Lipstick Apology (20 page)

“I'll do my best to meet you there,” Jolie said. “I may be a few minutes late.” She leaned down and kissed my cheek. “Gotta run.”

I searched in the medicine cabinet for some Advil but only found skin care products, dental floss, and a tube of toothpaste. I wandered down the hall to Jolie's bathroom. It was a smaller version of the master bath with the same beige tile and decorative black diamond accents, only there was no oversized Jacuzzi tub, just a glass shower. I opened her medicine cabinet and found a similar array of beauty supplies. I tried the cabinet under the sink. There was a plastic Tupperware tub filled with an assortment of cold remedies and pain relievers. When I pulled the tub out of the dark cabinet, an oversized manila envelope dropped down from behind a pile of towels. It seemed like an odd place for an envelope to be. I reached back and grabbed it with curiosity, sending the towels tumbling to the floor. The envelope was fat and sealed with a strip of heavy packing tape. My heart began to race. Whatever was in this envelope seemed to be deliberately hidden. Hidden by Jolie. Since I was the only one Jolie had ever lived with, the envelope was hidden from
me.
My stomach turned. I tried to tear the top of the envelope, but the tape was too strong. I rifled through Jolie's cabinets looking for scissors, finally settling on a pair of tweezers. I shoved the tweezers under the tape and ripped it open. The contents flew out and spilled on the floor. Letters. Maybe ten of them—each addressed to Jill Carson in the same perfect script I saw on the cards. D's handwriting.
Oh my God.
My jaw throbbed. I grabbed the letters and a bottle of Advil and ran to my bedroom. I gave up on going to school, dove onto my bed with the letters, and started reading.

 

BY THE TIME
I made it to my dentist appointment, I had read and reread all the letters. The first two seemed innocent enough, talking mostly about recent exhibits at the art gallery where Mom worked. But by the third letter there was some intangible tone that made me feel uneasy. In his writing there definitely was a palpable romantic tension. Then came letter number eight. Horrible letter number eight. My gut felt twisted in a million directions. On top of that, my whole face throbbed with pain despite the Advil.

The dentist's serene blue and green waiting room did nothing to soothe my nerves. The receptionist opened a clear glass window. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I have a four-thirty appointment. Emily Carson.”

I filled out a clipboard of information and planted myself in a chair, replaying the letters in my head. One in particular, the eighth letter, that was dated January 15, 1993. I couldn't get one line out of my brain.
Even in the cold drizzle, your soft kiss was enough to melt my heart.

Clearly, I wasn't adhering to Georgia and Anthony's advice about abandoning the search for answers, but what could I say? Now that I had inadvertently stumbled on something that seemed scandalous, I felt like I might be headed toward some kind of revelation. My need to understand my mother's apology outweighed my fear of the train wreck that might loom ahead.

“Emily Carson?” a tall brunette dressed in scrubs called from the doorway.

My stomach clenched. I followed the hygienist to an exam room.

She motioned for me to sit in the large chair. Poised with her pen to the paper, she asked, “So what's bothering you today?”

She waited patiently for a minute or so, then finally said, “Is it one tooth in particular?”

I cleared my throat and forced my brain to work. “It hurts here,” I said, motioning to the sides of my jaw. “I feel like I have toothpicks propping open my mouth.”

She chuckled and took an x-ray of each side of my mouth. “Okay. Dr. Reeves will be with you in a few minutes.”

I reached for my backpack, where I'd stashed the letters. Maybe I misread something. As my hand reached the zipper, a lanky man dressed in aqua scrubs flew through the door and sat on a wheeled stool. He slid over to my chair and extended his hand.

I dropped my backpack to the floor.

“I'm Dr. Reeves,” he said, flashing two deep dimples. His salt and pepper hair was cut short and he looked like a slightly less handsome version of George Clooney. “Woke up with an achy jaw, huh?”

I nodded.

“Can I feel around a bit?” he asked, motioning to my mouth.

“Okay.”

He poked his gloved fingers inside my mouth and prodded around. He removed his hands and looked at me with a sympathetic face. “Have you been under any stress lately?”

Um, kind of.
I nodded.

He nodded back. “It seems like you've developed what's called TMJ. That's temperomandibular joint dysfunction. TMJ usually results from grinding your teeth at night from built-up anxiety.” He paused, as if waiting for me to comment, but I was not about to launch into the numerous anxiety-causing problems of my life.

Dr. Reeves continued. “We're going to have to fit you with a night guard to help reduce the grinding.”

Dr. Reeves held an x-ray up to the light. “Sorry, Emily, looks like you have a cavity, too.”

See what you're doing to me, Mom! Cavities and weird jaw problems. How could you do this to me? How could you kiss another man? I thought you loved Dad.
Suddenly, the next thought I had stopped me cold: maybe I didn't know my mother at all.

“Let me take a quick peek,” Dr. Reeves said, inserting a metal probe into my mouth.

My eyes welled up and tears spilled out.

“Oh,” Dr. Reeves said. “I'm sorry, did that hurt?”

I lied and nodded.

He pulled the probe out of my mouth and patted my shoulder. “I'm sorry, Emily.”

I wanted to grab his arms and ask him to hug me and tell me everything would be okay. Instead, we both stood and walked out to the waiting room.

Jolie stood and smiled at me. I looked away. She reached to shake Dr. Reeves's hand.

“Mrs. Carson?” Dr. Reeves asked.

“Actually, I'm Emily's aunt. Just call me Jolie.”

He smiled his dimpled smile. Dr. Reeves went on to explain the TMJ, the teeth grinding, and the cavity. Jolie smiled and twirled her hair and I wanted to scream,
How can you stand there and flirt with this man when you know you've been hiding things from me!

I planned my attack. I'd wait until she was sitting on the couch, then I'd dump the letters in her lap and make her explain.

On the cab ride home Jolie said, “That dentist was very nice.”

“You mean he was hot,” I said, hoping to make her feel superficial.

“Hot? You think?”

“Wow,” I said nastily. “You work with way too many beautiful people. Your perspective is all messed up.” I shook my head like I was scolding her. “You can't even recognize a normal, attractive person.”

“God,” she said, running her hands through her hair. “All that silicone and Botox. You may be right.” She sounded apologetic, which made me feel just a little bad because she didn't even know why I was attacking her.

I turned away from Jolie and looked out the window for the remainder of the ride home. When we got home, Jolie planted herself on the couch. I went into my room and dug the letters out of my backpack. I unfolded the crumpled page.

My heart broke. I knew from the photo that “D” had a Hollywood glamour appeal, but I wondered why it was enough to lure Mom away from Dad. I laid my head down on the pillow and softly cried myself to sleep.

“OKAY, CALM DOWN,”
Lindsey said.

“CALM DOWN?” I screamed through locked jaws. “How can I calm down? I can't open my mouth!” I paced my room.

“You must chill!” Lindsey demanded, hands on my shoulders, forcing me to sit. “Take a breath. In—out. Good.”

I felt myself relax slightly.

“I thought you got something at the dentist's to help with this jaw thing?” Lindsey asked.

“My appointment to get fitted for the night guard is next week. Seriously, Lin, if I open my mouth any wider than this,” I parted my lips approximately an inch, “I get this shooting pain.”

“So don't open your mouth.”

“I am going to Owen's in two hours!! I can't go over there like this. WHAT IF HE TRIES TO KISS ME?!”
Oh my God, what if he tries to kiss me?
I started to hyperventilate.

“He's going to try and kiss me and either A—I'm physically not going to be able to open my mouth and he'll think I'm a TOTAL PRUDE, or B—we'll be mid-make out, the pain will escalate, and my jaw will give out and come crashing down. I'LL PROBABLY SEVER HIS TONGUE!”

“YOU MUST CHILL!” Lindsey commanded, grabbing my phone off my desk.

“Who are you calling?”

She ignored me, pushing buttons.

“Hey, Georgia?” Lindsey said. “We have a situation here.” Lindsey explained my predicament.

Since when did Lindsey and Georgia talk?

Silence followed on our end, Lindsey nodding in agreement with whatever crazy suggestion Georgia was making.

“You're right. Okay, hold on.” Lindsey went over to my bed and picked up a pillow. “We have to improvise to see how dire the situation is.”

“Oh, if you think I'm kissing that pillow . . .” I started.

I heard Georgia's loud protests through the phone.

Lindsey thrust my cell toward my ear.

“Do you really think we want to witness you kissing a pillow?” Georgia ranted, ignoring the fact that she was, indeed, two states away. “It's
painful.
I mean it physically hurts just thinking of you pressing your lips to a flannel-covered bundle of cotton, but I'm trying to help you avoid a catastrophic situation. So I suggest you quit your belly aching and pucker up!”

I laid the phone on my bed and veered toward Lindsey, who was holding the pillow in front of her face like a mask.

“Close your eyes! Make it authentic!” Georgia bellowed across the phone lines.

I closed my eyes, tilted my head, and made contact. The pillowcase was dry and scratchy. Lint stuck to my glossed lips. I tried to imagine Owen's hands at the nape of my neck, stroking my hair. I parted my lips and imagined his mouth, hot and moist . . .

“OOOWWWWW!”

Lindsey jumped back, dropping the pillow. “Are you okay?” she asked.

I massaged my jawbone.

Georgia was babbling over the phone.

I reached over and put her on speaker.

“That decides it,” Georgia said. “You need to postpone the date.”

“Postpone? I can't postpone,” I whined.

Lindsey vigorously shook her head, agreeing with me. “No, you HAVE to go.”

The three of us argued about what to do. Tell him the truth? Postpone? Smile through the agony?

“Postpone,” Georgia said. “That's my final answer.” She sighed and hung up.

Lindsey, who had gone to the bathroom, returned holding an orange medicine bottle in her hand. “What's this?” she asked, pointing to the prescription label.

“It's a muscle relaxer Dr. Reeves gave me to help me sleep until I get my night guard,” I explained.

“HELLO!!!” Lindsey shouted. “You've been kissing pillows when you had a whole bottle of muscle relaxers sitting in the next room?!”

“I take those at night. They make me a little loopy.”

“That's a bonus, Emily. You're going to be nervous—not only will this relax your mouth, it will relax
your mind.
”

I contemplated. “Nah, I can't. I'll be all giddy. Owen will think I'm a nut.”

Lindsey waved the pills in one hand and the phone in the other. “Muscle relaxers or postpone. You pick.”

“Fine,” I said, grabbing the medicine bottle. I popped the tablet in my mouth and chugged some water. “This night is going to be a disaster. I can just feel it.”

“Stop being so dramatic. You'll be fine. Just let these little babies work their magic,” Lindsey said, tapping the medicine bottle. She flung my jeans toward me. “Come on, get dressed.”

The ensemble that Andi and Lindsey had selected, including the Blue Cult jeans, Dolce & Gabbana top, and Anthropologie cowboy boots, cost more than I had spent on clothes in an entire year. At the time I had felt guilty for charging Jolie's credit card for so much. But now, knowing she hid those letters from me, I felt no remorse. Oh, and there was the extra sixty-five dollars for the water bra Andi insisted I purchase. I slid into the clothes, eyeing myself in the mirror.

Lindsey pulled a necklace out of her bag and wrapped it around my neck. “There,” she said. “That looks great.”

I unclasped my mom's pearls and gently placed them in my jewelry box.

We both turned toward the mirror. She was right, I looked pretty darn good. I smiled and noticed my mouth tension was easing.

Jolie popped her head in my bedroom. “Hey, want some makeup?”

Maybe it was the muscle relaxers kicking in, but suddenly my pent-up anger toward Jolie for hiding the letters seemed to lessen.
In fact,
I thought,
when I confront her this weekend, maybe I'll give her a chance to explain
. “Sure!” I said. “Makeup is
awesome
.”

Lindsey walked over and reread the medicine label with a look of concern.