In the Unlikely Event... (33 page)

“Just so long as it’s not a pony in the Eiffel Tower, right?” Chase said, scanning the crowd for Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks.

“Sure, but I bet you could,” Bud said.

Gitana caught up with them. “I had no idea this was such a big business,” she said.

Bud and Chase threw her a see-I-told-you-so look.

“I mean this is serious stuff and a lot of money is at stake,” Gitana said, looking around the Expo. “These people mean business. I thought the Orchid Show was a big deal. We just all walk around and look at the new products and talk smack. I had no idea there’d be so many people.”

Chase stopped and stood, catatonic, in the middle of the crowd.

“Look what you did,” Bud said.

“What?” Gitana said.

“You can’t talk about big things—big important things, big business things, with someone who suffers from performance anxiety. I don’t know if we’re going to get her through this now.” She snapped her fingers. Chase continued to stand erect, but her eyes were vacant.

Gitana said, “Oh, no. What are we going to do?”

“Stop saying the word ‘big’ for starters,” Bud said.

“Okay,” Gitana said. “I won’t say big. Oops, I won’t say that word.”

Bud nodded. “Or enormous, gigantic or humonguous.”

“What shall we do?” Gitana said.

“We need to shock her out of it with a pleasure or pain stimuli,” Bud said.

“I know. You step on her toe and I’ll stick my tongue in her ear,” Gitana said.

Bud made a face. “Your tongue in her ear?”

“It’s a grown-up thing,” Gitana said.

“I am well aware of erogenous zones.”

Gitana raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I can draw you a map.”

Gitana smiled. “Okay, ready.” She stood on tiptoe and stuck her tongue in Chase’s ear and Bud stomped on her toe.

Chase said, “Ouch and oh my…”

Gitana and Bud bumped knuckles in a show of solidarity and success.

“What happened?” Chase asked, wiping her ear out with the cuff of her dress shirt. She bent down and rubbed off the smudge Bud had left on her shoe. She’d dressed in her favorite sage-colored Gap oxford shirt and a pair of black jeans with matching black Converse sneakers.

“You had stress shell shock. Now, come on, I see Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks waving at us,” Bud said.

“Oh, my goodness, I am so excited and nervous. I’ve never been this close before. You’re going to win, I can feel it,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, leading them backstage.

Chase was pale and felt sick to her stomach. “Is my therapist here yet?”

“Yes, honey. She’s in the green room waiting for you.”

“There’s a green room?” Gitana said.

“Of course, this is a—” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks stopped. Bud slashed her finger across her throat, interrupting.

“It’s this way,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, leading them backstage.

Chase heard Bud whisper to her about the “performance anxiety issue.” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks nodded.

Dr. Robicheck looked the picture and essence of relaxation. Chase couldn’t decide if she was doing it so Chase could catch her vibe, or she was taunting her with the fact that she didn’t have to perform and Chase did. The green room smelled of sandalwood from the three candles burning on the table. There was a pot of tea and a bottle of lavender oil on the end table next to the couch.

“I thought we’d do some relaxation exercises and then some visualization,” Dr. Robicheck said. She pushed the remote that lowered the lights and hit the CD player. Enya’s soft music and soothing lyrics poured forth.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks touched Chase’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s going to be fun.”

Chase looked at her dubiously, thinking there wasn’t an Asberger card for that emotion either.

“I’ll let you get at it,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said.

“Right,” Gitana said. “We should go too.”

“No, don’t go please,” Chase said, clutching at Gitana’s arm. She looked at Dr. Robicheck. “They can stay, can’t they? I need them.”

“Of course. It’ll be good if your support team is de-stressed as well. Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks, you’re welcome to stay as well,” Dr. Robicheck said, her voice soft and melodious like on one of those relaxation CDs.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks looked at her like she was some Cajun voodoo queen inviting her to a chicken dinner. “Uh, I can’t really. I’ve still got a lot to do, but I certainly appreciate your offer.” She made a hasty exit, bumping into the doorframe in her rush to be free.

“I think I scared her,” Dr. Robicheck said.

Gitana said, “It does look pretty New Wave in here.”

“This is a holistic approach to relaxation therapy,” Dr. Robicheck said.

“What do we do?” Bud said, pouring them all tea. “It’s red bush tea. That’s good. It doesn’t have any caffeine.” She handed Chase a cup.

Chase beamed at her. Bud was so capable. It made her proud.

“Yes, let’s start with the tea,” Dr. Robicheck said. She put some lavender oil in a small dish by Chase on the end table. “Dab some on your temples.”

Bud and Gitana dabbed some on their temples, and then Bud handed the dish to Chase, who did the same, feeling a little foolish and hoping the oil didn’t produce an unsightly pimple in the next five minutes before showtime.

Chase sipped the tea, and Dr. Robicheck said, in a melodious voice that was several octaves lower than her normal voice, “Breathe deeply, clearing your mind of all its concerns. Relax your body, beginning with your toes and working your way up.”

Gitana and Bud closed their eyes and relaxed. Chase tried to envision what relaxed toes looked like. Did toes harbor stress? Her neck hurt when she was stressed but never her toes.

“Next, I want you think about the contest.”

Oh, great, Chase thought, that’ll really relax me. Maybe her toes did feel stress. She swore her big toe was cramping. She shouldn’t think about body parts. Her brain might cramp up and she’d forget her wrapping skills.

“Now, keep taking deep breaths and relax your shoulders and neck. Chase, I want you to envision winning the contest. See yourself doing it—you’re declared the winner and everyone is clapping and the judges hand you the trophy.”

Chase tried, but the only visual that came to mind was sitting at the wrapping table and getting stage fright so bad that her hands shook and she couldn’t even hold the scissors still enough to cut the paper. She didn’t know how to make her mind envision victory. She wasn’t hard-wired like that. She thought she wrote like shit, and yet people liked her books. She constantly questioned her parenting skills, yet Bud was an exceptional child with good manners and a caring heart. Gitana loved her so she had to be a good partner, yet it, self-assurance, wasn’t part of her. Victory seemed unimaginable.

Dr. Robicheck sidled up to her on the couch. Bud and Gitana nestled in the comfy armchairs in a relaxed, slack-jawed stupor. “Chase, I just want you to remember you’re good at what you set your mind to—focus on that. This will be the day your new life starts.”

Chase didn’t want to wake Gitana and Bud from their deep relaxation by screaming at Dr. Robicheck. Did she really think that Chase would become her ultimate self by winning a fucking gift-wrapping competition? Had this New Age shit baked her therapist’s brain?

Dr. Robicheck sensed her unvoiced snub. “I’m serious, Chase. I know this is an odd way to realize your potential, but it is the crux of your confidence problem—if you can conquer your performance anxiety, it means you accept yourself.”

“This is crazy,” Chase whispered.

“No, it’s life. Now, drink your tea, rub your temples and visualize winning.”

Chase tried, until Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks swung open the door and turned on the lights.

“It’s showtime,” she said.

They all blinked at her like underground forest animals whose den had suddenly been exposed. She scrutinized them. “All better?”

Chase felt like saying, “We would’ve been if not for the reality jolt,” but she didn’t. For some unknown reason that Chase didn’t understand, she never said anything smart-ass to her gift-wrapping mentor. It was unfathomable—like kicking Santa Claus in the balls. You didn’t do it.

Chase glanced at Dr. Robicheck’s and Mrs. Meadowbrook-Park’s expectant faces. How could she let them down? Guilt was always a powerful motivator. Gitana’s mother, Jacinda, had taught her that. Jacinda was a devout Catholic, excepting for the gay thing, and she knew the power of guilt. Chase tapped into her inner guilt at letting people down and said, “I am unstoppable.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, putting her arm around Chase. “We can do it.”

“I will do my utmost. Thank you, Dr. Robicheck,” Chase said, not catching Gitana’s eye. She knew Gitana was studying her, and she would know that Chase wasn’t sold on any of this voodoo visualization shit. She had to learn to perform, and she would playact herself into first place—or give it the old college try—what was the line? One for the Zipper? Or was it the Gipper, whoever the fuck that was?

Bud took her hand and squeezed it. “I love you no matter what happens,” she said.

Gitana kissed her cheek.

Chase followed Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks to the contestants’ area like a prize pony at the state fair.

The second she walked in the room, Chase recognized her competition—a petite Asian woman with the fastest hands Chase had ever seen. They almost were a blur when she wrapped. There were other contenders, but Chase knew it would come down to the two of them.

They eyed each other as Chase went by. Chase noticed a small crease in one of the folds of the wrapping paper—an imperfection in Kim Lee’s work. It was a standard two by two gift box. Kim Lee was fast, but she wasn’t perfect. Chase was perfect…she hoped.

“Over here, Chase,” Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said, indicating which cubicle was hers.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks rubbed Chase’s shoulders. Chase felt like Rocky Balboa.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks said in a low voice, “I want you to think long term. You don’t have to ace every category. You just have to get enough points to get into the semifinals and then the final. It’s the wrapping finale where you will shine.”

The Master of Ceremonies tapped the mike and introduced herself as Mrs. Eleanor Valponne. “Tonight, we are making history. This is the arena where our wrapping gladiators will do battle.”

Mrs. Valponne was a Yankee—no doubt about it. Gloria had taught Chase about Yankees. People from Oklahoma had Southern manners and social mores. They found Yankees loud, bossy and aggressive. Mrs. Valponne with her tight velvet dress and piled high hair was all Yank. Gladiators, Chase thought, pish.

“There are four categories that are judged—appearance, speed, technical craft and creativity,” Mrs. Valponne said. “At the end of the first three rounds the contestants’ points will be tallied by the judges and the two highest scoring competitors will face off for the final round.” She glared at the audience. “You will refrain from clapping or any outbursts until the end of the round. Is that understood?”

The audience murmured their assent.

Kim Lee leaned back in her chair and caught Chase’s eye. They stared at each other. How did she know? Chase thought. Was there a smell that contenders had that only they could smell? Did Chase really care whether she won or not? Actually, she did. She was sick of having people think she was a performance wreck. So what if she had her therapist on the premises to deal with her anxiety? It didn’t mean she couldn’t handle it.

Mrs. Meadowbrook-Parks whispered behind her, “The creativity part scores the most points and that is right up your alley.”

Chase nodded absentmindedly. She wondered where that clichéd phrase came from. Was it a bowling reference? Or did it refer to alleys as transportation devices to allow for waste disposal?

“First round is appearance,” Mrs. Valponne announced. “No bows and ribbons. In this round, we are checking for craft only. We will do a sixty-five-inch box and a ninety-five-inch box as well as a jewelry-size box. The three boxes will be scored separately and those points put toward each contestant’s overall point total which will determine the two finalists. I am setting the clock at nine minutes. Ladies, ready, set, go.”