Becoming Mona Lisa (3 page)

Tom graduated.

I didn't.

In fact, I'd never finished anything. I was the queen of unfinished business, unmet goals, unfulfilled dreams.

I deserved a fucking tiara!

I plodded back to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet seat. “What happened to us?” I asked the people in the photo, both of whom remained silent.

Tom no longer paid attention to me. I merely occupied the same space he did, and was no more or less significant than a couch. He didn't see me, but how could I blame him?

Look at what I looked like!

My strawberry-blond hair looked like a retired Ronald McDonald wig. I no longer bothered with makeup, and couldn't remember the last time I'd worn anything but khaki trousers, a blue apron, ragged jeans on the weekend, or my red sweat pants when I wanted to feel dressed to kill.

I looked at my feet, at the nail polish that was barely visible, and only on my big toes.

What is going on with this? Am I in some stupid contest to see how long it takes nail polish to fade?

I used to wear high heels all the time, increasing my five-and-a-half-foot height, two or three inches. Now I covered the ruined pedicure with worn Keds. My body was still firm and slim, but I hid it beneath rags, and not because I couldn't afford clothes, but because I no longer cared.

What the hell happened to me?

My pocket vibrated. It was Tom. “Hi,” I said, fighting back tears.

“Hi. Is something wrong?”

You know there is, and it's my fault.
“No,” I lied. “I had to tell you something.”

“Talk fast. The Saturn people are out front.”

“I saw Thurman's junk,” I said through a giggle.

“In our garage?”

“What?”

“Pippin had junk in our garage?” Tom asked.

“No.
Junk,
Tom! Do you know what
junk
means?”

“Our house is filled with it.”

“Tom Siggs, I saw Thurman's penis fall out of his pajama pants!” I nearly shouted, and my husband gasped.

“What was he doing in our garage?” Tom whispered.

“None of this happened in the garage, Tom.”

I recited the story, and when I was done my husband was laughing as hard as I was. It was a delightful sound, and I couldn't remember the last time I had heard it.

“Mona, I have to go,” Tom said, his voice lighter than it had been in a long time.

“I know.”

“Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

“That was a funny story.”

“It was.”

“Thanks for calling, honey.”

“You're welcome,” I squeaked, my breath catching on
honey.

Tom disconnected. I turned on the water in the tub and stepped back to let it warm.

While I waited, I returned to the kitchen with purpose in my step. I set my phone on the counter, shrugged off the old robe, and threw it in the trash. I would never wear it again.

I walked back toward the bathroom. I shed my tattered sweat clothes, and stepped into the tub.

Something had happened. Some wound I had made, that we had made, a wound made by lost dreams, and dissatisfaction – something between us began to heal.

Three

A make-over is good for the soul,

but it is murder on the wallet.

Ten minutes later I was still in the shower. After some searching, I located an old bottle of Paul Mitchell conditioner. I wrestled the top off, squeezed a glob into my left hand, and plopped it onto my head. I left it for three minutes, and rinsed my hair.

I stepped out of the shower, and wrapped myself in an old towel. Hell bent on resolving my present state of self-disgust, which was teetering on colossal, I removed the remnants of my months-old pedicure. I slopped some nail polish remover onto a wad of cotton I'd once plucked from a bottle of Midol, took a couple of swipes at my toes, and the polished vanished.

I shook out my hair, and took a comb to it. The comb actually moved, so I figured the Paul Mitchell had done its job. I grabbed the only bottle of nail polish that was still a liquid, and returned to the kitchen.

I refilled my coffee cup and plotted my next move. Maybe I'd get a hair cut, treat myself to a little pampering. I got a little serotonin buzz from my change in perspective, but my reverie was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

“Hello,” I said.

“Good morning, may I speak to Ida please?” a young man asked. The blood left my body so quickly, I swayed and whacked my butt against the counter.

“Um, Ida doesn't live here anymore,” I squeaked.

“I'm sorry. This is the number we have on file.”

“Ida is gone. It's been years.”

“May I leave a message?” the man asked, and I damned near dropped my coffee.

“I guess you could, but I don't know how I'd get it to her.”

“This is Jack from Fangerhouse. We were wondering if Ida was displeased with our services. She hasn't placed an order in years. We have a special offer for her.”

“We still get your catalogs,” I mumbled, dumbfounded.

“You'll give her the message?”

“Ida's dead, Jack, but I'll be sure to let her know you called.”

Click

“Stupid ass,” I muttered. I was pretty sure it was the last time Fangerhouse would call, and I imagined Jack standing in the unemployment line after refusing to further pursue a career in telemarketing.

Ten seconds later the phone rang again. “What the hell?” I whispered. “Hello!” I barked, with none of the charm I'd turned on for Fangerhouse Jack.

“Hey, it's Beth.”

Sonovabitch.

Beth Mulpepper had recently been promoted in the WalMart hierarchy, and was now my immediate supervisor.

“Hi. What's up?” I asked.

“Well, I have some bad news,” Beth said.

WalMart burned down?
“What's the bad news?”

“Edith called in sick.”

Shit!

Edith Purnell was months away from retirement, and had been for ten years. She'd been Aunt Ida's best friend, despite their age difference. Edith had more excuses for calling in sick to work than any other human being I had ever met, and I had met some doozers.

“What's wrong with Edith?” I knew where this was going, and it was no place good.

“Edith's Irritable Bowel Syndrome is bothering her,” Beth said.

“You don't say,” I said, padding toward the living room. “Can you hold a sec, Beth?”

“Sure, Mona.”

I liked amateur detective work as much as the next gal, so I grabbed the television remote, and hit the little gray button on the upper right-hand corner. The Directv Guide popped up, and I flipped through until I found what I was looking for. Sure enough, there was the Criminal Minds marathon on A&E. Edith always said if she were forty years younger she'd go back to school and eventually do profiling. I figured she was lonely and had a crush on Mandy Patinkin, but I could almost see Edith working for the FBI.

“Good day for IBS,” I blurted.

“You say something, Mona?” Beth asked.

“Shame about the IBS,” I said.

“So, what is it today? Golden Girls?” Beth asked, so astute, Edith the Profiler would be impressed.

I chuckled weakly. “Nope. Criminal Minds.”

“Please........,” Beth whined, turning
please
into
a multi-syllable word.

I sighed. “Beth, come on......”

“Can you do three hours, and I'll get someone else to cover the other three? Please, Mona.”

Aw, hell!

“What time, Beth?”

“Noon?”

“I planned to get a haircut,” I complained.

“Where?”

“I hadn't decided yet,” I said.

“I'll make you an appointment in our salon, and it's on me. Do you want it done before or after your shift?” Beth asked.

“Before.”

“Done!”

“See you at noon,” I said, and Beth bubbled over with gratitude before disconnecting.

“Shit,” I whispered, setting the phone on the coffee table.
So much for a day off!

Okay, so maybe it didn't have to be a total loss.

I returned to my bedroom where even the bed told a story. My pillow was in one hemisphere, Tom's in another. “Sad,” I whispered.

I restored order to the bedding, and opened the top drawer of my old dresser. Tucked inside was the Kohl's gift card my parents had sent me in August. With only three hours separating me from Edith's shift, and the beginning of the Criminal Minds marathon, I didn't see much point in starting any garage cleaning.

So, why not do a little shopping?

I pulled on my khaki pants, a dingy blouse that used to be white, and tossed the blue apron into my bag. I did what I could with my hair, and headed for Kohl's.

I reached the store without issue, pulled out my cell phone, and sent a quick text to Tom.

I got called into work. I'll be home before you, and I'd like to go out to dinner.

I got out of my Jeep, threw my purse over my shoulder, and shuffled toward the Kohl's entrance. I headed to the makeup counter, and the sales lady looked at me like she wished she were someplace else.

“I need a makeover,” I said, when she was close enough to hear me. She didn't say anything, just forced a smile. I knew what I looked like, so I forgave her.

“I'm Denise. I'd be happy to help you,” she lied. “Why don't you have a seat over here,” she offered, motioning toward a counter fully stocked with cosmetics.

“Why don't I,” I said, taking a seat on an uncomfortable stool that clearly said I wasn't welcome to linger. “I'm Mona. I stopped taking care of myself five years ago. I'd like to start again.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Denise said, flashing the fake smile again. “What kind of cosmetics do you normally use?”

“None.”

“And your beauty regimen?” she squeaked, and I sensed she was forgetting to breathe.

“You're kidding, right?” I said, and Denise made a small noise I assumed was a laugh, but could have been the beginning of suffocation. “It's okay to laugh,” I said. “And, it's okay to wish you'd been kidnapped this morning and stuffed in the trunk of your car. Look, I wouldn't want to help me, either.”

“You have an excellent sense of humor, Mona,” Denise said, sounding more relaxed.

“Looks aren't everything!” I blurted, and Denise actually laughed.

“You're very pretty, Mona. You just need some help.”

You have no idea.
“Can you help me, Denise?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Jeez, perhaps I shouldn't have led off with the wisecracks.”

“I wasn't being sarcastic,” Denise said defensively.

“Oh.” I checked my watch. I had a little over two hours. “What can we do, in say, thirty minutes?”

“We can work miracles.”

Denise flew into a frenzy, and thirty-two minutes later I was gazing into a mirror at a woman I almost recognized. “What did you do?” I asked a little breathlessly.

“I simply accentuated your positives,” Denise said, and I figured it was a canned response, but totally bought it anyhow.

“You're damn good, Denise.”

“Thank you.”

“I'd like to buy everything you used, including the beauty regimen we discussed,” I said with conviction, pulling out my Kohl's charge and the gift card. “I'm prepared to give up a kidney if necessary.”

“We don't accept body parts,” Denise said, and I laughed, as she rang up my enormous pile of cosmetics.

“That will be $184.12,” she said, and this time I was the one not breathing.

“No shit,” I said.

“No shit,” Denise whispered.

“Any wiggle room in that kidney policy?” I asked.

“No.”

“Okay, let's use the Kohl's charge,” I said, handing the card to Denise. She hit some keys, produced a small white slip, and handed me a pen. “Here goes,” I said, signing away my life. “About how long will all this last?” I asked.

“The moisturizing products, a while. The makeup, about a month, maybe two.”

“Sheesh. Can you work on that body part policy before I see you again?” I asked.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Denise.”

“Thank you, Mona.”

“Have a nice day.”

“Thanks, you do the same. Come back again,” Denise said, and although I suspected she was genuinely relieved to get rid of me, she sounded sincere.

I spent the next thirty minutes in the Misses department. When I was done, I had two new sweaters, a white blouse that was actually white, two pairs of jeans, a dress I'd snagged from the clearance rack, a zero-balance gift card, and another fifty bucks on my Kohl's charge.