Maid of dishonor, p.12
Maid of Dishonor, page 12
But I break off as I hear the unmistakable sound of a partially deaf eighty-two-year-old woman. Like the loud honking of a goose, Winifred’s voice reverberates down the hall.
“You’re a cad, you old man,” she says. Or rather, she broadcasts. Because I’m pretty sure everyone in a five-mile radius can hear.
The footsteps come closer, and I frown, looking at the door. I stand up, wheel Mom around so that she can see, and then poke my head out into the hall.
There stands Winifred, engaged in what looks to be a lovers’ quarrel with a bald, stooped little man—Boris, if I had to guess.
I suppose, based on how much I was hearing about him, that I expected someone a little more…well, just a little more. The old man version of a linebacker or something, with a full head of silvery hair. But Boris is roughly Wini’s height. His glasses hook over his time-stretched ears and perch on the end of his nose, and his skin is spotted with age. His spine curves over, and his weight is supported by a scuffed cane.
“Hi,” I say cautiously, because I have been on the receiving end of Wini’s wrath—just once, when her mail accidentally came to me and I threw away her Southern Living magazine by mistake—and I have no desire to put myself there again. “What’s going on?”
Winifred blinks owlishly up at me. “Samantha?” she says—like it might secretly be an identical stranger or something.
“Yep,” I say, looking back and forth between her and Possibly Boris. “I didn’t know you had a speed dating thing today.” Then another, more horrifying thought occurs to me: “Winifred, did you drive here?”
Because I’m not sure I feel safe on the roads knowing Wini might be out there. I mean, there’s a car in her garage, but I don’t remember the last time I actually saw her use it; her friend always comes to pick her up for speed dating and book club.
“Of course I did,” she says, sounding haughty. I can tell she tries to straighten up to look more regal or something, but she’s just so stooped that it doesn’t really work. “And there’s no speed dating today.”
“Right,” I say, genuinely concerned. “Okay. Well, do you think maybe you’d like some privacy for your—er—” I gesture back and forth between her and Possibly Boris. “For your conversation?”
“No,” Wini says. She folds her arms stoutly and sniffs. “Let the whole world know that this man is a two-timing old cheat—”
“Aw, now, Winifred,” the man says, his voice pleading. “You know you’re the only woman for me—”
But Wini isn’t done. “And I’ll have you know, Samantha, that this is your fault.” She rounds on me. “I told you I’d go on one date with this bozo, and here I find him playing cards with Miss Hattie Mae.” Her nose wrinkles at the name, and her voice is still far too loud to be polite.
“I mean,” I say reasonably before I can stop myself, “playing cards isn’t really cheating, Wini—”
“Strip poker!” she shouts.
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
Don’t picture it, don’t picture it, don’t—
But it’s too late, because the whole subject is as fascinating as it is horrifying—the train wreck you can’t look away from. The image of two octogenarians playing strip poker is now in my head, along with all the logistical questions it poses. Can they dress and undress themselves? Do they use a shoehorn to take off their socks and shoes? Do dentures count as something to be removed?
My eyes swing to Boris despite my best attempts to avoid it, and what do you know—that sly old dog has a grin on his face and a wicked twinkle in his eye. An old cad, indeed.
“Winifred, why don’t you come meet my mom?” I say, because this is going south very quickly, and I did not sign up for this today. Or ever. Without waiting for her to respond, I link my elbow through Wini’s and tug her firmly away from Boris and into my mom’s room instead. She shoots one last venomous look over her shoulder and then follows.
“I wasn’t aware your mother lived here, Samantha,” Winifred says as we enter. “Tell her not to trust the men in this place.” I wince at the volume and quickly close the door behind us.
“She does live here,” I say, nodding, “and she’s married, so no worries there. Mom, this is my landlady, Winifred. She’s here…” But I trail off as I realize I’m not sure exactly why Wini is here. To see Boris, I guess. She said there wasn’t a speed dating event today.
“I do the speed dating every week,” Winifred says. “I came to bingo night with Boris Baumgartner, and then we took a lovely walk through the gardens, and then I find him removing his clothing in the presence of another woman—”
“All right,” I say loudly, cutting her off as she gets worked up again. I reach over and hesitantly pat her on the shoulder—she’s not a particularly touchy-feely woman, but I don’t just want to shout over her—and then say, “I’m really sorry, Wini. I didn’t mean to cause all this mess.”
She harrumphs and says, “It’s not actually your fault, Samantha. He’s the one whose knickers were on display.” Then she begins to turn around, as though she’s going to head back out there for round two of shouting at Boris.
I clamp down on her shoulder, and she stalls in place. grumbling. Then I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Mom, I think I’d better get Wini home,” I say, frowning apologetically at her.
My mom nods, looking a little frightened of Wini, and honestly, I don’t blame her. So with one last kiss on my mother’s cheek, I steer Wini out of the room, down the hall, and out to the parking lot. I get Winifred all settled in her car, and when I get in my own car, my mind is still swimming with unwanted mental images.
One day I will make a list of all the details I never wanted but got anyway, and Boris Baumgartner’s knickers will be at the very top.
“Hey, how was it?” Carter says when I call him once I’m home. His voice is loud through the phone, but I don’t even adjust the volume; he feels like the embrace that I could really use right now.
“Meh,” I say, sighing, a little distracted. Something about my mom’s words is troubling me, and I can’t figure out what it is.
“I’m going to assume that means it was the same as usual.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, going to grab the bag of chocolate chips from the pantry. I have to go up on my tiptoes to get it from further back on the top shelf where it must have slumped over, and I spend a second slapping my hand around back there randomly before I find it.
“Hah!” I say when I get it. Then I rethink my answer to Carter’s question. “Well, no, actually; Winifred turned up. She caught her man friend—Boris, the one with the dermatologist grandson?”
Carter grunts but doesn’t say anything.
“Yeah, so she caught him playing strip poker with another woman,” I explain, padding over to the couch.
“Wait, who? Boris or the grandson?”
“Boris,” I clarify.
“Huh,” Carter says, sounding thoughtful. “He’s gotta be—what, eighties? Nineties? Not great that he’s cheating or whatever, but I admire his body confidence.”
I just shudder. “Let’s talk about something else, please.”
“Right. Okay. How’s your mom?”
I sigh. “She seems kind of down on herself.” And I hate it. I hate that she feels that way.
I swallow against the frustration, the guilt, and let my body sag into the couch cushions. I eye the spot of carpet I inhabited the other day when I was so emotional over my book, but I stick to the sofa.
“What’s she down about?”
I rest my head on the arm of the couch, putting the chocolate chips next to me. “Her physical therapy,” I say. “Range of motion in her arms. Stuff like that.” Running one hand down my face, I recall her gaunt face, draped in exhaustion. “I told her that she’s making progress, but she’s so impatient. She was—wait, why are you laughing?”
Because Carter’s stupid little chuckles are now caressing me in that way that makes me shiver, even when I suspect he’s laughing at me.
“Oh, nothing,” he says, and I scowl. “Just savoring the absolute ridiculousness of you telling her that when you’re completely incapable of believing the same thing about yourself.”
I press one hand to my cheeks, which I can feel heating. “What? No, I’m not.”
“You absolutely are, Sam. In every way. I tell you this all the time. You drive yourself for perfection and refuse to acknowledge that your efforts are just as important. In fact, I mentioned this just the other day at the batting cages, and you spouted off some nonsense about the way I pour my cereal.”
Ah. That…did sort of happen. And his words slip into place in my mind, triggering my understanding. That’s what was bothering me about my conversation with my mom—the fact that Carter told me the same things. The fact that I ignored him. My heart sinks at the realization.
“So tell me, Samantha. How is it fair that you talk the talk but you don’t walk the walk?” And where he sounds smug now, his voice is more serious as he goes on, “You constantly try to be perfect to make up for what happened. And the fact is, you can’t. It’s done. It’s in the past. And it’s holding you captive.”
I swallow. “You’re not a therapist, Carter.”
“No, I’m not. But I know you. I know you inside and out. And I know how hard you work just to atone for a situation that wasn’t even your fault. And yet if someone came to you for advice, you would never tell them that they need to be perfect. You would never tell them that what happened was their fault. You would tell them that their progress matters, that their efforts are enough. You would tell them to let go of what happened and keep moving forward.”
Where before his voice was an embrace, now it’s a burr in my shoe, a little nudge I can’t ignore. Because he’s right.
I sigh. “I—yeah, maybe,” I say, uncomfortable. “It’s not something I can just turn off, though.”
“It’s okay,” he says. He sounds far too cheerful. “I’ve been prepared for this conversation for a long time. Can you promise me something?”
More discomfort swirls inside me. I always keep my promises—always. If I make him a promise, I’m locked in.
“What kind of promise?” I say, shifting where I sit.
“Promise me that you’ll look for ways to stop living in the past. And promise me you’ll read and implement the article I’m emailing you right”—he pauses, and I hear some shuffling and clattering and clicking in the background—“right now.”
I hesitate, frowning. “Did you seriously have stuff ready to go?”
“Absolutely. I’ve just never gotten this far in this conversation before. You always get annoyed. Now promise me, Sam. Please.”
“I—it’s—” I exhale roughly. “Fine. Yes. I promise.”
“Are you sure? You’re going to commit to this promise? Don’t say it otherwise.”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly tired. “I’m sure.” I wouldn’t be promising if I didn’t know he was right, but it’s still scary—still daunting to think about.
“Great.”
After that I make my excuses—none of which he believes, I’m sure, but he has mercy and doesn’t call my bluff—and hang up. Then I look down at my bag of chocolate chips, which I realize I’m now cradling against my chest, the same way a child holds a favorite stuffed animal or blanket.
Great. My chocolate chips are my security blankie. I resolve on the spot to never tell Carter about this.
I open the bag and pop a few in my mouth before reluctantly opening my email. Sure enough, there’s an email from Carter with nothing but a link in the body. Sighing, I click on it.
It leads to a page on overcoming perfectionism, posted by what looks like a counseling center in Washington. I scan the professional-looking heading, the clean, simple, logo, and then scroll down to the actual article itself, skipping the intro and finding the first heading.
I promised him. And, to be fair, I guess I’m also sort of interested.
“Identify your irrational beliefs,” I read under my breath. “Why do you feel driven to be perfect? Is this a rational drive? Make note of these thoughts, and then reevaluate your standards. Find out what normal standards are, and make sure the standards you hold yourself to are realistic.” I pause to grab another handful of chocolate chips.
Because I’m alone, I feel no shame in continuing to read out loud, even though I’m still chewing. “Make a list of worst-case scenarios. For each of these scenarios, make a plan of action. What will you do if you don’t get a perfect score on that test? What will happen if you aren’t perfect? Formulate a strategy to move forward if things go as poorly as they can possibly go. More importantly, consider if falling short of perfect would actually be as bad as it seems.”
Huh. That’s…interesting.
More chocolate chips, more talking with food in my mouth. “Focus on the positive,” I continue. “Instead of focusing on how you fall short, focus on what you’re doing well. In addition, try to keep yourself rooted in the present rather than in the past or the future. You will feel less pressure to be perfect if you’re not worrying about what could happen or about what has already happened.”
After this comes a wrap-up paragraph, which I skim, and then I sit back on the couch.
All right. So…my irrational beliefs. What are they?
Carter’s voice echoes in my head: I know how hard you work just to atone for a situation that wasn’t even your fault.
Okay. So maybe I sort of do that sometimes. A little bit. Maybe. But it’s not wrong to want to make things right.
Only…
My mind skips back to the batting cages, trying to perfect my swing, listening to the voice in the back of my mind saying that I should try to be good at something my mom would never get to do.
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. I guess making things right is one thing, but logically I can admit that getting good at my swing isn’t going to make things right.
In fact, nothing is going to make things right. Nothing can make things right. So…I guess maybe that’s what the article means by reevaluating my standards? If I’m looking for a way to un-crash the car, to repair my mom’s broken body…it’s not going to happen.
It’s not going to happen. It can’t happen.
Therefore…perfection is automatically impossible.
Perfection is impossible.
I let out a shuddered breath, blinking past the sting in my eyes as I skim the article again.
I halfway regret making Carter this promise. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to look at these feelings under a microscope. Because he’s right about me, and my insides hurt.
I inhale for four seconds, hold it for seven seconds, and then exhale for eight seconds—a breathing technique I learned years ago in one of my general ed courses on productivity and stress reduction. I do it again, and then again, and then keep reading.
What will happen if you aren’t perfect?
Nothing. Crap. The realization sinks in. Nothing will happen to my mom if I don’t perfect my swing. Nothing will happen to her if I don’t donate every cent I have to a children’s charity. Nothing will happen.
In for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight.
What’s more, nothing will happen to me if I don’t perfect my swing—nothing other than having an average baseball swing. The status of my baseball swing will in no way affect my culpability for the car crash.
Four. Seven. Eight.
I can’t change what happened. I can’t fix what happened. I can do good things, but it’s not going to change anything about my mom.
Four seven eight four seven eight four seven eight—
“Gah!” I say, standing abruptly and wiping angrily at my eyes. I sway a little on my feet from the rush of blood to my head, but once my vision clears of the little spots, I shut my laptop. I glance over at Stan the Man. “Feelings are hard, Stan,” I say quietly. His happy little leaves seem to wave at me in sympathy, which is nice of him.
But it’s not enough. I need to hit the reset button. So I go to my bedroom, and without bothering to get under the covers, I lie down, letting my tense muscles relax and then following my racing thoughts as they speed toward an overwhelmed sleep.
Twelve
Carter
Two days after I send Sam that article, she and I go to Maya’s to tell her about the venue where her esteemed nuptials will be taking place. Cue eye roll.
“I have bad news,” I say, sitting on the couch. Sam moves past me and into the kitchen before returning two seconds later with the trash can.
Although—and maybe it’s just wishful thinking—Maya does look a little better today. I don’t know how morning sickness works, but maybe she’s having a good day? Her hair is wet and her skin pink rather than sallow, so I think she at least was able to shower. That’s a good sign.
“Where’s Chad?” Sam says as she sits next to me. She looks at Maya. “Does he want to hear about where he’s getting married?”
“He’s working this morning,” Maya says, rolling her eyes. “Or maybe flirting with his coworker who he originally insisted was just a friend before he informed me this was an open relationship.” She shakes her head with a scowl. “But he probably wouldn’t have shown anyway, the coward.”
My eyebrows shoot all the way up to my hairline at these harsh words.
Maya must see my surprise, because she sighs. “Look, he’s not a bad guy, okay? He’s not unfeeling. He just likes the easy way out.”
I shake my head slowly. Why is she marrying him? And why on earth is Chet agreeing to marry her? Why would he bother? What’s he getting out of this? Maya is awesome, no doubt, but I’m not sure Chet thinks she’s so amazing that he wants to get married and help her raise a baby. So why is he doing this?
“And you still…want to marry him?” Sam asks slowly.
Several emotions flit over Maya’s face in rapid succession—confusion, anxiety, defiance.
“Yes,” she says hesitantly. “I—I think so. And I said I would. And I want—” She breaks off, her eyes getting noticeably glassy. “I want my baby to have a mom and a dad, okay? It’s important to me.”
