closet.”
Cat came over after work. She stared at the mountain of clothes on my bed. It’s a big bed, a California king, and the clothes M.J. said I could no longer keep smothered it. Cat picked up an ivory silk shell.
“She says I can’t wear it,” I explained. “Even if I lose weight.”
“When you lose weight,” M.J. corrected me. “The problem is, the blouse isn’t your shade of white.”
“That’s because it’s not white. It’s ivory.”
“And it’s too yellow for your complexion. Just like your hair,” M.J. said.
I stared at her. First my pantry, then my closet. Now my hair?
Cat took a seat across the room, grinning like a redneck in a ringside seat at a Dixie wrestling match. Round one might have gone to M.J. But I wasn’t down yet. “I’ve always been a blonde and I’m not changing now,” I said, feeling more than a little rebellious.
“I’ve made an appointment for you with my hairdresser. Tomorrow at eleven,” M.J. went on as if nothing I said mattered. “By the way, have you weighed in today?”
I wanted to strangle her. She was as bad as Jack, always honing in on my weakest spot and winning the argument, of course.
To put it mildly, I had a terrible week. My whole body hurt, my pantry and closet were embarrassingly naked, and I decided I hated cottage cheese.
My daughters were no solace. Margaret never returned my calls, Elizabeth couldn’t talk because she had a big test and a big paper and a social calendar that left no room for her poor old mother. Jennifer talked, but I made the mistake of telling her I was on a diet, and after that all she could do was lecture me with her theories of what worked for her. Seeing as how she’s never been more than one hundred and ten pounds, her theories didn’t exactly carry much weight with me. No pun intended.
The only good thing that happened started off as a bad thing. M.J.’s hairdresser, Darius, cut all my hair off. And I do mean all. He had to get rid of the old perm, he said, and as much of the old color as possible. He left me a measly inch and a half. Then he dyed it an ashy blonde. I cried all the way to Nordstrom where, to make me feel better, M.J. bought me a pale aqua sweater and a pair of silver clip-on earrings shaped like shells.
Only after she left my house did I venture into the bathroom and stare at my strange reflection. Jack was going to have a fit.
Or maybe not.
What if he didn’t care? Or worse, what if he didn’t even notice?
I fiddled with the hair. Smart and sassy was what Darius had said. Hair with attitude.
Actually, I looked like Meg Ryan’s mother. Well, maybe her fat older sister. One thing I did notice was that the short hair made my eyes look bigger. And the aqua sweater gave them a sparkle. I decided to reapply my mascara and eyeliner.
When Jack got home I had dinner ready “You cut your hair,” he said as we sat down to eat.
I ruffled my hand through the short, thick tufts. “Yes, though the hairdresser went a little overboard. Edward Scissorhands. But I like the color.”
He grunted. He probably didn’t know who or what Edward Scissorhands was. He’s not a movie person, even after fifteen years in California. He glanced at me again. “I forgot how much you look like Margaret. Or the other way around.”
That was the best part of the day. Of the week. He thought I looked like Margaret, who is probably the prettiest of our girls. That’s when I decided I loved my new hairstyle, the cut, the color, and most of all, the attitude.
We planned to leave on Friday. I wasn’t going to pack much. Instead I would buy some new outfits during the trip. I’d lost an additional six pounds this week. Six pounds in a week! The first few days I’d been so sore I could hardly move. But there’s nothing like success to make pain insignificant. By Friday I meant to lose two more pounds, and along the trip I hoped to lose another three or four. At least I would have met my twenty-pound goal. And I’d still have another week in New Orleans before the actual reunion. Maybe five more pounds?
In between exercise sessions, during all the free time I had left over from my five-minute meals, I’d made arrangements for the housekeeper and gardener. Their checks were already written for Jack to dispense. The refrigerator was stocked with everything he liked, and all he had to do was feed the cat, feed himself and put his dirty clothes in the bathroom hamper.
As I watched him drive off to work that Friday morning, it occurred to me how easy his home life was. No decisions, no responsibilities. He provided the paycheck, and in return he lived here and expected that his every need would be taken care of. I suppose it’s the fulfillment of the contract we made when we said “I do.”
I have a degree in early childhood education, and I taught two years before Jennifer was born. But for the past twenty-five years I’ve been a stay-at-home mom with no complaints from him. Or from me. Jack is a wonderful provider and I also have income from my trust fund, which I use mainly to build up the girls’ trust funds.
But he’s unhappy. I’m sure of it. And I must be, too, if I’m driving two thousand miles and torturing myself to lose weight just so I can see Eddie Dusson smile when he sees me.
I hugged my arms around myself as Jack’s Lexus turned the corner and disappeared. He’d given me a quick kiss—a peck, really—and told me to have a good time. Then he’d gone to work.
I gnawed on my left thumbnail. Maybe I should worry more about impressing Jack than impressing Eddie.
Maybe I shouldn’t be going on this harebrained trip at all.
Then M.J. and her big champagne-colored cat of a car came purring down the street with Fats Domino blaring “Walking to New Orleans,” and my decision was made. I was eighteen again, going on a road trip with my two best girlfriends, and we were going to have a blast.
I fitted my suitcases next to theirs in the trunk, loaded three plastic containers of cut fruit into the ice chest alongside all the bottled water and slid a six-pack of toilet tissue under the seat. I had baby wipes, too, for the nasty truck-stop bathrooms we were sure to encounter, especially if we drank all that water.
“I brought lots of nail polish,” M.J. said. “We can do pedicures and manicures and we’ll stop in Dallas to get new outfits.”
“Don’t you mean Houston? I don’t think Dallas is along I-10,” I said.
“The fact is,” Cat said, “We can do whatever the hell we want.” She gave me a devilish grin, then handed me a pair of sunglasses, cat-eyed glasses with navy-blue lenses and a V of diamonds at each corner. “I’ll be Patrick Swayze, you be Wesley Snipes, and M.J. can be John Leguizamo. Like in Wong Foo,” she added when I gave her a confused look. “We’re going glamorous and we’re going to leave people staring after us as we go by.”
What we got was a speeding ticket before we were barely out of the Bakersfield city limits.
Of course, we didn’t actually get the ticket, because M.J. and her fabulous chest were at the wheel. But it wasn’t a testosterone-driven C.H.I.P who went gaga at the sight of my gorgeous pal. It was an estrogen-deprived female motorcycle cop,
