Outcast (9 page)

The honk of a car. I dragged my suitcase to the door.

“Call me every day,” my mother insisted.

“Every day?”

“I can still say no,” she threatened.

“All right, all right.”

“And make sure your aunt takes you to mass while you’re there. I mean it.”

Mass? I was going to
Chicago
, the
Windy
City
. The last thing I wanted to do was go to mass. What was the point anyway? God didn’t care if I went or not. I would still be an outcast whether or not I attended church. I wanted to pour out my theories to her about God. I wanted to tell her that I secretly believed He looked at all of us like pieces from the game of
Life
. Honestly, he probably enjoyed the fact that we suffered. It wasn’t any different than people being magnetically drawn to the television set after a plane crash or going to the movies to watch tragedy unfold. If we were created in God’s image, why should He be any different than us? I kept my opinions to myself. If I offered them up to her, she’d immediately take the trip away. And I wanted to go to
Chicago
.  

I lugged my suitcase into Aunt P’s car. In my peripheral vision, I saw my mother barely wave. I ignored her. I only wanted to look ahead. Not back.

My aunt smirked at me from the driver’s seat. I was in her control now, and she loved it.

“Kiddo, this trip is going to make a woman out of you.”

I suddenly felt uneasy. What exactly did she have in mind for me?

“You’ve never been to a real city before, have you?”

“I’ve been to
Orlando
.”

Aunt P chortled. “
Orlando
! Your mother won’t recognize you when you get back.”

“I’m sure she’ll love that.”

“Since when do you care what she loves?”

I thought about it. More and more, I felt the urge to defy my mother. I just never had the nerve to do it in the past.

Chicago
. I felt overwhelmed by the masses of people and how the skyscrapers enclosed you in their prison walls.

It was nearly claustrophobic between the canyons of glass and steel, the forest of concrete. I rode in a taxicab for the first time in my life, and the driver deposited us at the Marriott Hotel on
Michigan Avenue
. It was—to say the least—impressive. The bellhop wrestled my bag from me. Aunt P pushed a fistful of money at him.

“We have a lot to do, so let’s get busy.”

I stood at the window, mesmerized by the view and sounds of the city.

“Chop, chop. We have dinner plans at eight. We need to get you a decent outfit and a makeover.”

“I don’t need anything. Really.”

“First things first,” she put her arm around me. “I need you to call me Claire for the remainder of the trip.”

“Why?” I wiggled my way out from under her arm. Her request made me feel uneasy.

“It’s a long story.”

“All right … Aunt Claire.”

“Not aunt, just Claire. Secondly—”

“There’s a second thing?”

She ignored me. “You do not have a choice about the new outfit. The place we’re going to dinner will not accept the Sunday church clothes you brought with you.”

Ouch. That hurt.

She tried to smooth over her candor. “I don’t blame
you
. It’s your mother. And,” she continued, “you’ll definitely need a makeover. They have excellent foundations and concealers that will hide all those freckles. No excuses. If you don’t get one, you don’t get to travel with me.”

So there it was. I had no choice. She planned to mold me into the person she wanted me to be. If it took hydrochloric acid, she’d dissolve everything about me that reminded her of my mother. 

We went to a high-end boutique. Aunt P, a.k.a. Claire, selected a confining skirt and a V-neck, silk sweater. After a speedy purchase, she marched me over to a cosmetics store for a spur-of-the-moment makeover. Two wiry associates took turns applying moisturizer, foundation, concealer, blush, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, lip liner, lipstick, and powder. Aunt P provided her opinion about colors and application techniques even when it wasn’t requested. When the two representatives presented the mirror to me, I didn’t even recognize myself. I looked like a drag queen who just came out of retirement. My face felt like it had been paper mache´d and dried overnight.

“Don’t you just love it?” P seemed thrilled with the results.

There was no point in being honest; it would only drape darkness over her demeanor. “Yeah, it’s great,” I lied.

“You look so mature and grown up. If you would’ve let me do this sooner, you could have been sitting pretty with both those boys.”

She focused her attention on the sales women. “We’re set then. We’ll take one of each.” She fingered cosmetic bags and perfumes, as well. “Add a bag and that fragrance, too,” she said pointing to one on the counter.

“The purchase comes with a complimentary cosmetic bag.”

“Well, I don’t want my niece walking around with a freebie bag.” Aunt P rolled her eyes, astounded they would consider such a thought.

“Yes ma’am.” They kissed up to her with their perfectly painted lips because Aunt P threw money around like George in
It’s a Wonderful Life
. I knew she received divorce settlements and alimony, but I didn’t think it was that much.

With an overflowing bag in hand, I trailed Aunt P as she headed out of the store: a woman with a purpose.

We arrived at the restaurant at ten after eight. The moment we stepped inside, I knew why Aunt P discouraged me from wearing any of my own clothes. This was definitely not a trip to the Ponderosa or Denny’s. The customers dined in elegance. Even the servers wore suits. It was a high-brow Italian place in the heart of downtown
Chicago
. Located on the twelfth floor, the atmosphere was pretty romantic with its multi-colored,
blown
-
glass
lights hanging elegantly over each table. Fine linens in rich colors were laid out like pieces of art. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked
Lake Michigan
. It was, by far, the nicest restaurant I’d ever placed my inelegant foot in.

The host greeted my aunt with a courteous nod.

“Hogan party.”

“Right this way.” He escorted us to a table where a man already sat. He had dark hair, slightly long and feathered in the back. He appeared fort
y
ish, but was a twenty-something wannabe. When he smiled, his teeth were too white like a porcelain toilet seat. He stood when my aunt approached. The host held out her chair.

“Claire, stunning as always.”

Porcelain Teeth folded his hand around my aunt’s, held it to his pink lips, and kissed it. The host patiently waited for the formalities to end, then pushed in both of our chairs as we took our seats.

“This is Noelle. Noelle this is Doctor Douglas Hogan.”

“You can call me Doctor Doug,” he interceded.

Just what I needed, another nickname to have to call someone. Who was this guy, anyway? I listened to their small talk:
glad to see you
,
what have you been up to lately?
while faking interest in the menu. If Aunt P wasn’t going to enlighten me, maybe I could glean some information from their conversation.

“So what kind of doctor are you?” I swirled the maraschino cherries in my Shirley Temple, completely breaking their train of thought with my question.

“I’m an orthodontist.” It was as though he threw his words into a lottery barrel and spun them around.

That explained the fluorescent teeth. The two of them looked at each other then at me.

“That’s all I wanted to know. You can continue your conversation.”

“We’ve been leaving you out, haven’t we, Noelle?”

I tipped my chin into my hand. “No, I’m fine,” I lied.

They started in on their discussion again, picking up where they left off. “Remember
Maui
,” my aunt reminisced, “and the sea urchin story?” She laughed.

“That was some urchin,” Doug smirked. “Did we even set foot in the ocean that day or were we too busy—”

P nudged him while making eyes at me.

“Right,” he said.

“So how long have you known each other?” I finally asked.

The awkwardness returned. Porcelain Teeth looked to my aunt to answer the question. She fished through her head for answers.

“We’re old college buddies.” She winked at Doug, assuming that the gesture was lost on me.

“Yes, we’ve been friends for a long time.”

The whole situation felt awkward. I wanted this trip to be woman-to-woman time with my Aunt P, not woman-to-man-to-unwanted girl time with Doctor Doug and Claire.

“I don’t feel so well.” I pulled the ‘ole lunchtime routine from school.

“What seems to be the trouble?” Doctor Doug made an attempt to be a real doctor.

“My stomach. My head,” I added for extra measure. I wanted to make sure he couldn’t easily cure me.

“Why don’t you drink some water? That should make you feel better.”

He returned to Claire without further regard for me. My stunt didn’t pay off. I was forced to sit through another hour of dinner and boring conversation while I picked at my pasta, head in hand. Then, Claire and Doug decided to interlace their fingers from across the table. God!

The meal finally ended, and we were able to leave. We stepped into the icy chill of night. When we entered the cab, I was more than ready to return to the hotel, crawl into bed, and watch television. Regrettably, that didn’t happen. My head spun, watching the Marriot disappear in the rear view mirror as we headed toward
Lakeshore Drive
. Maybe it was just an errand. Hopefully for aspirin and antacids. The whole scene had certainly made me ill.

The errand turned out to be a visit to Porcelain Teeth’s downtown condominium. He and Claire still held hands as the three of us quietly rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor. All I knew was that he must have been one hell of an orthodontist to live there. The place was decorated in black leather and abstract art. His view overlooked
Lakeshore Drive
.

“Noelle, have a seat. We need to go over some—paperwork. We won’t be long,” Aunt P showered me with sweetness.

“Want anything to drink?” Doug added.

I ignored him, addressing P instead. “Is it going to take long? I’m really tired.”

Doug, who had already removed his jacket, opened a wooden case and pulled out the remote control to the television.

“Here’s the
clicker
. We’ll try to move through it quickly.” They exchanged smiles and then left. I decided not to use the clicker as Doug called it. Instead, I waited in silence, examining the many treasures displayed on the shelves and end tables. So-called Peruvian statues basked in track lighting that rained from the ceiling; clay vases, never intended to hold water or flowers, dotted the empty spaces on the bookshelves. Doug definitely wasn’t much of a reader. There was only one novel masquerading on his bookcase. It was an untouched, hardbound edition of
Call of the Wild
. Strange since I always considered that a young boy’s book.

I meandered around, venturing into the hallway where Aunt P and dull Doug had disappeared. I heard voices emerging from the cavernous sections of the house.

A chorus of moans was accompanied by the squeaking of bedsprings. Either the paperwork they were viewing was completely engaging or my aunt and her college buddy were having sex. I felt utterly repulsed. How could they do that while I was in the next room? Gross!

I hurried back to the couch. Is this what she intended to teach me? Did she plan to turn me into a woman by introducing me to the lurid sex games she played? And what would my mother think? My mother! She said she wanted me to call every day, and I knew she meant it. I searched for the phone, finding it on the end table next to the love seat. She answered it immediately, obviously awaiting the ring of the phone.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“Everything okay? You sound upset. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

I hated that my mother was able to decipher the nuances of my voice over 2000 miles away. I didn’t need her knowing that Aunt P was the screw up she believed her to be. I quelled the panic in my voice.

“Everything’s fine. We went to a really fancy place for dinner and…”

“And what?” She hung on my every word.

I gritted my teeth at the lie I was about to tell. “And now we’re back at the hotel.”

“You’re up awfully late. It has to be eleven o’clock there.”

“We’re getting ready for bed.” I looked toward the hallway wondering when the two lovers would emerge. “We stayed up and … played cards.”

“Let me talk to your aunt.”