were perfectly sane to force made-up dreams onto practically complete strangers. I closed the door, turned on the engine, and shifted into reverse. I knew I should say more, at least ask her why she would lie about something so dumb, but I no longer had the energy to care.

  CHAPTER 10

  ON SUNDAY, I WENT BACK AND FORTH between feeling mad about the whole Ariel situation and feeling embarrassed about how I’d acted when I finally agreed to her plan. I did want to help cheer Darlin up, I really did, so why couldn’t I have been more pleasant about it? But even when I felt embarrassed, I got mad, because it seemed lately as if my whole life revolved around feeling crappy for one reason or another.

  I decided to take a nap, just to forget about it for a while. I shut my door and turned off the ringer on the phone. Not that I was expecting any calls, but if I were going to try to have a lucid dream, which right then I decided I was, I didn’t want to risk interruptions.

  I looked around my room, which was somewhat messy, but not too bad. I picked up a pair of sweatpants that I’d left on the floor and stuffed them in a drawer. On my dresser were several pairs of earrings, and I swept them into my palm and put them back in the stained-glass box where I kept my jewelry. I straightened a pile of books on my desk.

  When there was nothing left to distract me, I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on my bed. The coolness of the quilt was soothing, but my body felt tight. I changed positions, but it didn’t help. I was too wound up.

  Last night I’d had that dream again, the one about being kidnapped. Only this time it was a girl who was luring me across the parking lot, instead of some strange man. It was a kid I used to know in elementary school, a girl named Cookie Churchill. In my dream it was sunny out, and everything was bright and shiny, and there was Cookie Churchill, smiling widely and beckoning with her hand. “Come on, Lissa,” she said. “Come with me.”

  We walked past rows of parked cars, light glinting off the windows. Then we passed a station wagon, and alone all the way in the back was a little kid. She had her face pressed against the glass, and her expression was forlorn. I slowed down, and Cookie got impatient.

  “Come on,” she said. “She’s fine. Do you think her mother would have left her if she wasn’t fine?”

  I’d woken up sweaty and disoriented. I hadn’t thought about Cookie for years. Why the hell was I dreaming about her now?

  Cookie and I had been friends in the third grade, although she was the kind of friend who was totally hot and cold. Some days she’d save me a swing and yell at anyone else who tried to take it, while on other days she’d make fun of my clothes, or my barrettes. Back th
en I wore those plastic ones with little animals on them. Cookie called them “baby barrettes.”

  Our friendship hadn’t lasted long, and in sixth grade Cookie had moved to Chicago. So why, all these years later, was she pushing her way into my brain, especially in that one particular dream?

  So do something about it, I told myself. That’s the point of this whole lucid-dreaming stuff—to quit being so powerless.

  I turned my thoughts to my dream book, recalling its suggestion to try to stay alert as I slipped from wakefulness to sleep. If I could build a bridge between consciousness and unconsciousness, the author said, then I could maintain awareness in my dreams. And once I knew how to maintain awareness, I could explore my dream life in any fashion I chose.

  I closed my eyes and evened out my breathing, and eventually my mind slowed down. The goal now was to go ahead and fall asleep, but in a deliberate, purposeful way, so that I could focus on retaining my conscious awareness.

  I began by tensing and relaxing my different muscle groups, and this time I remembered my stomach. It was still hard for me to actually sense a wave of energy moving through me, but I tried. When I finally got to the top of my head, I realized that I felt longer than I usually did. Not taller, but longer, more stretched out, like a piecrust rolled thinner and thinner. It was weird, but not a bad weird. It made me aware of my body in a different way.

  The exercise was going well—no vibrating yet, but a light humming—so I took it to the next step. I imagined a ball of light moving from my head down to my feet, then around my body and back into my head. I exhaled and the cycle began again. The humming became a whole-body trembling.

  I pushed on the feelings, like I did last time, and out of nowhere a wave of desire pulsed through me. Panic beat in my rib cage, and I braced myself against the sensation. Eventually it passed. And then my body gradually went numb, starting with my fingers and creeping up my arms to my spine. My heart pounded, but I hung on, telling myself everything was okay, I wasn’t going to have a heart attack.