Facelift (2 page)

The reason for which is Isabel. I glance over at her slumped in the passenger seat, blonde hair mussed from sleep, totally clueless about what it takes to make her life run seamlessly. She looks like she rolled straight out of bed (after I poked and prodded and then threatened). I take casual note of the blue knit shorts that reveal her long tan legs and the skimpy tank top that exposes too much of . . . well, everything. It’s hard to distinguish the difference between workout and nighttime wear, especially when the teen years hit. And boy did they hit hard.

“Are those your pjs?”

She ignores my question with a roll of the eyes and a sullen sigh.

Sometimes I ache to see her back in those frilly, baby-doll nightgowns that went from the base of her neck to the tip of her toes and covered everything in between with tiny pink rosebuds. Sweet. Simple. Safe. Those were the days. When our family was whole. Before Ken (actually Cliff) went and moved into the Dream House with Barbie.

I note the green numbers glowing on the dash. “We’re a couple of minutes early.” I’ve learned the caffeinated key to opening a teen’s heart as we approach the high school. “Do you want to stop by Starbucks?”

She shakes her head.

“Your dad, did you hear from him?” Cliff’s promise is locked firmly in my brain. I want to make sure he holds to it.

“Oh, yeah, right, Mom. Right after
The Bachelor
chose me.” She looks away, her head jerks harder in rhythm to something presumably musical, but which sounds like tiny insect chirps emanating from her earbuds.

Guilt acts like peanut butter for a mother. It can be spread on thin or glopped on thick. I prefer the crunchy variety myself, with a bit of a bite. To make it go down smoother, just sweeten it with grape jelly platitudes. “He probably was delayed in a meeting, Iz.”

“Quit making excuses for him, Mom.” Her anger, palpable as a throbbing bass, bombards me, and I fear she will never forgive Cliff. That ol’ looking glass glares back at me.

A deep breath cannot loosen the tightening in my chest. I brake the Volvo near the double glass doors and shove the gear into Park. “I’ll pick you up after school.”

She grabs my arm. “There he is!”

“Who?” My heart lurches. Cliff? I manage to duck and shift in my seat, wishing I’d dressed up to take Izzie to swim practice instead of wearing these sweats, which have stretched along with my skin to accommodate my latest size. They’re no longer workout clothes but what I curl up in most nights to fall asleep while watching late, late night TV. I crane my neck and peer out the rearview mirror. All I can see are mostly empty parking spaces. But a pair of headlights bobs in the distance as a car turns into the parking lot.

“Don’t look!”

“Where?” I slouch down in my seat, my fingers combing my hair in a last desperate attempt to salvage my already shredded dignity.

“Coming this way!” She’s squealing. My daughter is squealing like one of the Jonas brothers just arrived. She points toward the bricked high school building next to the natatorium.

I squint toward a tall, lanky blond boy walking in a loose-limbed amble. He keys the door and swings it open. His warm-ups don’t make his frame look fuzzy and frumpy like mine but somehow accentuate his muscle tone. Not that I’m noticing. I release a pent-up sigh. At least it isn’t Cliff. I wouldn’t want him to see me dressed in old sweats with my hair just pulled in a quick ponytail and sans makeup. Great. Now I’m starting to sound like Marla. “Who is it?”

“The new coach. Cute, huh?”

That last bit makes my forehead fold into a frown. Her reaction to his appearance rivals what I imagine would happen if Michael Phelps were to show up for practice. Izzie’s breathing shallows. Her eyes dilate even more. My motherly concern ratchets up a notch, but I manage a fake, unconcerned shrug. Still, I can’t hold back a warning. “You know, he’s way too old for you. And if you’re—”

She huffs out a breath, making her bangs poof outward, then rolls those eyes, transforming her features from Anne Hathaway to Britney Spears. “That’s perverted, Mom. Not for me.” She grabs my arm. “For you!”

“Me?” I squeak back and pull my arm away from her. “No no no no no no.”

Her mouth twists. In one smooth motion, she grabs her goggles, bag of clothes, and another tote with kickboard and flippers then practically leaps from the car. “I’ll catch a ride this afternoon.”

The car door slams shut before I can respond. My throat tightens, making it difficult to swallow. Her fantasy collides with my own. It’s not the first time I’ve disappointed my daughter by not looking longingly at a “hot” guy. Her idealistic dreams of Prince Charming and happily ever after should have shattered the day her father walked out on us. Maybe, in a warped way, it’s good to have those silly images destroyed early in life. Before they wreak havoc on your future.

It’s why I never hid arguments Cliff and I had from Izzie. I wanted her to know relationships weren’t perfect. They required work. Or maybe I should have pretended more.

Grasping at shards of hope that someone else will come along—preferably a rich Daniel Craig type—is simply as unrealistic as Jiminy Cricket transforming a puppet into a real boy. Believing in the impossible could slice through our hearts all over again. I appreciate she thinks I could get (and keep) a man like that, but suspect she’s delusional. She doesn’t need some hunky guy to be her father. She needs her own. She needs the stability, security, and strength of a family.

I glance down and realize my right hand has found my left. Specifically, the blank space between my knuckles on my ring finger. I rub the spot, missing the gold ring that once occupied the place of honor. A sudden lump in my throat pushes upward and I blink back hot tears.

Shifting my gaze, I watch Izzie walk to the doorway, her long limbs loose, her stride displaying more confidence than I’ve ever felt, and her flip-flops snapping at her heels the way she often snaps at me these days. Ah, the joys of raising a teenager. Alone. If every potential parent experienced this thrill prior to getting pregnant, there would be no need for birth control.

A car pulls up behind me to deposit another swimmer. A glance at the dash’s clock tells me I have time to go home, shower, change, then stop for café mocha and maybe a slice of pumpkin loaf from Starbucks before my early morning appointment. The growth of Altered Images over the past few months is a mixed bag. Needed income, I suppose, outweighs the negatives. As a suddenly single mom, I had to find a job, but after fifteen years of staying at home, making arts and crafts, painting and decorating rooms in a succession of houses as my ex moved up the corporate ladder and we moved into more exclusive neighborhoods, I wasn’t qualified for anything other than working retail and making minimum wage. Or was I? Once Cliff left, a friend suggested I start a house staging company since I had so much experience and success selling our houses in the past—Altered Images became the phoenix from the ashes of my marriage.

Before I can shift into Drive, a flash of blue draws my attention back to the double glass doors. Izzie’s walking toward me with that same determined stride I’m quite certain she inherited from Cliff’s mother and beside her is the boy . . .
man
she called coach.

“No, no, no,” I whisper to no one but myself. Swallowing back the urge to step on the gas and make a fast getaway, I plaster on a fake, Dallas smile that comes too easily and hit the button to roll down the window.

“Mom”— she leans in the opening—“I wanted you to meet Coach Derrick. Coach, my mom.”

He bends down to peer in the open window. His smile is friendly. Too friendly. He sticks out a hand, which I shake quickly, then pull away.

“Nice to meet you.” I settle my hand on the gear shift.

“Isabel’s one of my top swimmers.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“She has potential.”

Does that translate
scholarship
? “Oh, uh . . . good.”

My phone sounds off, this time with “If I Loved You,” a song from the Oscar and Hammerstein musical
Carousel
. It was a stupidly sentimental late-night download I made over a year ago. Since Cliff never calls, I haven’t had to admit to the weak moment or regret it even once. In fact, I’d actually forgotten about it.

Until this moment, when the song soars through my car like an anthem.

For a millisecond, I am frozen in place, unable to move. Cliff is calling? This early? Something must be wrong. Does he suddenly have regrets? I can’t miss this rare call.

Izzie’s eyes widen. Coach Derrick asks, “That your phone?”

I lunge over the backseat for my purse, but my phone isn’t in its usual pocket. With my backside skyward, probably showing Coach Derrick that Izzie didn’t inherit her athleticism from me, I gopher-dig down to the depths of my purse, trying to make the song stop sooner. Finally I find the phone and flip it open. “Hello? Are you there?”

“Kaye? What took you so long?”

“Hi!” I swivel and turn, righting myself in my seat, ignoring Izzie’s scowl and Coach Derrick’s raised eyebrows. I press a hand against my heart as if I can still its sudden riotous cadence.

“Thought you were—” His voice is tight. Either he cuts out or he restrains himself. “I’m here at the hospital.”

A spike of fear wedges between my diaphragm and heart. “Hospital? Which one?”

“All Saints. Can you come?”

Jolted by the fact that Cliff needs me—
me
, not Barbie—I clench the phone. “Yes, yes. Of course. I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up first, and I toss my phone on the seat next to me. “Get in the car, Iz. Your dad is in the hospital.”

The coach opens the door for Izzie but she steps back. “I’ve got practice, Mom.”

Maybe it’s for the best. Putting her and Cliff in a room together is like pouring kerosene on fire. I’ll call her, take her out of school, if this proves life-threatening. But maybe the fact that Cliff called proves he’ll be all right. Still . . .

“I’ve got to go.”

The coach slams the door closed as I shove the gear in Drive.

“I’ll call you later.” I step on the gas. The Volvo lurches forward. I’m three blocks away before I realize the window is still open.
Breathe, Kaye, breathe.

Chapter Two

Please, God, let Cliff live. Let him live. Let him live long enough for him to say he’s sorry . . . he needs me . . . he regrets leaving, wants to come back.

It’s the moment after I speed-stop by my house to change out of sweats and put on two swipes of mascara, and as I’m driving toward the hospital that I realize I never asked Cliff on the phone what happened, why he’s in the hospital. A car wreck? Chest pains? A four-hour side effect from some medication? I give myself a mental shake and settle on Cliff having chest pains.
Severe
chest pains.

Fear and panic collide in my cluttered thoughts. With my hands at ten and two, I grip the steering wheel. All my self-centered worries fall behind me. I whip into the hospital parking lot, squeezing my sedan into a compact car space near the Emergency Room entrance. At my approach the automatic doors slide sideways, opening a floodgate of overwhelming fear.

What if I’m too late? What if Barbie is here in all her toned and surgically enhanced glory? What if Cliff is delusional from pain medication?

I walk straight to the nurse’s station where a busy middle-aged woman shuffles paperwork. Prominent signs forbid cell phones.

“Excuse me?” My voice crackles. Dread surges up within me.
What if I’m too late? What if Cliff is having that coronary I always told him was coming if he didn’t quit eating trans fats?
“My husband was brought in this morning.”

She ignores me, writes in a folder.

It occurs to me I omitted
ex
from my statement, but it feels perfectly normal and makes it easier to say the second time. “Excuse me? My husband—”

She holds up one rigid finger. Finally, after what seems like a whole pass on the clock’s dozen numbers, she gives a huff and brushes back her bangs with her forearm. “Name?”

“Kaye Redmond.”

The nurse poises her fingers over a computer keyboard and begins typing.

“No. Sorry.” I shake my head. “
His
name is Cliff . . . Clifford Peter Redmond.”

A baby coughs in the waiting area. A siren wails outside. Each sound makes me flinch, look around, then back at the nurse.

With irritated punches at the backspace key, she backs over my name and inserts my ex’s. “Not here.”

“What? But he called. He said All Saints.”

“What was the last name again?”

“Redmond.”

She clicks in the name. “No Cliff or Clifford. But there is
a
Redmond.”

“Could he have been released already?” I’m thinking aloud. Did I take too long changing from sweats to khakis? Maybe I should have skipped the mascara, blush, and lip gloss. “Maybe he moved to a room?” I lean on the counter, press my fingers against my throbbing temple, and imagine the worst.
What if I’m too late? What if he was sent to the morgue?
Irrational tears press, hot and urgent, against my eyes.
Please, God, no.

Then reason, brief but clear, settles over me. “Did you . . . say there’s another, as in a different, Redmond?”

The nurse nods and studies the computer screen. “It’s a woman.”

“A woman?” My brain clicks through possibilities and I remember the call before Cliff’s. Darth Vader’s march. No, it couldn’t be . . . or could it? “Marla?”

“Yes. You know her?”

Boy, do I!
“She’s my mother-in-law.”

It takes much more effort to leave out the
ex
in that statement as that was the only part of my divorce worth celebrating. A mixture of wariness and relief filters through me. At least Cliff isn’t knocking on death’s door. But my first (admittedly unChristian) instinct is to thank the nurse and return to my car. Then I imagine my coddled and spoiled ex-husband wrought with grief over the possibility of losing his mother. He needs someone strong comforting him. He needs me.
Me!
God wants to use this moment, I’m sure of it. After all, He turns everything into good, even hospital visits. “Can you give me her room number?”