Calm, Cool, and Adjusted (7 page)

“I didn’t know.” I didn’t want to, either, but that’s another story.

“So it’s a deal breaker that we don’t respect what the other does; is that what you’re telling me?”

“Well, isn’t it?” I ask him, still unsure why he’s even here. I thought my musical cars in the parking lot was enough to scare him off but good.

“It’s not a deal breaker for me. I know you help people over here, and I figure somewhere deep inside you know I help people too. No one becomes a doctor for the money, am I right?”

Well, except for plastic surgeons.
I look at his handsome face, and he grins that electric charm that I’m sure works on every woman alive but me. The fact remains he’s being decent, and perhaps one dinner with him can convince him that what I do has value. Maybe dining with someone so absolutely different from me will help me see what my friends want from me, because I sure can’t figure it out.

“Are you expecting me to dress in something other than what I wear?” I ask him with my eyes thinned. If he’s looking for fashionista clothing, I might as well let him know to lower the expectations immediately. If my skirt doesn’t go to the restaurant, neither do I.

He smiles slightly. “I never even noticed what you wear. You’ll wear what you like, I would think. I didn’t know there was a dress code for two friends having dinner.”

“That can’t possibly be true. That you haven’t noticed what I wear.”

“Because you dress that way for a reason? Do you want to tell me what it is?”

“See, you did notice.”

“I noticed you spare no expense on running gear. But then, Poppy in spandex? Well, I’d have to be blind to not notice that. In case it hasn’t come across your radar, I am male.”

“That’s sexist!” I accuse.

“See, it’s really not. Sexist would be if I thought you were incapable due to your fine, good looks. But I don’t. However, like a day in Yosemite, I can’t help but admire the beauty. If I didn’t, God didn’t piece me together right, you know? Didn’t your daddy teach you about the birds and the bees?”

“What about looking on a woman in lust?” I force a hand to my hip.

“No, no, you’re not going to catch me in that. I never made the jump to lust. I was talking beauty. My job is to assist in
beauty
, so what kind of doctor would I be if I hadn’t noticed? Do you want a plastic surgeon who doesn’t get what the world thinks is beautiful? Think about that now.”

“I don’t want a plastic surgeon at all, actually.”

My father comes into the office with a jingle of the bells. “Business must be good,” he says to Jeff. “You never have to work.”

“On the contrary, your daughter makes me work like a coal miner to try and wrangle a simple dinner out of her. Just a little business to discuss.” He cocks his chin down while he speaks. His blue eyes hold their sparkle.

Business. I figured it had to be something. All this talk of my beauty is just a farce, as is any trust I have in Dr. Jeff Curran.

“Tomorrow night, then.” I give in, trying to avoid my father butting in yet again.

Jeff exits, and my father stares at me, disbelief covering his expression. “You’re going out with the plastic surgeon? Poppy, are you feeling okay?” He puts his palm on my forehead.

“It’s just dinner, Dad. I would think you’d like him. He’s a doctor, corporate as they come, and would probably have me barefoot and pregnant in a matter of months.”

My dad raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t he embody everything you think is wrong with the world?”

I nod. “Pretty much, yeah.” But he’s asking, and I have to learn why my friends think I can’t date normally.
He’s as good a place to start as anyone.

Daddy just nods. If there’s one thing he’s learned with Sharon and me, it’s that reason does not necessarily play a role in our romantic thought process.

As for me, I can’t figure out for the life of me why I’m going out with Dr. Ken Doll except maybe I have some latent homecoming princess dreams that haven’t gone away. But then again, he may hold the answer to my questions. The spandex comment not withstanding.

chapter 5

Dinner with Daddy.

Desperation scale: 7

W
e walk into the dark restaurant. (Restaurants from my father’s era are always dark; apparently, there is some peace in not quite making out your food, some sort of idealized romantic view. It’s probably hiding a lot of saturated fat and hydrogenated oil as well.) We’re led past the dining room down a long, dank hallway that reminds me of a scene on
Law and Order: SVU
. I can almost hear the music:
“Bomp. Bomp.”
The waitress doesn’t have our leather-clad menus, but she turns around and grins at us as we’re led down the hallway. We’re passing everyone eating, so where exactly are we going?

“Dad, what’s going on?”

He nods. “Little surprise for you.” He winks again. My dad seems to have something stuck in his eye constantly the way he winks anymore. I’ll bet he gets to Arizona and gets a job selling golf carts.

I hate surprises. All control freaks hate surprises. You can’t control surprises, and besides that, you generally have to fake happiness. Another gift I completely lack. I try to call up a good memory in the recesses of my mind—“A mohair sweater? Wonderful!”—in case I need to use it.

This back end of the restaurant is perfectly still, and I have to say if I was on a date, I’d wonder if the guy wasn’t in the mafia. But as it is, I know my father has no such relations. He just thinks dark restaurants equal class.

When we get to the end of the hallway, the first thing I see is a sign draped across the back wall: “WELCOME HOME!”

I’ll admit, this sign sends a surge of fear through me.
Who are we welcoming home?
And of course, I can’t help but think this has something to do with the decrepit house in Santa Cruz that has just come into my possession. I walk a few more steps and quickly gather the mohair-sweater smile. Underneath the sign is a smattering of friends from my former life in Santa Cruz. A life I might remind my father that I left for a reason. I always had the sneaking suspicion my dad was a bit “touched,” but this sort of puts the suspicion to rest with absolute certainty. Santa Cruz doesn’t exactly hold the warmest memories for me, and this conjures up the nightmare in the present.

Santa Cruz is a city from days gone by. People never have to actually conform to live there, and the sixties—its clothing, its artwork, all of it—are alive and well. My skirt is perfectly at home there, and though that might be clichéd, it’s very true. The university’s mascot is the banana slug, and that sums up my childhood. Slow and blissful, among the magnificent redwoods and the majestic Pacific.

More mohair smiling. I notice with a tinge of regret that none of my current friends are here. Only the people I left behind—and forgive me for adding this, but I think I left them behind for a reason.

This is your life: Birkenstock style.

My high school boyfriend, Jed Pierce, is there. With his wife. He rolls his eyes when he sees me as if to tell me this wasn’t his idea.
Don’t be under the impression that you were ever good enough for me,
his eyes seem to say. I wonder what my father said to get him here. And if Daddy has an effective sales pitch, maybe I could use it to meet Orlando Bloom.

My pediatrician, Sally Amos, who saw me through all the stomachaches (that were purely psychosomatic, but there just the same) smiles at me through a thin veneer of confusion. She doesn’t know what she’s doing here either. There’s nothing like seeing how little you truly mean to people in your past, and I suppose I should just be thankful this isn’t my funeral.

My childhood neighbor, who didn’t have any other friends: Kate Lockston. Kate lived with her mother Eloise (who’s here also). Mrs. Lockston never worked, never left the house, and clothed Kate in boy’s plaid snap shirts and corduroy. My own mother forced me to play with her, and let’s just say, neither one of us is all that fond of the memories. There’s emotional baggage that comes with being forced to play with someone. Even if you actually might have been friends. With the pressure comes a little resentment. I can see it in Kate’s eyes even now.

And there’s my father, smiling broadly with his arm around his lovely Sharon. He’s grinning at her as though he’s pulled off the Olympics. He’s proud of his accomplishment, and I grin to acknowledge that,
Yes, Daddy, you do have a talent for surprising me. I’m surprised. Can I go home now?

“Surprise!” They all yell in unison once they’ve noticed my presence.

Bigger mohair smile. “Hello, everyone,” I say barely above a whisper because I can’t find my voice. With that, they all come towards me and I am surrounded by the reality that was my childhood. And trust me, they’re as thrilled as I am.

“Dr. Amos,” I say before clutching her like the anchor she was for me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it. Your father says you’re thinking of moving back into the house.” She lets her voice fall to a whisper. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but I’ll be there to support you. And if you ever decide to have a little one of your own—” She pats my stomach. “—I’ll be at your service.” She goes back to her wine, a habit she always had. I remember the scent at ten in the morning and suddenly wonder if my pediatric experience was all that healthy.

Next up: my first boyfriend. First sloppy kiss, first breaking of my heart: Jed Pierce.
I loved him
, I think to myself.
Really loved him.
Granted, I also wrote in cursive
Mrs. Jed Pierce
over and over on my notebook and really loved George Michael, too, so I’m not completely sure I was capable of real love. But here he is, as if to remind me all over again how he never really loved me back. He’s accompanied by the real Mrs. Jed Pierce. She’s a little blonde thing with a jealous eye and a vice-like grip on Jed. It’s really odd to see what attracted you as a high school girl. Something makes me wonder if I wasn’t just attracted by everyone else’s opinion of Jed, because I’ll tell you, I can’t see it now. He’s still so basketball-star-looking, the complete opposite of what I would find attractive.

“Hi, Jed. Allison,” I say, acknowledging his wife. He gives me a simple nod, making me wonder why the heck he bothered coming. His wife only looks me up and down, as though I want her husband with a passion that is worthy of a Shakespearian tragedy. And you’ll just have to trust me on this one: I don’t.

Jed awkwardly gives me a kiss on the cheek. Check that. The ear. I think he was going for the cheek, though. We smile at each other, shamed by the horrible experience of being placed in the same room as though we have missed each other one iota since we saw each other last. I’ve thought about “Now & Laters” more than I have Jed Pierce. Yet, another reason I think
love
was a bit overzealous a word for my emotions.

Finally, my old neighbor Kate and her mother come up and stand uncomfortably and I extend my arms for them. “It’s so good to see you!” I say with my most enthusiastic squeal. Seeing Kate’s brown eyes, I remember times when we waded into the creek to pull out frogs and tadpoles. History can’t be undervalued.

Finally, Kate puts out her hand. “Poppy, good to see you.”

“You, too, Kate. You’re looking well.”

She takes an abrupt turn on her heel, followed by her mother, who never actually said hello, and finds her way back to the table. I’m beginning to wonder if my father didn’t offer up a bribe for my so-called “friends” to be here. As reunions go, this couldn’t be more pathetic. I like to think I had some dignity before college and that my funeral wouldn’t be this pathetic. I did have friends, after all, and this is what he dredged up?

My dad grabs a wineglass and dings a fork against it. “Thank you. Thank you all for coming all the way over the hill for our precious Poppy. Please, find a seat and we’ll get started with the festivities.”

Festivities?
My stomach is in absolute knots. I cannot imagine why these people, this odd collection of history, is here. Nor why my father lied to me about dinner alone. Though I must admit, there’s a relief factor that our shopping spree is cancelled. It’s not all a loss; at least my stepmother is ignoring me. Usually, by now, she’s commented on my clothing and offered to take me out with a stylist.

My dad clears his throat ceremoniously and continues, “As you all know, Sharon and I are leaving California.” A round of half-hearted gasps here as though they aren’t all thinking,
Maybe that house will finally be landscaped and our property values will rise.
“But what you don’t know is that we’ve been living in Poppy’s house all these years. Her mother left her that house long ago and it’s time it returned to its rightful owner.” Dad looks at me. “And that its rightful owner returns to the house. She’s going to fix it up or sell it, so it won’t be the neighborhood eyesore anymore.”

A few cheers here.

I’m just counting the moments until I can run screaming from the room. I have my first and third fingers clasped together, trying to find a little peace meridian energy. As one might guess, it’s not working.

“What you don’t know,” my father goes on, “is that Sharon’s sister is in rehab in Arizona, and we’ll be taking custody of her children.”

I feel my smile fall, and I try to force it back, but it won’t come. I don’t want to put my father down, but I think I did a little more parenting in that house than he did, and I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.

“So it’s with great pleasure I hand Poppy back the keys to her home and kiss my daughter farewell. Into the future. If she were a ship, I’d break a bottle of champagne against her. This is where I send her off into the great world on her own.”

I’m not exactly sure what planet my father is currently inhabiting, as I’ve been a working chiropractor for three years with my own practice, my own condo, and even a cat to call my own. Where exactly am I being launched? I don’t know if he actually remembers this, but our past hasn’t exactly been the stuff of gumdrops. I mean, if he’s going to give me a gift, couldn’t he pass on the Lexus? It’s probably worth more than the house in its current condition anyway.