If You Could See What I See (19 page)

“You ready, lady?” one of the employees asked me.

“No. I’m not.”

“Okay. Uh. Yeah. Your grandma did it.”

“Okay. Uh. Yeah,” I said back to him. “I’ll do it. Better to get it over with. Good-bye family.”

I hemmed, I hawed, I wasted time. The employee gave me a tiny push, and I was off, flying freely, straight down, through the air. I wriggled, I screamed, I think I fully peed my pants, I swore, I flapped my arms.

And then I bounced. Bounced and bounced, up and down, the river not up my nose, the lines intact, my neck not snapped in half.

I stared back up at the bridge as I bounced, bounced, bounced. Grandma was cheering. Tory flapped a hand at me as in, “Meggie ruined this! She didn’t die, now I have to do it.” Lacey shouted, “Hallelujah! You’re still with us!”

I bounced some more.

My underwear was wet. I was still shaking. I bounced again.

I felt a lot better.

Tory’s jump was like her personality, too.

She swore like a drunken demon. She complained about her boobs getting squished. In fact, that’s what she yelled up to us on the bridge when she was still bouncing: “My boobs did get squished. I knew that would happen!”

She argued with us when she was still hanging from the rope. She swore again and said, “My crotch was not prepared for this shit!”

At the end, the four of us hugged. We laughed. Grandma took us out to an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor and we had sundaes with chocolate mint ice cream, a load of hot fudge sauce, and whipped cream. I took off my underwear in the bathroom and tossed it out.

We clinked our sundaes together.

“Cheers to family,” Grandma said. “And cheers to life. Cheers to pushing the fear out of yourself and to taking dares. May the three of you always have adventures together.”

We laughed and clinked our sundaes together again. I saw Grandma smile, then she dipped her head and had another bite of hot fudge sauce. This was what she wanted. Tory and Lacey not fighting, her “girls” all together, no one feeling left out, me living again without fear.

We dropped her off at home.

We knew she’d head straight outside for a celebration cigar and her shot of whiskey.

The expensive type, of course.

 

That night I thought about the fashion show as I sat on my deck under the whispering maple trees in the orange Adirondack chair.
Know them, know us
kept running through my mind. I thought about Grandma and her story. Ireland. The dancing leprechaun. The rainbow. The owl. Lace. Satin. Baubles. Lingerie. Nightgowns. Bras.

I thought about our employees, how creative and interesting they were, the hobbies they had, the challenges and problems they’d endured. Their life histories.

I had a spark of an idea.

Would my idea work?

Know them.

Know us.

 

I grabbed Lacey in her office and yanked her down with me to Tory’s.

We sat down at Tory’s table, crowded with fabrics, lace, paper . . .

“I have an idea,” I said. “For the fashion show.”

“What is it?”

I told them.

Lacey’s eyes just about bugged out of her head. “Cover me in oil and bake me over a fire pit.”

Tory said, “People will think they’re at a comedy show.”

“What will Grandma say?” Lacey asked, hand to throat.

“I’ll take care of Grandma,” I said.

“Better you than me,” Tory said. “I don’t need that temper hacking me in half.”

“We’re going to rename it,” I said. “It’s going to be called Lace, Satin, and Baubles: A Fashion
Story
.”

It was such an out-of-this-solar system sort of idea it would work. I knew it.

 

My doorbell rang on Sunday night about seven.

Jeepers was lying on my chest making a hissing sound, which I finally realized did not mean he hated me. I had already fed Mrs. Friendly, the lizard. He stuck his tongue out at me. I was still wearing my jeans from work and a pink T-shirt with the name of our company on it.

“Hello, Meggie.”

“Blake.” I didn’t know what else to say, so I said his name again. “Blake.”

“I have steaks.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Come on over.”

Tempting.

“I promise I won’t burn yours, Meggie. Trust me.”

“Ha, trust you?”

He took my question seriously. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Yes, trust me, Meggie.”

I studied him. I thought. “I’ll trust your steaks. Only your steaks.”

Ah, that smile melted my cold and untrusting heart.

 

“I can’t imagine being police chief, Blake. I think about bras and lingerie all day long. You think about creepy and demented people, guns, officers, the public’s safety, crimes. It can’t be pleasant.” I had been in charge of the salad, with tomatoes, carrots, red onions, and croutons, and setting the table. He had been in charge of the steaks and corn.

“It’s not always pleasant, but I like it. I like making the city safer. I like working with my officers and the community. It’s a challenge, I like challenges. There are a lot of different facets to the job.”

“And you like to be in charge.” He handed me steak seasoning across his kitchen table. The steak was excellent.

“Yes, I do. I have a lot of experience, I’m trained, I know what I’m doing, but—”

“But?”

“But there are days . . .”

“And today was one of those days?”

“Yes.” He seemed weary. His gaze shifted, and I knew he was thinking about the latest problem.

“Will I see it on the news?” My salad was pretty tasty, too.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I tried to keep the sympathetic tone out of my voice, because I am not getting emotionally involved here—heck, no, I’m not—but it snuck in, and I saw his eyes gentling as he looked at me.

“I’d rather talk about something else.”

“Are you sure? I’d like to listen.” I wanted to help. No, I didn’t. Yes, I did. I cared about him. No, I didn’t. . . . Yes, you do, dive in. . . . I shook my head. Oh, how confused and muddled I am. . . .

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been talking about it all day. I need some time away from it.”

I wanted to run my fingers through that thick blond hair. “Maybe you should have become a painter instead.”

He smiled, his face relaxing. “Maybe.”

“Or a ceramicist. You could have worked with clay.” The corn crunched. Delicious.

“I could use my artistic talents.”

“Do you have a hidden artist behind the tough guy demeanor?”

“Not at all. Could not draw a stick figure to save my life.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps it’s not too late for you to become a dolphin trainer.”

“Sounds relaxing. I could be in the water.”

“Or, you could come and work for our company and sell bras. How do you feel about bras?”

“I feel . . .” He looked at me, those gray-blue eyes searing me, but laughing, too. “I feel good about bras. Why don’t you show me yours?”

“Ha.” I cringed, thinking of my old beige bra. I would dig a hole with my teeth through his floor before showing him my beige bra. “Maybe another day.”

“I live in hope, Meggie. Let’s talk about you.”

“No. Too boring. Let’s move on.”

“I don’t think I want to move on.”

“Let’s do anyhow.”

“Okay, not you. Let’s talk about your company. Last time you told me some things you were worried about. How is it now?”

“We’re struggling.” I knew I could trust him to keep what I told him to himself. He was a trustworthy man. “It’s a mess.”

“Tell me about it.”

I talked about the Fashion Story and my concerns. I talked in generalities about the financial situation. It was a relief to talk to someone outside the company. He was insightful, and he cut through the crap. I started to see some of our problems more clearly, simply by listening to Blake.

“I don’t know much about bra and negligee selling, or I would try to offer better help and advice,” he said later.

“You’ve actually been a huge help. Thank you.”

“I only know what I like,” he drawled.

“Not surprising. Being a man, you would have an opinion on that.”

“Haven’t seen any negligees in a long, long time, though.”

“You must be kidding.”

“No.” He seemed serious.

“Why not?”

“Haven’t met anyone I wanted to see in a negligee.”

“I haven’t met anyone I wanted to see in a negligee, either.”

He laughed. I do try to have a sense of humor now and then.

“Bring a bunch of negligees over here one night, Meggie, and I’ll tell you which ones I like.”

“Gee whiz. Thanks. What a guy.”

“Can I ask you a question, Meggie? Why aren’t you married? I’m surprised that you’re single.”

I felt my whole body clench up, like ice had been poured down my mouth and then someone had shaken it through my body. “I was married, and I will not do that again.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“What happened?”

“That, I don’t want to talk about.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s too personal, and I don’t want it between us.” And I am still trying to get sane.

He was silent for a while. “But it is between us.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Sure it is. It’s something you don’t want to talk about because it was painful. It’s something about your life and your past.”

“Right. It’s in the past. No need to dig it up.”

“Well, when you’re ready to talk about it, I want to hear it.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you. Because I’m interested in you. Because I want to know what was so hurtful about your marriage.”

“It’s not relevant to you and me, though.”

“I could not disagree with you more, Meggie.” He leaned toward me. Those shoulders were massive and huggable.

“You’re an interesting guy, Blake.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re curious. Because you like to have a full conversation. Because you like to listen.”

“Why is that particularly interesting?”

“Most men aren’t like that. They like to talk
at
women. They like to lecture. They like to pontificate. They don’t listen well. They don’t want to know that much about the woman they’re with. They want to know surface stuff: what they look like in jeans. What they look like naked. Are they good in bed? Will they listen endlessly to all their problems and whining? Will they cook well? Will they smile a lot? That’s about it. That’s what they want. Food and sex.”

“Pretty insulting, Meggie.” That jaw of his tightened up.

“But true.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Then you have a sad and erroneous opinion about men. I know plenty of men who love their girlfriends and wives and it’s not because they smile pleasantly, cook well, or like rolling around in bed. My best friend is so in love with his wife, when she goes out of town a few times a year to visit her mother and sister, he cries. He calls me and I can hear him sucking it up. He’s a captain with the fire department—tough, disciplined, focused—but he doesn’t like to be without her.

“My uncle Brody has been married for forty-five years to my aunt Roslyn. I’ve watched him watching her. She needs something, he’s up and getting it. She opens her mouth to speak and his head about swivels off his neck to hear it. They still take”— he put his fingers up in air quotes—“ ‘naps’ in the middle of the afternoon, and he’s constantly kissing her. My stepfather, Shep, loves my mother and has repeatedly said when she dies, he’ll die. I think he’s right. My father cannot live without my mother.”

“That’s sweet.”

“You don’t sound like you believe it.”

“It hasn’t been my experience.”

“Tell me about your experience.”

Now he was ticking me off. “I already said no. What are you not understanding about that word?”

Our eyes clashed. Our personalities clashed. We are two strong-willed, opinionated people, and those types usually butt heads.

“Maybe one day you’ll say yes.”

“I doubt it.” No I would not. I thrummed the table, so agitated, lots of black and red and rats swimming my way now.

We sat in silence, each waiting for the other to break it.

“What’s your favorite type of food, Meggie?”

“Italian. But I love steaks, too. Good job, by the way.” I wanted to run. This was getting too deep for me. Too involved.

He smiled at me, but I wasn’t fooled. Those eyes were sharp and assessing. He was a brilliant man. Capable. Commanding. Military trained. Special forces. Police chief. No one should ever underestimate him. It would be a stupid, stupid thing to do.

I would not underestimate him. I had met my match.

And I could tell that my “match” wasn’t happy with me and how tight I held my past to my chest.

If he knew the truth, he wouldn’t want to talk to me. He wouldn’t want to spend time with me. He wouldn’t like me.

I don’t like me.

How could he?

Best to keep him out in the future. Keep him out, shut him out.

Shut Meggie in.

 

My fears are not limited to my nightmares.

I have what I call daymares, too.

Different things will trigger my daymares and haul me back in time to places I don’t want to be: black feathers on a bird, a picture of India, Los Angeles, small apartments, the color red, angry men, feeling overloaded at work, any sort of mind manipulations people try to play on me, rats, Japanese cherry trees, the hint of the scent of pot, hospitals, doctors’ white coats, and video games—all will send me spinning.