Objects of My Affection (39 page)

The title is exchanged for cash, and Skeet hops into the driver's seat. “Woo-hoo! I'm gonna treat this baby right. She is one sexy beast.”

“Enjoy,” I say. “I sure have.”

He smacks the steering wheel. “Can't wait! How about those keys?”

“Oh, gosh, almost forgot!” I pull my keys from my pocket and start to detach the key from the ring. “You know, I originally bought this car to piss off my ex-husband, but then I grew to love it.”

“I'll bet.”

“When I'm driving this car, I feel … free. Like even a trip to the grocery store is an adventure. Although I never did get around to fixing the top.”

“First thing I'm gonna do.”

Still wrestling with the key, I say, “Lucky you. I didn't have the cash to do it once it broke. I'm getting a big bonus for this job I'm working here, and I was going to spend part of it to make this into a convertible again.”

“You want me to get that off for you?”

“I've almost got it. Anyway, I'm driving cross-country, so I'm going to have to buy a more sensible car. Which is no big deal. It doesn't matter what I drive. This car was great while it lasted, but it's time to move on.”

“I'd be glad to give that a shot if you're having a problem—”

“Got it!” I hand him the key. “There you go.”

He puts it in the ignition and starts the car. “Glad you don't want it anymore.”

“It's not that I don't want it. And I wish I'd gotten a chance to drive it again with the top down, wind in my hair and all that. But I can't … it's not practical, and besides, what's important is—”

“Okay! I'm sure whatever made you give up this baby was worth it.”

“Definitely. It's for my son. I'm moving to Arizona for him, and that meant the car needed to go, which again is no big deal because—”

“Awesome! See ya.” He slips into reverse and backs out the driveway.

I fully expect to raise my hand and wave so long, so imagine my surprise when I'm running after him, banging on the hood and shouting for him to stop. “Wait!”

He's partway down the drive when he brakes, looking through the windshield at me expectantly. I run over, gesture for him to roll down the passenger window so he can hear me. “It's not for sale,” I say, breathing heavily from my quick sprint after him.

“What are you talking about? You just sold it to me.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Too bad, because it's already done. You got the cash, and I got the title.”

I pull the wad of money from my pocket. “Here.”

“No chance. This is my baby now.” He slips it into reverse. I yank the door open and start to jump in as he taps the accelerator. The door's swinging and my leg is dangling as I say, “You can't have it!”

Skeet slows to a roll but doesn't stop. “Get out!”

“No!” My heart is thumping out of my chest, and I feel as if, if I don't stop him, it's the final scene in every romantic comedy where the plane is pulling away and it seems lost for the young lovers … only I want the plane, not the guy inside it.

“You wreck my door, you pay for it!” Skeet yells.

“No way! Give it back! You can't have everything! Not all of it again! This car belongs to
me.
It's not fair to ask me to give up everything I've worked for—not when you haven't done jack-all yourself!”

“What the … ?!”

“Just because
I
want a life doesn't mean I've abandoned you, so quit making me feel that way! I'm not doing it again! I won't!”

Skeet hits the brake, throws the car into park, and starts shoving me out the door. “Get out of my car, you crazy bitch!”

“It's
my
car,” I shout, reaching for the keys as he keeps pushing at me. I manage to at least turn off the ignition, and then it degrades quickly into a tussle. There's further shoving, some ugly name-calling, and possibly hair pulling, then I notice the hood snap up.

“What the f—?” Skeet says, and by the time he jumps from the car to check out what's happening, Marva is standing there holding some sort of a hose and a couple wires.

“If the young lady says the car is not for sale, it's not for sale,” she says.

“I can't believe you pulled that from my car!” Skeet says, but it's clear that he's unnerved by Marva's calm authority—I sure am, and I don't have a stupid name like Skeet.

He starts yelling and feather-ruffling at Marva, who seems bored by his display. It at least draws Niko over.

Skeet makes an appeal to him. “I bought this car fair and square, and your psycho friend here starts screaming crap at me that doesn't make any sense.”

Niko looks at me. “What were you saying?”

“All the right words,” Marva says, handing Niko the wires and the hose, then clapping the grit off her hands. “Wrong person.”

From there, the sale is quickly undone. Niko drives Skeet to the train station, promising to return to fix my car. I join Marva on the porch, enjoying the view of my shiny, freshly washed Mustang beneath the oak trees on this fine spring morning.

Marva leans back in her chair. “So it turns out Miss Free Spirit is attached to something after all.”

“Guess so,” I say, since there's no point denying it. “Oddly enough, it's not the car itself so much as the
idea
of it—how it makes me feel to have it.”

“Precisely. Welcome to the human race.”

A few more minutes of listening to the sound of wind rustling the leaves and then I say, “It's not only that I want to keep the car—I want to keep my life, here in Chicago. I don't want to start over again.”

“I gathered that from your wild ranting.”

“Ash is going to be disappointed. He's going to feel I'm letting him down.”

“Are you?”

I ponder her question. It's not as if I believe California is the perfect solution, or I would gladly pay anything. But it's no more certain than the other choices I've already given him, either going back to the Willows or moving home and doing outpatient rehab. I'd be giving up all I've earned more as a show of what a loving mother I am rather than truly doing the loving thing. “No,” I say, “I'm not.”

Not until late afternoon, when I've called more than a dozen times, does Ash finally pick up the phone in his motel room. When he answers with a sleepy grunt, I say, “Ash, it's your mother. There's something I need to tell you.”

Task: Practice saying no. It's too many yeses that got you into this mess, so look in a mirror, hold firm, be tough, and say, NO! It may seem strange at first, but it gets easier.

—Things Are Not People Workbook
(proposal)

L
ater that night, I'm in the office with Marva, again annoying her with my darting about. It's just that there's so much left to do. It's the only room that's still a hoard-level mess, and I'm not about to let it prevent me from getting my payoff on Friday. Truthfully, only a total jerk wouldn't give me the bonus for all I've accomplished, but Will's the one in charge of the checkbook, and only recently has he demonstrated being anything
but
a jerk.

My body may be hard at work, but my mind is in Florida. I can't stop thinking about Ash, who is not happy with me right now. (As opposed to my mom, who was only disappointed for a second, then
brightened at the realization she doesn't have to clean out the spare room.)

I have handed Ash his choices and given him until tomorrow to decide: the Willows or come home for outpatient rehab. After that, I told him, the motel goes away, and so does my other financial support. To deliver that news with believability, I harkened back to how I was able to stick firm to my price when selling the car earlier today and reminded myself that, as in that situation, I have the upper hand here. Specifically: I have the money. And—though I'm terrified that Ash is going to choose neither, that he'll be willing to be penniless and homeless in Florida rather than take the help I'm offering—I'm not going to go running after him changing my mind. It's his turn to step up.
Please, Ash, I'm begging you, step up.

Carrying a stack of yellowed newspapers to be recycled, I knock into the canvas for the millionth time, sending it wobbling. Which is not entirely my fault. Both the canvas and Marva's painting are parked smack in the middle of the room, but neither of us is willing to move them—me, because I still hope they'll be an inspiration, and Marva, because they may as well be invisible. She doesn't even glance in that direction, as if she's a bat able to avoid them by sonar.

“Slow down,” Marva says, “I do have a few things of value in here.”

“Yes, and that reminds me, Smitty is eager to get his hands on the rest of it. He's coming tomorrow, don't forget. You'll need to stay in your room so he doesn't see you.”

“Shall I wear a dunce cap and face the corner?”

“Hey, I'm not the one worried about people finding out how your house was so cluttered—that's you and Will.”

“It's Will,” she corrects.

I balance carefully on a stack of old magazines to pull a hodgepodge of vases and urns from the top of a shelf unit for Marva to sort through later. “The house is certainly something you can be proud of now, don't you think?” I say, reaching for an urn decorated with what appears to be flowers from a distance but at closer inspection is a fairly
graphic depiction of an orgy. “If Smitty hadn't seen your house before, it wouldn't matter now if he knew it was yours.”

“Careful!” she shouts. “That urn happens to be extremely precious! So don't—”

Too late—I'd been fine, but her outburst threw me off-balance, sending me sliding on the magazine covers. Clutching the extremely precious urn to my chest to protect it, I tumble to the ground, aiming for a pile of papers to cushion my fall. I land with a crashing thud—I missed—which jostles the lid off the urn, sending its contents flying. Soot and dirt get in my face and hair and on my clothes, and spill out over the floor.

Sputtering in annoyance, I sit up and dust myself off. “What
is
all this?”

“Filleppe.”

It takes about a half second for what she's said to register, and another half second for me to go completely hysterical.
“His ASHES!?”
I scream, wiping frantically at my face, shaking out my hair, and swatting it from my clothes.
EEEEEEEyaaaaa, I'm covered in the ashes of a dead man!

“Calm down,” Marva says. “It's not literally his ashes.”

“What—what do you mean ‘not literally'?”

“They're merely representative. They're ashes from my house that burned down. He was inside when it happened, but it wasn't possible to recover his ashes specifically. These have had to suffice.”

“Oh.” I sit, trying to regain a semblance of composure. When my breathing is back to normal, I say, “Sorry. I didn't mean to be disrespectful of the deceased. It just freaked me out.” I get up so I can get a dustpan from the kitchen and rinse off my face, feeling worse when I notice her rueful expression. “I'll sweep it carefully—I'll bet we can get most of it back in that urn.”

When I return, Marva is on hands and knees, using the side of her hand to gather the ashes on the floor.

“Let me. You've got those bad knees.”

She nods and pulls herself up. I glance up at her as she sits in her
chair, wiping her hands carefully on a tissue. Her face is such a kaleidoscope of emotions that she looks like a different person—yet oddly familiar somehow. It's as if she's peeled back a mask to reveal …

The painting behind her.

Woman, Freshly Tossed.

“That's a self-portrait,” I say.

The features aren't Marva's entirely. Marva's cheekbones are far more striking, her brow more arched, plus she's not blue—but the face, right now, is absolutely Marva.

“Only egotists do self-portraits,” she says, echoing her words from when I first met her, but now I realize she's being facetious.

“The man in the background, then, is that Filleppe?”

She turns to regard the painting—the first time I've seen her look at it since her horrified reaction when Will unveiled it. “He'd always tell people, ‘Don't let a woman paint you when she's angry. She'll take it out on the size of your nose.'”

“So that's why you don't like it. It's a reminder of someone you lost.”

It wasn't a question. I don't expect an answer, but she says, “That painting is said to be my greatest work. It certainly established me as an artist, and one on the cutting edge … an innovator. Which is ironic, because when I look at it, all I see is a reminder of how very
ordinary
I am. Through some feat of illusion with paints and a canvas, I managed to trick the world into seeing brilliance. Yet all the while, there I was—the great Marva Meier Rios—nothing but a silly girl willing to make a fool of herself for love.”