Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju (Romantic Comedy) (19 page)

Charlotte didn’t answer. She stared down at the spot of sand
beneath her swing.

“Did he have an affair?” Hannah burst out, her voice
suddenly too loud for this place, for this park on this bright, lemon-colored day.

Charlotte felt a pull in her throat and in her eyelids. She
blinked.  

“He did.”  Gracie said, and Hannah nodded. “That’s what we
thought.”

To hear the accusation. The finality. The conversation she
had never wanted to have. How could she say, now, that she wasn’t sure? This
wasn’t fair to Caleb. If there was an ounce of doubt, she had to defend him.
And there was an ounce. More than an ounce.

“I don’t know,” Charlotte said.

“You don’t know?”

“The truth is, I don’t know what happened.” 

They were all silent for a beat.

“Then why are we here?” Gracie asked. “Why did we leave?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s complicated.”

“Can it stop being complicated long enough for you to pull
it together? He wants you back, Mom. So much. And he’s our dad.” Gracie
sniffled and Charlotte found that she couldn’t look up to see her daughter’s
tears.

“I know, honey.”

“He tells us every day that he is working on it,” Hannah
said. “He says he doesn’t know what you are going through right now. But it’s
something big… That’s what he said, anyway.”

“He doesn’t want you kicking him out of the house again,” Gracie
added. “He says you must not be ready yet, and maybe he pushed you too soon. So
do you think you’ll be ready—or whatever— by the time he gets back from L.A.?”

What had Caleb said to them, before he left? And had he told
them he would be taking Rachael? She supposed that he had not. “You guys shouldn’t
be talking about this. With your dad or with me. This is something Dad and I
need to discuss.”

“We have to talk about it, if you guys don’t talk to one
another.”  

Charlotte stared at the sand and let her eyes shift in and
out of focus. Her mind flashed through memories of Caleb. Of how, when they were
first starting out together, they would load the girls in the back of the
Corolla and take a cheap road trip during part of each summer break. They would
drive and drive, but Caleb could never turn off his writer’s mind, and he was
always pulling over and writing furiously in his notebook. If he was on a roll,
he would give Charlotte the afternoon to explore whatever place they were in, and
he would disappear, into the forest or across the beach, but always into his
own mind.  

One summer, when the girls were still toddlers, they had
been driving through Yellowstone National Park, and Caleb had pulled over into
one of the larger parking lots, where he dashed toward a picnic table with his dog-eared
Mead notebook and began scribbling. When Charlotte asked when he might be
finished, he simply waved her away and so she and the girls went along to see
the geysers and the mud pots. They tiptoed along the boardwalks, hand in hand,
but then an older woman with itchy-looking skin had shouted at them. She told
them they must never, ever leave the boardwalk because the water from the earth
was hot enough to kill the children and the mud pots could swallow them whole,
and the girls had begun to cry and still they walked along, on the creaking
wood, just above the blurping earth and the blue bubbling pools. Charlotte
remembered thinking that she had surely passed through the gates of hell. Even
the ground steamed here, like something beneath was angry and vengeful.

The thought that bothered her most, and the one that kept
returning during those summer trips, was that this was their
vacation
. This
was specially designed to be the bright spot of her year. The reward for
surviving the tedium of her day-to-day life.

That afternoon, in Yellowstone, Caleb had emerged from his
writing trance elated. When they finally met up with him, back at the car, he
had thrust his hands skyward and spun around in tight little circles, kicking
up his heels and remarking, “It’s so beautiful. All of creation!” And then he
saw Charlotte’s pinched face, and he said, “What’s wrong with you?” and she
sighed and shrugged and said she probably just needed a peanut butter sandwich.
 

And now, things should be better. Easier. But one of them
had ruined things. One of them had messed up the love. She had liked it much
better when she was certain that it was him.

These thoughts were making her limbs feel restless, whether
with fear or sadness or guilt. And she thought that perhaps this summer was just
another layer on the royally-screwed canvas that was her life.

Charlotte shook her head then, as though it would dislodge
the thought. “I’ll talk to Dad. I promise.” The girls didn’t respond and so she
said, after a beat, “Do you know what sounds really good right now?”

“A cinnamon roll.” Hannah and Gracie said, together.

“No,” Charlotte said, “A run. Let’s take a run.”

“Wow,” Hannah laughed. “That Leopold is really rubbing off
on you.”

“Ew.” Gracie and Charlotte said together, and they laughed
as they set off down the path, their hair flouncing up and down, and, from time
to time, whapping them in the face.  They ran until Fiona called and gave them
the all clear. Kamal wasn’t coming after all. And then they ran back up the
hill toward her home.

 “So why do think you’re so…how do you say? Lack of
motivated?” Leopold asked.

“You don’t think I’m motivated? It’s five in the morning, and
I’m here,” Charlotte replied.

“Yes. Thank you for not passing out on me lately.”

“You are welcome.” The four-hundred calorie MuscleBar that
she had wolfed in the car churned in her belly. She nearly burped.

“But why do you have such a resistance to racing?”

She shrugged. “I guess I’m just not motivated in that way.”

“Oh. What is that like?”

“I am just not motivated to compete athletically. It doesn’t
mean I’m not motivated in other ways.” Though just then, Charlotte couldn’t
think of a way that she was motivated. Not recently.

“But you do not have to win,” Leopold was saying. “I think
perhaps you are one of those women who do not want to play if she cannot win.
So you pretend you do not want to win. And the best way to pretend you do not want
to win is to pretend that you are not interested in participating.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

No, she had to admit. It wasn’t. She stared back at him, not
saying anything.

“Have you ever done something just to do it?” he asked. “Not
so you could be the best at it?”

“Of course. Nearly everything I do.” She laughed, thinking
of her painting class and how her teacher felt she was a complete hack. The
preschool, where everyone thought her ideas were stupid. “Everything I do, in
fact.”

“But what about the thing that you’ve chosen as your job?
What is that, anyway?”

She paused. “I guess you could say it was to parent my
girls. And to help my husband.”

“And are you the best at it?”

“That’s a hard thing to measure. Everyone has a different
definition of what makes a good parent.”

“Oh, blah, blah,” Leopold said. “Are you good—the best—at
doing your job?”  

“Yes. I was always there…
am
always there for my girls.”
And then she looked away. “Apparently no. With my husband. Though I would say I
tried my best, in the end, I was unsuccessful.”

Leopold watched her closely now. “And you would say that why?”

“Look,” she answered, “we only have twenty minutes and we
have to get through this entire shoulder-bi-tri routine. You are taking my
attention away from my form.” By now, Charlotte knew exactly what words to use
to shut Leopold up.

He crossed his arms and cocked his head back. “As you wish.”
And he was silent as she grabbed the fifteen-pound dumbbells and began twenty
reps of upright rows. Then he said, “But you need to understand that this race
is about more than running. You have signed up for an experience that you are
not going to win. There is no chance that you will win.  But you are going to
train to win anyway. You are going to run the race anyway.”

“Five, six, seven,” she counted her reps aloud, fully
knowing that she was being a jerk.

“This will be better for you than you could possibly know.”

“Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen…”

“And another thing, Miss Charlotte.”

She rested the weights now, her arms fully extended. “Really?”

“Just one more thing…I’ve been talking to Fiona. And she
says you’ve been resisting her, too, lately.”  

She sighed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but we both think that’s only because now you realize
that there is merit to doing this. We think you might actually enjoy it.”

“So what if I do?”

He chuckled. “I’m just saying, you should really let Fiona
do what she wants with you. Let go a little.”

“Step aside, little grasshopper. Let the big grasshoppers
tell you what to do? Is that what you are saying?”

“Grasshoppers? Who said anything about grasshoppers?”

“It’s an expression. Never mind.”

“Fiona believes you are still hiding from your life. Worse
now than ever, in fact.”

“Hiding?”

“Yes. She says you are scared to do things. Competitions
that you will lose, of course, but also situations in which you could look
foolish.”

“She has certainly set up some of those situations.”

“Just please go along with her. You will not regret it.
Fiona is a wise, wise woman.”

“Is she now?”

“She is.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I made her that way, grasshopper.” He winked and
smiled. “Also, because you would make her happy. And God knows, with all that
woman has to deal with…”

“What does she have to deal with exactly?”

He crossed his arms again. “You have only seventeen minutes now
to finish your shoulders-bi- tri routine. Now, slice, slice.”

“I think you mean, ‘Chop. Chop.’”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he laughed. “Maybe I do.”

***

Had she really been resisting Fiona? It was Sunday, and so,
after her workout, she did not need to hurry off to that Purple Polka-Dot
Preschool and so she took a drive through the valley and over the river and she
tried to ascertain just where she stood in Fiona’s Transformation Pact.

In large part, she conceded, it had been a success. She
could feel her muscles now. She had to push down, but they were in there. They
twitched now from the workout she had just done, and when she held her fingers
around her bicep, there was a firmness pushing back, deep inside. She had
gained another pound at the weigh-in that morning. And Leopold had put his arm
around her and said it was because she was so close to perfect already.

“To lose those last ten pounds,” Leopold has said, “takes
excrementally more effort.”

“Incrementally? Exponentially?” What did he mean?

“Excrementally more effort,” he repeated, enunciating more
clearly this time, “than losing thirty pounds. Just keep working.”

So Fiona had been right about Leopold. It had been rocky at
the start, but Charlotte was loving her new strength and her new relationship
with exercise. Working out no longer felt like punishment but like something
she could do each today, almost a tool to help her feel better.

So, score one for Fiona. And then there was this job, which
Fiona had helped her, at some level, to snag. That pukey little pokey purple
schoolhouse. At times, it was hard for her to remember why she actually showed
up each day. But then she saw the soft looks of the quiet kids who needed her, who
clung to her legs, who held her face while she spoke; who snuggled on her lap
and leaked on her neck at story time. Charlotte knew what it felt like to be an
introvert in an extroverted world, and these kids gravitated to her and to her
soft voice and to her way of knowing when they needed to sit and color for
awhile, by themselves.

And then there was the painting class Fiona had arranged.
She had met Ed. Special, special Ed.  

So Fiona
had
done an amazing job. The least she could
do would be to let her go full throttle. In the amount of time she still had
left here, in this crazy little town.

***

As she entered the Thunderdome that morning, Maddox and
Maxwell met her at the door, bouncing on their toes. “Can the girls take us
fishing again?”

“Why don’t you ask your mom?”

“She’s not up yet.”

Not up yet? “Okay, let me talk to the girls and we’ll figure
out a plan.”

She found Gracie and Hannah in the garage, organizing a bin
of children’s toys.

“Gracie, the boys said they want to go fishing again. Are
you letting them near the river? It’s running kind of fast right now, don’t you
think?”

Gracie flicked her eyes upward. “No, mom. They are fishing
for toys. We stand in the forest and we tie a clothespin to some yarn that’s
attached to a stick, and then we hide behind a tree and clip on prizes.”

“Oh. Where are you getting the prizes?”

“That’s the best part,” Gracie said. “These kids have so
many toys, I don’t think they’ve ever seen half of them. So I distract the boys
while Hannah goes in and takes some things from their rooms and then we attach
them to the fishing pole. This is their haul from yesterday.” She gestured to
the bin of toys at her feet. “Keeps ‘em going for hours.”

Charlotte just shook her head. “No Fiona yet today, huh?”

“Nope. She missed breakfast.”  

“I’ll check on her.”

“Good, yeah, we weren’t sure what to do.”

Charlotte turned and followed the matrix of now-familiar
hallways to Fiona’s door. She knocked softly and, when there was no answer, she
creaked the door open and peered inside. The blackout curtains were fully
drawn, and a soft, sweet scent clung in the air, like moist talcum powder. 

Charlotte called Fiona’s name and tiptoed to the bed.

Fiona bolted upright. “Good morning, Charlotte!” she
proclaimed.

Charlotte jumped and Fiona brought her hand to her face. “I
must have slept in. What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Is everything okay?”

“Oh yes, of course. I just didn’t sleep well. I was up for
some time in the middle of the night…” She shot a glance toward the bedside
table, where an amber bottle sat, then looked back to Charlotte. “And so I
guess I slept in. Is everybody waiting on me for this morning’s adventure?”

“The kids seem to have found their way, but I was wondering
if you have anybody on the books for today.”

“No, I took the day off. Hoped I could spend it with you
guys. Doing whatever you want.”

“I kind of hoped you would do it, finally. My makeover.”

Fiona grinned and squinted, pushing her lips together. “That
depends. Are you going to chicken out again?”

“Nope.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.” She swung her legs out of the white coverlet.
They looked warm. She pulled her nightgown down around her knees. “So to what
do I owe this change of heart?”

“To Leopold, I guess.”

“Ah. Leopold. What a wonderful man he is.”

“You know. I’m starting to come around to his charm.”

She smiled. “I think everyone does eventually. At least all
women do. Men…not so much.”

They both laughed together; Charlotte unsure of exactly what
she was laughing at.

***

“I know precisely what I am going to do today,” Fiona said,
snapping the black cape and wrapping it around Charlotte with a flourish, then
securing it tight against her neck.

“Do you now?”

“I do.” She patted Charlotte’s shoulders. “But you have to
promise to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“Will you at least describe it before you start?”  

“Ah. See? You aren’t trusting me.”

“No, no, I trust you. But can you show me a photo of what
you are going to do?”

“Charlotte. Seriously. Just let me do it.”

The salon was closed to other patrons on this day, and so
the conversation rattled between just the two of them. It was a place
ordinarily so bright, so loud, so filled with human drama, and to experience it
in its hushed state was unexpectedly soothing.

First, Fiona applied an all-over color to Charlotte’s hair, smearing
on a thick crème, from roots to ends. Once this was rinsed, she pulled strands
of hair with a tiny comb and painted at them with long, deft strokes. Then she
buried them in square sections of foil.

 “So what happened to Kamal the other day?” Charlotte asked.
“Change of plans?”

“Yeah,” Fiona stared at the top of Charlotte’s head. “But
he’ll come home. Another time.”  

“Sure. Yeah, of course.”

They sat together in silence, no sound but the slap of
Fiona’s highlighting brush.

 “Is that color pretty dark?” Charlotte asked after a time.
“Because it looks pretty dark.”

“Trust in me, Charlotte.”

“Okay, yes. Sure. I do.”

“Really. I’m good at this. I’m not the Cheetos-munching
middle schooler that you think I am. Not anymore. I have found my thing. One
thing I’m good at. So trust me.”

“Okay.”  

When Charlotte’s highlights had been processing for what
seemed an eternity, Fiona walked her back to the shampoo bowl. She tipped her
back, then brushed a stinky chemical on her eyebrows. “This only takes a
minute.”

“I think you’re doing a little more than I had in mind. I
mean, if you have to change the color of my eyebrows….”

“Shh,” Fiona said. “Darkening your eyebrows will just add a
bit of drama.”

“I’m not big into drama.”

“But you will love it on your brows.”

Fiona rinsed Charlotte’s hair, then. Leaning her back
against the cold porcelain bowl, she scrubbed at her scalp, then wrapped her
head in a fleecy white towel.

She clapped her hands together. “You are going to adore this
color, honey bunny. It’s perfect. Divine. Gorgeous. Now,” she began, leading
Charlotte by the hand through a door toward the back of the salon. “This might
seem a bit unconventional, but I’m taking you into our break room so I can do
the cut and style.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only place without a mirror. And I want
you to be certifiably shocked at your Big Reveal.”

“You have a salon chair in here, too?”

She bobbed her head around. “We do a lot of makeovers. It’s,
like, my favorite thing.”

Fiona led Charlotte into a cramped backroom where she began
to snip and razor and smile and smile and razor and snip. Her hands were moving
quickly, in controlled but grand bursts. Charlotte couldn’t help but watch the
clumps of hair fall to the floor. Each was so dark, nearly purple. Like
Rachael’s. She squeezed her eyes shut.

When the hair had stopped falling, Fiona took a long paddle
and a flat iron. She used the blow dryer for what seemed like ages, and then the
iron. Charlotte was sure she was treating each strand of hair individually.
Occasionally, Fiona would wiggle her chest about and squeal, “You are going to
love it. Love it! Love it!”

“Okay,” Fiona said, finally. “Close your eyes until we get
back out to my station.” Fiona led her gently by the hand then eased her into
the chair. She could hear Fiona unsnapping the cape and giving it a flip, then
spraying her head one last time. A blast of hairspray landed on Charlotte’s
lip.