Love at 11

Chapter Three



FROM: “Victor Charles, MD” <tvdoc@ermed icalhosp.com>

TO: “Madeline Madison” <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: re: cosmetics that kill?



Dear Maddy,



Thank you for writing to me regarding your story on “Cosmetics That Kill.” However, in all my forty years as a doctor at this major medical institution, I have never once come across a single case where cosmetics were responsible for someone’s death.

Perhaps you’d be better serving the community by doing a story on a new over-the-counter diet drug that uses herbs hand ground by Aboriginal tribe members. As the company’s paid spokesman I’d be happy to extol its virtues to your viewing audience and I’m sure it’d be a great ratings booster. I could even provide you with a patient who lost over fifty pounds in one week by taking this pill.



Your favorite TV doc, Victor



P.S. The FDA has not yet approved this drug (you know how they are!) So I would suggest you don’t bother contacting them to ask them if it is safe and effective, but rather take my word for it. After all, I am a doctor.



Bing!



[email protected]: hi!



I squinted in puzzlement as an instant message popped up on my computer the next day at work. We weren’t really supposed to be IMing on the job. The IT department had even put a block on our computers so it’d be impossible to download an IM program. Luckily, AOL’s service had a Java Express version, which meant it could run online and there was nothing to download. Let’s just say the brilliance of such a concept wasn’t lost on our department.

In fact, in News 9 Cubicle Land all you ever heard was bing, bing, bing all day long with a sole bong thrown in from Jodi’s computer. She had gotten sick of thinking other people’s bings were hers and changed the sound settings.

So, while the appearance of an IM wasn’t unusual in and of itself, I couldn’t help but notice this particular IM came from my father, the most un–computer savvy, low-tech guy on the planet. The man didn’t know how to program his DVR. Didn’t own a cell phone. And now he was IMing me? I had no idea he even knew IMing existed. I would have been willing to make a bet before this very minute, in fact, that he would have happily gone through his whole life never knowing or caring that communication with his oldest daughter was simply a bing away.

Bing!



[email protected]: Are you there, sweet pea?

[email protected]: Yes. Hi Dad. What’s up?

[email protected]: Wow! This instant messaging thing is very tight, huh?



Oh-kay. Now I’m officially freaked out. Not only was my dad using IMing technology, but he was using expressions like “tight.”



[email protected]: Yeah, it’s a gr8 way to communicate :)

[email protected]: Listen, hon. I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner tonight.

[email protected]: Well, it is a work night …

[email protected]: Your mother and I have some news we’d like to share with you.

[email protected]: Is it bad news??????

[email protected]: Oh no. It’s nothing bad.

[email protected]: Okay, phew. For a moment it sounded like you guys were going to get a divorce or something. :) So what is it? Did you win the lottery? If you did, can you buy me a condo?

[email protected]: My hands are getting tired from typing. Just come by for seven, okay?

[email protected]: Ok. Bye dad. :)

[email protected]: :)



Oh. My. God. My dad used an emoticon! Another twenty-first centuryism that I figured he’d never work out. Something was definitely up.

“So, what are we doing today?” Adonis—sorry, that would be Jamie—slid into David’s seat and smiled at me. I tried not to cringe as my insides instantly turned to mush.

That smile of his had to be outlawed in at least thirty-three states. He shouldn’t be allowed to spring it on me like that. But what could I say? Excuse me, gorgeous photog, could you please not smile at me? Ever? Then he’d want to know why, and I’d have to admit I had the total hots for him, which he’d think was “really cute” and say I was a “nice kid” but he had a real woman back at home. One with caterers, swan napkins, and a sparkling diamond ring that he’d placed on her delicate finger. She probably had perfect nails and went to the manicurist seven days a week.

Stop it, Maddy. Imagination running wild. She could be an ugly troll for all you know.

I realized Jamie was still waiting for the response one would typically receive after asking a simple question of one’s coworker—if one’s coworker didn’t be—long in a drooling mental ward due to raging female hormones.

“Well, I don’t know if I have anything for you to shoot,” I said with a sigh. “I’m desperately researching a story on ‘Cosmetics That Kill’ and unfortunately keep coming up a bit short on interview subjects.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cosmetics can kill? I had no idea.”

“It’s okay, neither does the rest of the world. But promos decided it’d sound like a good ad to run during that Extreme Makeover reality show we air on Tuesday nights.”

“You know, now that you mention it, I think I received some chain e-mail with something about deadly lipstick,” Jamie said thoughtfully. “Though I probably deleted it.”

“Really? Do you think it’s still in your trash folder?” I asked, trying not to get my hopes up. Wow. First day on the job and my photographer was helping me produce! He was actually interested in my story and wanted to contribute.

You got to understand. Most of our photographers at News 9 were die-hard union guys. They did exactly what you told them, with no thoughts or creative suggestions. It was not a team effort. Ever. They might as well have been robots, though I was pretty sure robots didn’t bitch and whine every time they were asked to do something. And heaven forbid you break a union rule. One time, I hit the “eject” button on the camera to get my tape. I thought the photographer was going to have a heart attack. I had to sit through this half-hour lecture about how my hitting “eject” could lead to photographer layoffs because there wasn’t enough work for them to do. Evidently I’d personally be responsible for hundreds of starving children whose photog daddies and mommies stood in the unemployment line.

Jamie turned around in his chair and logged into my cubemate’s computer. I watched eagerly as he pulled up his Internet e-mail account and selected his trash folder. “Here it is.” He clicked on the little envelope icon and the e-mail popped up. Because I was blind and refused to wear glasses or get contacts, I had to come up pretty close behind him to read over his shoulder. And this close proximity made me realize he was wearing spicy cologne that sparked a direct tingling effect you know where. Man, this guy could turn me on without even touching me.



To: Jamie Hayes <[email protected]>

From: Jennifer Quigley <[email protected]>

Subject: FWD: LIPSTICK —Please Read



Lead is a chemical that causes cancer. The higher the lead content, the greater the chance of it causing cancer. Watch out for those lipsticks, which are supposed to stay longer. If your lipstick stays longer, it is because of the higher content of lead. This is how to test lipstick for lead.



1) Put some lipstick on your hand.

2) Use a 24k -14k gold ring to scratch on the lipstick.

3) If the lipstick color changes to black then you know the lipstick contains lead.



NOTE: Please pass this along to all your friends. In addition to saving their lives, you will also receive good luck in three days. If you do not pass this along and simply delete it, something really bad will probably happen to you. There was this one guy in Cuba who deleted it and he died in a fiery car crash five minutes later. Doctors said it was because he was checking his e-mail and driving at the same time, but we know better! You have been warned!



“So, what do you think?” Jamie asked, turning around to look at me. Since I had been leaning over so close, the sudden movement caused us to bump noses and an electric shock zapped through my entire body. It was like accidental Eskimo kissing!

“Sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t. I sat back down in my chair. “Can you forward me that e-mail? I’m pretty sure it’s an urban myth, but it’s definitely worth checking out.”

“Sure, no prob.” After getting my e-mail address, Jamie forwarded the message. Then he turned back to face me.

“That’s a cute skirt,” he remarked casually, his eyes roaming my brand-new black swishy skirt I’d run out and bought last night before going to Tijuana. After learning I’d be working side by side with a sex god, I’d decided money needed to be spent on clothes. And evidently, I thought with delight, the investment was paying off.

“This old thing?” I brushed off. “Thanks. I suppose it’s cute.”

“Um, I think you forgot to take off the price tag though,” he added, gesturing to the hem. Oh shit. My face flamed as I looked down to see that he was right. There was definitely a price tag hanging from a plastic loop on the right side of the skirt. I thought I’d removed them all. He must have thought I was the biggest geek loser in the known universe. Who would put a tag there anyway? One so easy to miss. Was there some disgruntled Nordstrom’s employee out there who thought it’d be amusing to embarrass poor innocent people who bought clothes from her?

Now, there was a story. “Clothes That Kill.” You could die from humiliation, right?

“Actually, it’s a new thing,” I said, recovering just in time. “Keeping the price tags on is very hip these days.” Please believe me, I begged silently. Or, if you don’t, please don’t call me on it.

“Oh. Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly. “My fiancée Jennifer always tells me I’m perpetually unhip.”

Ew, there he went, spouting the F-word like it was no big deal. I couldn’t stand it.

“Listen,” he added, rising from his chair. “Why don’t you research the lipstick thing and in the meantime, I’ll go around the station and get some people to let me videotape them putting on makeup. That way you’ll have some video for the piece in case it pans out.”

I wanted to hug him. Or fall over in shock. I’d never, ever had a photographer volunteer to do something without me having to beg and plead and listen to him whine. This guy was unbelievable.

And during the eight hours of the workday, he was all mine!

I arrived at my parents’ house at about quarter to seven. They lived in an adorable Craftsman-type house in Normal Heights, one of the older neighborhoods in San Diego. The houses there were small and quaint. And now, with the backlash against the extravagant monster houses with no yards being thrown up in urban sprawl subdivisions all over the county, the old-school houses were extremely desirable and super pricey. My parents’ house had tripled in value since they bought it when I was a kid.

The door opened at my knock and my little sister Lulu answered it with typical Lulu exuberance. At sixteen years old, she was a bundle of unrepressed energy and while I loved her, sometimes she was a bit on the exhausting side. A total wild child, every time I saw her she had different-colored hair. It was currently bleach blond and shorn to a boyish cut. She wore baggy raver pants and a tiny, belly-baring pink tank top that declared one could evidently get “Lucky in Kentucky.”

“Hi, Maddy!” she cried, throwing her arms around me and almost knocking me over with a huge hug. “How are you? What are you doing here?”

“Um, Dad instant messaged me. Said he needed to see me.”

“He did?” Lulu raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know he knew how to IM.”

“Yeah. Neither did I.” I shrugged.

“Well, come on in.” Lulu gestured widely. “We’ve just finished dinner.”

Uh, that was weird, since the whole reason I was supposed to be coming here was for dinner. What the hell was going on?

We walked into the foyer and then headed for the living room. My parents were seated in the same seats they always sat in after dinner since I was a toddler. Dad in his ultra-comfy, well-worn leather armchair and my mom knitting on the far end of the couch.

Except, my mother wasn’t knitting. And as I sat down next to her, I realized she looked like she’d been crying. A swelling of fear fluttered through my stomach. I thought this wasn’t supposed to be bad news.

“Hi, Maddy,” my father said with a wide smile. He didn’t seem upset at all. “Thanks for coming over. How was work?”

“So, what’s your news?” I wanted to cut to the chase at this point; the suspense was killing me.

Please be that you won the lottery, I begged silently, suddenly realizing the chances of that being the news was slim to none. I sat down on the sofa and held my breath, waiting for the inevitable bomb to drop.

“Lulu, sit down,” my father reprimanded the bouncy sixteen-year-old. With a huff, Lulu complied, squashing herself between Mom and me.

“Your mother and I have some news,” my father said, leaning forward in his armchair. Even in his fifties, he was a good-looking man with a sprinkling of distinguished salt-and-pepper hair and a trim waistline. “We’ve decided to live apart.”

“What? What?” Lulu screeched, jumping up from the couch, hands on her low-rise hips. “You can’t get a divorce! That’s, like, so not fair!”

My heart fell into my stomach. For a moment I thought I would be physically ill. My parents were splitting up. It seemed so wrong somehow. I mean, I knew almost everyone’s parents got divorced. But usually it was when they were kids. No one’s parents lived happily ever after for thirty years and then decided one day it wasn’t working out and they were moving on. It just didn’t happen like that. There was a point where you were safe. You could relax and know that your family was one of the rare ones that beat the odds.

And now they were going along with the rest of the crazy world and getting divorced.

“Why are you getting a divorce? Who am I supposed to live with?” Lulu demanded. Poor girl. While it was devastating news for me, at least I’d moved out of the house. This would impact my sister’s entire existence.

“You can stay with your father and his little whore,” my mother said in an odd, cheery voice.

I whirled my head around, jaw hitting the floor. What? What did she just say? I’d never, ever heard my mother use bad language in all my existence. She was the sunshine and oatmeal-raisin cookies stay-at-home mom who used to read us Bible stories. She didn’t say things like “his little whore.”

Which brought me to my next question. I turned to look at my evidently philandering father. Had he really cheated on my poor, sweet, innocent mother? How dare he? Anger replaced my sadness and I rose from my chair.

“Dad. What the hell is going on here?” I demanded, hoping he could hear me over Lulu’s wailing sobs.

My dad squirmed in his chair. For a chair he’d sat in for the last thirty years of his life, he suddenly seemed to find it mighty uncomfortable.

“I’m seeing someone else,” he said at last.

“Someone else?” My mother raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. Since when did she pluck her eyebrows? “Aren’t you going to tell them who?”

He took a deep breath. “Someone from my office.”

“Who happens to be twenty-three years old and pregnant with your child!” my mother added helpfully, if not a bit bitterly.

Nausea overcame me at that point, and I ran to the bathroom to retch. This couldn’t be happening. This could NOT be happening. It had to be some ridiculous dream. I’d wake up any minute now and realize the whole crazy scene was just a dream. My family was still together. My dad didn’t have a pregnant girlfriend who was younger than me by four years.

I started to retch again and bowed to the porcelain god in front of me. As I puked my guts out, I felt someone come up behind me and hold my hair back. After I was done sacrificing a good portion of my lunch, I turned around to see who it was.

My father.

I wanted to hit him. To strangle him. To kill him for his betrayal. How could he be so selfish? How could he put himself before his family?

“Can we take a walk?” he asked with a sad smile.

I nodded wordlessly, hating him and loving him more than anything at that very moment. We walked out the door into our backyard. The flowers my mother had planted, bright cheerful sunflowers, seemed mocking.

“I’m sorry if you feel I’ve let you down, Maddy,” Dad said as he settled down onto the backyard swings. The same swings he had pushed me on so many times growing up.

Higher! I’d scream. I want to touch the sky!

I joined him, scuffing the toe of my shoe against the dirt. Swaying back and forth, but not swinging.

I turned to face him. “Why?” I asked.

He reached over and brushed a tear from my cheek. “Every relationship is different,” he said. “And no one who’s not in the relationship can see what goes on behind closed doors. Your mother and I have been together in name only for years. We don’t talk. We don’t make love. We simply cohabitate. We tried marriage counseling. It didn’t help.”

I could feel my heart slamming against my rib cage and had to struggle to catch my breath. I had no idea. I thought my parents loved each other. But as memories of the last few years flooded my brain, I realized suddenly that I might have been looking at their marriage through rose-colored kid glasses. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen them kiss. Hug. I couldn’t. But I had simply chalked it up to it being an older, more mature marriage.

“But you didn’t have to cheat on Mom,” I reminded him with a frown. Falling out of love was one thing. Cheating was another.

He sighed. “Your mother is a very special person,” he said, swaying from side to side on his swing. “I tried to tell her I was unhappy for years. She begged me to stay. Said I could go out and do what I had to do as long as I didn’t leave her.”

This was surely a shocking day to end all shocking days. My mother had told my father he could go out and have affairs? I couldn’t even fathom the idea.

“So you’ve been f*cking other women this whole time? While pretending to be a family man?” I demanded, not caring at my father’s cringe at the F-word. “That’s kind of a harsh way to put it,” he said in a sad voice. “I simply opened myself up to new opportunities. I guess you could call them affairs. But there was no deception involved.”

“Oh, right,” I said sarcastically. “Because you had permission.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“I know. I soon realized the situation wasn’t fair to anyone—your mother or the woman I fell in love with.” Oh, now he was in love, was he? Anger burned through my stomach, and I rose from the swing. “I don’t want to hear this!”

“I know, honey. I’m sorry. This is a lot to take in.”

“So who is she?” I may not have wanted to hear this, but at the same time I couldn’t stop my overwhelming masochistic curiosity. “And is she really carrying your child?”

My dad looked old. Drained. “Her named is Cindi. With an ‘i’,” he added, as if that made everything okay. Cindi with an “i”? My whole world was turning into a bad made-for-TV movie. “And yes, she’s pregnant. You’re going to have a new brother or sister,” he added, as if that were a good thing.

That was it.

“You know what? F*ck you! You’ve ruined my life. You’ve ruined Mom and Lulu’s lives. Now you’re going to go start a whole new family and probably ruin their lives, too! You’re such a selfish a*shole. I never want to see you again!” I stormed off into the house, slamming the back screen door with as much force as I could muster.

I wanted to throw things. I wanted to beat someone senseless. I wanted to drink myself to oblivion.

I took a deep breath. I had to talk to my mother. My poor, long-suffering, abused mother. If only I had known what she was going through all these years, I could have been there for her.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked Lulu as I entered the living room. No answer. My little sister was catatonic, crunched up on the floor, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. Shit. I’d need to comfort her, too. How did I get stuck in the sane-person-who-picks-up-the-pieces role? I wanted to be the fall-apart-and-do-stupid-things one.

“Lulu, are you okay?” I knelt down and gave her a warm hug. Her body was cold. She looked like she’d gone into shock. But then she reached out her arms and hugged me back.

“I don’t want them to get a divorce,” she wailed, sobbing into my shoulder. I could feel nasty snot from her nose, dripping onto my new shirt, but I didn’t care. “I know. Neither do I.” I stroked her bleached-blond hair. “But it will be okay. Things will work out.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to figure out an entirely new living situation.”

She had a point. As much as this sucked for me, it was much worse for her.

“Why don’t we go talk to Mom?” I suggested. “We’ll figure out what’s what.”

“Mom left.”

“What?”

“Right after you and Dad went outside, she grabbed her car keys and said she was going shopping.”

“Shopping?” I repeated, like a dumbfounded parrot. “She went shopping?”

“Yup,” Lulu said glumly. She pulled from the embrace and slunk over to the couch. Plopping down, she pulled her knees to her chest. I was about to big sister her about grimy sneakers on the couch, but bit my tongue. What did it really matter?

“I can’t believe she went shopping.” I scrambled up from the floor. Could this day get any weirder? “Should we go after her?”

Lulu shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe she needs time alone.”

Maybe. I didn’t know. Was it a cry for help or a cry for new shoes? How could I be expected to know these things? I wasn’t some shrink. I had no experience dealing with the parents-divorcing scenario.

Lulu used her forearm to wipe the tears from her eyes. “I’m going upstairs to my room to call Dora. If Dad comes back in the house, tell him I’m not to be disturbed.” She got up from the couch and headed for the stairs. Then she turned around. “If things are really bad, can I come live with you?” she asked, her eyes wide and pleading.

“Of course,” I said, even though I didn’t really mean it. I lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Pacific Beach. I had no room for another person and no time to parent my wild-child sister. Still, I was pretty sure Lulu would never take me up on the offer. Mom would come back from shopping. (Shopping!) And she would convince Lulu that the two of them would get along just fine here in the Normal Heights house. Dad was the betrayer so he’d have to move. That was how it worked: I’d seen it with all my friends’ parents.

Lulu went upstairs, and I was left alone. Out the window, I saw my dad getting up from the swing and heading into the house. I had no desire to talk to him anymore. In fact, all I wanted to do was be sick again. My stomach had knotted like I had severe indigestion. Not surprising since “Dad’s got a pregnant twenty-three-year-old girlfriend and is leaving Mom” news is a bit tough to digest in one sitting.

So I did the cowardly thing. I left. I opened the front door, sucked in a huge breath of fresh air, and headed to my car. There was only one thing left to do.

I was going out drinking.