Adventures with Max and Louise (15 page)

Dr. Hupta takes a deep breath. “I can call the review board and make a request to remove them earlier. I don’t know if they’d agree, but it’s worth a shot. If they okay the operation, I would increase the duration of the antibiotics just to be on the safe side. Infection, at this point, is the greatest risk. Maybe I’d keep you in overnight for observation. It is, of course, your call.”

My call? Nothing has been my call since I was fifteen. I drifted into cooking, became my dad’s housekeeper by default, and remained in comfortable friendships like warm salty water, never daring to go beyond. Max and Louise have crash-landed on my body and brain with such force it is a painful, riveting experience. I was literally cut open and given a chance at an entirely different life. Why shut them down before they’ve had a chance to really speak? Who knows what wisdom they could share?

I like Max; he makes me laugh. Didn’t he coach me through my first date with Chas with flying colors? Louise’s voice is like warm honey running down my insides. From what little I’ve heard she has the same lay-your-cards-on-the-table approach to life as my mother. I realize how much I miss it.

I see the two headlights shining on the concrete wall, illuminating it like a secret. I have a secret. Mom had always insisted that her daughters, particularly the one listening at the moment, were special. “Prove it,” I’d always say. Here was my proof: talking breasts. There is such power in a secret.

“You know, I think I’m going to keep them,” I hear myself saying. “You’re probably right. I’ve been running around too much.”

My breathing comes easier, my muscles relax, and from the jiggling in my bra, I know Max and Louise are having a party. Dr. Hupta stares helplessly at my breasts, takes off his glasses, and cleans them. I cross my arms firmly over my chest, giggling inwardly as Dr. Hupta replaces his glasses and rubs his temples.

“I’m glad, I guess.” He shakes his head. “This isn’t what I expected, but I hope it works out. I really do.” He seems dazed. “And if you ever change your mind—”

Angeli pushes open the door with a cardboard tray of lattes. “Your tea selection was lacking.”

She offers us each a coffee. I sip mine near the window, aware of Dr. Hupta’s furtive glances toward Angeli as she studies my face. On his desk are two photos: a snapshot with his family in India and a photo of a husky white Malamute.

Louise chuckles in my breast. “Any man’s got a framed photo of a dog on his desk needs a woman bad.”

I gaze at the snow-dusted Olympic Mountains beyond the slate gray of Elliott Bay, thinking about my impending ski date with Chas. I imagine his thigh pressed against mine as we ride the lift, snowflakes drifting onto my hair. Pleasantly tired from skiing, we’ll sip hot buttered rum by the crackling fire.

Louise speaks up again. “One big, fat fact, girlfriend: you don’t ski.”

“So what?” I murmur, lost in the daydream.

Max hollers, “There’s nothin’ to warm a bloke’s ’eart like a bird in a snowsuit wobblin’ and fallin’ so ’e can pick ’er up and dust ’er off a bit.”

“This girl don’t need savin’. If anyone’s gonna do some savin’ here, it’s our girl,” Louise jabs.

“Ladies lib is all very well and good, but a bloke’s gotta feel like a bloke. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“So what?” Angeli is puzzled.

As Max and Louise launch into an argument, I realize that this is going to be interesting, sharing my life with these two. Weird, messed up, but much better than the fog that’s permeated my brain since Mom died. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like laughing. And when they’re not driving me nuts, Max and Louise make me laugh.

So what do I owe you for the latte?” I ask Angeli.

“Is everything all right, Molls?” She looks concerned, as if I’d been talking to myself, and she knew it.

I come back to earth with a sudden surge of energy. A book contract waits; my book contract.

Louise responds. I sing it out like a trained parrot in Louise’s melodic cadence: “It’s better than all right. It’s sugar-coated, honey-dipped sunshine on a cloudy day fantastic.”

Angeli gives me a look. She knows this isn’t my style of talking or my words. I stand up straight and clear my throat. “I’ve got a book contract to negotiate, so I’ll just leave you two and catch a cab.” I stride toward the door. Even my anger at Angeli has dissipated. A little.

Angeli twists in her chair, watching me leave. “You sold your book, and you didn’t tell me?” she asks in a hurt tone.

I can’t resist. “Sorry, your phone was always busy at night.”

She blushes. “I can give you a ride, you know.”

I smile to let her know that everything’s all right. “I know. Honestly, Ang, I just want to be alone. Believe it or not I’ve had a lot of company lately. I just need a little time to myself to think.”

“What about slowing down?” asks Dr. Hupta, as he walks me to the door.

“You’re absolutely right. I will. Later.” I shake his hand. “Thank you.”

He opens the door, and I rush down the carpeted hall with one arm against my still tender breasts, one hand clutching my latte. The receptionist glances up as I speed past, in a hurry to start my new life.

“You go, girl!” Louise shouts with utter delight.

I pushed open the door, feeling like a kid on a snowy hill with my brand-new sled, waiting to see how fast it will go.

Chapter Fifteen

T
HE NEXT DAY
I lie in bed for a moment, enjoying the morning sounds. The furnace groans and rattles, the stairs creak, the coffee grinder whines in the kitchen. For kicks I play an old game Angeli and I invented in grade school: newspaper headlines.
Name the best day of your life in a newspaper headline. Name the worst high school catastrophe you can imagine in a headline.
Today would be “Diner X Inks Cookbook Deal, Forges Career First.” I carefully slip into my new dress and some lower heels I find buried in the back of my closet. Dashing downstairs, I find Dad in the kitchen, eating breakfast and reading the newspaper.

“Today’s the big day,” he says with a grin, shoving a piece of peanut butter toast into his coffee and eating the soggy mess.

I’m too excited to eat, but he insists that I at least drink a cup of coffee with milk. One cup turns into three as I chatter excitedly about how Martin set up the whole negotiation. Dad collects his wallet, lunch box, and keys while half listening. I miss the days when he used to dress in his uniform at home. Although technically retired, he occasionally gets called in when they’re shorthanded, which means he changes in the locker room.

“Baby girl,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek at the back door, “I am so proud of you.” As he draws back, his deep-set blue eyes well with tears. “And your mother is too.”

He leaves me in the kitchen with the smell of toast, coffee, wet sponges, and an intuitive sense that my mother is nearby.

I
ARRIVE AT
the attorney’s office with a caffeine buzz. In the cab I thought again about my first horrid meeting with the editors at Sidney-Brace. I was so paralyzed by fear that I could hardly speak. When I finally remembered the pitch that Martin helped me work up the night before, I delivered the entire thing while staring at the carpet. Dave, the editor, had to practically crawl on the floor to look me in the eye. I was so nervous that, when they mentioned television appearances, I had a horrifying vision of my blouse unbuttoning itself, and everyone staring in horror at my scars. I remember feeling sweat bead on my forehead, praying they wouldn’t notice.

I make my way into the lawyer’s office, housed in a restored Queen Anne mansion. Martin introduces me to my attorney, Victor Treiton, chubby and bald as a grape, who is a family friend of Martin’s. He specializes in intellectual property rights for software writers. Victor tells me to stay quiet, follow his lead, and let him do all the talking. The only number I need to consider is the final offer. Victor is in the process of quitting smoking for the sixteenth time. He chomps two packs of Nicodent during the forty-five-minute negotiation. Max and Louise are bubbling with excitement; their girl might get published. I breathe deeply, hoping it might calm us all down a bit.

After we’re settled in our chairs, Victor checks his watch. “They’re calling us,” he explains. “Any questions?”

“Ask him, ask him, ask him,” Max prods me. For the Past twenty minutes he’s been badgering me. “Stand up for yourself, woman. This is yer ’ard work, the sweat off your ruddy brow. You don’t even know if the bloke’s ever seen a bloomin’ book contract.”

I use my own version of Max’s words. “Victor, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, um, this being last minute and all, but do you feel qualified to negotiate a book contract, coming from a software background?”

He nods with a vigorous gum chomp. “Good question.” He pounds the desk with his chubby index finger. “Here’s the deal: if at any point you don’t like what I’m doing, you raise your hand, and we’ll hang up the phone. I don’t mind being fired. I signed on ’cause it’s fun and a favor to Marty here, but I’ve got more work than I can handle right now.”

His favorite phrase is “here’s the deal.” He uses it several times when the Sidney-Brace attorney quibbles about my rights and fees. “Here’s the deal” leaves the Sidney-Brace attorney seething, which is followed several times with a hurried, off-line conference, during which Victor chomps his gum mechanically and nods his head enthusiastically, motioning for me to keep quiet.

At one point, a Sidney-Brace representative says, “Here’s the deal.”

Victor leans into the phone, snarling and looking remarkably like a bull mastiff. “You don’t tell me what the deal is. There is no deal until my client agrees. You make an offer, and I tell you the deal. Capisce?”

There is a long silence, after which someone on the line at Sidney-Brace says, “We hear you.”

I never raise my hand. I receive $25,000 upfront and a full point, or 1 percent, of any profits on sales above $300,000. The Sidney-Brace people seem to be very upset about conceding this last point. I can’t tell whether or not it’s an act. I promise to do all the publicity they require for one year and request, at Louise’s insistence, the woman I’ve met before, the sharkish Liz Dolpha. The PR woman at Sidney-Brace seems only too happy to get Liz on a plane.

“Liz is our Seattle specialist,” she says.

Five days later, in Victor’s cluttered home office, I sign my name seven times on a book contract. It not only makes me a successful author by anyone’s standards, but also wipes out any notions of privacy I held, replacing them with a one-year obligation to fulfill all publicity duties that Sidney-Brace deems necessary for the success of “our” book. I hope Liz Dolpha is nice.

That night I cook a celebratory dinner for my family, Martin, and Angeli. Trina informs me that I’ll have to work out, since television cameras pack on ten pounds. Denise corners me, passionately trying to convince me that I have the perfect platform to speak out for artists’ rights for affordable workplaces. She goes on and on, during which time I sip my wine, desperate for an out.

“After all,” she finally concludes, “cooking is an art form, right?” I tell her that I can hardly speak for myself, let alone her beloved cause.

“I’ll be lucky if I can remember the name of my own cookbook.”

“You’ll do great,” Martin says, dragging me away to help serve the dessert.

“You will,” Angeli adds. Although Angeli says she’s been busy, she doesn’t elaborate. Dr. Hupta isn’t mentioned, which is fine.

After dinner, Martin and Angeli leave. My family retires to the living room, where Trina’s boys wrestle. Dad pours coffee, while I make my escape. I slip upstairs, call Chas on his cell phone, and tell him about the book deal. I’ve been saving this for last. I can’t wait to hear his voice.

Chas answers on the fourth ring, shouting above the din of a restaurant. “That’s great. Hang on a second. I can barely hear you.” I hear him say, “Excuse me” to someone. I wonder if he is on a date. “That’s great news. Fantastic. I’m so happy for you. When can I take you out to dinner to celebrate?”

“You have to check your calendar, you’re busy,” Louise counsels.

“Cook for him!” screams Max. “At his place!”

“Why don’t I cook something for you at your place?” I echo, choosing to ignore Louise. I’d love to see where Chas lives.

“Are you sure? I’d hate to have you do all the work. It’s your night, after all.”

“I’ll make something simple,” I lie.

We set a date. A real-live second date.

Chapter Sixteen

T
HE NEXT DAY,
Liz Dolpha, my new publicist, whom I share with four other cookbook authors, is sitting across the table at Schubert’s. A tiny woman who compensates for her five-foot height with four-inch Manolo’s, she is dressed in a severe leather skirt and crimson sweater and wears blood red lipstick. I chose Schubert’s as kind of a buffer zone. I would never have invited Liz to my home. A run-down old house with my widowed father as a roommate is not part of the image I’m trying to convey. Yet conducting our business in a restaurant seems rude. Louise thinks Schubert’s is the only sensible place and helped me choose it last night as I agonized over where to meet Liz.

“Oh. My. God. Your airport! Could it be any more antiquated and obscenely ugly? I mean, hello, Duluth has a nicer airport than Seattle.”

The woman, I confessed to Louise last night, scares the hell out of me. Several times I’ve asked Louise why it is so important to have Liz as my publicist. The only answer I get is, “Trust me. She’s good.” Max is no help. He agrees. Last night when I was unable to get to sleep, Louise said it was time to stop worrying, start living.

“Nobody likes to do publicity, baby girl, ’cept maybe Tom Cruise, and he’s set the bar so low with all his couch-jumping, serial-marrying acrobatics, you got nothing to worry about. Just be your own sweet self. That’s all you gotta do. Be yourself and shine.”

We sit wedged in a booth, where Liz, after ordering a Red Bull with Stoli, fields cell phone calls from stylists, photographers, Mrs. Bullitt, a flower company, and a caterer. Between calls she comments on my hair.