If You Could See What I See (15 page)

“Scotty?” Tory peeped out.

“Yes, Scotty. I’m sure all those computer geek nerds at his work know, so you’ve humiliated him professionally and personally. You are in love with Scotty—”

Tory whimpered.

“And you do this?”

Tory’s manicured hands flew to her face.

“How will this help you in your ultimate goal?” Grandma spread her hands out, diamond bracelets flashing.

“What ultimate goal?” Tory cried.

“Getting Scotty back.”

Tory moaned and bent her head. “Oh, Grandma! I was so mad that he took another woman to dinner, that it wasn’t me, that he’s moving on, that he hasn’t tried to get me back. My horoscope said that revenge would be mine. I saw it as a sign.”

“No, you didn’t. You don’t believe that horoscope crapola any more than I do.” Grandma stabbed the air with her finger. “Maybe you and your temper tantrums are too much for him anymore, Tory. Have you thought about that?”

“Yes, yes, I have. When he came home last night I saw his face. He was shocked to see all the police cars, the cameras, the reporters. He saw me and I waved and smiled. He was so relieved to see me, I saw it, and he sort of sagged. Maybe he thought I was hurt, that’s why the police were there. But then he saw the wood carving and his mouth dropped open and he looked at me, then at all the people around me, who were noticing him and advancing with their cameras and notebooks, and he turned and left. I tried to call him, but he’s not taking my calls . . .”

“You are a bull, Tory,” Grandma said. “It works in business, but it doesn’t in a marriage. Bulls don’t belong in the marriage bed. Scotty is a kind, smart, gentle soul, and you are a raving, difficult, temperamental woman. You are constantly testing him, constantly testing his love for you, throwing obscene fits to get his attention. Grow up, Tory. Coming home and being a loving wife is not setting aside your ambition, your womanhood, or your equality. It’s recognizing that Scotty, the man you love, needs attention and affection. He shouldn’t have to spend his entire evening calming you down about whatever imaginary conflict you’ve dreamed up.”

“I should move back into my house,” Tory said. “That’s what I should do. I should move back in and walk around naked, bake cakes naked . . .”

“You don’t cook,” Grandma said.

“I’ll learn. I’ll clean when I’m naked.”

“You don’t clean. You have a cleaning lady,” I said.

“I’ll pretend I’m cleaning.”

Grandma shook her finger at Tory. “You need to think love.” “Think love?”

“Yes. The only other man who loves a woman as much as I see Scotty loving you is Matt. But Lacey knows he’s a gift and treats him like that.”

Lacey raised her eyebrows at me. Ah, praise!

“Stifle it, Lacey.” Grandma whipped around. “I could come after you for any number of things, including that maternity dress. It looks like a tent. And you, Meggie.” For a second she was at a loss for words. “I hate that outfit.” She turned back to Tory. “Seduce him. Date him. Woo him, you idiot. Sometimes you girls are so stupid I hardly know what to do. If I could buy you new brains, I would.”

Grandma turned and stomped out of the room. “You three,” she turned back, “and I didn’t think I would have to say this again, but you three stay out of trouble! I want no more penises on YouTube!”

She slammed the door. I swear that building shook again. She yelled down to the floor, “Get rid of that penis!”

Tory looked bereft. “Do you think I could turn the penis into a fountain?” I held her as the bravado and daring collapsed and she was left with what she had before the buzz saw even hit the wood: a broken heart.

Blake had been very cheery when he saw me standing on Tory and Scotty’s lawn.

“Good to see you, Meggie.” He was all dressed up in his police chief’s uniform.

“Ah. Yes. Hello. Good to see you, too.”

“I must say I’m surprised to find you here.”

“I feel the same, Blake.”

“But it’s made my night, how shall I put it?” He rocked back on his heels and smiled at me. “Special.”

“I’m glad I could be part of your special night.”

Two police officers came up to talk to him, and I quickly snuck away, trying to catch my breath.
Blake was the police chief?

He walked back over to me in two minutes, standing right in front of me so I couldn’t weasel away.

“I see that you’re Portland’s police chief.”

“Yes. That I am. And you’re Meggie O’Rourke, CEO at Lace, Satin, and Baubles, a company owned by your grandmother, Regan O’Rourke. Your mother is the renowned . . . uh . . . therapist, Brianna O’Rourke, your sister, Lacey Rockaford, is the chief financial officer, and your sister, Tory O’Rourke, apparently the mastermind here of the artwork, is the design director.”

“Yes. Should I ask how you know?”

“You should. You told me your name and I looked you up.”

“It’s so simple these days, isn’t it?”

“But you didn’t look me up. My heart is crushed.”

“Aren’t you funny? No, I didn’t look you up. To be honest I forgot your last name.” He has such a friendly grin. It softens up what is otherwise a hard, square-jawed face.

“Meggie O’Rourke, this is an odd way to get to know each other better, but it’s been a fun evening.”

“Delightful. Pure delight.”

We both turned to the penis.

“It’s a fine wood carving,” he said, mock-impressed.

“Lola has mastered the chain saw and chisel, that’s clear. Will you be making any arrests?”

“Nope. As I understand it, it’s Tory’s house. It’ll probably be a code violation because you can’t have something like this . . . this . . .”—he waved an arm—“in front of your home, as it’s offensive to the neighbors. Although”—he studied Gladys, who was now posing on the other side of the penis with Tory and waving—“she doesn’t seem to mind, now that she knows there are no rocket-ship-building burglars. Anyhow, it looks like your sister and her husband have a few things to work out.”

“They do. Many things. Large and small. I hope they will.”

“Do you like the husband?”

“Yes. I do. Scotty’s a kind man. Definitely not a dick. I feel guilty for being here.”

“He’s home soon?”

“Yes. I don’t think tonight will be his best.”

“Probably not.”

He smiled at me.

I smiled back.

Other police officers came up to talk to him, his phone rang, and I moved away, but studied him surreptitiously. Like a spy, I suppose.

He was in charge. He was liked and respected by his officers. He spoke well, and he handled the situation.

I tried hard not to like him.

 

I talked to my mother that night from her hotel room. I could hear her knitting needles clicking.
Click, click, click.
I was eating chocolate ice cream and a banana. She’d visited the host of a well-known talk show today in New York. She talked about whispering. As in, whispering to your partner what you want him to do to you. She regaled the audience with her Seven Tips for Whispering Success.

“Tory is hurting so much, honey,” she said. “I’m going to call Scotty tomorrow.”

“And say what?”

“That I love him, that he is as sweet as a cinnamon roll. I’m almost finished with his hat. I want to keep things snug as a bug in a rug between Scotty and me so when he gets back together with Tory, all will be peachy between us.” She sighed. She regularly agonized over their separation. “Oh, my dear Tory, still hurting.”

We talked about Tory, then I asked, “What color is my hat this year?”

“I’m not telling you, as usual. You know it’s a surprise and I finish your hat, Tory’s and Lacey’s at the same time so you girls don’t get hurt feelings about who receives the first hat.”

My mother knits us a new hat and scarf each year. They’re unique, colorful, comfortable.

“How are you doing, my love?”

“I’m fine.” I scooped ice cream up with the banana.

“No, sweets. Tell me.”
Click, click, click.

“Nightmares, flashbacks, odd sightings of him. Yesterday I thought I saw him running past the business and I ran outside to check on my hallucination. Rats and blood. Red. The usual.”

My mother is one of the only people I can be totally honest with. She questioned me further, kind, confidential. Whenever I talk to her, I feel better.

“I love you, sweetheart,” she told me before we hung up. “I can’t wait until this book tour ends. It is killing me to be away from you and your sisters. I want to be in my kitchen kneading breads with you girls.”

“I love you, too.”

“I hope you like the hat and scarf I made for you this year. It took me three trips to find the exact color of yarn I wanted to use for you. Both will complement those yummy chocolate brown eyes of yours and your golden hair.”

10

B
y the time we left India, Aaron and I were engaged. He bought me a ring with a red stone at a bazaar. I bought him a plain gold band.

We started working on another film together in Los Angeles about life as an illegal teenage immigrant, specifically about kids who were brought here from Mexico when they were three or four, how they felt American, went to American schools, and listened to American music but had no legal standing and their lives were left in absolute limbo.

I had been in and out of Portland, but Aaron didn’t want to live in Oregon, so we settled in L.A. Later I realized he simply didn’t want me near my family. Isolation was best.

I had brought him home for five days between films. The visit had not gone well.

My mother insisted that I make Christmas cookies with her, four different types: sugar, pinwheels, fudge mint, and divinity. Then we made decorative wreaths using pine cones and branches from outside.

She told me, “The domestic arts and crafts should be a part of every woman’s life. It brings serenity. In the depth of the serenity and peace we create today, your brain will accept that Aaron is a monstrous mistake.”

My grandma said, Irish brogue sharp, “Aaron’s head is filled with nuts because he is one. He’s too passionate about himself. Narcissistic. He has delusions of grandeur. This will end as poorly as an untreated bladder infection. You’ll wind up screaming.”

Lacey said, “I know you think that Matt is boring, but here’s what a ‘boring’ man like Matt gets you: constant and loyal love. Friendship. Compassion. Someone to listen to all your phobias and oddities. Help with the kids. Laughter. Stability. A man to hug grandchildren with. I love Matt with all that I am. Aaron will never be around to hug grandchildren with you.”

Tory said, “There are two types of men: the type you screw and the type you marry. Aaron is the type of man you screw, not marry. Why are you hesitating here?”

Aaron did not contact his mother about our engagement because she was “dead to me. Dead by the time I was eight, spiritually, but her body wouldn’t leave the planet.”

I wouldn’t listen to my family. I was so in love with Aaron I could barely breathe. Now I know I was in lust with him. Overwhelming lust. Aaron was sex with feet. He was hot. He was wildly passionate and romantic with me. It is hard for a woman to think under that kind of onslaught. We were both film people: We wanted to show the world what was going on with people who were invisible to others, we wanted to show the injustices and unfairness, we wanted to give a voice to people who needed someone to hear them. We understood each other.

We eloped to Kalispell, Montana. I know, makes no sense. But he wanted to see Montana—“it calls to my manhood and my inner soul”—even though he’d never been there.

I bought a white wedding dress with spaghetti straps, a brocaded bodice, and a full skirt at Goodwill for sixty dollars. The hemline was a little stained, but I ignored it.

Aaron bought a black T-shirt with a rat on it and stood in front of the hired minister in that. It became his favorite T-shirt. After the “ceremony,” Aaron went off to get beer and I wandered out to a dock jutting into a lake by myself, in a wedding dress, and stuck my feet in the water. I remember looking at my reflection, stunned that I was now a wife.

I don’t know what I was thinking.

Clearly, I wasn’t thinking at all.

My body was doing the thinking.

In Montana Aaron got in touch with his manhood and his inner soul, and we returned home to Los Angeles and kept working. I would show my family they were wrong about him.

The bait and switch behavior started immediately after the honeymoon. Aaron became controlling and angry, frustrated, irritated. Morning, noon, and night I had to handle some new emotion, fear, or problem he was having. He raved and raged, his emotions pitching and diving.

I told myself that he was artistic, free spirited, that I loved his openness. I told myself that he did things for me, too, even though I soon couldn’t think of anything. In fact, I did it all, the house cleaning, the cooking, the cars and maintenance, the legwork behind our next film project . . .

I told myself it was okay. That we would get through it.

It is amazing what we women tell ourselves is okay when it absolutely isn’t.

 

The next night Blake walked up the stairs of my tree house and knocked on the door. My heart jumped and I sternly reminded myself that I was my grandma’s granddaughter and she had faced far worse than an impossibly sexy police chief.

“Hello, Blake.” I felt rather faint. He was devilish and delicious.

“Meggie. May I come in?” He was smiling. He was in jeans and a light blue shirt. He handed me a huge bouquet of pink tulips and yellow roses.

“Yes, of course. And thank you. They’re beautiful.” I stepped back so he could enter, and I told myself to breathe. Something rather strange happened and I didn’t get it as quick as I should have, because I was bedazzled and dumbfounded by how that man filled my tree house and how close to my bedroom he was standing. Why, we would only have to climb that ladder lickety-split and we could be bouncing on my bouncy mattress under the skylight in seconds....

I snapped my mind back.

Blake’s gray-blue eyes were on mine, then they dropped briefly to my chest. They stayed there for a millisecond, then he looked away, toward my maple tree, and took a long breath. I saw that huge chest go up and down.

I wanted to run my fingers through that blondish hair.

His eyes came back to mine for a second.

Oh, those eyes. I wanted to see them half closed with passion.

I am not nervous around men.

But I was around Blake. Nervous, skittish, awkward.

He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.

I stared at his neck. I have this thing about men’s necks. I like when they’re muscled and tight and look kissable.

“Uh, Meggie.”

And that voice. Deep and controlled.

He was setting me on fire, and I told myself, sternly again, to cool it.

“Yes?”

“Uh, I would like to talk to you, but I am having some trouble concentrating.”

“You are?”

“Yes.” He glanced away again, then back at me, then down to my chest again.

I looked down.

I crossed my arms with the roses and tulips in front of my chest. “Whoa. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, his voice strained. He transferred his attention to the rafters of my tree house and my hanging white lights. “It’s a great . . . white . . . tank top.” He ran a hand through his hair, then over his face.

“Hang on.” I dropped the bouquet on the counter, then scooted on up my ladder to my sleeping loft. I hadn’t even thought when I opened the door. I was in faded, tight jeans, which were not a problem. I was wearing thick white socks. Also, not a problem.

And I was wearing a tightish white tank top, rather thin from too many washings.

And no bra.

None.

The tank top outlined the curvy parts.

And, good golly, it was see-through.

I about died.

Then I laughed. Might as well show that chief what lurks beneath my sweatshirts.

 

“Okay. Dressed appropriately now.” I had put on a bra, a white T-shirt, and a blue sweatshirt. Blake was standing near my maple tree, and smiled when I came back down. “I wasn’t trying to be . . .” I swallowed hard. What was I not trying to be? I was not trying to be provocative. But I couldn’t say the word
provocative
to the man towering over me. It would be easier to say
bottom
but not as hard as saying
nipple.

Stop,
I told myself.
Stop now.

He raised his eyebrows at me, those lips turned up at the corners. “You weren’t trying to be what, Meggie?”

“I wasn’t deliberately trying to open the door to you like that. You knocked, I opened up, I didn’t think about whether I should open up, you were there and I wanted you in . . .”
Oh, dear God.
It would have been better if I’d said the word
nipple
fifty times.

“Well, Meggie, maybe one day you’ll be dressed like that deliberately when I come over.”

“Gee. Maybe. You’re pretty cute, but you’re trouble.” I felt myself blushing. I am too old to blush. I escaped into the kitchen. I saw the lemon meringue cookies that Cassidy had made me. “Do you want to drink a cookie?”

“I don’t think I want to drink a cookie,” Blake said, following me into the kitchen. “But I’ll eat one.”

“Yes. Eat one. Here.” I handed him the whole platter. There were at least twenty cookies on it.

“Thank you.”

He sat down in front of the platter of twenty cookies at my table. I put my head in my hands, then joined him, hoping my brain would show up soon.

“Good cookies. Did you make them?”

“No. My niece did. She’s a naughty girl but she bakes like a dream. I’m totally undomesticated. Cooking, baking, zero interest in it.”

“You grew up with your mother and your grandmother. I would not have expected you to be queen of homemaking.”

“Actually, my mother loves to cook, quilt, embroider, sew, and garden. She’s Betty Crocker reincarnated with red hair and knitting needles.”

“I saw her on a late-night talk show once. After I met you, I listened to her again.”

What was my mother talking about when he listened to her? I wiped my forehead. Oh, the topic could be anything.
Anything.
I skipped past that one.

“I’m more like my grandma. She hired a cook as soon as she could afford it. She taught me about all aspects of the business. For Show and Share in kindergarten I brought in spread sheets of Lace, Satin, and Baubles.”

He laughed. “I bet your kindergarten friends appreciated that.”

“They thought I was strange. I got used to it.”

“I don’t think you’re strange.”

“I don’t think you’re strange, either. I think you’re yummy.” I dropped my head in my hands yet again, that red flush back and blooming. “Why do I speak out loud?”

He chuckled. “Thank you. And you, Meggie, are beautiful.”

I don’t feel beautiful. I feel like a sponge mixed with detergent and Baggies. I quickly ducked and swerved and asked about what his job as police chief entailed. He winked at me, and I could tell he was choosing to let me duck and swerve.

He worked with his police officers, all levels of the chain of command, neighborhood groups, other state and national agencies, and the union. There were endless meetings. Speeches. Gang violence and domestic violence to address. Crimes to solve. Decisions on who to arrest and when. Training on how to handle the mentally ill. Lots of “building relationships” types of things. Conferences. Speaking at conferences. Hiring. Firing. Undercover operations. Drug busts.

Blake asked about my day. He wanted to know the details. I’d rarely met a man who wanted the details. Basically, for them, “how is your day” is a perfunctory question to pretend that they care, when what they really want to do is tell you about their day, their problems, and their physical aches and pains. They want a hot dinner and then they want you to hop eagerly into bed and serve them like a brainless robot.

Blake was different. He asked how I liked being at the company again, what I found interesting, what I found hard, what I did each day, who I worked with, etc.

We chatted so easily, the words flowing like a crystal clear river through a field of pink tulips and yellow roses. It was as if we met over lemon meringue cookies each night.

“Okay, Meggie, I’m off. I’ve stayed way too long and I know you have to get up early for work.”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

He walked to the door, then pulled me close into a hug. I stiffened up at first, but he held me closer, not tight, but closer.

I took a scary dare and put my arms around his neck. I inhaled the scent of him, resting against his chest for a second, relaxing into his strength. I closed my eyes, wanting to remember what it felt like to be hugged by him, how his arms felt around me, how safe it felt, how friendly, how smokin’ hot . . .

I pulled back and wrapped my arms around my waist. I bent my head.

The last man I had hugged . . . but no, I would stay away from that and the black rats.

He wrapped one of my curls around his fingers. “One day you’re going to tell me why you feel like you’re wrapped in black, right?”

“Probably not.” No way.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, but when you want to talk, I want to listen.”

I didn’t even nod. I couldn’t even move.

He took a step closer, kissed my cheek, then left.

I wanted to leap on his strong back, spin him around, and head for my bedroom with my legs wrapped around his hips.

I didn’t have the right amount of guts to do that yet.

I told myself to gather the guts and go for it.

 

That night I looked at my bathtub, fit for two, for Blake and me.

I used to love taking baths.

I used to have bubble baths in all sorts of scents: vanilla, orange musk, lemon, cinnamon apple, even chocolate.

I could not take a bath now to save my life.

 

I sat in several meetings the next day.

I always insist that all meetings be quick.

I look at the agenda before it starts, if I don’t write it myself. I have only the people who must attend come to the meeting. All electronics are off. Everyone must pay attention. We move quickly. I listen. We discuss, and sometimes the discussions get heated.

My style of leadership is to lead. I want people to feel that they have a voice and that I’ll listen. I want to be approachable.