Calm, Cool, and Adjusted (4 page)

“No, Daddy, it sounds great.” I try to force my enthusiasm, but as I see my dad in his suit, a part of me dies.
All this frippery to drive Sharon to San Jose . . .

This is not my father. My father was a free-spirited, tie-dye-wearing artist who listened to Credence Clearwater Revival long after it was fashionable and put off any job that interfered with our family. This man who stands before me now looks like an Armani ad, his eyes now dulled by corporate America and proper small talk. This is someone Sharon created, and there’s an inability on my part to find my father within the exterior. I’ve tried, really I have, but all I get is his business advice and our conversations quickly revert to how best to make a buck. The thing is my dad shouldn’t give money advice to welfare recipients. I’m afraid the money comes from Sharon, the heart from my father.

“So what will you do until it’s time for dinner?” I ask him.

“I thought I’d hang out and watch you work.”

His very presence makes me nervous, somehow, and I’ve already run at lunch, so I can hardly take a jog now. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Dad. You might make the men uncomfortable. It’s been hard as it is to overcome their feelings that I’m not strong enough to be their chiropractor. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Sure. Sure, I understand.”

It’s clear he doesn’t.

“Maybe you could sit in my office and read a book, huh? I’ve got lots of great things in there on health and even some fiction. Lots of Dickens—they make me think of Mom.”

He looks down at his expensive shoes. “Poppy, about your mother. I can’t help but notice you’re still wearing one of her skirts and—”

“Dad, don’t say it. I like the skirt. I like the memory of my mom close to me and this reminds me to care for the earth God created. That we don’t need something new every five minutes to make us feel better about ourselves. That’s what she taught me,” I say proudly, circling the skirt with my hands. “Not to be a consumer, but to give something back.”

“Poppy, that skirt is nearly twenty years old. Your mother bought it new, you know.” He whispers the next part: “You look ridiculous, honey. You’re running a business now and your mother would be proud of you regardless of what career path you chose. You don’t have to wear that ancient skirt to prove your loyalty.”

I feel my jaw twitch. Spoken like someone whose loyalty dissipated quick enough. “I look ridiculous?” I laugh to let him know I’m not offended. “I haven’t forgotten who I am, Dad. I’m not dressed like Donald Trump, trying to pretend that I never knew a life of simplicity. My goal isn’t to get my wife the biggest diamond in the Junior League.”

My hand flies to my mouth as I see him visibly shaken at my comment. My dad’s gentility is just not cut out for this type of content, and I feel about an inch tall.

My father’s face, now worn from years of pain and of avoiding it, clouds. He starts to nod his head.

“Daddy, I’m sorry.”
Why can’t I just shut up? Where is my edit button?

He holds up a palm. “No, you’re entitled to your opinion and it’s obvious you think I’ve sold out. That’s fair. Poppy, I loved your mother and our family, too, but she wouldn’t want you standing still mourning her. Do you think she would want me to spend these nearly two decades alone so I could prove my love to her?”

“This isn’t the place for this conversation.”

“You don’t have anything to prove to her, Poppy. She was proud of you, not what you accomplished. She knew from the day you were born that you were a special heart. You danced everywhere and you delighted everyone who met you. Sometimes your mother would just look at you and cry from the love she felt.”

“Stop it,” I say as my eyes begin tearing up.

“You don’t need to wear gauze for the rest of your life to prove your love, and I didn’t need to stay the same person I was twenty years ago.”

“Stop.” I hold my palm up. “Don’t say anything else.” There are people entering Jeff’s office, and each one of them has stopped to look at us. I want to stick my tongue out and tell them to go get Botoxed and leave me alone, but their stares do get to me. It’s official—my run has done nothing for me after the presence of my father and his gloomy tale of devotion. Up that desperation level back to a four.

I unlock the front door to my office, and the bells jingle to announce my arrival. My father holds the door open for me as I pull the key out, and he looks at me and winks.

“What’s that smell?” He wrinkles his nose.

“Mint and thyme. It’s a stress reliever. A lot of my clients come straight from work, full of angst. I like to provide them with an opportunity for respite from the daily struggles. Even if it’s only for a few minutes.”

He just nods. A few years ago, he might have asked to try some for his own house, but Sharon has long since squelched his curiosity. “Before you start for the afternoon,” he says. “I want to talk to you about Morgan’s wedding.”

“What?” I stop cold. “My Morgan’s wedding?”

Dad nods. “Do you have a date?”

“What?” I ask as though it isn’t the question of the month.

“A date,” Dad says. “Do you have a date to Morgan’s wedding?”

“Why?” I stretch this word out, hoping to imply it’s none of his business and maybe we could close down the discussion.

“I just wondered, that’s all. Sharon and I—”

“Sharon and you, what? You’re invited to the wedding?”

“Of course your best friend would invite us, Poppy. I’m walking Morgan down the aisle. Didn’t she mention that?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “No, she must have forgotten that little tidbit.” Morgan’s father is in jail for tax evasion, but I still find it interesting she’s using my father for a stand-in. Doesn’t she remember my father, however sweet he may be, comes with Sharon? Pariah-en-Gucci. So much for loyalty.

“Sharon and I wanted to know if you needed a ride to the wedding. We could drive up together, maybe have breakfast on the Bay.”

“Oh darn,” I nibble on my lip, hoping that sounded remotely real and rushing to think up an excuse. Here it comes: my first truth stretch of the day. “I have a date, but that would have been really fun. Darn it.”

“Maybe we can double. Sharon is always saying she wants to meet the man in your life.”

“My date is really shy, Dad. He’s not quite what you’d call a man in my life, at this point.”
He’s also non-existent, but surely I can find someone shy while I’m on the search. I could put that in an Internet search, after all.

“So who’s the mystery man? Could he be someone serious?” He looks at me smiling, full of hope, and I can’t go through with it. I hate having a conscience.

“The truth is Lilly and Morgan are setting me up. I don’t know who he is, and I’d rather that the world doesn’t know that it’s a setup, okay? Maybe you could keep that out of your speech at the wedding. You are speaking, I assume.”

He ignores my question. “Poppy, boys have always flocked to you like you were the only stick of candy at school. You need to stop repelling everyone, sweetheart.” He pushes my hair over my shoulder in a tender way. “That skirt sends a message, and you know it. Someday, someone is going to make it over the moat, and then what?”

Emma opens the door with a jangle and brightens at the sight of my father, “Mr. Clayton!” She drops her bag at the door and hugs my dad like he’s her own. “What are you doing over here?”

We act like my father lives in Outer Mongolia, but he’s only over the hill in Santa Cruz. Some people actually drive every day to work from the coast, but not my father. It’s a major endeavor to get him over the hill, like he has to come on the wagon train through sleet. Not his climate-controlled Lexus over Highway 17.

“I came to take my beautiful daughter out to dinner.”

“She needs it. She’s been training, you know. All I ever see her eat is flaxseed shakes and soy mochas.”

“Is this true?” My father arches a brow.

“Fourteen percent body fat, Dad.” I pull my skirt tightly around my hips. “I’m in the best shape of my life.”

“That’s debatable,” my father sits down and picks up a magazine in one fluid movement and begins thumbing through the pages. “Look, here are nice clothes that are environmentally responsible in this magazine, Poppy. Let’s go shopping tonight. Maybe we could find some clothes to show off that great figure of yours. Why be 14 percent body fat when your skirt is 30 percent?” He grins at this. “When you’re eighty, you can tell your grandchildren about your body-fat percentage.” His eyes twinkle, and he winks at Emma.

I’m shaking my head. I remember shopping with my father in junior high and I think it wounded me for life.
I am not going back there.

He seems to know what I’m thinking, “Come on, it’s not a training bra. We’ll start small. Maybe just a skirt that isn’t falling apart? We don’t have to do an entire wardrobe.”

“Don’t bother,” Emma grins. “I think those clothes are surgically attached to her body. She’s allergic to the word
new
. As a matter of fact, she might check with Dr. Jeff next door to see if they could be surgically attached. It would save her the trouble in the morning. You know how some women get their eyebrows drawn on?”

“Do you mind?” I look at Emma with a glance that reminds her who signs her paychecks. “Dad, I know what you’re trying to do, but I don’t need clothes. It’s important to my clients that I retain a life of simplicity. If I come in here dressing to the nines, how will they know they’re not in the plastic surgery office next door?”

“The smell?” he asks. “Or the excess of plants, maybe. I feel like I’m in the rainforest. And what is that incessant dripping sound?”

“It’s the water feature,” I say.

“It’s Chinese water torture!”

“She does buy nice workout wear,” Emma says. “She gets asked out practically every lunch hour, then she comes back for the sackcloth, and her magical powers disappear. As do the men.”

“Emma!”

“We had some cancellations today so I moved everyone around to keep you free for updating charts. You’re free for an hour. Why don’t you go eat something?”

“I ate already,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I bet your father hasn’t, and a warm shake doesn’t count if that’s what you ate, Poppy.”

“How did you know what I ate?”

“We’ll be at lunch,” my father says, taking me by the elbow and leading me out of the office.

This is feeling every bit the Monday it is. I get to endure a lecture on the benefits of dressing for success. I need a spa date with my Spa Girls. Before they’re
both
married and weighed down with the plight of motherhood. Lilly’s baby will be here in a few months and Morgan becomes an instant mother when she marries George. A blind date is starting to sound like the easiest, most stress-free option. The world is against me, and I feel my energy draining with each step. A hot rock massage might be just what I need to fill ‘er up.

I may not be desperate. But I’m close.

chapter 3

Daddy still here.

Desperation scale: 5

S
imon Jennings is one of my most regular clients. He’s tall—six-feet-four (at least)—with a hulking frame and a horrible spine. To the outside viewer, he would just appear big and athletic, but to the trained eye, he’s a bad spine waiting to happen. His spinal subluxations require alignment every week, and he uses that to his advantage—trying each appointment to secure a date for Friday night.

I’m torn with Simon. Sometimes I think he’s beyond charming and the next minute I think
annoyed
would be a good term to describe how I feel about him. Not because he isn’t handsome and chivalrous, but because I don’t understand his purpose in life. He’s like Midas, and everything he touches turns to gold, but I never actually see him do anything, and that frightens me. He plays a lot of golf. I imagine he’s had to be serious at some point to be able to play all that golf. Somewhere along the line, he made a lot of cash, but there’s more to life than cash. Although he does have good insurance coverage; that shows genuine practicality.

Simon is one of those men you just don’t take seriously and yet always wonder if you’re missing the true treasure beneath. He comes in with a joke on the tongue, and when he switches to Casanova, I’m just never sure who’s speaking. I’m not going to lie—there have been times I’ve really been tempted by Simon, and our chemistry is inexplicable, but then he talks about his latest golf game and I think about my own father and his lack of a forty-hour week and I’m immediately back in reality.

There’s more, of course. Let’s just say that when I can’t tell if someone is truly asking me out, I’m not generally tempted, but as the wedding date approaches, I’m more open minded every week. Simon would be an easy out. He’d dress up well, put on his best sales smile, be able to talk about golf at the Olympic Club, and generally impress. But at what cost? I’m his doctor, after all.

“Poppy.” Simon’s large frame maneuvers through the swinging doors, and I light up at the sight of him, but I quickly go into my carefully managed facade. It’s probably just me fantasizing about the perfect wedding date.

“Did you miss me last week?” he asks with a wink.

“I’ll bet your back missed me more.” I smile.

He rolls his head, and I can hear the crack. “You’ve got that right. So tell me, does absence make the heart grow fonder? Are we on for Friday night?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and on a lesser man, it would just be annoying. But on Simon, there’s a certain amount of the cute factor to it. A boyish charm, if you will.

I place a hand on my hip. “You know what they say, Simon: out of sight, out of mind.”

“Oh.” He grabs his heart. “You know how to wound me, you really do. It’s true what they say about redheads. Heartbreakers, every one of you. Tossing us poor men to the lions. You’re worse than Nero, you know.”

He stops and hands me the toiletries from his recent trips to the Westin Hotels. (I love the smell of their stuff!) “But you’re worth the trouble, I suppose.”

“Simon, thank you!” I take the collection of shampoos and put them on the desk. “Where’d you go?”

“It’s no trouble. I haven’t washed my hair for a week, but you don’t mind.” He winks. “I went to Hawaii. I’m looking for some property there.”