Calm, Cool, and Adjusted (3 page)

“I’ll e-mail them to you today. I’ve got them all finished. You know what I did?”

“Do I want to?” Lilly asks.

“Every two hours is an organ meridian in the Chinese acupuncture clock. I came up with gifts that go with those two hours, to nurture their health. Isn’t that terrific?”

Lilly sighs. “Example, please?”

“Okay, you know how everyone needs a pick-me-up at three in the afternoon? That’s your bladder meridian, and lack of a healthy meridian there can cause fear and a tensed nervous system. So gift suggestions are aromatherapy candles and bath products.”

She sighs again. Louder this time. “You know, Poppy, what’s wrong with just saying the afternoon’s for tea time? Three to five can be tea time, and you can suggest that someone buy a teapot. It’s better than reminding people of the bride’s bodily functions, don’t you think?”

“Well, that’s weird,” I shrug. “Who has tea time in America?”

“Right,” Lilly says. “Because in America, we’re busy having bladder time instead.”

“We should be,” I say. “Improper bladder function is what causes that afternoon fatigue. God created your organs to work in harmony, Lilly. It’s not a joke to ignore them.”

“I’ll do the time features. Thanks for trying. I don’t even want to know when colon time is.”

“Lilly, you can’t just take everything over.”

“Poppy, you can’t just make Morgan’s shower sound like a New Age gift show. If you show up with healing rocks, you’re outta there.”

I’m quiet. I can’t really answer to that. I don’t believe in the healing power of rocks. But hello? I worked hard on those gift suggestions. Sure, I knew they weren’t the norm, but neither is Morgan. She’s special and I wanted her shower to reflect that. Anyone can do a twenty-four-hour shower. Big deal.

“What I really called about, Poppy—and don’t hang up until you hear me out.”

I look around my office thinking of my alternatives, and yeah, I can hear her out. “I’m listening. Have you been taking that elixir I sent you home with?”

She ignores my question. “Now, we know you have no trouble meeting men. Heck, we’ve been beside you long enough to know all hail the redhead. But Morgan and I met this great guy last night and we thought maybe—”

No, I certainly don’t have any trouble meeting men. It’s the red hair—it’s like a guy magnet. I think all those Maureen O’Hara-John Wayne movies conditioned men to believe taming the fiery redhead is some sort of hero ambition. Of course, I’m nothing like Maureen O’Hara, and I usually turn out to be a big disappointment to those with preconceived ideas. Once I’ve told a man how he needs to improve his kidney function or pump his adrenals, the O’Hara fantasy generally evaporates quickly.

So a blind date is not on my priority list. “Lilly, you know I appreciate you two, but I’ve decided I’m coming to the wedding alone. The pressure of getting a date is just doing nothing for my peace levels. Every time I think about it, I want to run. I’m sure this guy is wonderful, and you can invite him to the wedding and maybe it will be love at first sight. I’ll be overcome by his magnetism, and you can tell me that you told me so. All right?”

“Really, Poppy, you’d like him, and he has a great spine. Very tall. His color is good. He could star in a vitamin ad. Really. You’d love him or I wouldn’t have picked him out for you.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what my dad said about my stepmother— that I’d love her. And we all know where that headed.”

“You’re not going to even give this a chance, are you?”

“Not even a whisper of a chance.” If there’s anything more pathetic than not having a date, or wanting one, it’s being told the perfect man is out there. Here’s the problem with this: your friends, well meaning as they may be, set you up with some form of an ape, and then you question not only yourself, but what your friends must think of you. So I start to pedal quickly. “I’m training for the triathlon in Hawaii and that’s my focus. What’s it to you if I show up alone?”

She’s quiet for a minute—which, may I say, is not like Lilly. “Don’t take offense, Poppy, but lately, your natural-health thing is consuming you. The running, the swimming, the eating weird foodstuffs . . . We’re starting to get concerned.”

“I’ll eat what I’m served at the wedding, Lilly.”

“Morgan has taken a lot of flack in the city, what with her father being in jail and a lot of the socialites thinking she belongs there too. Her wedding day is a chance to start fresh. To walk down the aisle with George and little Georgie and know that her history is just that: history. We just need to do what we can to make this day great for her.”

“What do my health interests have to do with Morgan’s wedding?”

“Isn’t it true that at my wedding reception you told the mayor his teeth-whitening system had been linked to cancer?”

“Yeah, but it has and—”

“And isn’t it also true that you told my Nana’s boyfriend that his esophagus spasms could be helped with a proper diet? And you started to write it down?”

“He can’t eat like that and not expect some repercussions.”

“Nana lives to cook for him, Poppy. You ticked both of them off and I had to explain how you are a natural health food promoter.”

“So what does this have to do with Morgan’s wedding? You don’t want me to talk about health, fine, I’ll shut up.”

“Morgan’s had a rough year. She’s been in the newspaper for nothing but scandal for a long time now. This is her day, and no one needs to be diagnosed at the wedding.”

I catch my breath and feel a welt in my throat as I realize my friends don’t really want me at the wedding. They want the Stanford Poppy—the one who graduated with them and was little more than a bad dresser.

I embarrass my friends
. I know I’m different. I’m not prone to care what the world thinks, but I realize, with a sharp pain, that I do care what Morgan and Lilly think. I’ve always been proud to be different. Until this moment, anyway.

Lilly’s already married. I obviously didn’t do any real damage at her wedding. She’s pregnant, too, so I fail to see how my actions could harm anything in Morgan’s celebration. George loves her. His son, Georgie, loves her. If I tell someone they need more whole grains, how is that going to hurt anything?

I let out a deep breath. “Fine. I won’t say a thing, even if someone’s liver is puffing their face up to the size of a super tomato. I’ll say nothing,” I vow.

“You can’t help yourself,” Lilly continues. “You’re a natural mother, and you want to mother everyone, and I’m just asking, for this one day, can you put a muzzle on it?”

Can I? I’m sure I probably could, but what about
me
will be at the wedding? If they want my shell, maybe they could call Stepford.

“I put up with your hair obsession. This is
my
weirdness; you have to accept it. That’s the cost of being my friend.” Lilly thought at one time that all of her life’s woes were caused by bushy, frizzy Italian hair. She eventually learned it was merely an excuse.

But Lilly doesn’t back down. “Get a date, or I’ll find one for you,” she says. “You’re not going to try and make me feel guilty. He can be as earthy as you like. Just get one or I’ll get one for you.”

“I don’t believe you’ll get me one,” I say, challenging my best friend.

“Try me. Show up alone, and I’ll have someone meet you at the door, and he might have a lace muzzle I’ve sewn.”

This makes me laugh. “Who would you get?”

“Nate, if you’re not careful.”

Nate’s her former toad neighbor who goes through women like Kleenex. “I’ll find a date.” So much for Eleanor Roosevelt and my suffragettes. In the world of weddings, a girl is in need of a date. Sometimes we are so Victorian.

Lilly offers one last stand. “This is for your own good.”

“What if I’m destined to be single for the rest of my life, and you’re upsetting the balance of nature and God’s plan?”

“I’ll take it up with Him. See ya, love.” Lilly hangs up the phone, and I’m in no better place than I was before the conversation.

I slide into my running shoes, lace them up, and exit through the back door of my office. Dr. Jeff is getting into his Lexus—which I called a Beamer just to bug him—and there’s an awkward moment where we should probably acknowledge each other’s presence, but don’t.
A Lexus convertible
, I think to myself.
Little cars for little men
.

chapter 2

Another mile run.

Desperation scale: 1 (I’m good!)

R
unning always clears my head. It’s my sanity and I thank the Lord that my legs work well enough to carry me into this realm of quiet communion with Him. I can get so bogged down in the day-to-day grind, lost to my anxieties and pressure to make the world a better place. When I run, it feels like I’m leaving my problems behind me, riding the wind to freedom and allowing myself to remember I do not control the universe. I should, but I don’t.

As I pass the eucalyptus trees that line the road, inhaling their fresh, cleansing scent, I can hardly believe my friends think I’ll embarrass them without a date. Don’t they know me by now? I can embarrass them
with
a date too. But I wouldn’t do that. My best friends have found their soul mates and that’s enough for me. Their joy is enough for me. And I can survive anything for five hours, even a dancing relative with BO. I’ll just have to borrow Lilly’s Vicks VapoRub. The only thing left to do is decide between curtain number one (mercy date) or curtain number two (finding my own victim).

As I approach the office complex, I start to slow my pace a little, and for once, I feel a tinge of guilt seeing my car in Jeff’s spot. Not because it’s his spot; I already explained that. But because I don’t really care. Why do I knowingly upset him for pleasure? What kind of sick person does things like that? I don’t like what the visual says about me, and I hope God is missing this little portion of my day. Sometimes the definition of Christian feels so narrow.

I pull my car keys from my fanny pack, slide into my car, and move it to the back forty of the parking lot. While there, I notice a small convertible with the top down. There’s a blonde talking on her cell phone, loudly.

“Are you going to help me or not? I want a divorce. You want a divorce. Let’s just get it over with! If you were this patient in our marriage, we wouldn’t have this problem.” She snaps her phone shut and eyes me with a smile as though I haven’t just overheard her most private and painful conversation. At least, it should be painful. She doesn’t look terribly upset.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” I say to her as she gets out of the car. Her legs go on forever, and she’s wearing spiky heels I can only guess have some sort of name attached to them. I’m sure Lilly or Morgan would know the brand.

“Are you selling something?” she asks me, looking down from her lofty view.

“No, I’m not selling anything. I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do for you. It sounds like you’re having a tough day.” I point to the complex. “I’m a chiropractor and I also do Chinese medicine. Things that deal with the emotional aspects of health.”

She laughs. “Thanks, but my back is just fine. It’s my husband who seems to have difficulty with other women’s backs, but that’s another subject.”

“I do all sorts of natural healing. God’s first building block was energy, you know. The anger must be eating you alive.”

She gives me that look I’m used to by now. “That’s sweet. Well, listen, thank you for stopping, but I’m fine. It’s nice to know there are still concerned citizens about in the Silicon Valley. Are you licensed to prescribe meds?” she asks me.

I shake my head. “I don’t really believe in pharmaceuticals.”

“Right.” She lifts the corner of her lip. “Well, nice meeting you.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“I made a mistake. Just trying to remedy it. Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” She flashes me a smile.

I shake my head. She hikes her gargantuan bag over her shoulder and heads for Jeff’s office. I guess a divorce is nothing a trip to the plastic surgeon’s office can’t handle. And he’ll be there waiting. The thought ticks me off.

“Good luck,” I say to her back. As she walks away I’m almost envious. Not that she’s getting a divorce, but that she can handle something so overwhelming with ease. I know it’s because she’s so out of touch with her own emotions, but that hardly makes me feel better at the moment.

Our office complex has a small gym, and I head to the showers after I’ve run to wipe as much of the morning’s grime off me as possible. Reaching into my gym bag, I drink a soy/ flax seed/strawberry smoothie I brought with me for lunch. It’s warm and tastes like sandpaper grit in soy, but I swallow it all down anyway. I need to get those essential oils before starting the afternoon’s grind. But as I think about the little Greek café, I wonder if I don’t make life harder than it has to be.

I pull on my familiar cotton skirt and slide into my Clarks clogs. A once-over in the mirror tells me my figure is lost in the outfit. I like it this way. I am so glad I got my mom’s red hair. I smooth the skirt she used to wear with pride. It’s one of my very favorite things, though I suppose it has seen better days. I can’t bring myself to throw it away or succumb to the world of fashion. It’s Lilly and Morgan’s least favorite thing of mine, and they are quite vocal about my wearing it. See why I’m envious of that woman in the convertible? She can throw away a marriage easier than I can a skirt.

When I emerge from the changing room and head to the office, I see my father waiting beside the door and checking his watch.
Uh oh.
I look around for an escape, but it’s too late—he’s seen me and he opens his arms as he approaches me. I watch his countenance fall as he sees my skirt, but he recovers quickly.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say, my face crushed into suit jacket.

“Poppy, how about having dinner with your old dad tonight?”

Is
she
here? I don’t say this, but I’m sure my extended silence implies it.

“Just you and me.” My dad pulls away. “What do you say? Sharon had an event at the convention center, so I drove her here and I’m free until nine tonight. Just like old times. Are you up for it? Or do you have a hot date that I’m interfering with?”