Adventures with Max and Louise (12 page)

Max jumps in. “Your cell number!” he screeches.

I give the number to Chas, who carefully programs it into his phone. “Great, thanks. Best meal I’ve had since Europe.”

“Oh, yeah, Europe.” The closest I’ve been to Europe was watching
Le Divorce
on DVD. How will this ever work? Rich, handsome men get together with frumps like me in movies, not real life.

“You must have gone there to study food, right?” he asks, as if Europe was as close as the Space Needle. No, after Mom died, I didn’t jump on a plane to enroll in Le Cordon Bleu.

“Um, no,” I say weakly. “Not yet. I sort of taught myself. I read a lot of cookbooks—hundreds, actually. And I called chefs, asked them for advice. Most of them said go to Europe. I never made it there.” Suddenly, I am exhausted.

“Someday you’ll get there.” He rubs my arms. “You must be freezing. You want a ride to your car or something?”

“No, thanks, I like walking.” I want to start this day over, before Denise called, before Max spoke up.

“Wow, a girl who cooks and walks in heels. That’s impressive.”

“Very funny.” My feet hurt. I left my mom’s dumpy old cape with Martin. I am frozen.

“I’m not kidding.” He gives my arms another rub, followed by a light squeeze. “Have fun with your sister.” He leans in to kiss me, hesitates, and busses me lightly, sweetly on the cheek. With a wave, he turns and leaves.

Max speaks like a drill sergeant. “Do not watch him. Turn and walk away. ’e’ll turn, and you’ll be gawking like a rube at a penny arcade.”

I turn and stroll down the frigid sidewalk.

“Trust me, ’e’s watching you. “ ’e’s thinking about how ’e should ’ave kissed you on the lips, wishing ’e had the guts to lay a good one on you.”

Something tells me Max is right. Hurrying with aching feet to the bus stop, I feel immeasurably better.

A
T TWO O’CLOCK
in the afternoon, I drag myself in the front door and kick off my heels, wishing I had time to revisit my date with Chas. Instead I force myself to call Dr. Hupta’s office from the kitchen. I need to talk to him about removing the implants. How can I be expected to think clearly with Max chattering away? The worst thing is that I am actually listening to him. A cheery nurse informs me that my follow-up isn’t for another week.

“I need to see Dr. Hupta now.”

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t work that way, Ms.—”

“Ms. Molly Gallagher. The woman Dr. Hupta gave the wrong implants? I’d like to talk to him as soon as possible.”

Her crisp tone turns obsequious. “Oh. Yes, Ms. Gallagher. I have explicit instructions to have the doctor contact you immediately. Dr. Hupta will call you just as soon as he’s out of surgery, Ms. Gallagher. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, thank you,” I say politely.
Yes, you can get this chatty little limey out of my left boob.

Next, I call Sasha to cancel our meeting. I can’t talk starters and vintages with a little Brit in my bra. Wolf answers the office phone. “Oh, hi, Molly, it’s taken me all week, but I finally figured out the sequence on the motor that lowers the paintings. This time it’ll float to your table as gently as a feather. I promise. How’s your head?”

“Fine, thanks for asking. It’s all healed. Maybe I’ll come by and see it later, Wolf. I’m calling to reschedule.”

“Oh, yeah, sure; that’s fine.”

He sounds disappointed, so I offer, “I had minor surgery, no big deal. I’m just a little tired.” He doesn’t need to know when I had surgery.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need anything? Soup? There’s a gigantic vat of this lentil stuff that smells really great in the kitchen. I’m sure they won’t miss a pint or two.”

“Oh, thanks. That’s really nice. But I’m okay. I just need some sleep.”

“Ask for some soup!” a woman’s voice bursts out. For a second I wonder if Sasha has picked up the other line.

“I don’t want soup,” I insist.

“Yeah, I know, I heard you. No soup for you,” Wolf jokes.

The woman’s voice is rich and melodic, and, if I’m not mistaken, she’s black. “The man is offering to help you out, and you just slap him down? That’s cold. That’s too cold.”

“Excuse me, who is on the line?” I ask, but as I speak, it dawns on me: the other breast. Sure enough, I feel my right breast tightening in anger.

“You know, I don’t really hear anything, Molly. Why don’t I just put my mom on the line? I’ll talk to you later.”

My other intruder, Max’s neighbor, shuts up while I talk to Sasha, who doesn’t seem concerned about our missed dinner, that is, until I tell her I won’t be there the night of the dry run, which is on a Saturday night, when the restaurant is full of paying diners. To be fair, she has a right to be put out; it was my idea in the first place.

“I’m going skiing.” I feel like a kid playing hooky.

“Skiing?”

“Yes.”

“With friends?”

“Sasha, look, I am sorry I’ll miss the dinner, but everything will go very well without me. You just follow the plan and have a meeting with the servers to go over any problems. That’s all you need to do.”

“We still need another meeting.”

“When?”

“Ummmm. Can you make it tomorrow?”

Promising to be there at eleven, I get off the phone.

I look around the kitchen, amazed at its normalcy: dishes neatly washed, cupboards wiped and shut, curtains clean and pressed, framing the window that opens onto the backyard. Compared to the riot going on in my head, it’s an oasis of domestic calm.

“Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” I yell to no one in particular. “Is this God? Is this a joke? Because I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s an invasion of privacy, and I want you out now. Both of you. Max and whoever that woman is. You’re evicted! Scram. I swear to God I’m going to go on Prozac, and you’re both gonna evaporate. This multiple personality thing blows! Leave now! You got that? Now!”

I’m rooted in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the shifting old house, its groans and crackling. Finally, I give up waiting for a response and decide to go back to bed. Maybe I can wake up, and none of this will have happened.

In my bedroom, I undress under the covers, then toss my Cinderella gear on a chair. Lying back, I gaze out the window for a moment before closing my eyes. When I am strung out and overtired, I conjure my mother’s image. Usually I place her in front of the stove, helping me with my homework. Garlic fries in the pan. Oil sizzles and pops as the rain patters against the dark windows. The rain turns to snow.

My mind wanders to the slopes, to Chas, to what the heck I am going to wear skiing. Soon I am wide awake, worrying myself down the road to insomnia.

“You need to take better care of yourself, child, runnin’ after that Denise right after your surgery. What were you thinkin’? Aw, never mind; don’t even try to tell me ’cause you don’t know, do you?” asks the same feminine voice I heard in the kitchen. I know where Max resides. This woman is right next door.

“You must be Louise.”
Holy mother of God, the only thing weirder than a British man in my left breast is a black woman in the right.

“That’s right, little sister; a beautiful black woman. I’m the bigger one too. Don’t let that limey Max tell you he’s bigger ’cause you know the truth. Louise is larger than life with a capital
L
.”

Too tired to argue, I lie back in bed, letting Louise wash over me, growing sleepy.

“ ’Course, he had to come running, givin’ out advice like candy on Halloween. He’s like a woman that way. Can’t keep his big mouth shut when it comes to romance. That man can talk on love twenty-four/seven, you know . . .”

“I thought he was a breast.” I yawn.

“Figure o’ speech,” she says. “Words is what I have, little sister. I play with them, sing with them, and when I feel like playin’ the righteous woman, I fling ’em around like knives.” Louise’s rich, mahogany voice bathes me in honey. When Max talks, it makes me jump.

My left breast tightens angrily. Max is mad.
So, I can read his mind sometimes too.

“Isn’t Chas great?” I am half-asleep. Martin and Angeli, I muse, will be so mad I didn’t call them when I got home from my date.

“We’ll see,” Louise answers.

“Oh, come on. Tell me what you think.”

“I think you’re tired.”

“Tell me now.” I drift. “What do you think about Chas?”

“Not a darn thing. He may be the right diet and a Super Bowl win for some girl.”

“Me?”

“You’re not gonna find out a thing ’less you get yourself some sleep. Nobody loves a hag.”

B
EFORE
I
CAN
adjust my eyes to the morning light, I am assaulted by the squealing cries of my sister Trina, who, for some unfathomable reason, is in my bedroom. To complete her invasion of privacy, she’s staring at my chest.

“Ahhhhhh! Check it out little sister! The scars are totally gone. Invisible! And to top it off, the breast fairy finally came!” She dances around the room in her sweats, kickboxing her joy into my tiny bedroom.

Groaning, I cover my head with the sheets. “Go away. You’re as bad as Denise.” For the first night in years I’ve slept in a solid black chunk without one nightmare about my mom’s death.

Trina plops a double skinny sugar-free hazelnut latte (her favorite, not mine) on my bedside table. Pale blue velour sweats cling to her slim hips. “I know; she actually called me and totally raved. I had to come see for myself after my Pilates class. Maybe now you’ll take one with me.” She drains her latte, eyeing mine. Her skin is suspiciously taut.

Dragging myself upward, I subject my sleepy eyes to her jumping, clapping, twirling routine. The latte has a whiff of coffee flavor somewhere beneath the viscous chemical-laden syrup. “Mmmmm. Thanks. Who took the kids to school?”

“Hami or the nanny. I’m not sure. I left for the gym at six o’clock. My plan is to have my prebaby body back by the big four-oh.” My sister compares her body to the celebrities in
People
magazine. I can do that too, if they’re six months pregnant.

“I can’t tell the difference. And I’m sure Hami can’t either.”

She lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow in disbelief. “We have exactly one hour to work out together before I have to be at my hair appointment.” She lifts her blond ponytail in the mirror. “Highlights.”

“Me, work out? You have me confused with someone who sweats. Besides, I don’t think it’s medically advisable for women with new implants to work out. They might fall out.”

She sniffs delicately through her patrician nose. “Every time I’ve had work done, Dr. Hupta’s said I can work out whenever I feel ready.”

I lie back in bed. “I’ll never be ready. You’re talking to someone who considers pounding chicken cutlets manual labor.”

Trina yanks back the covers. “Come on, please? I’ve still got a two-mile run, and my trainer got sick.”

Sick of you. People with this much energy in the morning should be shot.
I drag the covers from the foot of the bed. “Then you’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee. Buh-by!” I yawn, sinking back under the warm covers.

She doesn’t move. “I came all the way over here to help you out after your surgery, and you won’t even go running with me?”

“That’s not helping me. That’s helping you. Besides, I have no running clothes.”

A moment later she’s rummaging through my closet, emerging with my old running shoes, a T-shirt, and a Seattle Prep track team sweatshirt. She throws the pile on the bed. “There you go. Get dressed.”

“What about a bra?”

She opens my dresser and removes two of the bras that Angeli brought me from Nordstrom. “Wear both of these. That’ll work.”

As I am being dragged out the door in my old high school running clothes and layered bras, I pass Dad on the front steps with his coffee. Gwen, in full gardening gear, clips the bug-eaten leaves from our roses, another task she’s undertaken without being asked.

“Hello, Molly, you’re up early,” she says and smiles. “Super! Good for you!”

Giving her what passes as a smile, I wave hello. Trina slaps her on the back. “Wanna come running, Gwen?”

“Oh, gosh, if only my knees would let me. I do underwater aerobics twice a week down at the Y. You girls should give it a try. It’s awfully fun.” For the last ten years Gwen has tried to get us involved in gardening, water aerobics, and Color Me Beautiful classes so often that Trina and I share a look.

“Dad, did the doctor’s office call?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Nope, but Angeli called and said she’s gonna pick you up at eleven and take you there.”

“What do you mean, she’s gonna pick me up?” I turn to Trina. “Hang on! Seriously, I have a meeting downtown. I need to call Angeli and reschedule.”

With unnerving strength in her coat-hanger body, Trina drags me down the sidewalk. “You can call from my cell.” She tugs a miniscule phone out of her velour sweats. I catch a glimpse of a tiny red dot of a scar on the side of her flat stomach. Liposuction? “We have to get going. I can’t miss my hair appointment.”

On the street, I struggle to keep up with Trina, who is bouncily jogging ahead, while clutching the cell phone to my ear.

I get Angeli’s answering machine. “Ang, I don’t know how you found out about my appointment with Dr. Hupta, but I rescheduled it to two o’clock. If you can still give me a ride, pick me up at Schubert’s at 1:45. If you’re not there, I’ll take a cab, thanks.”

“Come on!” Trina shouts from halfway down the block.

Huffing and puffing, I calculate ways to tempt Trina back to the house. Food won’t do it. As far as I know, she hadn’t touched a carb since she gave birth to her first child.

“You want another latte?” I try. “I can make you one at the house.”

She keeps up her brisk pace, her pony tail bobbing jauntily. “How come you’re still so pissed at Gwen?”

“I’m not.”

“Mmmmm-hmmmm.” Trina skips ahead like a Hollywood trainer. And I’m the chubby celeb.

“She just bugs me.” I’m so winded, I can barely talk. “Always hanging around the house.”

“Free gardening and some bad casseroles. Dad likes her.”

“Yeah, that’s easy for you to say. When you don’t like someone at your house, you fire them.” This comes out in gasping pants.