Antiques Flee Market (6 page)

I drained what was left of my cup, and left Mother to her musings, thankful her attention was now on the new play.

After rinsing my dishes in the sink, I took my Prozac capsule from the plastic seven-day pill keeper I kept on the counter next to the coffeemaker. Mother had a pill caddy, too, and I checked to make sure she was current. She was, praise the Lord and pass the medication. Then I headed back upstairs to shower and get ready for my shopping date with Tina.

Teen and I met in high school, when I was a sophomore and she was a junior. I’d come around a hallway corner one day after school and found a bunch of senior girls bullying her. Not liking the odds, I jumped in with my fists clenched and my mouth flapping, and the bullies fled like cockroaches when somebody flips on the light switch. Tina and I have been best friends ever since.

Within an hour, my clothes were strewn all over the bedroom as if a tornado had hit. Everything I had put on was too tight, which meant that my fat bucket had overflowed.

Fat bucket, you ask? Glad to expound on the subject….

Ever wonder why you can sometimes eat more than usual and not gain weight? Then one morning you wake up and BAM! there’s an extra five pounds staring you in the face? That’s because everybody has a fat bucket, and you’re safe as long as it doesn’t fill up and spill over (I usually hover perilously close to the rim). The reverse is also true; that’s why it takes so long to lose weight, because that bucket of fat has to be depleted. So don’t give up! Hang in there dieting a few more weeks, and one day you’ll see results overnight. I hope this helps you.

I selected some black DKNY jeans that fit only because they contained two percent Lycra, a Gap gray hoodie with silver trim that scratched but had been on sale so I put up with it, and a pair of Kenzie black leather boots with cute side buttons that Tina passed along to me because they’d hurt her bunions. (They hurt
my
bunions, too, but one must at times suffer for the sake of fashion.) Then I traipsed downstairs.

Mother was gabbing on the phone, and by the gist of her end of the conversation, seemed to be already putting the play into motion. I blew her a kiss, then threw on my black wool peacoat, and headed out to my cold car.

Tina and her husband, Kevin, lived in a white ranch-style home on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, a great view, especially in winter when the trees were bare. In another month, when the eagles swooped down from the frozen North to the not-so-frozen Midwest to hunt for fish in the churning river, Tina and Kevin would get out their binoculars and become avid eagle-watchers. (I like to watch, too—for maybe five minutes.)

Usually, Tina picked me up for our shopping sprees, but since we were hitting the stores at Indian Mounds Mall, which was closer to her than me, I was the designated driver.

I pulled into the mouth of their driveway, where Kevin’s sporty silver Mazda was parked next to Tina’s black Lexus, which meant that Kev—a pharmaceutical salesman—was home for the day. Kev, a sandy-haired hunk of thirty-three, was a great guy, and always nice to me, even when I got my BFF into a bit of trouble now and then.

Tina and Kevin had been trying to have children for the last few years, and then a month ago Tina discovered she had uterine cancer (thankfully caught early), which derailed their plans for a family. She and I had talked about this only once, over wine, late into a night, when she’d revealed that she and Kev were exploring adoption or possibly trying to find a surrogate mother, although Teen was on the fence about either option, afraid her cancer might recur.

So, naturally, I was anxious to see how my BFF was doing, even though our conversation today would be limited to conspicuous consuming.

I was about to honk, when Tina came out, slamming the front door behind her. She looked great, as usual, the winter sun highlighting her natural, golden-blond hair, making a halo effect around her Nordic features. She was wearing the same black jeans as me (but a size smaller), her white Michael Kors leather jacket (she saw it first), and a girlie-pink Betsey Johnson wool scarf (I had one in blue).

Tina hopped in the passenger side, said, “Let’s do this,” and I put the pedal to the metal.

Indian Mounds was an outdoor mall just a short five minutes away, but across the treacherous bypass. A stoplight, however, had been recently installed at our juncture after a state senator’s wife got in a car crash while trying to cross the busy, four-lane highway on her way to a white sale. (Wife, minor bruising; Cadillac Escalade, totaled.) And I mean to say, that traffic light went in practically overnight.

On the way, Tina and I negotiated having lunch first—no sense shopping on an empty stomach—and we arrived at Michael’s, an upscale Italian eatery, just before noon. Even though the place was hopping with business types and holiday shoppers, we managed to snag one of the last cherrywood booths. After we both ordered a small Caesar salad, minestrone soup, and a glass of white wine, Tina and I settled in for our preshopping gabfest, as only amateurs talk while they shop.

I said, “First, tell me how you’re doing….”

Tina’s smile looked a little forced. “Oh, fine…just fine. I’m seeing another specialist after Christmas. I want to know all of my options.” Her smile turned sad. “Of course the one option I
really
want—to have a baby of my own—I can’t have.”

Somewhere in the restaurant an infant was crying, underscoring Tina’s words.

I reached across the table and clasped her hand. “I’m so sorry, honey. I wish there was something I could do….”

What I had said was heartfelt, even if it did sound a little lame, at least to me.

Tina forced another smile. “But we can still adopt. Outside the country if need be.”

I nodded. “And it’ll be just like your own.”

It? Just like your own?
Lame, again. That kid was still crying, the little ham.

My thoughts turned to Jake, and what it felt like to look at his face and see part of me, and Roger, and how in some way I’d taken my son’s existence for granted. And here was my best friend, unable to have a child, and wanting one so badly.

Tina was saying, “Enough of me. Brandy, I want to know how
you
are doing.”

The ball being tossed into my court I took to mean Teen didn’t care to talk any further about her cancer treatment, or adoption.

I said only, “Just peachy keen—what could ever be sunnier than life with Vivian Borne?”

She smiled, catching my drift—I didn’t want to talk about my problems, either.

Sometimes, the best things friends can do for each other is keep the conversation light and cheerful, rather than throw a “pity party.”

The wine arrived, and after a few sips, Tina and I got down to really important subjects.

“What’s your opinion of regifting?” Tina asked.

I set down my glass of wine. “I used to think it was tacky…but now, because of conservation and recycling, who’s to say you’re not doing something positive?”

“Oooo. I like this. Regifting is
green
!”

I raised a cautionary finger. “That is, it’s acceptable
if
a certain protocol is followed.”

“Such as?”

“Well, it goes without saying that the gift you want to recycle should fit the person you’re passing it on to. You know, don’t give a country-western CD to someone who likes hip-hop.”

“Naturally,” Tina said with a crisp nod.

“And the item should be rewrapped in a plain box—so the getter doesn’t know what store it came from and can’t take it back. Also, be sure to check for any telltale sign that the gift was originally yours…like an enclosure card addressed to you.”

“Ouch. Anything else?”

Another cautionary finger wag. “Always regift
outside
your own circle of family and friends…otherwise, you could receive it back the next year.”

Tina smiled. “That
has
happened to us. Kevin’s brother once gave us this horrible hot dog cooker—”

I laughed, “No! Not that as-seen-on-TV contraption that electrocutes wieners?”

“That’s the one. And the first—and
only
—time we used it…honestly, Brandy, our lights dimmed!”

She waited for my giggle fit to subside.

“Well,” Teen went on, “we passed it on to one of Kevin’s sisters, who has a bunch of kids—kids love hot dogs, right? And she sent us a thank-you note saying how much they all adored it. Then the following Christmas, bang, we get it back!”

“Where’s it now?”

“Kev was afraid I’d try to get rid of it again, at a garage sale or something. He disappeared with it. Probably buried the thing in the backyard.”

Our food arrived and we crunched our salads and slurped our soups.

After splitting the bill, Tina went off to use the bathroom, and I made my way back through the boisterous crowd to the front entrance to wait for her.

I passed the time noting what the women coming in and out of the restaurant were wearing—holiday sweaters ran two to one—when someone gave my arm a little tug.

I turned to find Mrs. Lange, Joe’s mother, a short, plump, nervous lady who reminded me of Aunt Bea on the old Andy Griffin TV show, only not so cheerful. She had on the official red and purple colors of the Red-Hat Social Club, whose only mandate was to eat and have fun. By the bread crumbs on the woman’s sweater, she indeed was eating…but by her frown-creased forehead, she wasn’t having much fun.

“Brandy, dear, have you seen Joe lately?” Mrs. Lange asked anxiously.

I nodded. “Just yesterday, at the clinic.”

“How did he seem to you…I mean, mentally?” Her right eye had developed a tic, making her question unintentionally comic.

“Why, fine, I guess. We had a nice conversation. Why do you ask? Isn’t he living at home with you, Mrs. Lange?”

She took a deep breath that quivered when it came back out. “When I got up this morning, he was gone—along with his army fatigues and all of his gear.”

That didn’t sound good. I’d never known Joe to suit up during the winter.

Mrs. Lange asked, “You’re
sure
he seemed all right?”

I frowned in thought. “Pleasant…talkative…yeah, fine. We spoke about going to the flea market for a while. Then I had to go in for my appointment.” I paused, then asked, “Have you spoken to his therapist?”

The woman nodded, the brim of her red hat flapping as if in agreement. “The doctor also said my son was in good spirits, so I don’t understand
what
could have set him off.”

I had no answer, either. “I’ll certainly call you if I see him around, or hear of anything.”

The woman forced a smile. “Thank you, Brandy.”

As I watched Mrs. Lange return to the table of chattering red-hatted ladies, I spotted Tina talking to a middle-aged, businessman-type who was having a martini lunch at the bar. Teen caught my eye and gave me a “Sorry” look, meaning she had gotten stalled coming out of the ladies’ room and had to stop-and-chat, a consequence of her Tourism Office position.

I nodded back as if I understood when, truth be told, no man, woman, or business should ever stand in the way of sales at the mall. That was when I noticed Peggy Sue—dressed head to toe in expensive Burberry—seated alone in a nearby booth.

Since the table was set for two, Sis was probably waiting for someone—which couldn’t be Uncle Bob, because he always worked through the lunch hour (to pay for items like that Burberry ensemble!), so it had to be one of those venomous gal-pals of hers, so notorious for keeping Peggy Sue waiting.

On impulse (as if I ever acted any other way), I headed over. Maybe this was the opportunity I’d been looking for, if not to broach the subject of my real parentage, at least to set a time when she and I could get together to discuss it calmly.

And so, feeling full of good pre-Christmas cheer, I stopped at the booth and chirped, “Hi, Peggy Sue!”

Sis looked up, startled, as if the ghost of Christmas Past had suddenly materialized. “Brandy…what are you doing here?”

Yes, the warmth my sister exuded toward me was like the traditional Christmas hearth embodied in one wonderful human being.

“It’s the mall,” I said, as if that explained everything, which it should have. “Just had lunch with Tina. And now we’re going shopping.” I slid into the empty side of the booth. “Peggy Sue…there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about….”

Sis seemed anxious; her eyes were wandering, looking past me, toward the entrance of the restaurant. “Well, what is it?” she asked with a smile so brittle it barely qualified as one.

Suddenly, my nerve, along with my good cheer, evaporated. “Well, if you’re
too busy
….”

“I
am
meeting someone,” Sis said stiffly. “Can’t it wait?”

“Sure,” I mumbled, “it can wait. It’s already waited thirty-one years….”

Sis was frowning at me, confused, not angry, when a dark figure loomed over us: the ghost of Christmas Future, aka Connie Grimes, cocooned in a long, black puffy-coat, which only emphasized her considerable girth.

So the over-Botoxed bovine was Peggy Sue’s luncheon date, and the reason for Sis’s anxiety at my showing up out of the blue. She feared another altercation between Connie and me—after all, I was one shoving match shy of a restraining order.

But before I could stick the first needle in, Connie asked me, “Did I just see you talking to that…” She made a face. “…Mrs. Lange?”

I was still seated in the booth, and Peggy Sue nudged me with her knee to vacate.

“Yeah,” I said, sliding out. “What about her?”

Connie had taken off her coat, and tossed it in ahead of her as she assumed my spot. “Not
her
…she can’t help having a crazy
son
like that, I suppose. Isn’t he a…friend of yours?”

“Yes…” I didn’t know where this was going. Maybe I was overwhelmed by so much charm.

Connie said smugly, “I hear he’s gone loony tunes again. Which explains why he nearly
killed
me the other day.”

Not that anyone needed a reason to kill Connie Grimes. I nonetheless was interested in hearing what the woman had to say.