Like a Charm (2 page)

I
woke up two days later in a room where everything was white. The bedding, walls, and furniture were all in the same monochromatic tone. The curtains had been pulled back, and a huge expanse of glass-filtered sunlight warmed the room. At first I thought they had taken me to another hospital, and it took a few minutes to realize I was at my parents' ashram in Sweet. I recognized the view. You don't ever forget that wide-open expanse of the West Texas prairie. Even in November, it was a beautiful landscape of low shrubs and rocky hills.

I took a deep breath and coughed on the clean air. I swear a body gets used to pollution.

Bits of the fifteen-hour drive with my mom came to me as my brain clicked into gear. We had only made a few stops, and mom had driven straight through. I tried to stay awake and keep her company, but the drugs and the mono made that impossible. I'd managed to walk into the room on my own two feet, but at the time I'd been so out of it I hadn't noticed my surroundings.

My parents' place is a huge, modern building they built on their land two years ago. For most of the time that I lived with them while growing up, we had a trailer on the 220 acres of ranch my dad had inherited.

About ten years ago they went into the lavender business, and it had been so successful that they now own three ashrams, including this one. It's a place where people come to hang out and get spiritual. There are yoga, meditation, and basic how-to-get-your-Zen-on classes. I hadn't been home in a little over two years, and the place wasn't finished when I left. I'd been keeping up with their progress over the Internet.

Even though it felt like I'd been asleep for forever, I was still tired. I resisted the urge to climb back under the covers and instead went in search of a bathroom. I finally found it behind a sliding panel worthy of Star Trek. It was one of those things where you wave your hand in front of the sensor and it opens. It was small, with just a sink, toilet, and shower, and decorated as sparsely as the bedroom. The towels and tile were white, while the fixtures were brushed nickel.

This is really rotten, but I never thought of my parents as having much taste when it comes to decorating. The three-room trailer we had lived in when I was growing up was a hodgepodge of garage sale and thrift-store finds. My dad sculpted metal parts into his version of art—which he then left strewn all over the yard. Mom called their “style” Early Bohemian. I, the snob, called it Hippie White Trash.

But this place was modern, visually pleasing to the eye, and, well, sterile but calming.

After a hot shower, which made me feel immensely better, I checked out the bamboo armoire in the corner. I found my clothes, but the choices were limited. Justin must have done most of the packing. He has this idea of what women should look like at all times, and it's right out of
Vogue
. There were my striped D&G black trousers, a skirt that matched, and a few button-down blouses with a jacket. I opened the drawers below and found three pairs of shoes, all with four-inch heels. My La Perla sets of bras and panties were in another drawer. For a moment I wondered who had unpacked my belongings, and for some reason it embarrassed me that my mom knew I wore expensive, sexy lingerie and that none of it was cotton.

I sighed. All I really wanted were my well-worn button-flies and my crimson Harvard sweatshirt. A woman needed some comforts in life.

I couldn't find my makeup and tried not to stare into the mirror too much. I'd lost weight, and the dark circles under my eyes looked like they'd been put there by someone's fist.

I made use of the clothes available and slid on a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps I'd drooled over in September. It seemed like a million years ago, but it had only been two months. If I stayed here more than a couple of days, I'd need some more comfy clothes.

I have to call the office, but first I need food.

The bedroom sat on the first floor. I walked out into a large common area with bamboo floors and white couches. There was a series of hallways and I wasn't sure which one to take. It was quiet and I didn't see anyone.

I desperately needed food and a cup of coffee.
Standing here isn't going to get me anywhere.
I headed toward what I thought might be the front door. My joints and muscles ached and I moved slower than normal. I heard a voice behind the third door on the right and stopped to listen.

“George, we're booked here until June, hon. Yes, La Jolla too.” It was my mom. I knocked lightly and opened the door a crack. She was behind a large glass desk, sitting in a big white chair made of cloth. My mother didn't believe in wearing or sitting on animal skins. Of course she'd never slipped her foot into a nine-hundred-dollar pair of Manolos. She might change her mind if she did.

She waved me in. “Look, I'll see if Cathy can get you into Palm Desert in January, but that's the earliest. Oh, don't worry about it. You know we'll make room if we can. I know you need your peace on earth.”

Pushing a button on the phone, she slipped her headset off. “You have color in your cheeks.” She smiled and came around the desk. Taking me in her arms, she squeezed me tight. “I was worried about you, my Kira.”

“I'm better. Hungry, but better.” I let her squeeze me, partly because it felt good and partly because I didn't have the energy to make her stop.

“Well, goodness, let's get some food in my girl.” She pulled out a tiny cell phone and pushed a button. “Joe, she's awake. Yes, meet us in the kitchen.”

That's when it dawned on me.
Oh my God, my mother has a cell phone
—
and an office
. I looked back at her desk.
And a Macintosh
.

“Mother, I think I'm hallucinating.” I was serious.

“What's wrong, honey? What do you see?” She pulled back and stared at me, worry furrowing her brow.

I pointed to the computer. “What's that?”

She turned to see where I gestured, then faced me again with a smirk.

“You know it's a computer. Don't be a snob.”

“And this?” I pulled the cell phone from her hand.

“Fine, we've come into the twenty-first century, are you happy? You can't run a business these days without a bit of technology here and there. Your dad has discovered some BBC America show called
Doctor Who
, and now we are overrun with gadgets. It was his idea to do all the door sensors.”

I giggled. “Dad watched television?” The laugh turned into hysterics.
My parents
, the ones who would never pander to The Man and get a telephone when I was a teen, or let me have a television.

One of my rebellious acts as a grown woman with a job was to buy a forty-two-inch plasma with my first bonus check. I watched it for forty-eight hours straight one weekend. Geez, now my mom and dad had cell phones and a computer. Pure absurdity.

“I think you need to eat.” Grimacing, she pushed me to the door.

She led me to a large room with several dining tables. They too were made out of bamboo and in all different shapes, with accompanying low bench seats.

“Is there anyone staying here?”

“Yes. We have a corporate retreat this weekend. They are up in the hills on a hike. They won't be back for hours.”

I followed her through silver swinging doors and into one of the most beautiful kitchens I'd ever seen, straight out of
Architectural Digest
.

“Holy crap, Mom, this is gorgeous.” I swept my hand along the cold, black granite counters. Everything else was stainless steel and glass. There were two industrial stoves and three Sub-Zeroes in the enormous space. Windows lined the north wall.

She pulled out a bar stool at one of the two large islands. “Have a seat, and I'll see what I can find you to eat.”

Dad walked in dressed in a big gray sweatshirt and jeans. Some things never changed. His long blond hair had a few white streaks, but he was as handsome as ever. “Puddles.” He hugged me hard. I hadn't heard that god-awful name in years.

“Hey, Daddy.” I hugged him back. Puddles was a nickname he gave me twenty years ago, and, well, it had to do with my fear of the outhouse we had to use when the toilet broke in the trailer. I'll say no more.

He sat down beside me. “I'm so glad you came to visit.” He acted like I hadn't been dragged here against my will, or that I hadn't seen a woman teetering on a roof just before she leapt to her death. I wondered how much my mother told him.

She put a plate of food in front of me along with some chamomile tea, and I eyed the meal warily. “I'm glad too,” I said absently, wondering if she actually thought the sliced tofu and avocado on my plate was real food. I cut into the avocado and took a bite.

I made a solemn oath the day I went off to Harvard that I'd never eat tofu again, and I was sticking by that. I didn't care how hungry I became; I wouldn't cave.

Last year I'd been home alone in my Atlanta condo for Thanksgiving and ate nothing but Hot Pockets and corn dogs with mustard for four days. I loved it. Anyone who has had multiple servings of Tofurky will understand.

“If she's up to it, maybe you can show Kira the new vineyard, and your sculpture garden.”

Dad clapped his hands together and the popping sound almost made me fall out of my chair. “Oh, sorry, Puddles, the nerves must still be bothering you.”

“Joe!” my mom admonished.

“Sorry, kiddo. You know we're going to get you fixed up. You'll be ready to rule the world in no time.”

Mom touched his arm, and he shrugged.

“It's okay, Dad. I've just been under the weather. I'd love to see the vineyard and the garden.”

Mom's phone vibrated on the counter. “I'll take this in the office. You two have fun, but don't do too much. It's her first day out of bed.”

Dad patted my shoulder. “I'll take care of the kiddo.”

After my meager lunch, I followed Dad out the back of the complex. “What did you guys name the place?”

He laughed. “Peace Agenda.”

I chuckled. “Really?” That was the name of the list my parents made up every time they were getting ready for a big fight, which wasn't often. In fact, I only remembered them raising their voices a few times.

They were hippies twenty-five years after it had been popular. Everything we ate was organic; we recycled before anyone in Sweet had even heard of it, and they approached problems intellectually, including their
discussions
.

They met at Wesleyan while doing their doctoral studies and have always said it was a perfect match from day one. The only time I'd ever heard raised voices in the house was when they were discussing me, or something I'd done.

I'm actually a list-maker myself, though I seldom do it before I argue with someone. Some people do needlepoint, I make lists.

And I couldn't be more different from my parents. I like the luxuries of life—nice clothes, great food—and I don't mind working hard to get them.

The air was brisk and the wind, which never stops here, whipped my hair around. We walked into a courtyard filled with an array of flowers and plants, along with huge bronze and other metal sculptures. One, in the center, looked like a giant V taking flight. It was as if it floated above the ground.

“Daddy?” I pulled my jacket tighter around me. It was overcast and the wind bit through my thin clothing.

“Yes, it's mine.”

“It looks like it's ready to fly away. I love it.” I smiled and it was genuine. These weren't at all like the pieces of junk that had graced our yard years ago. Or maybe they were, and my perception had changed.

“I actually designed the landscaping and the house too, though your mother helped with some of the interior design.” He said the words nonchalantly.

The art took my breath away. I'd never known my dad was so talented.

My thoughts churned and whirled, and suddenly I felt dizzy. A hand touched my shoulder, but my dad was in front of me. I turned to see who had joined us, and no one was there. I shivered.

“Do you mind if I see the vineyards tomorrow? I'm—I don't know. I think I need to sit down.”

“Oh, no.” He frowned. “Let's get you inside. You need some of your mom's lavender tea to warm you up. And I'll find you a better jacket for tomorrow.” He looked down at my shoes. “Perhaps we should take a trip into town and get you some walking shoes. The vineyards are in the hills, and I don't think they'd be kind to those.”

He led me back to my room and I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You rest, now,” Dad said as he shut the door.

It had been a strange afternoon. I knew the shivers I had felt didn't have a darn thing to do with the cold. It felt like somebody was watching me.
I'm going insane.
I would have bet big money that someone stood next to me in that garden. A hand had touched my shoulder, but I hadn't seen a soul.