Following My Toes (4 page)
Authors: Laurel Osterkamp
“That would be great,” she said in reply, ignoring my ironic tone. “But Tuesday nights I volunteer to pick up garbage at
Split
Rock
State Park
. I always go there straight after here. So it wouldn’t work, unless you would want to volunteer with me.”
“Oh Faith, maybe you should.” That was my mom. “Maybe you’d meet some interesting people, make some new friends.”
“I don’t think so, Mom. I would be getting home awfully late. I like to be home and in bed by ten.”
“Yeah Mom, don’t forget. Faith needs her beauty sleep.”
“I have to be up at 5:30, Margaret. We don’t all have jobs where we get to work at three in the afternoon.” Margaret worked for Green Peace, going door to door canvassing for money. She must have been good at it, because she was always winning these awards for the most donations in any given month. The job had light hours, and she had a lot of time on her hands. So she volunteered at State Parks and the Duluth Aquarium, and she had adopted this holier-than-thou attitude about the whole thing. She has never gotten past her post-adolescent idealistic phase.
“Faith, I was only kidding. Don’t be so sensitive.”
“Sorry.” Why was I the one apologizing? “So Margaret, Mom and Dad tell me that you’re too busy to work up here this summer. Is that true?”
Margaret grabbed one of her long dark braids and tossed it back. She had inherited my father’s complexion; both her skin and hair were fairly brown. The only things that kept us looking like sisters were our similarly sized frame and facial structure.
“Yeah,” she said. “If I want to keep working with Green Peace, I can’t work here too. I need to keep regular hours. And...” she said, with a smile of anticipation flashed at both my mom and at my dad, “I got a promotion.”
“That’s great Margaret! What’s the promotion?” My mother beamed.
Margaret replied. “I’m going to be a team manager. I’ll organize, and perhaps even hire a group of canvassers. I’ll take them out, assign them to an area, and coach them on how to be effective door to door.” She turned her smile my way. “Sort of like teaching, huh Faith?”
Actually, it was nothing like teaching, seeing as how she wouldn’t have hundreds of assignments to grade each week and lessons to plan, but I didn’t want to sound bitter, so I smiled and nodded my head.
“That’s great honey. Congratulations. Does anyone want more garlic bread, because I do.” My mom got up to get the extra loaf from the oven.
“I thought this Green Peace thing was only going to be temporary until you found something in your field,” said my dad.
“What do you mean Dad? What exactly is my fi eld?” Margaret laughed as she said this. She had a knack for never taking my father’s crabbiness too seriously.
“Your field is what you majored in, in college.”
“Dad, I majored in liberal arts. That can be anything. Actually, I was thinking about going back, for marine biology or maybe environmental studies.”
“How are you going to pay for that?”
Margaret smiled again and shrugged her shoulders. She turned back to me. “So why don’t you work up here this summer, Faith? I think it would be good for you to get out of
Duluth
.”
“Why?”
“Because. Anything would be better than moping around your apartment, doing nothing all summer but feeling sorry for yourself over the whole Peter and Lacey thing.”
If I didn’t know Margaret so well I would have been taken aback by her bluntness. But that’s Margaret.
She continued as she ate. “Why shouldn’t you work up here? What have you got to do that’s better?” I couldn’t answer her.
“It would be one thing,” said my father, “if you had something else going on. But you don’t. So come work up here. Get your mind off yourself.”
My head snapped up. “What do you mean, Dad?”
My dad laughed. “Well, come on Faith. We never put it past you to be a little self important.” Mom and Margaret snickered along with him, and my face fell. Mom must have noticed, because she stopped laughing.
“Oh Faith, you know we’re only kidding. We’re all worried about you, none of us like seeing you this unhappy.”
“Okay fine, I’ll work here this summer.” I whined, hating the way I sounded.
“We don’t want you to work here if you’re going to hate every minute of it.”
“Mom, I’m not going to hate every minute of it, okay?”
“No, not okay. If you’re going to work here, great, but don’t go into it with that attitude. Faith, only you can figure out what you want, but I’m telling you, you’ll regret it if you don’t make a change.”
“So what’s that change going to be, Faith?” My father asked. My eyes darted around the room, as if I could find the answer to his question by looking at my familiar surroundings for the millionth time. All I found was a mounted ferret with one brown eye and one blue (a project someone had left from the summer before.)
What did I want? I wanted my life back to the way it had been, when I trusted people and took love for granted. More than anything, I mourned the loss of being a person who could do that.
* * *
Imagine being eleven years old, attending your first slumber party. You’re excited but scared, because before you left your mom told you in her sternest of voices you had to get some sleep because you are still recovering from a cold. You’re enough of a goody-goody that you take her words to heart, and balk when the other girls suggest sneaking out in the middle of the night to tee-pee Brian Montgomery’s house. (Brian is not only the cutest guy in the fourth grade, but an excellent kickball player.) Everyone else thinks it’s a great idea, except for this one quiet girl who lives across the street from Brian. She was sure her parents would find out and punish her.
Mandy, the snotty host of the party, says, “If you two aren’t going to do this with us, then leave!”
So you do. But you can’t go home because your parents and your sister have gone to your grandma’s, and will be gone all night. The quiet girl’s parents say you can stay over with them. Suddenly this girl you never took the time to get to know is showing you how to make s’mores over the gas fireplace. Then you give each other makeovers with her mom’s discarded beauty products, and stay up late enough to watch Saturday Night Live. And although the next morning your mom is disappointed
you got no sleep, it turns out to have been worth it. Because on Monday you have a new best friend.
Through the years she is the one you rely upon. You tell each other all your secrets, share your victories, and your defeats. And other than the time in the 8th grade when you both had a crush on Mark Terrance, your bond is unbreakable. (He had asked you out instead of her, and she didn’t speak to you for 3 months. You only had the one date him with; afterwards you agree to never let a guy come between you again.) Besides your immediate family, your friendship is the most important relationship in your life.
That is, until you meet him. He’s everything you ever fantasized about, even though you are acutely aware of his flaws. But he rubs your shoulders at the end of the day. He actually listens to the stories you tell him about your students, and adopts funny voices for them that make you laugh. He cooks you chicken parmesan from his mother’s recipe, which is good even though the sauce is made with
Campbell
’s tomato soup. All of these little moments add up to a relationship, and you realize you are happy.
You still need and value your best friend as much as ever, but feel guilty because having something she doesn’t separates you. Then her father dies, and there are two more men in your life than there are in hers. So she steals one of them from you, which ought to make things even.
But it doesn’t. You’re left wondering how much of this is your fault, which moments you should have played differently. You feel so changed on the inside that you are surprised every time you notice your reflection and it’s still the same. The worst part hasn’t been los-ing your boyfriend or your best friend, but yourself. Being hurt this way changes everything.
* * *
I told my mom and dad I would work for them, and I even tried to sound enthusiastic. The school year was going to end in a couple of weeks, and I was preparing to pack up my stuff for the summer. Then, one evening, my old college roommate Carolyn called.
“How are you holding up?” she asked. A couple of weeks before I had told her about Peter and Lacey.
“Okay,” I said, which was sort of true. I had at least managed to get past my mopey stage. “I decided to work for my parents this summer.”
“Why?” she asked. “A couple summers ago you swore you’d never work there again.”
“I know,” I sighed. “But I need something to do. I didn’t plan ahead to get a job teaching summer school, and I need a change.”
“Yeah, you really do. But why Two Harbors? You always complain about how dead it is.”
“Well, perhaps I’m selling it short. We are hosting the stuffing convention again this year. Ninety-nine percent of the participants are male. Maybe I’ll meet someone.”
“Faith, you don’t genuinely believe that, do you?”
“What? There are a lot of men who go to this thing. You should come, you’ll see.” Truth was, the sort of men Carolyn would see at this thing would most likely pass as John Goodman body doubles (sans deodorant) but for some reason I was unwilling to surrender my fantasy.
I wrapped the phone cord around my hands as we spoke, imag-ining Carolyn on the other end of the connection. Carolyn is one of those people who always look great, even on Sundays when she’s hung-over and wears pajamas and her glasses all day.
“No thanks,” she said. “No offense, but I think I can skip the stuffi ng convention. And you can too. There has to be a better way for you to put yourself out there than that.”
“Like what? You don’t realize how hard it is to meet men in
Duluth
because you only lived here during college.”
“Then why stay in
Duluth
? What’s keeping you there?”
“Well, my job for one thing.”
“Faith, there are schools in other places. Take
Minneapolis
, for example. We have a ton of schools down here. I bet you could get a job down here easy.”
“I don’t know about that. The teacher shortage only applies to math and science. We English teachers are a dime a dozen.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to apply to some
Minneapolis
schools, would it? You could stay with Charles and me for a while.”
“I appreciate the offer, Carolyn, but I don’t know....”
“You said yourself that you needed a change. So change! Change in a big way. What’s stopping you?” All of a sudden my toes started to itch, and I knew Carolyn was right. I was amazed it hadn’t occurred to me before. Why not move down to
Minneapolis
? But before I could answer Carolyn continued with her sales pitch.
“Faith, this is your life we’re talking about, and you’re not going to be young forever. If you’re going to make a major change you should do it now, while things are still... uncomplicated.”
“What do you mean, uncomplicated?”
Pause. “I’m trying to give you the wisdom of my experience.
That’s all.”
I thought for a moment. It was unlike Carolyn to even hint at be-ing unhappy in
Minneapolis
with her longtime boyfriend Charles.
“At least come down here for a visit,” she said. “You can look around, see if there are jobs, look at apartments, stuff like that. Then, if it feels right, decide to move. Aren’t you the one who always gets a sense about these things?”
I couldn’t argue with her on that point. So I agreed. Two days after school got out I drove down to
Minneapolis
, where for better or for worse, I would be forced to make some major changes.
Change never came easy for me. I think it has something to do with my horrible sense of direction. I am one of those people who get lost quite easily, and I have a terrible time reading maps. The same holds true when trying to steer through the phases of my life.
But if an old map was no longer getting me where I needed to go, maybe it was time to throw it away and start fresh. And if the person who I relied upon to navigate wound up steering me straight towards hell, perhaps it was time to find a person who knew the way toward some place nice. At least that’s what I thought at the time.
Chapter 4
I made it into the city and was fairly close to where Carolyn and Charles live when my car started to give me trouble. Then I passed a gas station, so I pulled in to see if someone could take a look. The front read Honest Abe’s Car Repair, which I figured was a good sign. I got out and went into the office area, but it was completely deserted. I stood there for a while, taking in the wall decorations, which were mostly velvet paintings of things like Elvis, dogs playing poker, or sad clowns. The biggest painting was of Abraham Lincoln, also done on velvet, hanging in the place of honor right above the cash register in a huge garish frame. It was the classic one of him, standing tall with his left hand in his chest pocket. I could almost hear the far away cry from the photos of nearly nude girls on top of cars, asserting that surely their omission went against the natural order of car mechanic decor.
My patience waned after waiting for several minutes. I rang the bell a few times, and still nothing. After another 10 minutes passed I decided to leave. Then a man in his early thirties with thick-rimmed glasses and loosely curled, dark hair that stuck out a little, emerged from the back.
Seeing him for the first time was like experiencing de ja’ vu. I’ve read a lot about reincarnation, and supposedly when that happens it’s because you have a connection with that person from a previous life. Part of my ability is a keen sense of intuition, and as soon as I laid eyes on this guy I could sense there was a connection.
“Can I help you?” he asked as he wiped his hands with a grease stained rag.
I almost said, “I think maybe you can!” But I didn’t want to scare him off, so as an opener, I asked, “Are you honest Abe?”
He gave me a half smile. “The shop was named by my cousin, Andy.”
“Oh. So what’s your name?”
“Ethan.”
“Is it you who is obsessed with velvet paintings?”
“I collect them, but I wouldn’t call it an obsession.”
“You know, my uncle collects them too. He has a ton, but I’m positive that he doesn’t have any of past presidents. That one of Abe Lincoln is really cool.”
“Thanks.” He began to drum his fingers against his leg, and shifted his weight from one foot to another. “So did you need some-thing?”
His manner wounded my ego and killed the conversation. Maybe I was being overly sensitive, but keep in mind, I was suffering from a bad mood that had been with me for approximately three months.
However, my voice was smooth as stone when I said, “Yeah, I’ve been standing here for over ten minutes. Didn’t you hear me ring the bell?”
“Yeah, I heard,” he said, “And I’m here now.”
I didn’t answer right away, so he took a deep breath and continued on. “What’s the problem?” As he asked this he picked up a spare car part that rested on the counter, which he appeared to be far more concerned with than he was with me. I couldn’t help but notice that underneath his greasy coveralls was a body that appeared to be in good shape, with well developed biceps and a tight, well, you know what I’m saying.
Not that I’m super concerned with how a person looks. I’d be sort of hypocritical if I were. I don’t think of myself as ugly, but I’m certainly not knock-em-down, drop dead gorgeous either. I suppose my hair is my best feature, in that it’s long, auburn, and kind of wavy. But coupled with the hair is skin that freckles rather than tans, and barely detectable eyebrows. Plus, I think my front teeth are way too big. People close to me say I’m too sensitive about it, but I say, don’t expect to see me on the cover of Cosmo anytime soon.
So I reminded myself that looks are purely superficial.
“Well,” I began, “I was driving down from
Duluth
, and everything was fine until I got into the city. Then my car started to make this chugging sound and jerky movement.”
He yawned. “Uh, huh.” He scratched his forehead, leaving a dark spot of grease right below where his brown hair hung. I had this sudden urge to reach out and wipe if off for him, with my tongue perhaps. Which is gross, I know.
“Has your car ever made that noise before?”
“It’s not just the noise, it’s the jerky movement. And no, it’s never done that before.”
He took out a pad of paper, speaking as he wrote. “Car makes chugging sound and jerky movement.” He looked up at me, and I noticed how green his eyes were. “Does it make a difference that I put ‘chugging sound’ first, or is the jerky movement so important that it deserves top billing?”
“Very funny,” I said. His sarcasm was an intensely sour palate cleanser, ruining the feast he was on the eyes. “Look, are you going to help me or not? Because there are plenty of other places where I could go if this is a problem for you.”
He did not even acknowledge my question. “What kind of car is it?”
I answered in a tight voice. “A 1990 Mazda 323.”
He laughed. “What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“Nothing. You get what you pay for.”
“Fine,” I said. “If my car isn’t good enough for you to service, I’ll simply go somewhere else.” I turned, about to leave, when his gentle teasing stopped me.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I never meant to imply that I wouldn’t service your... car.”
I turned to face him. “Excuse me?”
He smiled. “Do you want your car serviced or not?” He asked me this with a smile and a tilt of his head that suggested familiarity, as if we were bonded together by some inside joke. Yet inside me I felt a wall go up.
“Can I speak to your manager, please?”
His smile did not fade. “Why, is there a problem?”
“Yes, you’re the problem.” I managed to retort, though I was shaking on the inside and probably a little on the outside as well.
But he wasn’t fazed. Instead he took a step towards me, invading my personal space. “Why, what did I do?”
I took a step back, jutted out my chin, and answered. “You made me wait for forever, then once you finally helped me, you were con-descending and lewd. I don’t need this.”
All of a sudden his mood changed from playful to tense. “Then leave,” he barked, “I don’t need this either.”
His words stung. Without thinking about what I was doing or whom I was actually speaking to, I laid into him.
“Look, I don’t know where your attitude comes from, but I don’t appreciate it. You obviously think you’re too good to carry on a conversation with me, and you have no problem being rude. I’m so sick of guys like you!”
To my horror, he laughed. “Explain it to me then,” he said. “How should ‘guys like me’ ought to be treating you?”
I felt my face turn bright red. Then, when I was sure that things could not get any worse, my eyes welled up with tears. I turned around so he could not see me, then said, “Forget it. I’m having a bad day.”
His demeanor changed suddenly, as if his “nice guy” switch had been turned on. His hand reached out, and brushed my shoulder. I turned, and saw that his expression had changed; his face had softened. “No, I’m sorry. You’ve been dumped lately, haven’t you?”
I forced a smile. “Is it that obvious?”
He grinned and tapped my shoulder again. “Kind of – you have that energy about you, half anger, half desperation.”
My mouth opened in shock. “I don’t think anyone has ever been so insulting to me without trying to be.”
He laughed again, not offended. “Sorry. Given my own history, I’m probably the last one who should be making jokes. I didn’t mean to act like such a jerk.” Then he walked back behind the counter, turning more business like. “Actually, there’s nothing wrong with a Mazda 323. I mean, if you need a new part it might be kind of hard to find, but if you want to leave your car here, I’ll take a look and give you a call.”
I walked over to the counter, and placed my car key down. I grabbed the notepad he had been writing on; then I wrote down Carolyn and Charles’ number. “This is where you can reach me. Ask for Faith.”
“Will do. Nice to meet you Faith.”
“Yeah,” I said, “Nice to meet you too.”
* * *
As I walked away from his garage, I feared that already my trip to
Minneapolis
was off to a bad start.
“Forget it.” I told myself. “You’ll pick your car up in a couple of days, then you will never have to talk to that guy again. Just get to Carolyn’s. Seeing her will make you feel better.” I looked at my map, and hoped I was turning onto the right street.
Carolyn lived in an apartment building on the southern side of
Minneapolis
, in an area called “Uptown.” It had grown as trendy as an Ikea store over the years, but way more pricey. Luckily Carolyn and Charles moved into their rent-controlled building several years ago. Otherwise they could never afford this neighborhood, let alone the cheap Swedish furniture that went with it.
Their neighborhood was not far from where I was, so I walked. As I did, I noticed the charming surroundings. Most of the buildings were brick or brownstones, built in the early 1900s. However, they were well maintained and had a lot of character. Plus many of them had beautiful gardens out front, the type you would only see in a city. Unusual colors, unique lawn art, and rock formations made the most of limited yard space. Soon I found Carolyn and Charles’s building, and after I rang the doorbell once, she buzzed me in. They lived on the second floor of a two-story building. Carolyn was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.
“You made it! Charles and I had a bet running. He wagered $15 that you would bail and not come. But I said I knew you better, and you would show. Thanks for proving me right.”
Carolyn leaped down the stairs, grabbed my bag and with a few simple bounds, ushered me into her apartment, which was small but nice. Big windows, hardwood floors, and built-in shelving contributed to its appeal. In the center of the living room was their Ikea futon couch, which was where I would be sleeping.
“Did you have a good trip down? Do you want anything to eat or drink? I would give you a tour of the place, but all you have to do is stand in the center of the room, and you can see everything. So have a seat.” Carolyn flopped down on the futon, and I took a seat across from her in the oversized pink armchair she had inherited from her grandmother while we had still been roommates. No chair before or since has ever been so comfortable. At the end of our senior year Carolyn promised if I ever got married she’d give it to me as a wedding present. That’s as good a reason as any to find a husband.
“How are you?” Carolyn asked.
“Good,” I said. “Your neighborhood is so cool.”
“Oh yeah,” Carolyn said. “When you look for your own place you should look in this area. It’s great, Charles and I love it.”
“When I look for my own place?”
“Faith, we both know you’re staying. But we don’t have to talk about it right now. There’s plenty of time to iron out the details.”
It was no use arguing with her, and anyway, it was so good to see her. She and I were randomly assigned each other as roommates our freshman year of college, and found we were both a little messy and easygoing in our approach to life. So we shared an apartment all the way from sophomore year through graduation. We parted ways after college when she moved down to
Minneapolis
to find work as an actress. She’s done pretty well, not surprisingly. One great thing about Carolyn is her seemingly effortless ability to make everyone around her instantly comfortable. Being with her now made me realize just how much I missed her.
“Where’s Charles?” I had scanned the apartment a couple of times, and there was no sign of him, unless he was hiding in the bathroom, or in the corner of the bedroom I couldn’t see from where I was sitting.
“He had to work, but he’ll be home soon. Someone who covered for him recently called and needed him to take his shift.” Charles was a waiter like Carolyn, but he was also a musician. His band, Shiver Thrust, had achieved a good amount of success. They had played at some of the more well known
Minneapolis
clubs, like
First Avenue
and The Fine Line, and the album they released a few months ago was on the shelves of a lot of local music stores, where people were actually buying it. Charles and Carolyn both have a dream of being able to support themselves solely from their art, but I hear that isn’t very easy to do. So they wait tables to help make ends meet.
Carolyn continued. “He told us that we don’t have to wait for him if we want to go out. He can meet up with us later. What do you want to do? Are you hungry at all?”
“Sure. I mean, I could eat. Are you hungry?” I don’t know why I bothered asking. Carolyn was always hungry, and unlike Lacey, she actually ate the food she ordered.
“I’m starving.”
“Okay,” I said. “Where should we go?”
Carolyn smiled as she got up off the futon, and grabbed her purse. “I know just the place. Come on, it will be my treat.”
We walked to the center of Uptown to a building called
Calhoun Square
. Uptown is jam-packed with ethnic restaurants, bars with roof-top patios, chic clothing stores, and new condo developments. Inside
Calhoun Square
were a bunch of trendy and expensive boutiques, along with a huge Borders bookstore and a Starbucks. Now, I realize as far as cities go,
Minneapolis
is an anthill compared to
New York
,
London
,
Chicago
, or LA. But to me, it was a booming metropolis.