The Perils of Pauline Page 28

  “I hear those are fantastic. Very expensive. I’m already jealous.”

  “I know. Plus the water ruined the carpeting so we have to renovate the entire bedroom. We might as well have the roof reshingled when we replace the skylight. Yesterday, I had a few inches of snow on the roof. Today, I have to sleep in the bathtub. I can’t even afford to buy a lousy glass of wine.”

  John, who has arrived to fill our glasses, almost stops pouring. “Good thing you drink good Greek wine then. No lousy.”

  “That’s for sure.” Bibi grabs her glass, tilts it into her mouth and smiles at him. “You’re so pretty.”

  He lays a plate of hummus dip and pita wedges on the table: “You like the dip. Is Greek. Very nice,” he murmurs while looking straight down Bibienne’s shirtfront. He smiles at the girls and Bibienne leans forward a little more to show them off before he minces away.

  “Is Bernie alright?”

  “He’ll be off work for a week or two. He has whiplash. We were in the ER until 3 a.m. while they ran him through a bunch of x-rays. The stupid fool. Who gets whiplash from falling off a roof? Now I have to nurse him and he expects me to give him massages. Why does all the stupid stuff have to happen to me?”

  “Believe me, I know, I know.” I top up our glasses from the carafe.

  “I swear if you put the divorce papers under my nose right this minute I would sign off in a flash.”

  “But you and Bernie are so good together. You can’t split up. The rest of the human race is counting on you. If you guys can’t make it …”

  “Are you kidding? That man drives me insane. He always dresses like he’s lost a bet. And he never listens to me. I told him to stay the hell off the roof. So what does he do? He had to go up there. He was all obsessed with the snow. He heard snow can cause roof damage. Yeah, well, now we know what really causes roof damage. Idiots.”

  John comes back to drop off another basket of pita bread and take our order. Every time that man looks at me, I feel like my breasts just grew another size and tumbled out of my shirt to be worshiped by his Hellenic eyes. “I’ll have the moussaka.”

  Bibienne fluffs her hair, and orders gyros in a tone of voice that suggests she’d like to get naked on a sailboat with him and suck on his toes. He turns and walks away taking his Apollonian tush with him. Bibienne lets out a sigh. “You have no idea how much I envy you. I wish Bernie would go to Calgary for a few months. Or China. For a few years.”

  “You envy me? I haven’t slept a minute since the bag fiasco,” I say to Bibienne while dozing a pita wedge through a pile of hummus.

  “How come?”

  “My jacket coming home in the good bag doesn’t mean I’m off the hook.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He still might have looked in the bad bag.”

  “You think he looked in the bad bag but is pretending he only looked in the good bag? Why would he do that?”

  “He might be biding his time while he figures out what to do.”

  “Which might be?”

  “It depends. Donald can be laissez-faire when he wants to be. Maybe he’s playing it cool.”

  Bibi shakes her head. “Laissez-faire? I think you mean savoir-faire. And that sort of thing only happens in Paris and New York. This is New England.”

  “Yeah but if he and Lindsay had an affair, he could be feeling guilty.”

  “True. Did the bad bag look touched in any way?”

  “Hard to tell but there might be a couple of missing photos. There were empty spots in the albums before but I think there are more now.”

  “Maybe the photos fell out.”

  “I might have torn up a few of the crappier shots of me.”

  Which reminds me: I don’t remember seeing the wayward boob photo when I checked the albums. Donald could easily exact a decisive revenge by posting that puppy on the Internet.

  “I’m so screwed.”

  Bibienne reaches across the table and lays her hand on my arm. “Seriously, what’s going on with you? Have you heard anything from Michael?”

  “No. We haven’t talked since Christmas. He said it’s up to me to call him. He wants me to decide. Him or Donald.”

  “Have you?”

  “No. I don’t think I have a choice anymore. I don’t think Donald wants me to come out to Calgary. And he doesn’t want to come home.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you ask him? What have you got to lose?”

  I sigh.

  “Wait,” Bibienne says reaching into her bag. “I almost forgot to give you this.” She hands me a small package wrapped in red tissue. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  I tear off the wrap to find a deck of tarot cards. Bibienne’s face is bright.

  “You finished them.” I jump up to hug her. “Congratulations.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I had 500 decks printed. Wish me luck.”

  I sit back down. Bibienne points at the top of the deck. “Look.”

  It’s the Queen of Cups. I remember how Bibienne said she was thinking of me when she drew her. She still looks like me. She’s still standing on the stone bridge holding her precious cup, trying not to spill a drop. So much water has run under her feet since the last time I saw her.

  I flip through the rest of the cards, studying the images. Each card and card combination offers a million angles, interpretations, suggestions.

  I pause at The Emperor. I once thought that card was Donald. Now, I’m not so sure. Maybe Donald was buried in the deck that day. Maybe we both were. Suddenly I know: There are no answers here, just questions. What is feared? What is being avoided? What is true and what is an illusion? Pretty as they are, the cards are merely paper and ink. The wisdom and insight belongs to the holder of the cards.

  Bibienne smiles and says, “It’s a longstanding tradition that a tarot deck should come to the owner as a gift.”

  “Thanks, Bib. This is a beautiful gift.”

  Bibienne taps the face of The Emperor with her fingernail. “Maybe it’s time to lay your cards on the table.”

  It’s late when I get home and climb the stairs for bed. I prop Bibienne’s tarot deck inside my Tibetan Singing Bowl, which rests on my bedstand: the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night. It’s singing its sad little song about ultimatums, commitments, and decisions.

  I climb into bed and snap off the light. My eyes refuse to close. Decisions, decisions. What do I want? One thing is certain: I want sleep. I haven’t slept in weeks. Either I go to the doctor tomorrow, and get a prescription for sleeping pills, or I make up my mind.

  My shoulder is itchy. I scratch, remembering Guru Greg. What was it he said? Some things we can’t change. Whatever it is, better to accept it.

  Accept it. I can do that. Maybe I can’t change the situation but I can change the way I respond to it.

  I scratch harder, scraping my nails into the skin until it hurts. Maybe I need to do something I haven’t done for a long time. Like tell the truth.

  Bibienne’s words come back to me: What have you got to lose?

  What if I lay all my cards on the table? Bibi’s right. If Donald and I have any chance at all, we have to start with honesty.

  Sitting up, I grope for my phone on the nightstand. I text a message to Donald in the dark: I have something to tell you. I press send.

  I had an affair. My finger hovers on the key. Send.

  It’s over now. Send.

  What can I add to this? That I regret that I made such a mess of things? That I didn’t think I would get in so deep? That I didn’t think at all? That I’m sorry for hurting Donald, Michael, and myself? And the kids? That I’m sorry that I’m such a fool?

  I’m sorry. Send.

  I lie awake all night and check my phone for messages every ten minutes. Nothing comes back.

  CHAPTER 28

  Impact Area

  Impact Area: An area having designated boundarie
s within the limits of which all ordnance will detonate or impact.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  Exhausted, I stumble into work, resolved to turn off my cell for the morning while I tackle inventory. There’s plenty to distract me today since Wednesday is Mom’s Morning. Serenity’s pregnancy has been a boon for sales in the baby book section lately. She’s like some kind of crazy magnet for all the expectant moms in town.

  The Moms all troop in, bellies bulging, and sit at the back eating apple-bran muffins, discussing the best diapering methods and perusing the dog-eared baby name finder that Serenity leaves on the counter as a free service. She set up a small crib and filled it with books to share, on a leave-a-book, take-a-book honor system. Every service agency in town comes in to drop off pamphlets on everything from breastfeeding to free growth charts. Whenever they visit, the agencies order books for their own libraries. And Serenity has turned into a fountain of useful information. She has read every baby-related book in print, and knows which lead-filled pacifiers have been recalled and where to buy the cutest booties.

  Wearily, I begin shelving books. Mommy Rotten crashes through the door with JR. In a loud voice she announces, to the apple bran group, “O. M. G. I can’t believe it. I’m pregnant. My doctor told me that I could get cancer from smoking and taking birth control pills at the same time. So I stopped taking the pill. Now look at me.” She lifts her shirt to show a bulge and then starts pawing through the crib for her free book. JR grabs a muffin, picks all the blueberries out, and throws them on the floor.

  At lunch I run to my cell and turn it on. Nothing from Donald but there’s a message from Michael: “Meet me at the Dingy Cup. I need to tell you something.”

  I grab my coat, leaving Serenity in charge.

  On the way over, I wonder what it might be. Has he gone back to his wife? Found a new lover? Is over me? All of the above?

  I enter the bar and spy him at the back, sitting at our favorite table, the one where we first met to talk about books and canoodle the afternoons away. He’s reading a book and doesn’t see me come in. There is still something about him that melts my heart into a puddle but at this moment I know I can’t keep on.

  It’s a deep down knowing, an unwordable word knowing. I love Michael, but we won’t survive. By the time I get to the table I have my speech ready. I sit down and blurt it out straight away before I can change my mind: “I love you, Michael. But you need a woman who will adore you. You know I’m not the adoring type.”

  Michael nods. I put my hand on his. “I told Donald about us. I still love him, but I don’t think he’s coming home now. That doesn’t change anything between you and me. I can’t start over with you, or anyone, just now. Not with Jack and Olympia and Serenity and the baby coming. I hope you understand.”

  I sit back hoping Michael won’t make a scene or cry or shout at me. I deserve it. I am a terrible person to be crushing his beautiful soul this way.

  Instead, Michael’s face breaks into a radiant smile of relief. “I’m glad you feel that way about us because I’ve made a decision, too. I went on a two-week silent retreat in January and something powerful happened. I came back to tell you and make all the arrangements.” He pauses and looks at me as if trying to gauge my reaction.

  “It’s okay, go ahead, you can tell me.”

  “I’m going away again, this time for an extended silent retreat. At least six months.”

  “Six months? Why so long?”

  “That’s not long, relatively. There are people who go into silent retreats for years. There’re even dark retreats where you spend the time in total darkness.”

  “So you’re going to live in a cave in India?”

  “No, no. No caves. I’m staying in a heated cabin. In the country. There’s a small hermitage in upstate New York called the Diamond Mountain Center. It’s mostly for aspirants and students. Guru Greg is going to be my teaching advisor. Carmen is okay with it. And when I get back, Nick will come live with me for six months.”

  “You’re planning to become a monk, aren’t you?”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve always wanted to go deeper into my practice. Now’s a good time for me, that’s all. I’ve been looking for answers in all the wrong places. All those years of research, reading and studying. I thought you might be the answer. Turns out, you were an amazing question.”

  What does he mean, I’m an amazing question? Whatever, it sounds cool.

  Michael continues. “I finally figured out that I have to look inside. I need time to do that.”

  Michael is going to become a monk. In a way, I’ve known it all along.

  He grins at me. “You finally admitted it. You love me. I knew it all along.”

  “Shut up.”

  We sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, smiling at each other. I’m trying to picture Michael with a shaved head wearing a saffron robe. Wait, no, saffron is the Hare Krishna’s thing. The Benedictines are dark brown with a rope. The Dalai Lama has an attractive red robe.

  “What color is your robe going to be?”

  “Robes are worn by ordained monks only.”

  “But if you do get ordained, what color would you get?”

  “Yellow.” He looks at me and sighs. “Cotton.”

  “Nice,” I say. Even without his long curly hair, Michael is going to be a very handsome monk.

  Michael leans over the table and looks into my eyes. “I think you did the right thing, telling Donald. Are you alright?”

  “Thanks. Yeah, I’m okay. Well, maybe not so okay, but I’ll manage. I’ll just have to keep going.”

  “How’re things going at the store?”

  “I’m starting to get the hang of the book business. But I’ve decided I’m going to turn the shop over to Serenity eventually. It’s really her store. She loves it.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll still help out. With the baby and everything. Serenity is going to need a lot of extra hands. But beyond that, you know, I want to finish my degree. And then maybe grad school.”

  Grad school? Where did that come from? That’s the first time that idea ever occurred to me. It’s a good thought. “I was also thinking of starting a communist cell.”

  On the way home it strikes me: if Michael is going to be a monk, I wonder what I might have driven Donald to? CEO of a major corporation?

  Wendy wants to host a surprise baby shower for Serenity. By host she means have it at my house. I set the date, extended the invitations, cleaned the place and supplied the food. I even birthed the guest of honor. Wendy said she “will do the rest.” When she gets here. She’s running late.

  Meanwhile I’m Wendy-Pauline, dipping and soaring all over the house, putting clean hand towels in the bathroom, adding ice to the punch and mopping up the spill Olympia made when she sampled the punch.

  Wendy’s guests are due any minute, and Shae is upstairs doing her maximum to keep Serenity from coming downstairs into the living room where Jack and Olympia have been decorating. Olympia is building a diaper mountain by taping together a pile of disposables with masking tape and Jack is making balloon animals. He wanted me to make the balloon animals but I ran out of racetrack. I suggested he make balloon worms, or maybe some pregnant balloon worms.

  As soon as I say this, Olympia wants to know how worms get pregnant. Jack shows her by humping a green worm and an orange worm across the living room. Charmed, Olympia grabs a yellow and red pair, and soon the living room is writhing and humping in a colorful worm balloon orgy. I’m sure this idea will go over big at the next birthday party she goes to.

  Disaster strikes when Olympia’s yellow balloon worm pops. She runs upstairs shrieking. I hurry after her to console her as the doorbell bongs. “Get the door, Jack,” I call.

  I find Olympia in Serenity’s room. Serenity is wearing purple pajama bottoms tucked under her belly and a tiny Mars Volta t-shirt. Shae is drawing an elaborate graffiti design on Serenity’s b
ump with temporary tattoo markers. She has written, “Hello my name is …” Shae hands Olympia a neon green inkpen and points at her broad canvas: “You can color in the H.” Serenity giggles as the tip of the marker scribbles across her skin.

  Good, solid grown-up fun could be had with those markers. Trouble is I have no one to play graffiti with me now.

  I race back downstairs to find Wendy twirling around in the living room. She has sprinkled a ton of heart confetti and pink glitter over every surface, including the side tables, the chairs and the carpet. Some is floating in the punch. “It’s so close to Valentine’s, I decided we should do a Valentine’s theme,” she squeals.

  Winter static is causing the confetti to stand on end and leap straight at me as I cross the floor. I must look disgruntled as I pick bits of confetti from the chip dip as she shouts, “Don’t worry, confetti is easy to clean up.”

  Bibienne arrives carrying a cake. “There’s, like, a ton of confetti all over your walkway and doorsteps.”

  I turn to glare at Wendy.

  “I’ll vacuum it up later,” she cries and runs back outside to her car.

  “We don’t need any more confetti,” I yell after her.

  “What games have you got planned?” Bibienne asks me.

  Games? When I was expecting Serenity, my party consisted of drinking games since my friends were all enlisted gals and a baby shower is as good an excuse as any other day. They stayed sober long enough to stick a gooey paper plate on my head. I remember drinking ginger ale and shuddering at the sight of a mountain of bonnets, receiving blankets, and tiny onesies.

  I know one thing: if I stick a plate of bows on Serenity’s head, she’ll rip my face off.