Chasing Rainbows A Novel

ELEVEN


“T PAFY FG T ATLWBL FP PTHK, WIU UATU FP GBU DATU PAFYP TLK WIFQU HBL.”

-IGRGBDG

Three weeks later, the UPS man had grown sick of delivering packages to my front door, and Diane and I still hadn’t spoken. Truth be told, I missed her. A lot. She might be a hormone-crazed purse fiend, but she was also the one constant in my life. At least she had been.

After my sixth voice mail went unanswered, I’d stopped calling.

The night of the family talent show arrived, and even though I wasn’t speaking to her mother, I’d promised Ashley I’d go.

Diane and David had been unwilling to perform without their Sonny and Cher costumes and Ashley wanted all of the moral support she could get.

I cruised the school parking lot, hoping for an available parking space. Glancing at the dashboard clock, I realized I was ten minutes late.

Even when I had no life I couldn’t get somewhere on time.

Relief eased through me when I cleared the threshold of the foyer and spotted the flashing overhead lights. My relief, however, quickly gave way to sensations far different.

Ryan stood on the far side of the lobby, his palm planted possessively against the small of another woman’s back.

My face went hot. My face went cold. I was torn between the desire to run and the desire to vomit.

I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself not to shriek or faint or in any way call attention to myself, but he spotted me just the same. Ryan possessed a sixth sense when it came to me, but the realization he still felt my presence didn’t do much to console me as I looked at his companion’s swollen belly.

He met my gaze then whispered something in the other woman’s ear. She glanced in my direction and smiled. A tight, uncomfortable smile. A smile that said she knew exactly what she’d done to my marriage. Hell, to my life.

She turned away, but as Ryan made his way toward me, I studied her, not believing what I saw.

I’d pictured young and gorgeous. I’d pictured radiant skin and perky breasts. I’d never pictured someone my age with two teenagers in tow. I glanced again at her baby bump and swallowed.

I hadn’t been prepared for being replaced by someone just like me--only fertile.

“We met in the parking lot when I gave Ashley a ride to one of her dances.”

Ryan’s voice sounded close beside me. When his fingers closed around my elbow, I jerked my arm free and took several steps away from him.

I nodded as if his explanation made perfect sense. “Does Ashley know her?” Even more importantly, “Do Diane and David know her?”

Ryan shook his head. “They’ll meet her for the first time tonight. I promise.”

Lucky, lucky me. Just in time to be a happy witness to the couple’s first public appearance.

“Your promises don’t go too far with me, Ryan.”

He nodded, letting his focus drift to his shoes. Then a crease formed between his dark brows and he shifted his attention back to my face.

Maybe it was the shock of seeing Ryan, or the shock of seeing the other woman, but sudden tears swam in my vision. Much to my dismay, a traitorous drop slid down my cheek.

Ryan reached for my face, and I captured his hand in mine. “Don’t.”

I thought he might seize the moment to tell me he was sorry for everything that had happened, but he didn’t.

“I’d better get back.” He turned to walk away, but hesitated, pivoting to face me once more. “I’m taking flying lessons.”

“Flying lessons?” He could have knocked me over with a feather.

Pride danced in his eyes. “I always wanted to fly.”

I nodded. “But I never thought you’d do it.”

He gave a quick shrug. “Why not?”

Why not? I returned his shrug. “Why not?”

“How about you?” He tipped his chin. “Any new tricks?”

I thought about the belly-dancing DVD still safely sealed in its cellophane, the Maryland crab cakes frozen before I’d tasted a single one, and Number Thirty-Six’s offer of lessons for Poindexter. An offer I’d soundly ignored.

“A few.” I nodded, lying through my teeth.

“Good.” Ryan’s smile spread wide across his face, lighting up his features. “You deserve to be happy.”

“We all do.” I answered flatly, unable to wrench my stare from the uninhibited joy plastered across his face.

Maybe he’d needed someone to light the dark places inside him I couldn’t reach. After all, how can you illuminate another when your own shadows run so deep?

“She listens to my dreams, Bernie.” Ryan spoke the words softly, as if he were afraid to hurt me. Before I could respond, he turned and walked away.

I studied his back. Then I measured what he’d said.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d listened to his dreams.

I stood frozen to the spot as he interlaced his fingers with that of his new love and steered her toward the theatre doors.

Apparently I hadn’t been listening for a very long time.

o0o

I stopped off at the all-night convenience store on my way home from the high school. I’d like to say I bought nothing but healthy foods--skim milk, yogurt, fresh fruit. But that would be a total lie.

In reality, I walked out of that store carrying every sweet and salty snack my increasingly chubby arms could manage.

Somewhere around two o’clock in the morning I began to feel queasy--really and truly queasy.

I’d been binging on caramel-filled chocolates and watching a Hart to Hart marathon. This seemed like a perfectly reasonable course of action until the chocolate tangled with the nacho chips I’d layered into my stomach during the previous hour.

The gangs in West Side Story had nothing on the junk food battling it out inside my gut.

I burped, more than a little unladylike. Poindexter hoisted his head from the sofa to glare at me before he tucked his nose behind a pillow.

I blew out a deep sigh and sank back against the cushions, turning my focus from my dog to the pile of empty wrappers strewn across the coffee table.

No wonder my clothes didn’t fit.

If I kept this up much longer the only thing I’d achieve was proving a person actually could explode.

I clicked off the television and moved to stand. My over-sugared limbs protested, so I rolled off of the sofa instead. I crawled toward the DVD player and reached for the belly-dancing DVD, still secure inside its wrapper.

Getting the cellophane off the case might have been a workout, but it was the DVD itself that blew me away. Had I been born a double-jointed, swivel-hipped, rubber-band woman, the moves might have been doable. But, because I had been born...well...me...the moves were anything but.

I’m sure my gyrations weren’t easy to watch. Matter of fact, five minutes into the beginner routine, Poindexter groaned and left the room.

I paused for a moment, watching the dog’s departure.

What did it say when even man’s best friend could no longer take being in same room with you?

I worked out for...oh...another five or six minutes before the stitch in my side became more than I could bear.

Not a problem. I had a plethora of infomercial purchases to choose from in search of my next activity.

I started with the flashlight that needed no batteries. The instructions clearly stated a simple shake would magically cause the flashlight to illuminate. Quite frankly, the beam of light was about as weak as my atrophied muscles.

I tossed the flashlight aside and reached for my next victim.

The space-saver bags.

I started with the linen closet upstairs, ignoring the groan of protest from Poindexter, now firmly ensconced beneath my bed.

I cleared the shelves, stuffing extra sheets, towels and blankets into the assortment of bags that had come in the deluxe package.

Next, I dug the vacuum cleaner out of the guest room, plugged it in and used the attachment hose to suck every ounce of air from the bags.

I was left with an empty closet and the sinking realization the sense of accomplishment brought on by the sight of flattened storage bags was the most satisfaction I’d felt in a long time.

I pulled myself up, tossed the bags into the closet and shut the door, vowing to take drastic action.

I cleaned.

I tore the house apart from top to bottom, from kitchen cupboard to garage shelves. By the time the sun rose, the pile of discarded items on the curb resembled a mini Kilimanjaro and oddly, I didn’t care what the neighbors thought.

My house sparkled, purged of the old and unused. Scrubbed clean of accumulated cobwebs and dust.

I planted my fists on my hips and smiled.

Poindexter tentatively poked his nose from beneath the bed and studied me. Then he studied his surroundings, the look of amazement blatant across his furry face.

“This is how we’re going to do things from here on out,” I said, nodding my head in his direction. “No more hanging on to crap. No more letting clutter overwhelm us.” I pumped my fist into the air. “We’re going to face life head-on and we’re going to deal with whatever happens.”

The dog moaned and backpedaled out of sight.

I confidently marched into the master bathroom and reached for the thing I feared the most.

The scale.

I drew in a deep breath, steadied myself, then placed the scale in the middle of the tile floor. I pressed the button to activate the electronics and waited for the series of zeros that were my cue to step aboard.

I closed my eyes as I waited for the beep, seriously unprepared for what I saw when I looked at the readout.

One hundred and fifty-one pounds.

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. I looked again.

Damn.

This was a new all-time low...er...high.

I peeled off my clothes, layer by layer, until I stood in the middle of my bathroom buck-naked.

I reset the scale and tried again.

One hundred and fifty.

Holy cow.

Without thinking, I jerked open the bathroom window and hurled my most hated possession toward the pile of trash below.

The scale hit the sidewalk in an explosion of glass and metal.

“Rough night?”

I winced.

Number Thirty-Six.

Didn’t this guy ever sleep?

I peered out the window, frowning at the sight of the man walking his cat on a leash.

Who the hell walked their cat on a leash?

When his eyes popped wide, I remembered a key point.

I dropped to my knees and pressed my naked back to the wall.

With any luck, the entire episode would be blanked from Number Thirty-Six’s memory by the terrifying vision of my bare breasts.

I pressed my face to my palms and muttered a string of expletives.

Just when I thought I had it all together, I was forced to realize I was, in fact, hopeless.

The trill of the telephone gave me a welcome excuse to crawl across the bathroom floor toward my bedroom.

The shock of my new weight, the sugar crash from the night before, and the look of sheer terror on Number Thirty-Six’s face combined to trigger a sharp pain above my left eyebrow.

I reached for the phone just as the machine prepared to click into action.

“Yes.”

Granted, the sharp bark was not my typical greeting, nor was it particularly appropriate for the impending holiday season, but it summed up exactly how I felt--mortified, overweight and in no mood for sales calls or conversation.

“May I please speak with Bernadette Murphy?” Try as I might, I couldn’t place the deep male voice on the other end of the phone.

I frowned, automatically expecting the worst.

A bill collector.

Neighborhood trash police.

Indecent exposure investigator.

I steeled myself. “Speaking.”

“Ms. Murphy, this is Jim Barnes, the Op Ed Editor for the Courier Post. I received your Letter to the Editor and I’d like to run it, with your permission.”

“Run it?”

I winced as soon as the words slipped between my lips. My voice had grown so tight with surprise I sounded like a startled parrot.

“Yes,” he answered, his patience palpable across the line.

“In the paper?”

Parrot.

Startled.

Asinine.

Mr. Barnes’s soft chuckle was unmistakable. “Yes. In the paper.”

“No shit.”

This time I squeezed my eyes tight and cringed. “Excuse me. I’m just a bit...”

“I apologize. I shouldn’t have called you this early.”

I waved one hand, as if he could see the gesture through the phone. “Not a problem. I guess you get this reaction all the time?”

“Not really.” I could hear the kind smile on his face. I’d never met Mr. Barnes, but I liked him instantly. “I was impressed with not only the content of your letter, but your style. We’ll be giving the article a byline.”

I pressed my lips together so tightly I no doubt resembled a mouthless Keanu Reeves from The Matrix. I made a noise without opening my mouth, afraid of what I might actually say.

“May I take that as a yes?”

Another noise.

“Very well then. We’d like to run this on Sunday as part of our special holiday issue.”

My letter.

In the paper.

Sunday.

With a byline.

I nodded, incapable of doing anything else.

“Ms. Murphy?”

“Yes.” I shook myself out of my stunned silence. “Thank you. Yes. I’d be honored.”

I pulled an oversized sweatshirt over my head before I headed back to the bathroom. I stared down at the pile of trash I’d once thought necessary pieces of my life.

Number Thirty-Six was nowhere in sight, but a pair of early morning walkers had paused to shake their heads at the mess I’d made.

Oddly, I felt nothing but happy amazement.

Maybe sometimes you had to clear out the old before you could make space for the new. And maybe once you did, the new was like nothing you’d ever imagined.

Maybe, it was even better.

o0o

“A ship in a harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

-Unknown