Facelift (18 page)

With the wig chosen and placed carefully on Izzie’s head, I pull out my credit card.

“It’s
how
much?” Izzie’s voice rises, as does my blood pressure at the sight of the invoice.

“It’s okay.” I cup her arm to reassure her, but maybe it’s simply to steady me from the staggering amount.

“No, Mom. I can’t let you do this. All just because . . . no!”

I imagine my daughter, the only bald girl in school, and push my credit card toward Bettany. But Izzie snatches it away.

“My hair will grow.” She tugs on my arm. “Let’s go, Mom.”

I look to Bettany for help, not sure what I’m asking. To be allowed to pay for it? Or for her to forgive us taking up so much of her time? “We’re getting the wig, Izzie.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Your dad will contribute.” Or so I hope. “After all, it was his mother who instigated—”

“—escalated.” A hint of a smile peeks through her dark scowl.

Behind us, the door opens, and Izzie ducks behind me. As if I can hide her when she’s a good six inches taller. To help protect her from more ridicule or embarrassment, I suggest, “Why don’t you wait in the car? It won’t take but a few more minutes here.”

“If you get the wig”—she takes my keys—“I won’t wear it.”

Grinding my teeth, I know her words are true. With an I’m-so-sorry glance at Bettany, I hope she doesn’t work on commission, I slide my credit card back into my wallet.

“Isabel?”

I turn. “Terry!” I move forward to hug my friend who I haven’t seen . . . since that night in my neighborhood. Didn’t I promise to call her? A traffic jam of excuses piles up in my mind. “How are you?”

She hugs me back. “Good to see you, too.”

Beside her is her daughter, Lily, several years younger than Izzie, who used to babysit the little girl. Lily’s pale face and purple scarf covering her head makes my heart start to pound. Terry glances at Isabel, alarm showing in her face. “Is everything okay with you? With Isabel?”

I realize the unspoken question. “Oh, sure. We’re fine. Isabel just had a close encounter with a razor.”

Terry’s eyes widen even more.

“Nothing bad. No nicks or cuts even.” My joke falls flat. “Really, she’s fine.” I touch Izzie’s bare nape. How can I stand here with my bald daughter and proclaim such a blessing when obviously it’s not the case with Lily? “What about—?”

“Hi, Lily!” Bettany interrupts us. “Come with me. I’ve got something special for you.”

Together they go into the back through the green and white curtain. I’m left standing beside Terry with more questions and fears crowding in on me. She meets my gaze solidly as if she’s practiced this in the mirror. “Lily has cancer.”

There is no punch line with a statement like that. It hits me squarely in the stomach. “What? When did this happen?”

“A year and a half ago. She’s been through three rounds of chemo and radiation.” Terry doesn’t even attempt a smile or to sugarcoat the situation. Her honesty is breathtaking and heartbreaking. “She missed the end of third grade and all of fourth. But she’s finally feeling better so we thought we’d get her a wig.”

“I’m so sorry, Terry.” My hand folds over her forearm, and I give a slight squeeze as if willing something . . . hope, help, I-don’t-know-what into her. “I had no idea. What can I do to help?”

“Just pray. We need a miracle.”

My throat works up and down, and I’m unable to respond except with a nod.

“We’re hopeful things are going to work out.”

I keep nodding and manage to stop myself when the curtain parts again. A smiling Lily emerges. She has a new do. Short wispy brown curls frame her tiny face. “What do you think, Momma?” Her Minnie Mouse voice cracks open my heart to expose every mother’s worst nightmare. “Do you like it?”

Terry bends down and hugs her daughter fiercely yet tenderly. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

“Come look at this, Lily!” Izzie calls from across the room. She’s trying on a Cleopatra look.

While Izzie entertains Lily, Terry and I catch up. She didn’t know about my divorce from Cliff any more than I knew about the hospital traumas her family has experienced. Izzie, Lily, and Bettany try on wigs together, pretending to be Miley Cyrus with long tresses then Cloris Leachman with a gray wig. They dance around like they’re on
Dancing with the Stars.
Terry watches her daughter, the corners of her eyes pinched and her mouth pulling in a wistful smile.

Eventually we say good-bye, promising this time to keep in touch. Izzie and I climb back in our car, our own smiles and laughter dying quickly. Izzie’s blue eyes brim with tears. “Is Lily going to be all right, Mom?”

Reassurances clog my throat. It’s always been my job as her mom to put a positive spin on disappointments and difficult questions, waving my magic wand and making problems—disease and heartbreak—disappear. Is that what my parents did so many years ago? Did they hide the difficulty in their marriage under the delusion they were saving me heartache only to pull the rug out from under me with a quickie, no-pain divorce? Have I done the same thing to Izzie? Will this be the big hurdle to trip up Izzie, lay her out flat, the way my parents’ divorce knocked me out cold?

When Cliff and I argued during our marriage, I reassured Izzie with, “All parents argue. It’s okay. Daddy and Mommy love each other. We just don’t always agree.” I reassured myself that I was different from my folks. I was giving Izzie a realistic picture of married life. Arguments happen. But unfortunately so does divorce.

Maybe I was fooling myself then as much as Izzie. Because, obviously, Cliff did leave. I told Izzie at the time, “He’ll come back when he realizes what he really lost.” But who was I trying to convince? Maybe I was just sticking my head in the proverbial sand. So far, not facing the truth hasn’t worked out so well for either of us. So, now, eyeball-to-eyeball with an even more devastating situation, one that could definitely end in heartbreak, I don’t have an answer except for, “I don’t know.”

“I want to do something to help her!”

“I’m not sure there is anything we can do, Iz, except pray.” But my prayers feel pretty impotent these days.

“There’s got to be something.”

“You can’t save her, Iz.” Anymore than I can protect Izzie from life.

She stares out the window and is silent all the way home.

Chapter Twelve

You’ve got a date?” Marla’s question lies somewhere between annoyance and skepticism when I tell her what’s for dinner.

“It’s not a date.” I readjust the long, velveteen vest I found in my closet. “Just a . . . uh . . . thank-you. Sort of.”

She pulls the phone book out of the cabinet. “A note says thank you. Flowers too. But dinner out? That’s something else.”

An uneasiness tightens my stomach. Flowers are usually impersonal, or so I learned with Cliff. The flowers he sent (or ordered his secretary to send) were usually out of guilt. My gaze slips toward the single white rosebud still on the kitchen table. The petals have opened. I’m not sure I’m open to any other reason for this dinner.

Marla waves a hand. “There’s nothing wrong with you dating, Kaye. In fact, it’s probably a good idea.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re not still waiting for Cliff to come back to you, are you?” She purses her lips and gives me a once-over, a bold assessment that declares the impossibility of my dream. While I’m scrambling for a comeback, Marla shakes her head. My silence is answer enough. “Cliff has moved on, dear. And so should you. You married too early. If you hadn’t gotten yourself pregnant, the relationship never would have lasted more than two weeks.”

If Marla had launched herself at me, teeth bared and claws protracted, I couldn’t have been more shocked. Even Cousin It’s attacks weren’t vicious. As her words sink into me, shred my dignity, my hope, I blink copiously like a tragic butterfly trying to take flight in a gale. I sputter a useless sound, then my gaze shifts to Isabel, who has her arms crossed over her chest and is waiting, her flip-flop tapping out her impatience on the kitchen tile.

None of Marla’s words are news to my daughter. After all, there comes a time when every kid can do the math and realizes her parents’ wedding anniversary doesn’t have a nine-month gap before her birth. But as I splutter to the surface of my thoughts, taking little tiny puffs of air, the audacity of Marla’s bullying unplugs the dam of pent-up emotions stored over the years. “Are you saying I got pregnant all by myself?” I draw a quick breath of confidence, not allowing enough time for Marla to respond. “My recollection is that Cliff was more than eager to participate!”

“Mom!” Izzie’s disgust couldn’t be more clear if she’d slapped her palms over her ears and run out of the room.

Marla waves her hands like a baby bird flapping its weak wings and attempting to take flight and stay above my attempt to attack right back with my own claws. “Well, dear”—she flips through pages in the phone book, not looking down at the categories she’s filing past—“there’s no use crossing old bridges, now is there?”

She made that leap first. If we’re crossing into uncharted waters, I’m not going alone. “None of that matters anyway.” My gaze narrows as I gain control over my tossed and strewn emotions. “He made a vow. And—”

“And you’re going to hold him to it.” She laughs.
Laughs
. My emotions fray into raw strands of indignation, fury, and pain. “Good luck, dear.” Then Marla glances down at the restaurant listings on the bright yellow pages as if I’m a humorous comic strip and not a tragic figure. “Divorce attorney and psychiatric offices are full of women who meant to hold onto their men and the vows they made.”

“Mom”—Izzie interjects a lifeline into my nightmare—“we’re going to be late.”

I release a breath and look to my mother-in-law, who I’d like to boot out of my house at the moment. She still looks like a smaller, red-haired version of Rocky. I give what sounds like a polite clearing of the throat but which truthfully is clearing the way for me to offer a UN solution. I pray she won’t take me up on the offer as I hook my purse over my shoulder. “You’re invited to come with us for dinner.”

Marla looks at me with that lopsided gaze as if she’s trying to size up my intentions. “Thank you, but I’m not ready to go out in prime time yet. I’ll just order something.”

“But I made another casserole for you. It’s in the oven.”

“It’ll keep. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine here. All alone.”

I weigh her tone to see if that’s a ploy for sympathy or simply desire. Reading between her not too subtle lines is not for a novice. It’s her usual ploy laced with guilt, but I’m not swallowing it this time. She’s perfectly capable of being alone for a couple of hours. “Suit yourself.”

Izzie’s forehead smooths out and she claps a bright pink baseball cap on her head.

“When will your wig be ready?” Marla’s question halts us at the door.

“Never. I’m fine without it.” And she whisks her cap off her head and tosses it onto the kitchen table, a gauntlet thrown in her grandmother’s direction.

“What will you tell your friends, dear?” The added
dear
is a fabrication of deigned concern.

“Why do I have to tell them anything?”

Marla shrugs a narrow, indifferent shoulder. “They’re not blind. They’ll ask. And worst of all, they’ll talk behind your back.”

“Let ’em. I don’t care.” Izzie’s bravado is admirable, but I’m afraid it might wane under the force of peer scrutiny. “I told them it’s for swimming. I’m focused on setting a record this season.”

“And impressing that new coach?” Marla throws back, making my maternal nerves quake.

“Yeah. He was impressed with Mom the other day.” Izzie turns and walks out the back door, leaving it open for me to follow. Her bending of the truth disturbs me, especially when I realize that, just maybe, I’m equally guilty of distortions I’ve told in the past.

When we reach the car, Izzie places a comforting hand on my arm. “Ignore her, Mom. You
should
date.”

“So you’re in agreement with your grandmother?”

“Not for the same reasons.”

I jerk the gear shift into Drive. “Close enough.”

Still rattled after the short drive to the crowded Asian restaurant, I greet Jack and Gabe, my face feeling stretched into a pained smile. After we order platters of Orange Beef, Thai Mango Chicken, tofu lo mei, and an assortment of pot stickers and spring rolls, Gabe and Isabel find a table for two, leaving Jack and me on our own. Which unnerves me. Should I insist we all sit together? Keep an eye on Gabe and Izzie? Play it cool? Pretend it’s a date, even if it isn’t?

“This okay?”

“Sure.” I slide into the booth opposite Jack. The table is too small; the booth too intimate. He’s wearing a pale yellow button-down shirt and jeans. His dark hair has that carefree, mussed look that makes me want to run my fingers through the slight waves. I fuss with my purse, stashing it beside me in the booth.

He holds out a straw for me. “You okay?”

“Of course.” I plunk it into my iced tea then unfold a napkin and lay it across my lap. “How are things going at your place?”

He grabs both ends of the straw and pulls outward, popping the paper covering. “A bit on the crazy side. It’s crunch time for Gabe’s Eagle Scout project. You and Isabel should come out this weekend and see what he’s doing.”