Chapter Seven Kelsey, Again
Chapter Seven
Kelsey, Again
O ne upside of having the house to herself was that Jane was no longer interrupted by Teddy while she did yoga at home.
On this morning, she didn’t want to rush to get to a class, nor was she in the mood for Allegra.
Maybe she never would be again. Nevertheless, she was committed to her yoga practice.
She loved feeling strong and flexible. Could a bendier body be a step toward loosening up a rigid brain?
If only the brain were just another muscle rather than an impossibly complex bundle of nerves with all kinds of chemicals leaping frenetically across tangles of synapses.
Mindfulness was all the rage, but mindfulness of what?
To achieve mindfulness, you were supposed to empty your mind and simply be present.
But then shouldn’t that be called mindlessness?
Jane aspired to mindlessness, but her brain was constantly sorting, latching on to things, analyzing.
She had done a lot of heart-opening poses this morning: if she could open her heart, maybe she could also open her mind and then empty it out.
The flow of yoga quieted its noise, grounded Jane, connected her to her body.
As a young adult, body awareness had meant her mother making her aware of every ounce of fat on her body.
Before yoga, by force of habit, she had performed her quotidian masochistic ritual: the weigh-in.
Reclaiming body awareness as something else, as something positive rather than a critique, well, that would be good. A #lifegoal.
In camel pose, leaning back and clasping her ankles, arching her spine, spreading her collarbones, Jane visualized her sternum cracking open, exposing the throbbing red muscle that was her heart, so strong yet so weak, enclosed in its sturdy fortress of ribs because it was so easily broken.
Now on her morning commute, clinging to her hard-won yogic serenity as a buffer against the endless assault of traffic, something—perhaps the open heart?
—brought up a childhood memory. When she was twelve and her brother was ten, he spoke incessantly about how much he wanted a dog.
He was transfixed by Blue’s Clues and would watch the same episodes over and over.
Her parents struggled to contain their exasperation, explaining that a real dog was nothing like a cartoon dog.
A real dog was a living creature that required a lot of time and attention, that needed taking care of.
“Maybe,” his mother said, “when you are a little older.”
John may have been developmentally impaired, but his emotional intelligence was uncanny.
He was surprisingly cheerful most of the time, but he also had an acute bullshit detector and was hypersensitive and therefore hyperemotional.
When his parents stonewalled him, he’d become enraged, screaming or crying.
But there were also moments when John demonstrated a steadfastness that amazed Jane, and his lack of self-pity made her feel guilty for pitying him; these conflicting sentiments were funneled into an endless feedback loop that exhausted her.
Sometimes she even envied John. No one expected anything of him; they just wanted to care for him. Whenever she felt envy, she was especially ashamed. The profusion of emotion—all these emotions—saddened and alarmed Jane, and their unpredictability made it all the more harrowing.
But she had an idea: a small gesture that she hoped would assuage her poor brother.
She bought him a stuffed animal, a little puppy.
It was a sweet-looking thing, with a playful expression and covered with a nubby brown fabric.
She handed it to him with strained optimism.
“Here’s a dog for you until we can get a real one. ”
“I’m not a baby! I don’t want a stupid stuffed animal!” he cried, throwing it (as best he could) back at her. It landed softly on her stomach, but it felt like a punch to the solar plexus.
Jane took the unwanted dog back to her room and sobbed silently. Part of her wanted to rip it to shreds or to set it on fire, but she knew she would regret that later on, so instead she shoved it under her bed, hoping to forget about it.
And of course, she never could.
But right now, she really needed to focus on surviving all these horrific West LA drivers, like the asshole in front of her who abruptly slowed to make a left-hand turn without signaling.
As she slammed on the brakes, adrenaline surged and her heart rate spiked.
She took a deep, calming breath, trying to restore some piece of the fragile equanimity she had worked so hard to conjure that morning.
It was apparent that a repeat client must like your work, which meant being asked back was a compliment. On the other hand, a callback might mean the client had slipped and turned her carefully organized space into a big fucking mess.
At least it was pleasantly cool today and—was that rain? No, the droplets alighting on her windshield were from sprinklers hydrating the vast and very green lawn of a stupendously garish house on Sunset Boulevard. Ah, Los Angeles, the City of Illusions.
When Kelsey answered the door, she practically squealed with delight.
“Oh my god, Jane, I am so happy to see you again! Come on in.”
At Kelsey’s feet, Mr. Cuddles was emitting shrill barks.
Jane gingerly stepped in, and to her surprise, Kelsey hugged her.
Her perfume was overpowering, a new scent that was less cloying than the one Jane remembered.
It was still sweet and floral—gardenia maybe?
—but there was also a spicy note, with hints of cinnamon.
Perhaps this was Kelsey’s fall scent, procured at Basic Bitch Central, where the pumpkin spice lattes flowed like wine.
Stop , Jane told herself— remember how you sort of liked something about Kelsey?
“Always glad to be asked back.”
“Of course! I love what you did, and I want to show you what a good job I’ve done of keeping it all neat,” Kelsey said proudly.
“Great. And are we also tackling new projects?”
“New projects, yes. The Halloween decorations are still up, the kids costumes are everywhere, and Thanksgiving is right around the corner! It’s impossible to keep up!
Come on, let’s go, I just had a coffee and a Monster; for me, that’s practically like a colonic in terms of getting things moving, if you know what I mean. ”
Before Jane could think of a response, Kelsey continued.
“Oooh, I see you brought your bento box! I never found one I liked. Um, okay, honestly, I never really looked too hard, I’m always chasing after the kids, and I really need an assistant. I focus so much better when I have one. Oh also, love your dress!”
Jane had worn her vintage Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, which felt especially good after yoga.
“Thank you so much.”
“Lucky you, you have the perfect figure for a wrap dress. I’m too booby.”
Kelsey, giggling, proceeded to cup the plastic orbs on her chest. She was actually quite slender; the quivering Jell-O molds just created the illusion of fleshiness.
Her prominent sternum appeared to be paper-thin, like the rest of her, rendering her heart vulnerable, rendering the entirety of her being vulnerable.
With Kelsey, everything was right there on the surface.
Jane could only imagine that such transparency would be a hellish condition, akin to having her entire body covered with weeping wounds that were regularly prodded, poked, salted.
“Oh, I think you would look fabulous in a wrap dress!” Jane could muster enthusiasm when required.
They headed to the kitchen and Kelsey opened the door to the pantry/dog closet.
“Look! You did such an amazing job. Mr. Cuddles loves it, don’t you, Mr. Cuddles?”
Kelsey bent over to pick up Mr. Cuddles.
As she did, Jane’s eyes locked on the diamond-studded Tiffany cross, liberated from a valley of cleavage, swinging below Kelsey’s breasts like a pendulum.
How agonizing death by crucifixion must be!
Yet this ancient torture device, designed to make a painful death excruciatingly slow, had become a fashion accessory.
What would Jesus think?
Kelsey eyed herself critically in the bathroom mirror.
“The thing is, when you spend, like, most of your life on camera, you become hyperaware of how you look all the time.”
“I feel that way, too—even though I’m not on camera, thank god.... I mean, don’t most women?”
“I guess.”
The large bathroom had his-and-hers sinks, but because there was no “his” around, Kelsey had taken over all the counter space. A large mirrored tray bore her many perfumes. The bottles were a dizzying cacophony of shape and scent.
Kelsey explained, “Every makeup artist has some product they’re obsessed with, and they’d give me tons of stuff whenever I wrapped a show.
Then there’s usually a lipstick or primer in a swag bag.
And, yeah, there’s all the anti-aging shit people are always raving about and, of course, I have to get it and see if it’s for real, and every dermatologist has their own line of products, so—that’s why my bathroom is a disaster. ”
“May I open the drawers?”
“Sure. I have jewelry in many of them. Like, junk jewelry. The good stuff I keep somewhere else. Which probably really needs to be organized, too.”
The drawers overflowed with lipsticks, eye shadows, mascaras, face creams, blushes, brushes, blow driers, curling irons, and a small dildo. Travel-size?
“May I look in the medicine cabinets?”
It was necessary to ask for permission, because cabinets often harbored secrets about illnesses, addictions, and sexual predilections.