The First Day of the Rest of My Life, Page 2

“Tell her I don’t want to talk to her.” I clenched my teeth and shook my head. I had come to hate the woman on the phone. It wasn’t personal. I hated her because of what she was trying to do to my carefully constructed, fragile life and to my sister’s carefully constructed, fragile life.

  “Ms. O’Shea is not available to speak with you right now, Marlene,” Georgie said with firm professionalism.

  Georgie is my assistant. She has a dog, Stanley, who barked twice at me, then lifted a paw. I shook it. He barked again. I kneeled and hugged him, the dog’s head cuddling into my neck, paws on my shoulders. If I don’t hug him, he won’t stop barking. When I tried to pull away, he held on tight and wheezed in my ear.

  “I said, no,” Georgie said. “That is a refusal. A negative. A denial.” Her tone clashed with her dyed, snow white hair with pink tips, her lace skirt, and her cowboy boots. She is twenty-five and can wear anything. I look at her and am reminded that I have broken and smashed my momma’s cardinal rule on clothing : Don’t you dare be a frump. Don’t you dare! Let yourself shine.

  “Why are you having such inner turmoil with the word no?” Georgie went on. “Ms. O’Shea is not available. This is not a wishy-washy philosophical difference that you can play with and manipulate at will. Your spectrum of denial is puzzling me.”

  I didn’t know what a spectrum of denial was. I would ask later.

  “Ms. O’Shea has already given you her answer. She does not want to be interviewed for the article.... No, she does not have to participate. There is free choice in her spiritual and in her legal reign.... No, you are not to call her family, either. Do not contact the Laurents. They are elderly and do not wish to speak to you. Fry me on that one.”

  I shuddered and took a ragged breath as a sense of wretched doom tripped along my nerves. Stanley squeezed my neck. He is so affectionate.

  I had hardly slept. When the sun was still grumpy and tired, I drove to my office in a fancy building in downtown Portland to begin my usual fifteen-hour day. My office has three rooms: the reception area, which is decorated with leather chairs, taupe colored walls, and modern art paintings and sculptures; a conference room with a wall of windows and a long mahogany table for group meetings; and my office, in the corner, with two walls of windows, my thick glass desk with raw edges, a leather V couch over a colorful rug, and more modern art.

  I really do not like modern art.

  “The family will not talk to you,” Georgie said again. “We have already told you no. Release your request from your inner being and go spearhead someone else before I freakin’ let you have it.”

  I had to love Georgie’s manner. New wave with a shot of bullying.

  “Fine. Go ahead and talk to the kids she grew up with.” Georgie tapped the tattoo on her arm. It’s a picture of her grandma smoking a cigar. “I can’t muzzle everyone in her childhood, but stop unleashing your irritating personality on us.”

  I froze at that. Marlene was talking to people in my childhood ? Who? I thought of one person in particular. What would he say? How would he react? Would he refuse to talk or would he admit the truth, publicly? He’d been on TV two nights ago. . . .

  I released Stanley, and he barked in protest, as he was not done with the hug. I ignored him and grabbed the phone from Georgie. “Listen, Marlene, this is the last time. Either you stop calling me or I’ll call the police and have you arrested for harassment. Are you getting this? Do not call me, do not e-mail me, do not contact me or my family in any way, shape, or form.”

  I listened, feeling my fury boil like hot tar as I fought back utter, bleak, white-hot fear.

  “We are not cooperating because we don’t want the article written.” I listened for a moment. “Marlene, if you persist with this article, I will shove legal papers up your ass so fast you won’t be able to sit on a toilet for a week, and then I will start on that rag you call a magazine. You will not print anything about my family or our past. You will leave the whole thing alone. You will kill the story because there is no story. None.” I hung up.

  I stood by Georgie’s desk, trembling head to foot. I hate the shakes. I do. And I hate Marlene with a passion. It is not personal.

  “Call my attorney again,” I told her, breathless. I have a problem with breathing. “Get Keith Stein on the line right now.”

  “Got it.” Georgie picked the phone back up. I liked her. She was smart and loyal. I had given her a very sketchy, brief outline of why Marlene wanted to write the article. She had nodded, taken it in, allowed me not to fill in the blanks that I didn’t want to share. She’s a confident person and she’s okay with blanks.

  Stanley barked at me. Twice. I shook his hand, he barked, I hugged him as certain scenes of my past rushed in like a noose, squeezing the life out of my esophagus. I smelled sweat, cigarettes, and a dank shack. I closed my eyes.

  Within a minute I was rapid-fire talking to Keith. I’ve known Keith since high school. He was a bulldog when we were younger and he’s a bulldog now with a broad, spiky bite. He owns a megasuccessful law firm and boils people down on a regular basis for breakfast. He enjoys his work. “Shut her down, Keith. I don’t care what you have to do, but shut her down.”

  “I am here to find my inner being. It’s here somewhere.” She batted her false eyelashes. “I think it might be hiding in my Prada.”

  “I am here to begin my descent and foray into the world.” Her sister tapped her designer shoes. I believe they cost eight hundred dollars.

  “I am here to spread my wings and fly. Fly and fly. Fly.” The third sister flapped, diamond tennis bracelets flashing.

  “Fun and fun!” Adriana laughed.

  “Wicked naughty!” Bella giggled.

  “Fantabulous!” Carlotta gushed.

  I do not like handling three-way coaching sessions. However, I have made an exception for the Giordano sisters this past year because they are so flamboyant and hilarious, altogether. It’s like dealing with three incoming fashion missiles. They each take turns talking, one after another, in alphabetical order. “So we never dominate one another’s spirits,” Adriana told me. “We each take a turn on the verbal stage of life.” Bella sighed. “We like to be in sync with one another, in harmony,” Carlotta tittered.

  They are of Sicilian descent.

  Adriana, Bella, and Carlotta are all unusual women. They are in their thirties, and because of a massive amount of wealth left to them by their father, a jailed mob boss who hid his piles of money, I am quite sure, in several illegal, off-shore bank accounts, they have had the luxury of falling into eccentricity.

  Their one-hundred-year-old brick mansion is on a hill with sweeping views of the Willamette River and the city. They have livened the place up by painting the trim purple, adding a purple deck, a purple gazebo, and a myriad of striking steel sculptures and outdoor art all over their property, which has been featured in different newspapers and magazines. In one magazine, the sisters posed in old-fashioned, striped swimsuits and parasols.

  On their front lawn alone, they have many organically shaped, neon-colored glass structures that are museum worthy and stunning. One is a shiny purple and blue jellyfish, another is a grouping of tall, twisting corkscrews, and in a back corner are fanciful glass flowers about six feet tall. In their pond, with a fountain in the center, they have colored glass balls with dots and an arc of rainbow-colored glass fish leaping from the water.

  Each has a pet cat that comes with them to “life-coaching class” in a specially designed cat basket with the cat’s name written on the front.

  Princess Anastasia is Adriana’s cat. She was wearing a princess outfit in white silk. She even had glittery bracelets on her legs.

  Bee La La is Bella’s cat. She was dressed as a bee. No explanation necessary.

  Candy Stripe belongs to Carlotta. She was dressed as Wonder Woman. Were you expecting a candy cane?

  Princess Anastasia made a spitting sound at me.

  Bee La La rolled her eyes, I swear she did.

  C
andy Stripe yawned, took a nap.

  The Giordano sisters’ momma passed away ten years ago from a heart attack. “Poor Momma, we love you, Momma,” they chanted.

  “She died of a heart attack when she found out Daddy had a mistress,” Adriana said. “Poor Momma, we love you, Momma.”

  “Poor Momma, we love you, Momma,” Bella echoed, then coughed. “Well, there were two mistresses. The first one told Momma about the second mistress because she was so mad that Daddy was cheating on her, too.”

  Carlotta squirmed. “And the second mistress was so mad she was the second mistress and not the first that she burned down the house that Daddy had bought the first mistress. Everybody lived, but the second mistress had to leave the country and go to Sicily.”

  “Her daddy was from Sicily,” Adriana explained patiently. “It’s so pretty there. He was in The Family, too. She can’t ever come back to America, though.” Adriana shook her head, so sad, so sad.

  “No, she can’t,” Bella confirmed. “Not even for shopping! She misses out on Rodeo Drive.”

  “And the New York shows,” Carlotta whined.

  “And Vegas!” Adriana moaned. “Such a punishment for a wee fire. She was even insured!”

  They all sighed. The unfairness of arson!

  “The second mistress loved to gamble. She practically lived at the casinos,” Bella explained. “Daddy said she lived at her plastic surgeon’s, but he was being grumpy that night. He had a grumpy side.”

  Another group sigh. That grumpiness their mob boss father displayed! So grumpy!

  “And when the first mistress’s house was burned down she told Daddy to build her another one or she’d go to the police,” Carlotta said. “It made Daddy really grumpy then.”

  There was a heavy silence.

  “She disappeared,” Adriana said, tapping her long nails together. “No one knew where she went to. . . .”

  Good God.

  “We think maybe she went to Baltimore,” Bella said, twisting a diamond hoop earring.

  Baltimore? I raised an eyebrow.

  “Or maybe Boise. Could have been Miami,” said Carlotta. She crossed her Jimmy Choo shoes.

  I raised both eyebrows.

  “I think that she had family in Sacramento. Or maybe it was Baton Rouge,” Adriana said.

  They all nodded at me.

  I nodded back.

  “Daddy wouldn’t have killed her,” Bella said.

  “Goodness, no,” her sisters agreed. “No.”

  Good God, again.

  “We love Daddy so much! We love you, Daddy!”

  I crossed my legs. I was wearing short blue pumps today. Expensive. Dull. No flash compared to theirs, high heels built to rock the fashion world.

  Daddy was currently serving a life sentence in a maximum-security prison. I believe it was for a few crimes in the realm of murder, assault, loan sharking, hookers, wire fraud, and tax evasion, but I’m not sure. Some things one does not need to know.

  Another group sigh, pitched high at the end. Mob boss daddy never would have killed his mistress for threatening to go to the police. Almost sinful to think such a tawdry thought! Sinful!

  “All right, ladies.” I cleared my throat, ready to jump into the facade that would follow. “I know that you all are thinking hard about different careers to pursue.”

  “Yes! Full speed ahead!” Carlotta said, full of cheer, sitting straight up. “A career!”

  She said career like this: “Ca Rear!”

  “Goody!” Adriana said, clapping her hands.

  “Working me, working me!” Bella said, wiping a hand across her imaginary sweaty brow.

  I wanted to choke. These women didn’t want to work. They didn’t want careers. They wanted to shop and go to lunch. I eyed their designer clothes, the fur-trimmed coats they didn’t need on this warm day, their thousand dollar bags, and their decorated cats.

  I got up and opened a wooden chest. “Ladies, you’re going to get dressed up in different uniforms and you’re going to see which uniform fits you best. I believe this will help you decide in which direction you should go, uh, career wise.”

  “A costume party!” Carlotta cheered.

  “Dress-up time!” Adriana called out. “Outta sight and groovy! We adore you, Madeline. Every time we come to life-coaching class we have so much enlightenment!”

  “How come you never come to our parties, naughty girl!” Bella squealed, as she plowed through the chest, her jeweled necklaces falling forward.

  “Yes, we invite you all the time. Last weekend we had an all-green party. Everyone wore green and we ate pink food,” Carlotta said. “One man wore a black thong and painted his whole body green! He was a green bean, get it?!”

  “And the weekend before we had a motorcycle dude party. Wasn’t that funny when Charlene Fay drove her Harley into the pool!” Adriana laughed. “She barely missed the glass fish!”

  “And last month: Halloween Early party!” Bella said. “We had a King Kong, a banana, Wonder Woman, a condom—that was Paul, who came with his girlfriend, Cal, who was a diaphragm. It was so birth controlly. Environmentally correct!”

  I sighed.

  “But let’s talk about our new Ca Rears,” Carlotta said. “A Ca Rear!”

  I knew my sisters, I knew what they wanted to do, I knew what their goal was. Sometimes being a life coach means you offer people direction, encouragement, a plan, goal setting, counseling . . . and sometimes you offer them what they need: a laugh.

  Ten minutes later we began our “Career Parade.”

  Adriana swaggered about in a nurse’s outfit. She had added her own personal style. She wore her black lace bra with purple trim over the white nurse’s uniform. She twirled a pink parasol and tottered on Bella’s pink heels with cheetah print toes.

  Bella model-walked, hips waving, in a blue jumpsuit uniform, a lot like a mechanic might wear, only she had thrown her lace scarf around her shoulders, unzipped the top of the jumpsuit to the waist so her purple camisole showed through, and rolled up the pants legs to her knees to show off Carlotta’s knee-high leather boots.

  Carlotta was wearing a pink tutu and pink tights and a green silk shirt. To make it more “Carlotta-y,” she was wearing all of her jewelry and all of her sisters’ jewelry and a black fur hat. She was also wearing Adriana’s sage designer heels.

  “I love coming to coaching class!” Adriana said. “I love it!”

  “You’re the best, Madeline,” Bella said. “I feel so careerish right now! Don’t you, girls?”

  “Yes, we have a Ca Rear!” Carlotta said.

  “I’m a nurse like Mary Poppins!” Adriana said. “Fun and fun!”

  “I’m a mechanic for a soft porn show!” Bella said. “Wicked naughty!”

  “I’m a ballerina slave for a leprechaun!” Carlotta said. “Fantabulous!”

  They pulled their cats out of their baskets—one who spit, one who rolled her eyes, one who was asleep—and strutted around my office.

  Who knew the world needed nurses who wore black bras over their nurses’ uniforms, mechanics in purple camisoles, and ballerina slaves in pink tutus.

  Yes, this is my life.

  At least the Giordano sisters aren’t liars.

  “Your next client is here, Madeline,” Georgie said. “It’s Aurora King. She’s got her sparkling pink fairy dress on today. She’s wearing a tiara, too. She wasn’t wearing a tiara when I met her in Spirit Yoga class and told her about you.”

  I smothered a laugh. Diane Smith had changed her name to Aurora King so she could be a whole new person. I respected that. I liked whole new people and I liked Diane / Aurora. “She wants to talk about my fairy dust, doesn’t she?”

  “She says she’s seeing it in your aura. In fact, she says she’s seeing a threat. A threat to you and your very essence. I’m quoting her. Apparently you have, what is it, Aurora? Okay, she says that there is something lurking. She thinks it’s an emotional hurricane with a scary train ride and the Pyrenees M
ountains. What else? And a tree with branches that criss and cross and a horse-man.”

  “Send in the fairy and her dust for my aura. But tell her not to throw glitter at me like last time.”

  “Don’t throw glitter at Madeline,” I heard Georgie say as she disconnected.

  I opened my door to Aurora.

  She threw pink glitter at me.

  Two days later I was still picking it out of my hair.

  Late that night, completely wiped out from work, I drove up the winding street to my modern house with the geometric decorating that I don’t like. I dropped my keys and purse onto a modern, black metal statue shaped like a person with an octagon for a head holding a tray. I slipped off my boring heels and passed my black leather couch—not the cushy type, the hard type. Hanging over it was a light made out of chrome that resembled a giant, spying eye.

  I headed to my bedroom with the modern bed frame constructed of shiny steel. I did not open the doors to my closet to put my suit away. I didn’t have to, because I have no closet doors in my entire house. Not even my pantry has a door. First thing I did when I bought this house was to take off all the closet and pantry doors everywhere so my mind wouldn’t short-circuit every time I wanted to grab a skirt or syrup.

  All of my suits are lined up nice and neat, by color, same with my low-heeled shoes, my slippers, my tennis shoes, my sweaters, my ironed blouses. Obsessively neat. Everything is in tight, methodical order. Clearly a control freak jacked up on high octane obsessiveness did this, but I cannot have it any other way. I have to have order.

  I have used both closets in my room for clothes, and I hang the hangers about four inches apart. Why? So I can see clear through to the wall behind it. Clear through.

  Instantly I need to know if any sick, demented people are hiding in my closets, so no doors, and no cramming.

  Where did I get this quirk from?

  My childhood. Why?

  He used to leap out of our closets.

  Sherwinn leaped.

  Right at us.

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