Reinventing Mona (27 page)

“Mona, I thought the whole thing was whacked from the start. He’s not your last chance and even if he was, you’d have to spend your whole life married to a freak.”

“Just because he’s religious doesn’t mean he’s a freak,” I defended my dud beau.

“Fuck that, I mean that he’s not into the whole girl-on-girl thing. That should’ve been a lock.”

“Be serious with me, Mike. How do I tell if I’m in love with someone?” I asked.

“You’re definitely not in love with this guy, Mona Lisa.”

“Why not?”

“You have too many questions. You’re either in love or you’re not and if you’re second-guessing it, you’re not.”

“But you’re a guy. You’re less complicated than women.”

“And thank God for that, really.” He laughed. “Mona, you’ve been trying to force his square peg into your round hole for nearly three months now.”

“Don’t be a pig!”

“You and Adam getting married and living the Hollywood ending just ain’t in the cards. I don’t think you even like the guy, much less love him. If he disappeared tomorrow, you’d never give him a second thought.”

“Do you ever miss your ex-wife?” I asked, really wondering if he’d missed me over the past weeks.

He sighed audibly. “Not really. Not much, I guess. I used to, but what’re you gonna do, she made her decision and moved on. You know, she called me about a year ago and told me she and Mr. Sensitive broke up and asked if we could give it another shot.”

“Wow. What’d you say?”

“We’re not together, are we?”

“You might’ve given it a shot then split up again.”

“Nah, we didn’t give it another shot. Once a woman cheats on you, that’s it. She made her choice, now she got what she deserves.”

“Not everything’s so black and white, Mike.”

“Sometimes it is, Mona Lisa.”

I found Mike’s unforgiving attitude toward his ex-wife so thoroughly depressing, I didn’t even have the energy to lift Greta’s latest reading selection for me
—Canned Chicken Soup for the Soul: Why Women Accept Prepackaged Notions of Femininity
. Adam was definitely not the man for me, but Mike terrified me. An internal voice—that sounded an awful lot like Greta’s—asked why I was on such a frenzied hunt for a man anyway. Would it be such a tragedy if I ended up alone? Alone?! The word was like being stabbed with an icicle. Alone. The Ahhhh sound was like a ghost taunting; loooooow felt like the hollowed bottom of a dungeon; the nuh finish was like a door slamming shut, followed by silence. Alone. I was terrified of being alone, though it’s precisely how I’d felt for my entire adult life.

The high school gymnasium was decorated with black, gray, and white balloons and colorless streamers hanging from the ceiling. A donkey piñata swung as the jocks struck it violently with their bats. A band wearing velveteen tuxedos awkwardly played Billy Idol and Adam Ant while a hyper-productive bubble machine filled the gym with thousands of soapy little balls. Todd came back from Yale to take me to the prom and told me he would lasso the biggest bubble for me. “Silly, boy,” I teased. “You’ll pop the bubbles that way. Besides, I prefer you without a cowboy lasso, my little Indian boy.”

Vicki slapped my hand with a whip of fabric swatches. “No touching,” she snapped.

“Hit her back,” urged Tio.

“Come on, Mona, we’ll be late,” urged fifteen-year-old Jessica, tugging at the red silk dress I borrowed from Melanie, the actor who played my imaginary lesbian lover. “We’re going to change the world. We need to leave now. Come on, we’ll be late.”

“Where are we going?” I asked Jessica.

“To the rally. Come on, Mona, I know you’re not really sick. You never want to do anything with me anymore now that you’re going out with Todd. At least come to the rally. We can make a difference. You know what they say, one person can change the world. Are you listening to me? Are you awake? Are you asleep?” Then Vicki asked me the same thing. “Mona, do you want to sleep down here or go up to your room?”

My eyes opened to the sight of Vicki’s black leather jacket bent over me, her arm gently nudging my body. “Are you okay?” Vicki asked when she saw the look of panic on my face. “Nightmare?”

“Freaky dream, that’s all,” I assured her. I washed my face in the
Psycho
bathroom, which was a bit unsettling in the middle of the night, I must confess. I heard nothing but running water from the faucet and wondered if I did ditch Jessica for Todd. Should I have gone to the rally that day? Might Francesca or I have seen the oncoming truck a second before my father did, and shouted a warning that would have changed the outcome? Whatever happened to Francesca anyway?

I drifted to sleep that night, knowing there was only one of those questions I could answer. Whatever happened to Francesca Greenwood? One day we were consoling each other in the kitchen. A few days later, I was living in Coronado. I don’t even remember saying good-bye to her.

Francesca came back to me in my sleep and asked if she could braid my hair again. I sat on my floor as she sat at the edge of my bed combing my hair with her fingers. “This was a long trip for me, Mona. You should have come to see me before making an old woman travel cross the Western states,” she scolded lovingly. “I miss you, dear. I miss hearing you and your mother singing together. I miss them all so much.”

On that, I snapped awake. Though I knew it was absurd, I scanned the bedroom for Francesca and felt my loose hair. I drifted back to sleep and dreamt I was part of the human chain saving George Bailey’s little brother, Harry, when he fell into the ice pond.

* * *

My morning rooster was Greta knocking on the door for our run. I ran downstairs in my pajamas with my black sleep mask pushed up to my forehead. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been knocking?”

“Sorry, sorry.” I was still fixed on Francesca. She was probably still alive and living in Montana. “Let’s get running. Do you want me to make some vegetable juice for you when we’re done?” My peace offering with Greta was always healthy food or drink. With Vicki, it was just the opposite.

Most of the time I didn’t even notice the smell of Coronado because I was on the island every day, but on our run I was acutely aware of the clean ocean scent. It was such a well-scrubbed community, I can’t remember the last time I saw a piece of garbage on the ground or a crushed beer can tossed on the sand. When people close their eyes and imagine paradise, Coronado is what they see. I didn’t always think so, though. When Grammy’s car crossed the bridge for the first time, I found the place grotesquely surreal. First of all, the entire county of San Diego seemed insanely bright. There were no clouds or even groves of trees to filter the sun. Every home gleamed with care. Lawns looked like Astroturf. The few people walking on the streets looked so well-rested and friendly. It was like driving onto the set of a laundry detergent commercial. I expected to see women in lemon yellow sundresses humming as they hung cool, clean clothes on the line. Then I realized that their maids were inside ironing men’s shirts fresh from the dryer.

“Greta, do you think Coronado is the most wonderful place on the planet?” I asked as we passed the Cape Cod home I came to know as the half-mile marker.

“Beats Texas, I’ll tell you that,” she said, laughing. “You know I could actually be lynched for saying that in Dallas? Legally, too. I think they’d call it treason.”

“Treason against Texas?”

“Buying a fuel-efficient car is treason in Texas.”

“Was it really all that bad?” I asked. “You did stay for eight years. I think you hate it because your heart was broken there.”

She sighed as if to say maybe. “I don’t know if my heart was broken there or if I was merely grossly disappointed by the way things turned out.” I was silent, hoping she’d continue. “I really wanted things to work out with Terry, but, well, there was such a lack of core compatibility, I guess. I wanted to do things and go places and Terry was kind of a dud. At first, I thought our differences complemented each other, but then the complacency with life, the complete lack of drive, started to drive me crazy.” Greta’s voice filled with frustration and a shake of anger.

“Guys are like that. They just want to sit on the couch all day and watch sports. Women are always the ones driving the social calendar.”

Greta laughed. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be so quick to write it off as a gender thing. Plus, when we had that scare with Mom’s tumor, I realized I wanted—”

“What tumor?!” I stopped running.

“Keep moving, honey. It’s not good to stop suddenly like that,” she coaxed. “It was no big deal. Turned out to be benign, but it got me thinking that if I’m not serious about settling down and starting a family in Texas, I should get back to the homestead and be near the people I really love.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your mom had a cancer scare. Why wouldn’t you tell me something so important?!”

“Mom said she didn’t want anyone to know because they start treating you differently,” Greta explained. “They talk softer, put their hand on your shoulder, turn their heads to the side and ask, “How are you?’” She laughed. “I can understand. She didn’t want to go from Brenda, the person, to Brenda, the cancer patient. Or Brenda, the tumor.”

“I wouldn’t have done that,” I said.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to, but you might have. Anyway, she’s fine now so there’s no need to mention this to her.”

We ran in silence for the next few miles until Greta asked if I wanted to get a cup of coffee. I told her I’d walk to Starbucks with her, but that I’d pass on the coffee. I wanted to start making plans to visit Missoula. “Tell me if you think this is a crazy idea,” I began.

“There are no crazy ideas, only crazy people.”

“Seriously,” I said as we walked briskly. “I was thinking that I’ve never been back to Missoula since the accident. Really, I never saw Francesca after. I don’t even think I got to say good-bye to her. I don’t remember. Anyway, I want to get on the net and see if she’s still there, and if she is, I want to go back for a visit. Do you think that’s crazy?”

Greta said she thought it was an excellent idea. “I don’t know why you haven’t done it sooner, but I guess we’re all ready when we’re ready.” She swung the door of the Starbucks open and greeted a fresh-faced boy with jet-black hair and an eyebrow piercing.

“Morning Texas Tea.” He smiled. “Morning Skinny Chai,” he said to me.

I smiled, incredulous that anyone could be so happy to be serving coffee. “Mona’s fine. What happened to the other guy?”

“What other guy?” he asked. “I’m the only guy here.” He winked.

On my walk back to the house, I saw Captain John in one of his usual crisp short-sleeved oxford shirts. Today’s selection was burnt orange, which went nicely with his white hair and beige shorts.

“Morning, sir,” I said.

“Morning, Mona,” he said, more chipper than I’d ever seen him. “I spoke to my brother in New York and it hit freezing last night. Got a layer of frost on his windshield even, ha!”

“In May?” I was astounded.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“You seem very happy this morning, sir.” I think he may have actually blushed when I said that. “New girlfriend?” I pushed the envelope.

John was clearly taken aback by my comment, for which I quickly apologized. “That was inappropriate, please forgive me. Grammy would have had my head for talking to you that way, sir.”

“That’s fine, dear. I’m sorry I reacted that way.”

“No, no, it’s my fault, please. You deserve every happiness after losing your wife.”

John sighed as though I’d deflated his new helium balloon. I’m such a socially inept moron. Here was a kindly old widower enjoying possibly the first morning of the year and I come and stick a pin in it. The captain put his hand over his heart and lowered his head.
Is there a doctor around?!

“Are you okay, sir?!” I panicked.

“I’m fine,” he said sadly. “It seems you have no idea how much ... I should keep my trap shut.”

“No idea how much what?” I asked. “Do you want to sit down somewhere? Let me make you a glass of carrot juice. We’re a half block from the house.” I put my arm around him and we walked at his elderly pace. I watched his white soft sole shoes shuffle in front of each other and noticed for the first time how large his earlobes were.

Captain John was one of the few men who actually accepted my offer for carrot juice. He excused himself to “wash up” before I remembered that he was going into Victoria Hitchcock’s warped little creation. “Good Lord in heaven!” I heard him gasp through the closed door. “That’s quite a unique latrine,” he said upon his return.

“You don’t like it?”

“I love it. I’m quite a fan of picture shows,” he said. “Your grandmother and I used to drive to the city and see movies together quite a bit.”

“Hmm,” I said suspiciously. “Why not here on the island?”

“You know how people talk.” He shooed his hand.

“Men and women weren’t friends like they are today. If a gentleman and lady were friends, there was most certainly some hanky-panky.”

I inhaled and asked the question that everyone on the island had silently wondered at one point or another. I felt guilty because I would have never interrogated the captain this way if Grammy were still alive. But I felt like he came here to tell me something, and this was it. “So was there any, um, hanky-panky going on with you two?”

“With Caroline?” he said her name in such a way that there had to be. It was like he was holding a fragile collectible.
With Caroline?
It was too precious not to be love. I wondered how the captain would deal with the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy now that I was most definitely, indelicately asking. “Absolutely not,” he said, almost self-righteously as he watched me sacrifice carrots into the vicious juicer. He paused for a beat. “Though I loved her deeply.” His eyes welled with tears. “I believe the feeling was mutual.”

His words took me back to a time before I lived here, but I could see Grammy applying her lipstick and checking her teeth the way she would before an important outing. He would never know her private idiosyncrasies the way a husband would, and yet he was probably the cause of so many of her mirror rituals.