Chasing Rainbows A Novel

TWO



“NTC RJBC MX EFXC FY PMN YM BIAT FP TMEQFPR J RMMQ TJPQ JY LEJZFPR J LMMH TJPQ DCEE.”

-T.N. ECYEFC



Poindexter and I had eaten every carbohydrate in the house by the next afternoon.

There are those who might think the massive upheaval of my life combined with empty cupboards presented the chance to fully reinvent myself, starting with my grocery shopping and eating habits.

I could work up a week-long menu balancing each day’s consumption in an effort to increase energy, improve health, and decrease thigh girth.

I could shop smart, eat smart and reap the benefits. Or, I could eat junk food.

Five minutes later, I pulled into the Walgreen’s parking lot. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

I didn’t notice my footwear faux pas--one spotted slipper and one clog--until I’d shuffled halfway down the cosmetic aisle.

Was my life in such disarray I could no longer select matching footwear?

Apparently, yes.

I lifted my focus from my fashion-challenged footwear to the activity buzzing around me. Fellow shoppers chattered and browsed, scanned and purchased. They walked and talked at hyper-speed, self-contained bursts of energy and purpose.

The blur of faces and voices dizzied me, and I fought the urge to tap someone on the shoulder.

“Yes?” the perfect stranger would reply.

“My father died,” I’d explain.

The stranger’s brows would crumple. She’d cluck her tongue sympathetically and pat my shoulder, nodding to a passerby.

“Her father died,” she’d say, and the new stranger would mutter comforting words, cluck her tongue and stop yet someone else.

I imagined things would continue on this way until clucking and patting strangers surrounded me. For the first time in days, I felt loved and comforted, wrapped in the imaginary embrace of countless Walgreen’s shoppers.

Just imagine what would happen if I tossed in Ryan’s desertion on top of everything else. Hell, the manager would probably make an announcement over the public address system.

Dumped mourner on aisle six. Please stop by on your way to the register to cluck and pat.

“Lady.” An impatient voice interrupted my mental tangent--too close and too real to be part of my fantasy. “You’re blocking the cotton balls.”

I focused long enough for the woman’s annoyed frown to register. So much for my imaginary world of comfort.

“Sorry,” I mumbled as I sidestepped toward facial creams. I grabbed a pore-reducing mask then headed for the candy aisle. After all, I might be in shock, but I wasn’t stupid.

An hour later my face hurt, my stomach hurt and I’d dug my wedding video out of the deep dark recesses of the hall closet.

I’d made another attempt at the first cryptogram in Dad’s journal, giving up after a solid three minutes of concentration. I’d chosen to revisit the past instead. After all, things had seemed so much brighter back then.

I fast-forwarded through the video, freezing the screen at my favorite moment. My waltz with Dad.

I remembered the moment as if it were yesterday. We’d fumbled through our dance, Dad counting off the steps under his breath as I concentrated on smiling up at him instead of looking down at my feet. We’d practiced night after night in my parents’ living room in the weeks before my wedding to Ryan.

I pressed the play button on the remote and tossed back a handful of chocolate as Ryan cut in, beaming down at me as if he’d never love anyone the way he loved me at that moment.

Sometimes the happy moments of your life came in a rush, overwhelming in their lightness and brightness. Sometimes those same moments lingered in the recesses of memory, assurances that no matter how bad things might seem, happier times would come again.

And sometimes...sometimes those happy moments served as a reminder that there were no guarantees in life, in happiness, in anything.

My throat closed up and I choked. Choked on the reality my wedding video no longer meant a thing.

After all, what would I say if someone stumbled across the tape during a party? Assuming I ever gave a party again.

“Community theatre.” I’d wave my hand dismissively. “A little play that ran for a while after college.”

The phone rang and I squeezed my eyes shut, tired of seeing the smiling faces on the video and not wanting to look at the Caller ID on the phone.

“Mrs. Murphy?” A clipped voice spoke as soon as the answering machine’s beep sounded. “It’s Pat Diller from the Canine Academy.”

Dread rolled in my stomach and I glared at Poindexter. He tipped his head from side to side, apparently trying to make sense of the talking voice emanating from the machine.

“We held our weekly staff meeting this morning and decided it best Poindexter doesn’t return to class. Your full refund will be in tomorrow’s mail.”

The dial tone sounded briefly before the machine disconnected, and I narrowed my gaze on the dog. He rolled over onto his side, settling back into his daily routine, totally oblivious to the fact he’d just been booted from his fourth obedience school for his inability to sit, stay and refrain from tormenting the other students.

I didn’t know why I held fantasies about recreating my life when I couldn’t even train the dog.

At least this time we were getting a refund. My luck had either changed or the folks at the Canine Academy figured returning my money was a small price to pay to ensure Poindexter never set a paw inside their school again.

Hoping my luck had changed, I rapped my knuckles against the distressed oak of the coffee table. Poindexter charged the front door, fangs bared, barking like a fool.

“It was me, you goof.”

He tipped his head in my direction, squinting as if I were the fool. He retrained his focus on the crack between the door and wall, a low growl rumbling from deep inside his throat.

Perhaps I should have spent more time with the dog and less time with Ryan. Maybe then at least one relationship in my life would fall into the success category.

Poindexter left the door, jumped back up on the sofa and snuggled into the pillows, apparently spent from his guard-dog exertion. Napping was not an unappealing idea, but I had a better one.

I had just uncorked an ancient bottle of wine when Diane let herself in the front door.

“So now you’re not answering your door or your phone?”

I’d left her a message after I quit my job, but I hadn’t picked up the phone since then.

Pink splotches covered Diane’s chest and throat. She’d flushed like this for as long as I’d known her.

One time in third grade, Mrs. Haberstadt had sent Diane to the principal’s office for chewing gum, and the principal had sent her home sick with no punishment or warning.

Diane had broken out into so many spots on the way to his office he’d wanted nothing more than to get her the hell off school property before she spread whatever rare disease he thought she’d contracted to the entire student body.

“Are you listening to me?” Diane’s blotches marched north, threatening to overtake her cheeks.

I nodded without saying a word, trying frantically to remember the last time I’d seen her so emotional.

She yanked the bottle of wine from my hand. “Are you drunk?” One fist landed sharply on her hip and she glared at me.

I shook my head.

She pinched her lips into a tight line then jerked her thumb toward the television and the mess of junk food strewn across the coffee table. “Cookies. Ice cream. Wedding video. Wine. You have every right to feel sorry for yourself, but binging isn’t going to help anything.”

I shrugged. So I felt sorry for myself. Shoot me. “Is this lecture going anywhere or are you in one of those moods where you like to hear yourself talk?”

Harsh, I knew, but years of experience had taught me that Diane’s rants were best stopped before they could get started.

She glared at me then like I’d never seen her glare before.

Poindexter launched himself from the sofa and careened toward the kitchen at a full-out sprint. The dog was not only obedience-challenged, but he couldn’t stomach conflict in any shape or variety.

“I--” Diane splayed one hand against her chest as if she had a plan to save the world “--am here to keep you from falling into a funk.”

“Funk?” Now she was pissing me off. I returned her glare and straightened my spine. “What’s the matter? Is my shitty mood offending you somehow?”

Diane’s eyebrows lifted toward her hairline. “Don’t take this the wrong way, sweetie, but the fact you’re in any mood at all is a good sign. Now we just have to channel that energy into moving forward.”

She gestured toward the front door as if she intended to shove my old life out in order to make room for the new one. Zip. Zip. Piece of cake.

“First of all, don’t call me sweetie. Second of all, what are you trying to say? I’ve been a zombie or something?” I squinted at her.

Diane shrugged. “If the robe fits.”

Her blotches had merged, giving her the appearance of a lobster with a hot flash.

“Just how strong are those prenatals they put you on?” I tightened the sash on my terry-cloth bathrobe. I was not without my dignity, after all. “And you can’t tell me how to feel.”

“That’s great.” Diane moved to the coffee table and systematically gathered my junk food into a pile. “Been watching Dr. Phil during your down time?”

“So what if I have?”

She hoisted the pile into her arms and pivoted on one heel, headed straight toward the kitchen.

Shock and disbelief tapped at the base of my brain. “Where are you going?”

“To the mall. And you’re coming with me.” She disappeared around the corner and I heard the distinct click of the trash can lid hitting the wall.

That got my attention.

“Don’t you dare--” The swoosh of my dietary staples sliding into the trash stopped me mid-sentence.

“Now then.” My soon-to-be-ex best friend reappeared in the hall and wrapped her fingers around my elbow. “You’re getting a shower and I’m going to pick out some clothes.” She gave my stomach a quick pat. “If you haven’t already eaten yourself into the next size.”

“Bitch,” I mumbled beneath my breath.

“Damn right.”

We stared at each other then, two friends who had seen each other through just about everything two friends can see each other through.

Much as I longed to run to the kitchen and pull my chocolate from the trash, I stood my ground, staring into Diane’s eyes.

Her gaze softened, and tears welled in my vision.

She pulled me into a hug and I leaned into her, wrapping my arms around her waist, willing her strength and determination to seep into my body. “Sorry I called you a bitch.”

“That’s okay.” She spoke softly against my ear. “It’s an unwritten rule that you can call your best friend a bitch when you’re out of your mind with shock and sugar.” She pushed me to arm’s length. “You’ll feel better after you get some fresh air. I promise.”

I wasn’t sure a trip to the mall constituted fresh air, but I was in no shape to argue, especially not when Diane was on a mission.

“You’d better hurry up--” she tipped her chin toward the dent on the sofa where Poindexter had been “--otherwise we won’t have time to shop and be back for obedience class.”

I made a face and shook my head.

Diane pressed her lips tightly together. “Oh, honey. This is so not your month.”

In that moment, I realized I didn’t need the clucking and patting strangers at the store. Diane had stood by me through new math, training bras, driver’s education, losing Emma and now--apparently--she planned to help kick start the reinvention of my life.

She whistled as I climbed the steps in front of her. “Damn, Bernie. How much have you eaten?”

Sometimes, you simply needed an old friend to give you a kick in the ass.

o0o

One stylish--and previously too large--velour lounging outfit later, we were on our way to the mall. While Diane blathered on about second chances, starting over and rediscovering life, I stared silently out the passenger window.

The feeling of detachment I’d felt since Ryan left clung to me still. I found myself wishing I’d changed the locks the moment he left, not so much to keep him from coming back, but to keep my well meaning--but highly annoying--friend out.

Much as I loved Diane, her insistence that life should go on had me considering just what it would take to drive me to homicide.

As I understood it, Diane believed any proper rebirth, and mine in particular, should begin with a makeover. I could hardly wait.

Even worse, she wasn’t about to settle for a department store cosmetic counter. No. She’d set her sights on the mother of mall cosmetics, the Rediscover You kiosk.

I shuddered as we neared the cart in the center of the mall. Diane’s sensible heels snapped smartly against the tile floor while my sneakers squeaked along a few hesitant feet behind her.

I sensed impending doom the moment one of the salesgirls looked up...and winced. I focused on her nametag, hoping for a gentle, sensible name like Helen, or Mary, or Anne.

I squinted as I read the engraved type.

Brittany.

Great.

Brittany cleared her throat, no doubt trying to assess how much commission she was about to earn from my less-than-perfect appearance. “Can I help you?”

I shook my head, but Diane pinched my arm. Hard.

“Yes,” Diane answered with her most serious tone. “My friend has been on the receiving end of some rather bad news lately and she deserves a little pick me up.”

Rather bad news. I supposed that was one way to sum up the implosion of my life.

“What were you thinking?” Brittany peered closely at me. Too closely.

I fought the urge to cover my face with my hands and run screaming.

Diane tipped her head to join in the scrutiny, and I wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to turn on a huge spotlight and ask every shopper in the mall to rate my pores.

“I’ll take a lipstick then I’m out of here.”

Diane arched a single brow--a move I hated, probably because I couldn’t do it. “She’ll start with some skin care.”

A second salesgirl sidled up to Brittany. This one’s nametag read Tiffany, but they might as well have been twins. Their flawless complexions glowed, their long blond hair shone like waterfalls of honey.

“Prevention or recovery?” Tiffany asked.

How about grief? I wanted to say. How about impending divorce?

I stared into their luminous faces and wondered how they got to work each day. Surely they weren’t old enough to drive. Did their parents drop them off? Did they take the bus?

“Um...” Brittany tipped her head to one side, still studying me.

Definitely not the bus, I decided. Hell, they probably had drivers.

“Prevention?” I guessed, wanting to end my misery.

Both heads shook in matching condescension. Great. So far my shopping excursion was doing wonders for the rediscovery of my self-esteem.

“Definitely recovery,” Tiffany offered.

“Definitely,” Brittany agreed. She tipped her head to the other side. “Have you been under a lot of stress or something?”

“Or not sleeping?” Tiffany asked. “Your skin looks like it’s seen better days.”

Heat began to blossom in my cheeks and Diane placed a hand on my arm.

I’d always been the sort of person who kept her thoughts to herself, at least in public. I decided then and there that decorum was overrated.

“Are you this helpful to all of your customers?” I narrowed my gaze first on Tiffany, then on Brittany.

“Oh yeah,” Tiffany answered, jerking her thumb toward a sign hanging on the kiosk wall. “It’s our motto.”

I read the sign and winced.

You are our most important feature.

I scrubbed a hand across my eyes. “I was being sarcastic, just so you know.”

“Oh,” Tiffany said, as if she had no idea what that meant.

“You really shouldn’t rub your face like that,” Brittany piped up. “You’re going to make your wrinkles even worse.”

I bit my lip and counted to ten.

“Maybe we should go,” Diane murmured under her breath, her grip tightening on my elbow. “This might have been a bad idea.”

You think?

Tiffany nodded and wrinkled her nose. “Maybe you should be shopping at one of the mall anchor stores. Rediscover You might be a little too young for your needs.”

That straw broke this camel’s back.

I’d held it together...all right, basically held it together...through Ryan’s departure and my dad’s funeral, but I had zero intention of holding it together for some little smart-mouthed chippy who needed to be put in her place.

“What did you say to me?” I leaned menacingly across the counter and both girls went slightly pale.

I’m not ashamed to admit my sense of power was more than a little heady.

Diane, no doubt anticipating my impending loss of self-control, tugged on my arm. “Bernie. Let’s go.”

I shook her off, leaning so far across the counter my feet dangled. The stunned kiosk counter duo said nothing.

“I asked a question. Polite society dictates you answer.” I pursed my lips. “Or did they not cover manners yet in your preschool class?”

“Bernie.” Diane hooked one hand into the waistband of my velour lounging pants and yanked.

I released my grip on the counter long enough to swat her away.

Brittany and Tiffany huddled together, sidestepping toward the register, no doubt making a move for the help-there’s-a-middle-aged-wrinkled-woman-threatening-us silent alarm.

They morphed into something far more sinister than Rediscover You employees at that moment...at least in my eyes. To me, they represented every perfectly coiffed, perfectly perfect specimen of the female race, including the woman I liked to think of as PSB--pregnant slut bimbo--also known as Ryan’s new love.

To this day, I don’t know how I did it, but I hurtled over the counter. I jumped up, pivoted on my velour-encased derriere and dropped down into the inner sanctum of flawless-skinned cosmetic sales.

I felt a bit like Jack Nicholson’s character in The Shining at the moment he chops through the bathroom door with an ax. Determined. Focused. And most likely out of my mind.

“Know what you need?”

Both girls shook their heads, and I couldn’t help but notice the way their lustrous tresses reflected the glow of the overhead lights. Had I ever had lustrous tresses? I shoved a hand up into my unruly rat’s nest.

No.

Brittany lifted a phone from its cradle. “You’d better stay back.”

“Or what? You’re going to knock me senseless with the receiver?”

She shook her head again. “I’m calling security.”

“Again,” Diane said sweetly, trying to reach me across the counter. “She’s been under a lot of stress.” She uttered her next statement in her most threatening tone. “Bernie. Let’s go. Now.”

I shot her a warning glance and she backed off. I refocused on my targets. “Where’s the prevention cream?”

While Brittany dialed, Tiffany pointed to a row of boxes to my right. I won’t deny how happy it made me to spot her nervous swallow.

I plucked one box from the shelf and then a second, ripping open fancy cardboard tops and slamming expensive glass vials to the counter. “You two have no idea how much you need prevention cream.” I nodded as I worked. “Trust me. Otherwise, those superiority complexes of yours are going to leave permanent marks.”

I crooked my finger, encouraging them to come closer.

A voice from the loudspeaker called a code something or other to kiosk number fourteen.

“Bernie.”

I lifted my gaze to Diane’s and blinked. If I’d thought she’d been blotchy earlier, I’d been wrong. She’d moved beyond blotchy, beyond lobster, to full-out, flaming, fire-engine red.

I wondered if the kiosk twins had a cream for that.

“Get. Out. Of. There. Now.”

I thought about her request for a full second. Honestly, I did. Her tone was so convincingly authoritative I almost caved to her will, but then Brittany made a fatal mistake.

She spoke.

“Yeah. Get out of here now. You don’t belong here.”

Her words weren’t so much what pushed me over the edge. It was her tone. Her I-will-never-lose-my-perfect-figure-or-my-flawless-skin-and-my-husband-will-never-leave-me tone that sent me lunging for her creamy throat.

Unfortunately, the security guard grabbed me from behind at the precise moment I made my move.

An hour later, Diane and I were escorted out of the mall. She’d received a warning and I’d received a lifetime ban, but that didn’t scare me. I mean, what were they going to do, post my picture at every entrance? Hey. Maybe they’d use those little red circles with the lines through them.

Actually, the thought was rather funny.

Then I realized something.

I was smiling.

Maybe Diane had been right about feeling something. Anything.

Sure, our mall excursion hadn’t exactly left me happy, but it had left me feeling alive, and alive was good.

“You know what?”

“What?” Diane’s exasperated tone had persisted since I’d scaled the counter.

“You were right.” I nodded. “We should do this more often.”

o0o

Later that night I attacked the first cryptogram again. This time, I copied the encoded letters onto a sheet of paper and tried to remember how I’d worked these things once upon a time.

The process came back to me slowly...very slowly. I guessed at word patterns and placements, arbitrarily assigning the letter E where I thought it belonged. The solution took shape at a snail’s pace, but after almost an hour, there it was.

I studied the words, savoring the quote Dad had chosen just for me.

While the message itself was a little too borderline-cheerleader for me, I knew what Dad had been trying to say.

I slept soundly that night, as if my dad himself had told me somehow, some way, everything would be all right.

o0o

“The game of life is not so much in holding a good hand as playing a poor hand well.”

–H. T. Leslie