My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (6 page)

“Lola, the chicken looks wonderful,” I said as Mother took her seat.

“Thank you, Leah.” Over the years, Lola had become less talkative, as if she was out of practice. She smiled at me and went back to the kitchen.

“So, how was your day?” I asked.

Mother glanced up at me with a startled expression, as if I'd just asked her to detail her mammogram. I knew Mother wasn't one for light chitchat, but she also wasn't one for deep, substantive conversations. So I was never sure exactly where the middle could be found.

“Fine,” she said. Then she smiled. Just like Lola.

“That's good.”
And how was your day, Leah? Oh, fine.
Thanks for asking.

Dad walked into the room. His face lit up when he saw me.

“Hi there,” he said, his strong authoritative voice taking on that kind, warm tone that he used only for his daughter. I had vivid memories of watching my dad give speeches, hearing the certain inflections in his voice that caused thousands of people to sit silently and listen.

Dad was never one for affection. His hugs were rare, and usually reserved for photo ops, but I knew that nobody else heard the voice I got to hear. As a child, it made me grin. And I still found myself grinning.

“Hi,” I said.

“I'm glad you're here for dinner.” He sat at the head of the table. “Where's your sister?”

If I'd heard that once, I'd heard it a thousand times. Katherine Elaine, known as Kate, or even better known as “I can't believe she did that,” was late as usual. If ever there was a prodigal daughter, Kate was it. My little sister made Patti Davis look like a saint. And had the tattoos to prove it. We were distinct in so many ways, including how we addressed our matriarch. I called her Mother, which is what she had always wanted to be called, because she thought it would sound nice if she somehow found herself in the White House. Kate always refused and just called her Mom or, if she wanted to be really sassy, Mommy.

In more recent years, Kate had settled into the idea that she was an adult, and no matter how many ways she chose to rebel, her family wasn't going to ditch her. So though she still wasn't the model politician's daughter, her rebellion was much more subdued, and she attended most family gatherings.

We were all thankful that her hair was fully grown back—even if we weren't fond of the current color. She had shaved it off completely four years ago to protest hair products being tested on animals, which I found ironic since she never fed or watered any of our pets growing up.

We all heard the front door open as Lola brought in the final dish. I could see relief in my mother's features. As uptight as ever, she always seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Hurry up, Kate, dinner is served,” Dad called.

Kate breezed into the dining room and flung herself into the seat next to Mother. Her hair, highlighted in four different colors that would never be seen together on wallpaper, looked windblown, but was actually the result of her latest protest against blow-dryers. She didn't wear a stitch of makeup anymore either, due to an embarrassing allergy outbreak during her goth years. But she didn't need it. She was really a natural beauty.

She was now into bohemian. And as naturally beautiful as she was, she could never quite pull it off as well as the Olsen sisters. Mother pretended not to notice Kate's appearance. Dad shot me that look, the same one he'd given me many times through the years. It was a smile, a wink, and a reassuring nod, telling me he was grateful for my khakis.

Several minutes passed as we scooted platters around to one another and pretended to be interested in cutting our chicken or seasoning our vegetables. I stole glances at Kate, who seemed exceptionally happy. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and she was smiling at the saltshaker. My parents didn't seem to notice, though.

Suddenly my sister's announcement broke the silence: “I've found the man of my dreams.”

Dad stopped chewing. Mother tried to smile through the perpetual frown that left deep creases between her eyes. Kate glanced at me, realized I was somehow smiling, and smiled back.

Understandably, my parents were nervous. The last love of Kate's life was a biker named Joey, who came complete with the chains, the leather, and a motorcycle that cost more than my car. We all thought it was a phase, but the relationship lasted more than two years. We thought there was even a possibility of marriage.

But then Joey was in a motorcycle accident. He survived but lost his left arm. Shortly thereafter, Kate broke up with him, citing her need for a man with two arms.

Watching my parents in this situation was amusing, because although they were desperate to get rid of Joey, there was a certain amount of embarrassment attached to the fact that Joey was being dumped because Kate couldn't live with a one-armed man.

I watched Mother's practiced expression feign interest and delight. She'd mastered this over the years as a politician's wife. “Oh? How wonderful. Tell us more.”

“His name is Dillan,” Kate gushed, “and he's an attorney.”

All of our eyebrows popped up in unison, and Mother's smile looked real. “A lawyer; how wonderful,” she said.

“He's with Swadderly-Wade.” Kate looked at Dad.

“That's impressive,” Dad said with a nod.

“He's not only really successful, but he's very nice too,” Kate said. “His family is from South Carolina, and he's got the
best
Southern accent. He's tall, dark-headed. So handsome.”

I knew that would really get my parents. We were Southern, even though we'd made our final home in the anti-South. All of us still had an accent, and Mother and Dad still owned a vacation home in Charlotte, just to prove they still loved the South.

I was trying my best to smile again. Feign a smile. Just like Mother. But inside I was becoming distressed. The thing that had been so reliable about Kate all these years was the fact that she was a continuous disappointment to my parents. It made my life so much easier. Impressing my parents took little work. All I had to do was wear proper clothing and keep my hair a basic color.

I looked across the table at my father, who'd set his fork down and was now giving his full attention to Kate. Mother's mouth had spread into an eager grin coaxing for more information. On the tip of my tongue sat many less-than-appropriate questions, but they all drowned waiting in the saliva. I managed to choke out a few basics.

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-four, never married.”

“How'd you meet?” Surely Kate's answer would hint to my parents that there was something dysfunctional going on here.

“At church,” she said innocently, as though the statement held no surprise.

I snorted. That triggered a cough, then a sneeze. Everyone was looking at me. “Excuse me,” I said through another cough. “Something went down the windpipe.” Like reality. My sister hadn't been to church in ages. The last time I'd invited her, about four years ago, she laughed at me and told me that if I was ever going to meet a man, I would have to look elsewhere. “The men there remind me of white bread, Leah. There's nothing exciting. Reliable, sure. But where is the focaccia?”

I had wanted to point out that the invitation to come to church was for spiritual purposes, but I realized it would do no good. Kate wasn't interested and viewed my life as boring and pathetic. So I'd not mentioned it again.

“So is this the focaccia you've been waiting for your whole life?” I asked. Only after I said these words out loud did I realize that apart from the context of my head, they formed a very weird statement. Mother cast a sharp look in my direction, a warning that any further word from me could completely destroy any chances for her second daughter to turn out halfway normal.

“What does this have to do with bread?” my dad asked.

“I want you to meet him,” Kate said, unfazed by my comment. “I'd like to have you all over for dinner, maybe next week.”

“That would be lovely,” Mother said, like it was typical for Kate to invite us for dinner. Nobody had been to her apartment in more than two years.

“I'll have to check with Dillan on the date. He has a very busy schedule.”

“That's fine, dear; we can work around his schedule. And I know Leah can come anytime. Right, Leah?” Mother asked.

Of course I can come anytime. I have no life. I have no
schedule. Nothing I do is important; therefore, I can be at your
beck and call.
“Sure.” I had to admit, I was curious to meet the new focaccia named Dillan. There had to be something abnormal going on with him, like a third eye or webbed feet.

Kate detailed Dillan's life for another ten minutes, including his Harvard education, his wealthy parents, his twin brother, his weekly visits to his elderly grandmother, and his fondness for children. He sounded perfectly preppy, and I had to wonder what impression Kate would make on his parents.

Finally she seemed to run out of good things to say about Dillan, and as I pushed my plate away she asked, “So, Leah, how's Edward?”

Ordinarily, this would be an easy question to answer. But my gut didn't want to say nice things about Edward right now. For crying out loud, he'd signed us up for therapy. He'd embarrassed me for embarrassing him, all over a color choice. And I was starting to see him as a fortified piece of wheat bread.

“He's fine; thanks for asking.” I smiled, and all three of my family members smiled back.

Then Mother said, “Kate, why don't you help me in the kitchen? Let's see what Lola made for dessert, and maybe you can tell me a little bit more about Dillan.”

The two rose and carried their plates into the kitchen together. Dad sighed and stretched his arms outward, signifying that a perfectly satisfying meal and conversation had just been consumed.

“Dillan sounds just about perfect, doesn't he?” I asked Dad.

“Let's just hope he's a Democrat,” my dad said, then excused himself to the study.

I sat there at the table alone, listening to the vague chatter of my mom and sister in the kitchen, wondering if the day would ever come when I would have the courage to tell my dad I was a Republican.

Chapter 6

[She cowers in her seat.]

I
'd never been to therapy of any sort. Therapy signified everything I was against, which was the fact that sometimes things go wrong in life. On one hand, I couldn't think of anything more mortifying. Yet, on the other hand, I had to acknowledge that because I had a lot of hang-ups about this, maybe I wasn't seeing that this was Edward's way of showing his love for me. Maybe he cared too much about our relationship to let a pink dress stand in the way.

I tried to leave it at that as I worked on my play throughout the day. Tuesdays were notoriously bad writing days for me. Mondays were always met with a lot of creativity and enthusiasm for the project. Tuesday was known as the Question Mark Day. On that day I questioned everything: what I wrote, why I'm writing, where my career's going, who's going to read it anyway, when will I ever get it done. I figured out that I consume three times as much caffeine on Tuesdays than any other day of the week. If I were a smoker, it'd be a three-pack day. If I were a drinker, I'd be dead.

But on this particular Tuesday, I was trying to sort out a new set of problems that had crept into my day. First, there was the therapy ordeal. I'd worked through it a little bit by giving Jodie Bellarusa a few good lines. She was also against therapy, and that subject worked in nicely since I could give her family background at the same time.

Second, I couldn't figure out how my sister had suddenly risen to the top of the stock like fat boiling from a chicken. Except fat is really easy to skim off. Kate, with her unseasonal fur boots and ensemble of clothing that shouldn't be worn together, had “come home,” in a sense. Except in the prodigal story in the Bible, the prodigal does a little groveling, a little insinuating that he's no better than pigs. My sister somehow managed to skip that part. Our parents gave her the fattened calf because of her association with a Harvard graduate who likes children and the elderly.

The Big Bad Wolf liked pigs, children, and the elderly, and look how that turned out.

Third, Elisabeth's words continued to ring in my ears. The more I gave it thought, the more I realized that what she was saying about my ability to predict the future did seem slightly plausible. After all, in her own words, something had come true in all three of the plays I'd written.

So as I stared at the taunting cursor, I had to wonder what exactly I was predicting in this next masterpiece. (Yes, I call all of my plays masterpieces. It helps my self-esteem.) Every word I wrote could be someone else's demise.

Or your own.

Jodie pointed that out, citing the remarkable similarities between the two of us. Outwardly, we were very opposite. But Jodie knew a secret nobody else knew. Inwardly, I was one heck of an Italian. But most of it stayed in my head.

In a way, the possibility that I might be predicting events made the play a bit more tantalizing, like I had some special power to control the universe with a few select keystrokes. But Jodie kept reminding me that the universe I was writing about was my own. Sure, it was cleverly disguised with anti-Leah characters and exotic locations like Detroit. But at the end of the day, I knew the truth.

The hours ticked by. I'd expected Edward to call to confirm our therapy appointment. I was surprised when he didn't, and it made me wonder if the relationship was in more jeopardy than I thought. Maybe this was a do-or-die situation and I hadn't realized it. If I didn't go to therapy, was Edward going to call it all off?

My imagination took me back to the impending dinner Kate had referred to, where she would introduce Tall, Dark, and Handsome while I explained that ever-reliable Edward had dumped me because of a pink dress.