Chapter Nineteen
“I’ve got the goods,” Wanda announces as she lets herself and a puff of muggy air in through the sliding glass door to the patio on Saturday evening. I hadn’t known she wasn’t home until she strolled through the back entrance, overly pleased with whatever errand she ran.
“The goods?” I lean backward while keeping my glass against the water dispenser on the fridge so it’ll continue filling, right in time to see Wanda yank the contraband behind her back. “Do I even ask?”
“You can, but I’ll never tell.” Mimicking the zipping of her lips, Wanda seals off any information regarding our mysterious fate. Grandma Helen strolls in from the living room through the open archway to round the counter and lower her plate and silverware into the dishwasher.
She groans at the effort, prompting me to ask if she’s okay, which seems to irritate her as much as not having an itinerary is irritating me.
As she brushes past me, she gives my cheek a pat, “Stop worrying, Mama Mia. Tonight’s supposed to be about fun, not torture.”
“Not knowing the plan or our destination is torture,” I argue.
They don’t even bother responding, so I head to my bedroom to get as ready as I can for an undisclosed evening of whatevering.
I’m applying mascara when everything within me sinks, the barbed thought that robs me of breath coming out of nowhere. You’re never going to make it to 85 percent.
It’s not possible, not even if you had the help of the entire team from Miami.
With the initial bump of tours already drying up and the feds seizing the property of our local Viagra dealer—while the news cameras rolled, naturally—we haven’t even broken seventy percent yet.
The breaths I inhale don’t reach my lungs, and without warning, everything in the bathroom seems to be in the wrong order.
I rearrange the bottles and tubes on the counter as the static in my head grows louder and louder in volume. I refold the hand towel so it sits nicer on the ring and then eye the damn mascara tube, still in the wrong position. “Urgh.”
I nudge it a centimeter left and bump the bottoms of my makeup containers until they’re perfectly even, but the uneasy knot in my chest continues to insist there’s something disastrously off.
Not just wrong, but unsafe.
No firm is going to hire a person who ran a retirement community into the ground. I’m never going to be someone whose reputation precedes me again—at least not in a good way.
I’ve grown as used to getting stuck as a person can be, my sense of logic constantly at war with my OCD.
Since they won’t line up right anyway, I spend another minute shoving products in my toiletries bag, but my intrusive thoughts are piling up fast, feeding the glitch in my brain that quickly becomes a monster with teeth.
Resets are important, as is feeling in control, and that’s typically what I need when this happens.
What’s something I can finish fairly quickly?
From the linen closet I grab Clorox wipes, Windex, and paper towels and begin wiping down every surface, nook, and cranny.
That’s where Grandma Helen and Wanda eventually find me, down on all fours, sweat beading my face and melting off the makeup I applied.
Concern flickers through the duo’s features, as if a clean bathroom is cause for alarm, when I find it incredibly soothing.
“Are you ready to go?” Grandma Helen asks, and obviously not, but I suppose we might as well get this evening over and done with.
I turn the handle of the sink to hot and pump an inordinate amount of soap into my palms, getting a thick lather going. I’m both glad and disappointed they interrupted before I could arrange the shelves in the medicine cabinet or deep clean under the sink. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
While it’s true, ready certainly isn’t what I’m feeling when I reverse Wanda’s golf cart out of the driveway ten minutes later.
As relieved as I am that she hasn’t plastered her vehicle with loofas that announce her sexual preferences, she’s hung beaded curtains that rattle and create an awful racket as I nudge the accelerator faster.
The slick soles of my heels cause my foot to slip against the pedal, but luckily, Arlene doesn’t live far.
A handful of streets later, we walk through her front door, my senses cranked to high as I seek out any context clues that might provide insight into our mystery evening.
They’d given me a super vague, “dress nice, but not any of the stuffy, buttoned-up clothes you wear to the office,” and no matter how studiously I observe outfits and hairdos, I’m no closer to figuring out where we’re headed.
I pause to study the pictures arranged on the far wall of Arlene’s living room, the wide variety of frames and snapshots creating a timeline of her family and life.
My eye catches on a school picture, and I know without having to ask, it’s Noah as a boy.
He doesn’t seem like a person who could’ve ever been young, but there he is anyway, freckled cheeks, grinning widely and missing his two front teeth.
I return his smile at least two decades late, tucking away the picture in case I need leverage or blackmail material, although I haven’t seen him around in a while.
Funny how we constantly ran into each other in the beginning to then go a couple of weeks without seeing hide nor hair, save the evidence of the landscaping.
Over half the property has been transformed, with new shrubs and flowers popping up right and left, while the overgrown grass gets trimmed, nary a clipping left behind.
“Mia, hon, where are you?” Grandma Helen waves me over to reassure Arlene the print of her blouse isn’t too busy.
The silk camise is an olive green, the gauzy blouse over it a paisley pattern in a mix of blue and the darkest of greens. Stacked gold necklaces with tiny blue beads complete the look, along with the light coral lip and peachy-pink rouge on her cheeks.
“Depends on where we’re going,” I snark under my breath, then loudly launch into how nicely the colors bring out the blue in her eyes. “Still loving the hair, too. It suits that inner sass these ladies are coaxing out.”
The bright pop of color on her lip flashes with her smile, evoking the inner sense of accomplishment I’ve been missing since that Viagra dealer wrecked my progress.
“So?” I ask, dying to know. “How was your date last night?”
Arlene gives us a short recap while grinning and blushing, her hand fluttering up to her chest. “He said I looked radiant,” she says with a little giggle, “and he opened every door for me. We shared a slice of key lime pie, and he wants to see me again next week.”
“Yeah, he does,” I say, as the rest of the women add similar comments, and Arlene’s absolutely glowing.
While I can’t take much credit for Arlene’s transformation—which goes far beyond the exterior—watching her come into her own fills me with the proudest of joys.
We’ve also begun gently correcting one another if anyone slips into negative self-talk, validating feelings and pointing out personality traits of theirs we love and appreciate.
And while I might’ve been the teacher, the students are definitely becoming the masters.
“Fine, I’ll give you a hint,” Grandma Helen says, and I whip my head toward her, desperate for any nugget.
Only for the doorbell to interrupt.
The chime sets off a chain reaction, squealing and shuffling and hollers from members of our crew who don’t feel quite ready yet. It reminds me of my first apartment in Miami, where a flip of the light would send roaches running.
And evidently, I’m answering the door.
I swing it open with a smart aleck-y, “Hello, Arlene Drayton’s residence.”
Then I blink, blink, blink at the grownup version of the little boy from the picture on the wall. “Well,” I say, struggling for a moment to get my tongue to work, “if it isn’t Mr. Unexpected.”
…
“It keeps spilling out,” Bette remarks, as if our entire ragtag group of grannies, one grumpy grandson, and moi, can’t see for ourselves it’s not going well. For the sake of discretion, they’d instructed our designated driver to park in the abandoned lot opposite the comedy club.
“You’re supposed to lick the paper,” Leora says, raising onto her toes to peer over the top of Wanda’s and Gertie’s bent heads.
Ruth nods in agreement. “That’s how they do it on TV.”
They do? What the hell’s she watching?
“The last time I rolled a joint, I ended up having to use a walker for a month,” Bette snarks, the comedienne within warming up to sit the bench.
I kind of hoped finding out the glamma squad expected me to perform standup at the club’s open mic night would be the most stressful part of my evening, but no, they’ve gone and turned the back of the bubbies’ van with the sticky seats into a quickie pot shop.
Seats twelve! With three rows for your grandchildren and extra storage room for your hash and bongs!
“Where’d you get it?” Leora had asked when Wanda unfurled a baggie with glee.
“Gladys P. from bridge club. She’s battled two types of cancer, so she gets the primo medical grade.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” I’d said, covering my ears with my palms, and Noah had given me a sidelong glance rife with amusement.
Designated driver, my ass.
Sure, the bubbies’ giant grandkid van might’ve been a bit intimidating to maneuver around unfamiliar streets, but I could’ve figured it out and said as much back at Arlene’s—as long as Noah remained behind.
It’s one thing to make a fool of myself in front of an audience filled with strangers and my grandmothers; I never signed up for performing in front of a guy who won’t stop crossing my mind.
Naturally, the grandmas had thrown our bargain in my face and promised a surprise once we arrived at our destination that would help me relax. But do you know what I’m not right now?
Frigging relaxed.
How can I be with Noah in my orbit?