On the Divinity of Second Chances (14 page)

In the truck, I put on Sly and the Family Stone so Grace will come back. “Grace, what happened in there? I mean he’s just a pathetic guy.”

“Mmm, girl, you don’t go falling into that trap. You pity him and he slimes you. He was tryin’ to steal some of your core energy, girl. He even told you that. He told you he has you over because he likes women touching him and you went back. Ick, girl. You may have given him a legitimate professional massage in the physical realm, but in the psychic realm, he treated you like a whore, and you didn’t even know what hit you. Now you sing with me and let’s forget that rotten-ass man.”

Olive on Maps
(June 17)

Sometimes life just doesn’t work out the way you planned. I know this. I also know I need to let go of it and keep moving forward.

But shouldn’t I examine my failures so I can create a future different from my present?

I wonder how much of what happens to us is our own doing. There are those who believe that God has a plan for us and that we should surrender to it. There are those who believe in destiny or fate. Then there are those like Jade who believe in karma, that we are living with the results of our past choices at present and creating new karma for later. Perhaps there is no divinity to what happens to us at all. Perhaps everything in our life is just luck of the draw and how we react to it.

I do know, without a doubt, that I will buckle over and puke if one more person tells me the answer is visualization. I’ve been visualizing the life I wanted for a couple decades now and what do I have to show for it? I’ve come to the conclusion that visualization is fine as far as determining where a person wants to end up, but it’s just a step—it’s no means to an end. For instance, you can sit in your house and visualize yourself swimming, and you can visualize until the cows come home, but the only way you’re actually going to get to go swimming is if you get yourself out the door and to the lake.

I take a few deep breaths.

I visualized my life completely different from this.

I need an action plan. Yes, I’m essentially turning into my dad in this way. I need a map to show me where I am and how to get to where I want to be.

It’s hard not to just react. It’s hard not to simply say to yourself, This really blows, and just jump into any new situation. I know I need to think carefully, make careful choices, and execute my plan methodically. But do I really have a plan? Sort of. I have Dad’s graph. That’s something. But what if I buy the house only to find out that the rest of the dream isn’t present? What if a person only has so much energy, like money, to spend on a dream, and what if the house takes all of mine, leaving none left for my child, who is the reason the house matters in the first place?

Jade interrupts my thought when she enters the house with Aretha. She takes one look at me and says, “You’re in a funk.”

“I suppose I am.” I don’t get off the edge of my bed. “Just trying to figure out where to go from here. The idiot siege has left me in an uncertain place.”

“Hm,” she says.

“I think about all the homes I’ve rented and how I planted a little garden in each of them. If I’d stayed in one house this whole time, imagine what my garden would look like. The men in my life have been like rental homes . . . dumpy places I could never own, places to which I had little commitment and no right to paint the walls.”

Jade is quiet for a moment and I assume she’s really thinking about what I said, but then she chimes in with, “Remember that one guy you liked so much who had pictures of men all over his walls—Elvis, Sylvester Stallone, and Randy Travis? Remember when he said that he wanted to wear a white sequined Elvis jumpsuit when he got married? How is it that you didn’t get it he was gay?”

“He said the men on his walls were men he wished he could be like. He swore he liked women.”

“The man had a pet bunny, Olive.”

“Yeah, he was probably gay,” I agree. My heart’s not in this conversation. I have so many decisions to make and not enough choices.

“Probably? Man-posters plus Elvis jumpsuit plus pet bunny equals no ‘probably’ about it. Man, we’ve dated our share of losers. I dated that one guy who asked me if both he and Aretha were in a burning building and I could only pull one out, who would I save—remember him? And I said, ‘If you’re in a burning building with my dog, how come you’re not saving her? What, do you have jealousy issues or something?’ Remember that? What a loser. Every guy since has been allergic to dogs. Gotta take it as a sign.”

“Jade, just stop talking. Stop talking for a minute,” I snap. “I’m pregnant. I’m supposed to move in with the parents. They don’t know, but I won’t be able to hide it forever. Am I going to live there forever? Am I going to raise my child there? Am I welcome to? Am I going to give my child time or money? Because I don’t think I can give her both. I’m freaking out about the future, Jade, so you’re just going to have to forgive me if I’m not up for a trip down memory lane.”

Jade looks at me a little confused. “But it’s going to be all right,” she says. “We already know that. Grace told me it’s going to be all right.”

“I don’t know that. Maybe your invisible friend knows that, but I don’t know that.” We lock eyes for a minute. “You know, it really drives me nuts the way you’re so high and mighty . . .” I begin.

“High and mighty?” Jade acts confused, as though she doesn’t understand what I’m talking about. That only infuriates me more.

“Like nothing can touch you, like you never feel any pain because your invisible friend tells you it’s going to be okay or it’s all for the best . . . like you’re above it all. Well, that’s just great, Jade. I wish I was more like you. Really. And then another part of me wishes something would come along in your perfect life and knock you off your high horse.”

Jade can’t even get mad at me like a normal person. She looks at me like she feels sorry for me, turns, and leaves.

Phil on Lesson Three
(June 17)

For nearly the last forty years, every morning I open my eyes, my first thought is, What do I need to do today? All those years of starting each morning hitting the ground running have deeply etched this pattern into my consciousness. Now, I wake up asking myself the same question, and the answer is usually, Nothing. Sometimes it’s, Go to the bathroom. I haven’t decided if I like bathroom mornings better than nothing mornings. Sure, it gives me a sense of purpose for all of two minutes, but after that, I’m left high and dry, back to nothing—only now I’m out of bed, wandering around.

Wednesday mornings are different, though. On Wednesday mornings, I have a place to go. I go to one of the few remaining small houses left in Mont Soleil, the red one with the plaid door, small porch, and overgrown hedge. That red house is my salvation.

“Good morning, Phil. I trust the demise of your marriage has been expedited?”

I laugh, but don’t reply.

“Are you still in the house, Phil?” he asks me directly.

“I am,” I tell him. But my wife is not, I think.

“Your wife must be a saint,” he replies, amazed. “It wasn’t long before my wife banished Junior and myself to the garage.” He motions to his bagpipes. “Junior here speculates that our friendship with one Mr. Jack Daniels may have contributed to our new residence as well. The missus was a God-fearing woman who did not approve of partaking in the spirits. Now, Phil, an un-air-conditioned garage in Alabama is insipid—that’s why Junior and I have relocated to Mont Soleil. The climate is considerably more hospitable, which is why you will be pleasantly ambivalent when your wife invites you to live in the garage.”

I laugh, though Al doesn’t crack a smile. If he did, I’m not sure I’d see it behind his huge handlebar mustache.

“And now we will play the greatest song ever written. Page seven.”

I live for these Wednesday mornings. For a half hour every week, there is understanding in my life. Another thirty dollars well spent. Thirty dollars wouldn’t even get me dinner and a glass of wine at D’Angelo’s. These lessons are truly an excellent value.

Afterward, I go up the ridge again, this time with water. I think about Forrest again, rehash the same conversation I’ve had with myself for the last thirteen years, nothing new. I never reach any new conclusions, never get any new insights. It’s a waste of energy. I know that. Still, I can’t let it go. It’s got to be my failure. If only I had been at home more, he would have known me better—enough to trust me with his secret, enough to have faith I could have offered a solution. If only I hadn’t failed at being a good father. . . . At the very least, if only I hadn’t failed at finding him. Maybe it’s time to bury it—I don’t know. Even if it is, I don’t know that I ever could.

At the top, after I’ve sat a spell and caught my breath, I play “Amazing Grace.” If my son is alive, may he have the kind of awakening, the kind of new beginning or second chance sung about in this song. If he’s dead, may he be forgiven for whatever he did and be given his second chance above.

I hate to admit this, but I really don’t know whether I believe in God or not. I say a prayer now and then just in case. When I look for the evidence of God in my life, though, I just don’t see it. I’ve had my share of miracles, but I’ve always been the one to make those happen. When I really needed some divine intervention, I never did see it.

I play “Amazing Grace” and hope for an event so miraculous it restores my faith, because I really would like to believe in something.

Jade on Visiting Peter Lemonjello
(June 19)

I look around to make sure no one else in the family is watching, put on my harness, clip into Forrest’s rope, and run up the old fir. I take a bag of dried mangoes out of a pocket of my fishing vest and throw it at him. “Here.”

“My favorite!” Forrest opens the bag, and his eyes widen.

“So what’s the emergency, Peter Lemonjello?”

“I need to have a block of time when the parental units are not going to be home. A whole day would be great.”

“Forrest, I can’t get everyone out of the house for an entire day. I don’t know what to tell you,” I say. “If you stick around for a couple weeks, maybe you’ll find your window.”

He eats another piece of mango. “You’re smiling more than usual.”

“I had dinner with Nisa-Josh.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Tell all!”

“I made burned pan, and he made spaghetti. He confessed that I felt familiar. On some level, he remembers me. Not the details, but still, a part of him remembers. I told him I’d marry him.”

“Did you kiss him?” Forrest teases.

“God, no. I’m still having trouble adjusting to his new gender. I get all lusty and then I’m like—whoa, that’s Nisa!” As I explain this, I have to laugh. It sure sounds strange when I say it out loud. “What about you, Forrest? Do you think there’s someone for you in this lifetime?”

“Does it matter what I think?”

“Maybe,” I answer.

“I probably won’t create a love with a woman if it’s up to me, and if there is such a thing as fate, I’ve probably messed it up and consequently there’s a woman out there who’s very lonely and disappointed, growing considerably more bitter with each passing year.”

“Have you ever considered that perhaps it was predestined for Willa Meyer to walk into that chicken coop right when she did?”

“Of course I’ve considered that. It doesn’t make me less responsible, though. That’s my beef with destiny—that people use it to excuse themselves from their personal responsibility.”

“I can see that.” Neither of us says anything for a while. “So, what, Forrest, are you just going to punish yourself for the rest of your life?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“That’s a waste.”

He looks away and doesn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you pay back your karmic debt instead of just depriving yourself ?”

Since he doesn’t answer, I guess our conversation is over. He does that. He just crawls into his little Scorpio shell. No use ever trying to force him out of it. Best just to get some space and come back later.

“Hey, I’ve got to go to work. I’ll see you later, okay?” I say.

“Thanks for the mangoes,” he says.

My last appointment of the day is Barry White Guy, whom I just adore. As usual, the first twenty minutes, he talks like Barry White mixed with East Coast expressions like, “Oh, yeah, that’s worth the price of admission right there.” During the last forty minutes, the only noise he makes is extremely loud snoring.

After I finish, Barry White Guy’s wife comes in to say hello. Often, I work on her after her husband; that’s how I’ve come to think of her as Hip Problem Lady. She’s obviously dressed for a night out, not a massage. “We’re going to the Cromwells’ tonight,” she tells me. I’m surprised and sympathetic. Everyone knows the Cromwells haven’t been getting along, to say the least. The look on my face must have revealed my thoughts.

“I know, everyone thought they were doomed. They went to this woman down valley named Martina who claims to ‘know the ways of love.’ She’s from Brazil or somewhere. I don’t know what she did, but it worked.”

“Hm,” I say. “I know a couple who could probably use her number if you have it.”

Olive on Rediscovering Dirt
(June 22)

The man sitting across from me is saying, “We wanted to build this house without going into debt at all, but we figure we could build it faster if we just bit the bullet.”

Build a house without going into debt? No one builds a house without going into debt.

“Here are our plans, and here are a couple articles, in case the loan officer is unfamiliar with this construction technique,” he continues. “We decided against a load-bearing bale house given the snowfall up here. We’re going to go ahead and build a stick frame, and just fill the walls with straw bales, so if you think about it, it’s really not so different from a regular stick frame house—it just has a lot more insulation.”