Following My Toes (3 page)

I continued on. “And the next day he stayed for a while. I cooked breakfast and we read the paper. I never imagined it was the last good time we would have together.” I resumed my crying.

“What does he think is the meaning of life?” Lacey asked.

Her words caused me to double take. I took a huge sniff, grabbed another tissue, and wiped my eyes. “What?”

“You said he told you what the meaning of life is. What is it?”

“He told me what he thinks the meaning of life is. I don’t know if he’s right.”

Lacey grabbed the two used tissues I had placed on her coffee table. I meant to throw them out later, but she got up and put them in the wastebasket in the corner of the room.

“Okay. But what is it? What did he say?” Lacey seemed kind of exasperated, which I thought was unfair. True, my crisis was not on the same level as what she had recently endured, but then again, it isn’t every day a boyfriend of two years dumps you either.

“He told me the meaning of life is to take in the images around us as cosmic signs, and to turn them into ideas that we put out into the world. Then they’ll keep recreating themselves, but they’ll also be changing. Sort of like recycling. I don’t know, I was kind of tipsy by the time we were onto that subject. Why is it important?”

“What do you mean?” said Lacey.

“I mean, why do you care what Peter’s philosophy of life is? What does it have to do with anything?”

“It has to do with a lot of things.” Lacey paced as she launched into her explanation, attempting to tidy her living room, which was already spotlessly clean. “It speaks volumes about who he is, what he thinks, and whether or not the two of you are actually compatible.”

“Why wouldn’t we be compatible?” I nearly yelled. “We were together for two years. I would think if we weren’t, we’d have discovered it by now!”

Lacey took a gulp of wine, and sat back down, directly across from me. “People change, Faith. They grow apart. It just happens. And it’s not anyone’s fault.”

I wanted to throw up the dinner I hadn’t eaten. This was not the conversation we were supposed to be having. A year ago we would have talked for hours, eating chocolate and drinking wine, while she fed me tissues and cursed all men. But that was not going to happen tonight. So I asked her. “Who are you talking about growing apart? Me and Peter, or me and you?”

Lacey looked at me with tears in her eyes. Softly, she said, “Oh, Faith. What Peter said, about the meaning of life—It’s something I told him, something I read recently. I’m sorry. It’s just that, well, we’ve all changed. I didn’t want it to happen, but once it did, it felt right. I couldn’t help it, and neither could he. We, you know, we connected.”

My legs and arms had turned to stone. I sat there for what felt like a very long time, saying nothing. In reality, it was probably only a few seconds, a minute at the most. But time stood still. As Lacey waited for me to respond I was aware only of my own forced breathing. Finally I asked, “How exactly did you connect? I mean, to what extent did you...connect? Tell me. I need to know.”

“Faith, we never meant to hurt you.”

“How long have you been sleeping together?” I demanded an answer, but she just took a deep labored breath, as if she was the injured party.

“Faith, I needed someone, and Peter was there. And he, well, he needs someone who is going to be more accepting of his lifestyle, of his choices. His working in a coffee shop, living on a shoe string, that never would have been enough for you. But I don’t care about that stuff anymore. I’ve realized what’s actually important. Don’t you see, everything happens for a reason. This will all work out.”

“How, exactly, is this going to work out, Lacey? Because I don’t see it.”

“You simply have to trust that it will.”

“Don’t even talk to me about ‘trust’. I trusted both of you, more than anyone! Peter didn’t even have the decency to tell me the truth when he was breaking up with me. And you! You act like you’re still my best friend, you let me cry on your shoulder, when all the time, you’re deceiving me!”

“Jesus, Faith, you can be so melodramatic. Did you ever stop to think this isn’t entirely about you?”

There it was again. Had the two of them talked about me, agreeing I’m self-centered? It certainly seemed like it. But I wasn’t, was I? Suddenly I wasn’t so sure. If they both believed it, maybe it was true.

I started to cry again. This time Lacey didn’t come over to com-fort me; instead she sat there, drinking her wine. So without saying anymore, I got up, crossed the room, and closed the door both to her house and to our friendship.

They say when one door closes, another opens. Little did I know I was about to open several new doors—which would lead me toward danger, adventure, self-discovery, and possibly even love.

Chapter 3

After Lacey and Peter dumped me I wasn’t myself for a while. Instead of being pleasant and stable, I spent my time:

--Consumed with grief and anger.

--Fantasizing painful death scenarios for both Lacey and Peter.

--Not going out (except to work).

--Not returning phone calls.

Instead I stayed home, rereading the entire Sweet Valley High novel series and following a strict diet of ramen noodles, gummy bears and Tang (things that reminded of me childhood – thus giving me a false sense of security).

My parents worried about me. I didn’t see them all that often because they live about 45 minutes north of
Duluth
, just past Two Harbors, in the bed and breakfast they own and run.

Two Harbors is this little tourist town right on the North Shore of Lake Superior. It’s a huge summer destination. You could actually blind-fold a New Englander and take him to the
North
Shore
, and once you take the blind-fold off he’d still think he was in
Maine
. At least that’s what I’ve heard; I’ve never actually been to
Maine
. But I understand the rocky beaches and crystal blue waves of the
North
Shore
and the
Atlantic
are almost identical, the only difference is we don’t have lobster. (Well, not the only difference. And I suspect once you did take off the blind-fold, the New Englander would be kinda pissed.)

The bed and breakfast my parents own is friendly and quaint. Their slogan is “a home away from home”—unoriginal, but true. And it’s not like I had a weird childhood, growing up with strangers always staying with us. My mom made sure we had family dinners, just the four of us, at least once a week. That is a tradition she still likes to maintain.

However, after Peter and Lacey broke my heart I lost interest in almost everything, including making the drive up for our Tuesday night meals. You would think I’d have been tougher, especially considering all the northern
Minnesota
winters I’ve tolerated. After several weeks of hibernation my mother insisted I come, she would not take no for an answer. I decided it would be good for me to get out of my apartment, so I agreed.

“How are you doing? You’re looking awfully thin,” said my mother. She, my father, and I sat at the dinner table, unsure of what we should be talking about. “Are you eating?”

“I’m eating,” I said. And to prove my point I took a big bite of the spaghetti and meatballs my mother prepared. She knew it was my favorite and was hoping to entice back my appetite. Lately I hadn’t seen the point in eating. It wasn’t going to make me feel better, nothing would. At the same time, I didn’t want to upset my mom, so I valiantly continued with the meal. Besides, it did taste kind of good.

“How’s school?” my father asked, in an effort to keep the con-versation safe. He’s never one to talk about relationships or personal problems.

“It’s fine. The school year is almost over. That’s a good thing.”

“Do you know what you’re going to be doing this summer?” My father scooted in close to the table in order to serve himself a second helping, as he was already done with his first.

“No, not yet,” I mumbled, because I knew what was coming next. I avoided eye contact with him by keeping my head down and using my fork to push around the food on my plate.

“Well, you know you’re always more than welcome to lend a hand up here.” There it was. I’d heard this spiel every spring since I was fourteen. “We have a particularly busy summer planned, with several wedding parties, and the stuffing convention at the end of July.”

Every summer a group of hunters/taxidermists come to the bed and breakfast to talk about the unique problems and issues of stuffing the animals they shoot and kill. It started out small, but has grown so big that now there isn’t enough space to accommodate everyone, so people stay at neighboring hotels or they camp.

It drives my younger sister Margaret crazy. When the convention first started she was too young to understand what it was, let alone pronounce the word “taxidermy” – hence our calling it a stuffing convention. Now, years later, she is an environmentalist, and thinks both hunting and stuffing are wrong. But the label and the tradition have somehow stuck, despite Margaret’s feelings. I’m not so worried about the moral issues, but I sure remember being creeped out by it, especially as a kid. The guys would leave out all of their projects: dead animals in some sort of attack pose. I used to have nightmares of the animals coming to life and biting off my arms and legs, leaving me as nothing but a torso with a head.

“I don’t know, Dad. I’m not sure what I want to do this summer.”

“Then come work here,” he said, as he chewed open-mouthed his most recent bite of food. My appetite was starting to disappear again. “We’ll pay you. There’s no way you’re going to ever pay off your student loans with what you make as a teacher.”

I sighed. “I know. But I may not want to work this summer. I feel like I need a break.”

Dad dropped his fork in exasperation and leaned forward to lecture me. The light bounced off his bald spot and his shirt strained against those extra pounds middle age had given him.

“I’m sure that we all would like to live a life of leisure, Faith. But you have certain responsibilities as an adult. How are you going to meet them if you’re goofing off?”

My dad’s rhetoric hadn’t changed much in the last ten years. I had heard this speech many times since turning 17 and leaving for college. Somehow his words still had an effect on me.

My mother broke in. “Honey, maybe what you need isn’t so much a break, as a change of pace. I’m worried if you stay down in
Duluth
with no plan or routine for the entire summer, you’ll grow even more depressed than you already are. You need something to get your mind off things.”

“I know what you’re saying, Mom. I’m just not sure what it is I want to do.” It wasn’t like I hadn’t enjoyed working for my parents in past summers, and they were quite generous when it came to salary. Maybe that was it. I never felt right about letting them pay me at all, especially when they had already given me so much. But if I was going to work, I wanted to get paid. Better to go work for total strangers where guilt is not an issue. However, I couldn’t say that to my mom. “Can I think about it? Let you know later?”

My father swallowed too quickly and let out a cough. “Faith, we need to know what your plans are, because if you aren’t going to be working for us, we’ll need to hire someone. Now I know the last couple of months have been hard on you, but you can’t use that as an excuse for acting like a wet rag. Enough is enough.”

How exactly do wet rags act? My father loves that term, and since he always uses it to imply something bad, being compared to one must be unfavorable. However, in my opinion, a wet rag is far more efficient than a dry one. And what’s the point of being a rag if you’re not going to be useful?

“What about Margaret? Why can’t she work for you?” I said, trying to pass the buck.

My parents both laughed, as if my words were as witty and acerbic as the Seinfeld reruns they watch every night at 5:30, right before dinner. “You know Margaret,” my mother said. “She claims she’s way too busy.”

This let her off the hook? I suffered an emotional crisis and felt the need for some down time, and my parents basically told me to stop whining and go to work. Margaret claimed to be busy (which she never really was), and my parents laughed it off, finding it cute and endearing. Oh, to be the younger child.

“Where is she, anyway? I thought she was only going to be a few minutes late.” Apparently Margaret had called, claiming some last minute crisis had come up, where she had to lend her car so her best friend could pick up her aunt at the bus station, or something like that. With Margaret you never knew. But then, as if on cue, she walked right in.

“Hi! I’m sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly, as she went to give both my mom and my dad a hug. “Wow, that smells really good. Is there a version of it for me?”

“Of course,” replied my mom. “There’s some with eggplant on the stove.” Margaret is a vegetarian. She went to grab some food, and then sat down at her place at the table. “Hey Faith,” she said, finally acknowledging me. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” I said. “You know, you could always get a ride up here with me. That way you wouldn’t be late. And it would be more environ-mentally conscious, because we would be burning less fossil fuel.”