Driving Lessons: A Novel (4 page)

“Okay, wise guy, doing what? What is this passion-filled career you’re seeking?”

“We haven’t even been here a month; give me a break. I don’t know yet.”

“You’re not going to throw away all of your marketing knowledge, are you? That’s a lot of experience and a big commodity these days.”

“I don’t know. It all seems so silly.”

“Well, it’s not. Just look at all of these idiotic reality television stars! Without skillful marketing, what are they? Nobodies. Think about it.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to contribute to the betterment of society, not help to destroy it.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Sarah. Besides, maybe on your own terms, you can make it better, if only in small ways. My job may not have been much, but eventually I convinced that fat son of a bitch to start funneling some of his enormous sums of money into charity. That was no small feat, I’ll have you know.”

“I never knew that.”

“There are lots of things you never knew. You’re my daughter, not my shrink.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Who’s the comedian now? Let’s check on that chicken, shall we? I’m starving.” She stood up and I followed her back inside, feeling more positive about our relationship than I had in months. An apology like the one she’d just given was unprecedented.

“Ten more minutes,” I announced, checking the timer. “Should we boil the corn? Josh already shucked it.”

“Sure, why not. Where’s the biggest pot you own?” I pulled it out of a cabinet and presented it to her. “Great.” She carried it over to the sink as I took a seat on a bar stool, resting my elbows on the island.

As she waited for the pot to fill, I watched her closely, feeling nostalgic. I would know that narrow back, that hair the texture and color of a Frosted Mini-Wheat, that sound of clinking gold bangles as she turned the water off anywhere. My mom. She turned around and faced me.

“Good God, are you crying, Sarah?” She placed the pot on a burner and turned it on. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Do I have to be pregnant to be happy to see you? And no, I’m not.”

“Okay.” She refilled her glass. “Do you want to be?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied carefully. The wine had loosened my tongue.

“You’re scared, Sarah.” She sat down next to me. “And I don’t blame you. The concept of having a child is terrifying.”

“Did you regret having me?” I blurted out.

“What? Sarah, are you kidding?”

“I—I don’t know, Mom. Growing up, sometimes I felt like you resented me for inadvertently ending your career and then your marriage.”

“I made you feel that way?”

“I don’t think you meant to, of course, that’s just how I interpreted it.”

“That’s unforgivable, that I should make you feel that way. You have always been the light of my life. What was it that made you feel that way? Was it the way I talked to you about your father?”

“Maybe. But maybe it was just the way I saw things, considering the sacrifices you had to make to raise me and the way you spoke so fondly of your pre-marriage and pre-me days.”

“Me and my giant mouth. I should have had someone else to vent to when you were younger. You were all I had. I was too damn tired to make friends.”

“I know. I’m not blaming you for anything, Mom. Please don’t think that I am. I never for a moment doubted how much you loved me, I just—especially now, with babies on my brain—always wondered if that resentment was real or imagined.”

“Oh, honey, the only resentment I had was toward your father. He was and is an asshole. You were the best thing I ever did, and I mean that sincerely—through all of our ups and downs. Even your teenage years.”

“You never thought to yourself, oh, if Sarah wasn’t around I could start my life over? Go back to Manhattan? Live the life?”

“Listen, I’d be lying if I said that once in a while, when things were at their darkest financially or emotionally, I didn’t have a woe-is-me moment. I had many of those, as you well know. Hell, the first ten years of your life were one big woe-is-me moment. But that said, I never, not even for a second, wished you gone. You changed me in all of the right ways. You still do. That’s what kids do for their parents, I think.”

“I’m just at this point where I feel like in order to be a good parent, all of my own dreams have to be fulfilled first, so that I don’t place any undue stress on their tiny little heads,” I explained.

“That’s part of the parent profile—placing undue stress on tiny little heads. It just happens, for God’s sake, whether or not you’re satisfied with your personal progress or not. That’s an awful lot of pressure to put on yourself beforehand, Sarah. And by the way, stress comes in all shapes and forms. I know plenty of mothers who were doing what they loved in terms of their career and experienced massive amounts of guilt as a result.”

“Why?”

“Because they felt like their kids would always feel second best. You’re never free from the guilt as a parent, especially as a mother.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“That’s the thing. Somehow it is wonderful, despite everything.”

“What’s wonderful?” Josh appeared in the doorway, smiling and drenched in sweat.

“Nothing,” I answered, nervous that he’d overheard our conversation. “Just girl talk. Period stuff.”

“Sarah, really,” said my mom, wrinkling her nose.

“On that note, I’m going to shower really quickly. I’ll be back to help in ten minutes.”

“Take your time,” my mother replied as he turned to leave, his shirt already off. She looked at me. “He doesn’t know that you’re scared?”

“No, not really.”

“But, honey, why?”

“Why burden him with it? They’re just growing pains.”

“Sarah, you’re in this together, you and him. I’m sure telling him how you’re feeling would help. Who knows, maybe he’s scared too.”

“He’s not scared, trust me. I don’t want to let him down.”

“Let him down? It’s your uterus. You have to tell him, Sar. Don’t struggle with this by yourself when you have a partner who loves and adores you. It’s unnecessary stress.”

The water began to boil, the steam rising from the pot like fog.

5

H
ey, Mona, it’s Sarah. You know, Sarah? Your best friend? Where are you? How come you won’t call me back? Do you have something against southerners? Call me, damn it.”

I hung up the phone and gazed at the parking lot listlessly. My dress stuck to my thighs as my bottle of water, courtesy of my husband-slash-chauffeur, sweated profusely on the bench beside me. After spending another week online shopping instead of soul searching, I had had it. Maybe my mother had been right. I had been putting too much pressure on myself to find my dream career. My aha moment would come, but in the meantime I needed to get out of the damn house.

I took a sip of my water and stood up. I was smack-dab in the center of a strip mall, which, for a former New Yorker, seemed like the most depressing place on earth to be. Everything that New York was, a strip mall was not. No style; no individuality; no tiny, obscure clothing stores with unpronounceable names selling overpriced tank tops that I had to have but did not need. Just grocery and dollar stores and Starbucks as far as the eye could see. And fast-food restaurants. And gas stations. Or even fast-food restaurants attached to gas stations, of which I had now seen two.

Frustrated, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Josh had informed me that this strip mall was the “upscale” strip mall, and I supposed that was because the word “dollar” was nowhere in the vicinity. Instead, there was an accessories boutique, a kitchen goods store, an independent coffee shop, and what appeared to be a cozy, self-run bookstore. Through the process of elimination—I did not cook and the most complicated coffee maneuver I had ever executed began and ended with pouring milk into a mug—I intended to apply for work at the boutique and the bookstore, my reasons being that I enjoyed accessorizing and reading. The fact that I was a thirty-six-year-old woman basing my job search on the same principles as, say, that of a sixteen-year-old girl was not lost on me.

I adjusted my dress, which was now a wrinkled, damp mess, and redid my bun, flipping my head over and piling it back on top before resecuring it with my clip. The bookstore was my first stop.
Here we go.

Inside, it looked like a television-show set. Lots of honey-colored wood, a few display tables with note cards indicating staff members’ recommendations, an overstuffed couch and chair in the corner, a tabby cat lounging lazily in a sunbeam. I was impressed. A man-boy who looked roughly fifteen years younger than me sipped coffee behind the counter, his eyes downcast.

“Hello,” I said quietly, in my best bookstore voice. He looked up from his book, startled.

“Hello,” he replied. “Can I help you with something?”

“Whatcha reading there?” I asked, immediately wishing I could take back the tone of my voice. For some reason I had ended up sounding like Elmer Fudd’s distant cousin. Bored, he held up a graphic novel in response.

“Can I help you with something?” he repeated.

“Yes, actually. I was wondering if you guys were looking to hire anyone at the moment,” I replied, willing my voice back to its normal register.

“Oh.” He took a judgmental pause. “I don’t know, actually, but I doubt it.” We regarded each other coolly. I did not like this little punk’s attitude. Not one bit.

“Well, can I speak to someone who does know? Is your boss around?”

“Yeah, she’s in the back.” He sighed and retrieved a cigarette from his breast pocket to hold his place. “I’ll go get her.”

“Thanks so much,” I replied sarcastically. “Hope it’s not too much of an effort to walk,” I mumbled, rifling through a box of conversational buttons. Did people still wear these? I heard some sort of backless shoe clip-clopping toward me. I pulled my hand out of the bin and stood up straight.

“Hi there,” a Judi Dench lookalike said, emerging from the bookcases with authority. New York authority. Could it be that she was one of my own? I practically wilted with excitement at the prospect.

She eyed me warily and extended her hand, which I shook as forcefully as I could without overdoing it.
I’m a grown woman from New York,
I wanted my handshake to say.
I could eat your current employees for lunch. Hire me. Be my friend.

“I hear you’re looking for a job.”

“Yes, I was—”

“We’re not hiring. Sorry. I’m up to my eyeballs in college help. Maybe over the holidays, though. Come back then.” She turned abruptly.

“College help?” I blurted out, channeling my inner warrior. “That’s all well and good, but wouldn’t you like some adult help? Someone that you can trust completely?” My loneliness was palpable.

“Not really. Sorry. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“But I’m from New York!” I blurted out as she walked away.

“And I’m from Texas. So what?” she replied, her back to me as she disappeared into the stacks. I had misjudged her. Not a New Yorker at all. I guess you could be a no-nonsense bitch anywhere. I briefly considered stealing an “And?” pin but thought better of it and exited quickly. Outside, the register boy smoked. He raised an eyebrow at me in greeting.

“You’re better off, anyway,” he said. “Carol is a real see-you-next-Tuesday, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, kid. Best of luck.”

Kid?
Now I was Humphrey Bogart? Jesus, it was hot. I made my way toward the boutique. As I came closer, I noticed its sign.
BAUBLE HEAD
. That was bad. Then again, what was in a name? “Book Snob” had impressed me and that turned out to be a holding pen for Attila the Hun. I peered into the window. It was clear that Farmwood and I did not share the same definition of “boutique.” Nevertheless, I forced a smile and opened the door.

The color palette inside socked me in the gut. Fuchsia clutches, shiny lemon-yellow purses and aquamarine baubles encircled in rhinestones for the wrists, earlobes, and décolletage winked gaudily at me while gold, silver, and ceramic earrings as big as serving platters twinkled in the overhead lights. I was the kind of woman for whom gray was a statement. I couldn’t apply to work here, I just couldn’t. I turned to go, temporarily blinded by a faux-emerald choker.

“Well hey there, honey, how can I help you today?”

“Oh, um, I’m just looking,” I replied, turning around.

If Judi Dench ran the bookstore, then a Paula Deen/later-years Liz Taylor hybrid held court here in Bauble Head. Big black hair sprayed into a helmet with bangs framed a feline face shellacked with foundation, powder, rosy blush, and lavender eye shadow. Her mauve lips were outlined and glossed to within an inch of their lives. She glided toward me on bedazzled flip-flops, her toes boasting a pristine French manicure, with the exception of her left big toe, which was the canvas for a tiny, jewel-encrusted palm tree.

“Can you believe that they can fit an entire palm tree on one tiny toe?” she asked, catching me looking.

“It’s really something,” I replied. Her voice was melodic in its southern-ness, like syrup cascading down a stack of pancakes. I smiled down at her, as she only came up to my collarbone.

“You sure you’re not lookin’ for anythang special?” she asked. “A pretty girl like you could use a little spawrkle.”

“A little what?”

“Spawrkle!” She fingered the faux emeralds.

“Oh, sparkle! Sorry.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry. My accent is an acquired taste. My husband and I have been together for forty years, and even he needs a translator sometimes.” My God, this woman was charming. It was like talking to a cupcake.

“You’re not by any chance looking to hire, are you?” I asked quickly.

“Well, now I need the translator. What did you say, darlin’?”

“Sorry, it’s my New York–ese.”

“You’re from New York? Get out!”

I nodded.

“I just love Elaine. She is a trip.”

“Elaine?”

“From that show?
Seinfeld
? I just love her.”

“Oh. Yes, she is funny. But I was wondering, are you hiring?”

“Oh my goodness. You know what? You are not gonna believe this. I need to sit down. Come on over here to the register so I can park myself.” She perched delicately on a pink stool and took a sip from the straw of her pink plastic tumbler of iced tea. “Well, first of all, my name is Mitzi. What’s yours, darlin’?”

“Sarah.”

“Sarah, I swear to the big man that my associate just up and quit yesterday. I mean, talk about kismet. I didn’t even have time to put a sign up and here you are! I just love it.” She clapped her hands enthusiastically. “So, what’s your résumé like? Have you worked retail before?”

“Yes, in college. I worked at a Gap.”

She eyed me quizzically. “Not to be rude, but somethin’ tells me that college was not exactly yesterday. Am I right?”

“You are right,” I replied, blushing. “To be honest, it’s been a while, but I’m a fast learner, and I actually, well, my former career in marketing is not so distant from retail work.”

“What do you know about jewelry? And purses? And can you hawk spawrkle?” She looked me up and down.

“I can do sparkle.”

“Do you really want to work here, or are you just desperate for a job?” She took another sip.

“Well, it’s a little bit of both, to be honest. I’m at a crossroads of sorts, and new in town, and I—well, I need a reason to get out of the house.”

“Tell me how you really feel! My goodness.” She pursed her lips. “Sarah, you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m gonna hire you. Lord knows, I appreciate some honesty, even if it reads a li’l sad. Because life can be sad, you know? That’s why we need spawrkle.” She winked at me. “When can you start?”

“As soon as you need me, Mitzi.” I extended my hand to shake the softest hand I had ever grasped in my life. It was like shaking the arm of a mink coat.

As we settled the terms and I filled out the requisite paperwork, my enthusiasm waned. Yes, Mitzi was entertaining, but how was I going to work here? I could not have been more out of place—like a cactus in the rain forest. All around me, baubles in every color of the rainbow garishly sparkled as Mitzi adjusted and then readjusted each display, leaving a trail of vanilla and almond in her wake.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked Mitzi as I handed her my sheaf of papers.

“Yes, ma’am. You wouldn’t happen to own any makeup, would you?”

“What?” I blushed, embarrassed by her bluntness. “Uh, yes, of course I do.”

“Good. Wear it.” She patted me on the hand. “Now, go enjoy your last day of freedom.”

I waved and walked into the shimmering heat. Using makeup in these temps was like attempting to ice cake batter. What was the point if it was all just going to slide off of my face anyway? I meandered back toward the bench, wondering how exactly I was going to get to work if just the idea of getting behind the wheel gave me a panic attack.

As I dug in my bag for my phone to call Josh, what appeared to be a giant mouse mobile pulled into a parking space. Two huge, furry ears were strapped to its roof and a tail protruded almost obscenely from its bumper. I moved closer to get a better look.
DON’T BE A MOUSE BEHIND THE WHEEL! CALL MINNIE!
a chartreuse-and-black sign plastered across the driver’s side yelled. Her number followed.

A giant man emerged from the car. At around six foot three and easily two hundred and eighty pounds, I wondered how he fit into it to begin with. His head was shaved and tattoos ran up his left arm in a dizzying maze of black squiggles. He lumbered toward the door of the coffee shop as I watched curiously.

Mitzi had said that kismet was responsible for my landing the Bauble Head gig, and now, here it was at work again, in the shape of a mouse mobile driven by a tattooed lumberjack. Who was I to deny kismet?