What Would Oprah Do (16 page)

Being diligent I set to work on the next thirty hats. Inspired by the ambience at Vivian’s, I listen to Ella Fitzgerald as I string more beads. I imagine that before too long, I will have an employee, someone with fingers more nimble than mine to do this. At the rate I’m going I will have the next thirty hats ready to replace the first thirty as soon as they’re sold. I get out my calendar, carefully marking when the next bills are due. I know I can make it.

Christian calls to tell me that he stopped by the boutique and saw my hats on display in the window. “We should celebrate.”
He says. I hesitate, knowing that as close as I am to being on my feet again, I can’t afford it yet. “My treat,” He says, “Let me take you out. I’ll pick you up.” It’s too tempting. Before I know it, I’m showered and getting dressed.

“
Maggiano’s okay?” He asks as I get into his car. Christian looks remarkably handsome, wearing a black button down shirt. Even though he is seated, I can tell that he’s wearing nice designer jeans.

“I love
Maggiano’s!” I really do. If I hadn’t spent the last five years counting carbs, I would go there on a regular basis. We get a high top table in the bar area. Christian orders a bottle of wine, so much better than the Two Buck Chuck I’ve been drinking at home. We decide to split mussels as an appetizer. They come to the table in a bowl of creamy garlic broth. Between the piano music and the candle on the table, this feels cozy, like the best date I’ve been on in a long time. If Christian didn’t have a boyfriend, it would be incredibly romantic. Just as the girl singing by the piano begins her rendition of “All or Nothing at All”, I spot James at the bar. I can tell he’s waiting for a table because he has one of those electric buzzers that goes off when your table is ready.

“Oh shit
!” I say, locking eyes with Christian. “Don’t look.” Unlike most people, this doesn’t cause him to instantly pan the area searching to find what he’s not supposed to look at.

“What is it?”
He asks, not taking his eyes off me.

“It’s him.”
I answer. “James, the cheater.” Even though this is how I think of James now, my heart is racing. Other than when I planned to meet him out, I haven’t run into him once since we broke up. I had even wondered before, since it seemed odd that it had never happened, if we’d been at the same place before and he left as soon as he saw me.

“
Shit. I don’t know what to do.” My face feels hot, and I hope it isn’t turning red.

“Don’t do anything.”
Christian says, a thought that hadn’t occurred to me.

“What if he sees me?”
I sit motionless, like a deer in the woods, like he won’t spot me if I’m perfectly still. I wish I hadn’t spent money to get my hair blown out the last time I saw him. If I hadn’t, I might have enough money to go to the salon and cover the ten bright white hairs sprouting from my crown. God, I hope I brushed mascara over them today, I think, bringing my hand to my head in hopes that I will feel the slight roughness the mascara leaves.

“What if he sees you? If he comes over, say ‘hi’. Cate, it’s perfect. You’re having dinner with me, your boyfriend, remember?”
As soon as it registers, I want him to see me. I want him to see me so badly I can’t think of enough ways to draw attention to myself. If there was a sexy way to start choking, and have Christian perform the Heimlich, I would do it.

“Hey,” Christian says, putting his hand over mine, drawing me back from the inner workings of a mad woman. “Relax, or I’ll start singing show tunes.”
Miraculously, I do. As I look at his face, smiling at me, I’m back in the moment with him.

“You should be a hypnotist.”
I tell him, and it’s only then that I notice that James has walked over to our table.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” James says, “I just wanted to say hi.”
Christian moves his hand from the top of mine and extends it to James.

“I’m Christian.”
He says casually. James shakes his hand without saying a word. “And you are?” Christian asks.

“James.”
He says, before clearing his throat.

“How are you?”
I ask, as if he’s a normal person, someone I genuinely hope is well. I hear it in my voice and wonder if it’s possible that I no longer have hard feelings.

“I’m good.”
James says. He pauses briefly before saying again, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Would you like to join us?”
Christian asks, as if there’s room to pull up another chair.

“Oh, no.”
James answers. “Thank you, but my table should be ready soon. Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Christian. Cate.” He nods at me before walking to the hostess stand.

I smile at Christian, who’s pouring more wine for both of us. “You like that?”
He asks me, eyebrows raised and smiling. I know it’s petty, just like I know that Christian is gay and not my boyfriend, but I do like it. More than anything I like that the bitterness that has been stewing inside me for all of these months is finally dissipating.

Dear Oprah,

I just want to say thank you. I’m sure you got some ugly emails after the Mike Tyson interview, but this is not one of them. You handled that with such grace. I enjoyed it the first time I saw it and today when it aired again. His story had such resonance with me, and I think you felt it too. I couldn’t hold back the tears when he said, “I’m tired of losing. I
wanna win now.” I never would have thought that Mike Tyson could articulate the way I feel in my life. And I’m grateful to you for that. Maybe someday I can be as honest about my shortcomings and fears as he was.

Regards,

Cate

P.S. Any thought of bringing your show back? I’m living off reruns and starting to feel like I’m running on fumes.

In the two weeks that my hats have been in the boutique, five have sold. Rita, the boutique owner says that’s really good, but I have no way of knowing if she’s right. After all of my years of analyzing sales and marketing techniques, my own hats are in a store that I know nothing about.

I don’t know the boutique’s sales volume, the frequency the shoppers visit the store, or how much they spend on an average visit. All of the factors that I would calculate to let someone else know whether or not their venture is successful, I don’t have for my own business. I remind myself that there is an inevitable learning curve and head to Vivian’s, eager to clear my head in the garden.

Oprah says that every home has its own feeling. This is true. Despite the fact that when I get to Vivian’s there is no inviting scent coming from the stove top or even the coffee pot, it still feels like the most welcoming place I know. I wonder if this is how my parent’s house would feel to me if they still lived in the home I grew up in. I call out to Vivian to let her know that I’m there, but there’s no response, no sound of Buddy coming to greet me.

I step out onto the back deck. Vivian is at the table, smoking, in a long floral night gown, all but disappearing under the fabric. Buddy is lying on top of her feet, not beside them. There’s no sign that she’s heard me, so I back up to knock on the door, hoping I won’t startle her. Buddy turns his head to look at me, but doesn’t move. “Vivian
…” I say quietly.

“Come on out, Cate.”
She still doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are fixed on the garden, but I don’t have to see her face. I recognize the handkerchief she’s gripping with her hand that isn’t holding a cigarette. As much as I feel like I’m intruding, I can’t stop myself from awkwardly hugging her neck. For the first time, Vivian seems small to me.

“Do you want me to leave?”
I ask, unaware that I’m holding my breath for a response, praying that she doesn’t say yes.

“No, honey.
Make some coffee, will you?”

“Of course I can.” I answer. 

When I returned with the coffee I set hers down in front of her, but wasn’t sure if I should sit down. As if reading my mind Vivian said, “Why don’t you sit down and smoke with me? Grieving alone is like drinking alone, you should only do it when it’s the only option.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. I lit a cigarette, and sat with her in silence.

Her pain was so palpable it was overwhelming. I’ve only felt that way a couple of times, both as a child. When Kay had broken her arm or the time she needed stitches, it hurt like it was my own exposed
, flesh and bone unnaturally feeling the air.

After a while Vivian sipped her coffee. “Thank you.”
She said. “I just didn’t want to make the coffee this morning,” her voice started to break but she cleared her throat and continued, “Didn’t want another reminder that life goes on.” Vivian looked at me, and I could see her eyes, puffy and rimmed red with sadness. “I’m glad you’re here. I really am.” She lit another cigarette.

“Do you want more coffee?”
I asked. “A warm up?” There was some left in both of our cups, but the morning air had already started to cool it.

Vivian smiled and said, “Yes, and grab the Bailey’s from the liquor cabinet too.”

As she poured the Bailey’s into her coffee she said, “Normally I only do this at Christmas or on my birthday. Honey, I don’t mean to be a stick in the mud, but I lost a friend last night, and well, I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt like hell because it does.”

“Oh, Vivian!”
I said, “I’m so sorry.” My eyes welled up with tears, and I leaned over to hug her again.

Tears began to stream down her face, faster than the handkerchief could reach them. “Thank you, Cate. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you feel like it’s sad too.”

“Of course I do.”

“Oh honey, you’re too young to even know how sweet that is.”
Her hanky must have been wet since she was now wiping her face on the sleeve of her nightgown. I went and grabbed the box of Kleenex from her bathroom and brought it to her. “When you get to be older, you think the worst thing that happens is when your husband dies. And by God, when I lost my husband, I thought that was the worst. Then as you get older, more and more people you know die, and I guess you get used to that. It’s a reminder that you’re old, that you’re going to die, and I suppose it’s natural to get used to that too, and I have.” She nods, like it’s important for me to know that this is true. “Then your friends die. What no one tells you is the worst thing; that eventually as more and more of your friends die, no one else seems to think it should be as sad for you anymore.” Her bottom lip quivered and tears streamed down her face. I pulled my chair closer, careful not to bump into Buddy.

“Vivian, I don’t know what to say.”
There’s a lump in my throat so big that I feel like I’m trying to swallow her pain.

She blows her nose and wipes her face as if she’s certain there aren’t more tears on the way, and looks me straight in the eyes. “You don’t have to say anything. It means so much to have you here.”

I wonder if it wasn’t one of my gardening days, if Vivian would be sitting here alone and realize that she is just like the rest of us. Vivian is single, and when you’re single your friends are the people who are there when you shouldn’t be alone. They’re the ones who mark the events in our lives, our self created families who show up when it matters.

“And more importantly, I never thought that at this point in my life, I would make a new friend. Here you are, my friend.”
I felt myself smiling, proud to be Vivian’s friend. She put her hand over mine and added, “You’re a fine person, Cate. I know you’re having a hard time. The world seems awful big when you’re looking for answers, but I know everything is going to work out just fine for you because you’re asking the right questions.” Even though she had lost a friend, Vivian was still making me feel better. I tried not to cry, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t out of self pity. It was because I could see how lucky I was.

Dear Oprah,

I was watching
another rerun and Paula Deen (probably not your favorite person right about now) was on your show saying there’s no sin in failure, the sin is in not trying. As much as that spoke to me, I’m ashamed to admit that I can’t get out of my pajamas today. I feel like a failure. I know better than to put stock in that emotion, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a fraud. What if this is who I really am, someone who just wants to wallow in a Fudge Round?

Cate

Despite all of my attempts to envision the life I’m trying to create, sometimes you have to see things as they are, not as how you want them to be. I don’t know why I thought that everything would fall into place when I sorted out what to do with my life, but that’s what I believed. I don’t have a great sense of relief, but maybe that will come with sustainable income, when I’m not worrying about the bills. I try to tell myself that
I have to believe in the work that I have done. I can’t give in to self doubt. This is all happening for a reason.

I try to remind myself what Vivian told me the other day. She said, “Things take time. A lot of people won’t wait, don’t know how to wait. They’re looking for instant gratification.”
I responded that she must think my generation is ridiculously impatient with cell phones and instant messaging, and me in my quest for overnight success.

Vivian shook her head and laughed. She said, “No, honey, that’s been happening forever. You think there wasn’t a day when my generation was hearing about how fast we had everything? Every generation has opinions about the ones following it, and they all sound the same.”

I can’t escape my own thoughts, the inevitable uncertainties running through my head. The doorbell rings, and I’m glad that Jill is here for dinner. I know she would rather go out and have a waitress instead of being here, where I’m constantly getting up and down to check on the chicken in the oven or refreshing our beverages. I too would prefer not to have our conversation interrupted every five minutes, but like most things in life, it is what it is.

I open the door to see Jill, who’s hair is back to light brown with subtle golden highlights. It has only been a few weeks since she dyed it the rich shade I would call Rebound Chocolate. “Hey, you switched back!”
I said, somewhat surprised that the salon was able to return her exact coloring, as if it had never been altered.

“Yeah,” she said, handing me a case of Stella Artois, her favorite beer. “It took all day. They had to do it in stages, to make sure they didn’t strip too much, then by the time they were done with that, adding back in the highlights…seriously, I was there for nine hours.”

“How much did that cost?”
There was no reason to sound accusatory, but we both heard the tone, the judgment in my asking. Six months ago I would have spent the same amount of money at a salon without batting an eyelash, but now I’d changed into someone who was sickened by the amount of groceries that would buy. I guess this is why people usually choose friends that have similar income to theirs. This is awkward, and Jill shouldn’t have to apologize for her position.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “It’s obviously not your fault that I don’t have money for salon visits now. I’ve turned into a thirty
-two year old woman who constantly has her hair in a pony tail. And look!” I tilted my head down, showing her the white strands at my part.

“Cate, if you need to get your hair done
, I’ll give you the money.”

“Thank you, but no. I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? Remember, Bank of Jill, Bank of Cate? If I have it and you need it, it’s yours. Like years ago when my car died and you lent me money for a down payment?”

“Because this isn’t like that.
First of all, you had to have a car. I can go without salon visits. I’m a grown ass woman. I’ve made a choice. I wanted to branch out on my own, find my purpose in life, and I have to take it as it comes.”

“So, you can’t have some help?”

“Listen, I have done everything that I can do, and now I have to wait. I spent the last three days going to different boutiques and got two more stores to carry my hats. Until those sell, I can’t afford anything. When they do sell, I need to buy more materials. I have to wade my way through this.”

“That doesn’t mean that you have to struggle.” I could tell by the way she was looking at me that she thought I was being stubborn.

“It does.
Neither one of us are trust-fund babies. You’re where I was six months ago. You work hard to afford the things you want. What if you lost your job? You need to keep your money for your own rainy day, and for your own enjoyment. I really appreciate the offer though.”

Jill sighed. “Let me know if you change your mind. I mean it.”

I grabbed two Stella’s from the fridge, and we headed out to my balcony. After I took a few sips of beer, I told Jill what I had decided. “I won’t change my mind. I’m trading in my car tomorrow.”

“What? You love that car! And it’s just starting to be warm, convertible weather!”

“Yeah, I do. But it’s just a car. I worked my ass off to trade in my beaten up Honda Civic before, and I can do it again.”

“Trade it in for what?”

I smiled. “Another used Honda Civic. Don’t worry; I’m sure my old one is in a junk yard by now.”
When I had finally traded in my Civic for the BMW, it had over two hundred thousand miles on it and rust on the hood and bumper. The yellow foam cushion on both the driver’s and passenger’s seats was pushing through the ripped worn fabric. Kay told me I should be thankful that they gave my three hundred dollars for it, instead of charging me to remove it from the lot.

“Is money that tight?”

“Yes.” I confessed to spending the rest of my savings on materials. Unlike Kay, Jill understood that sometimes you have to spend money to make money. I had spent the money, so now it was time to trade in my car and cut the monthly payment in half.

Jill rubbed her chin with her forefinger. “It sounds like you’ve thought this through. Good for you.”

I did feel good about it. On some level that car had been a status symbol for me. Not because it was a BMW, but because it was the convertible that I had always wanted. It was two years old when I bought it, but to me it represented the kind of life I had achieved. That car went with the life I had, working for the wrong things. Just like the consumers that I used to manipulate into buying an ideal with my marketing strategies, I had bought into something too. As much as I hoped that I would have the financial stability to get back to where I was, I now wanted it on different terms.

The next morning I got up and went to the Honda dealership. I would buy a used Civic, whatever it took to cut my payment in half. When I pulled into the lot I
noticed the man standing on the lot with a notepad, jotting something down from a window sticker. He was wearing Khakis and a button-down shirt with brown loafers. He looked like an old frat boy, with thinning blonde hair. He noticed me too and flashed a big grin.
Not this time
, I thought to myself, knowing I was not susceptible to the lure of new car smell or upgrades.

I parked and walked over to the used cars that were off to the side. I needed a car with low miles. I owed a little over nineteen thousand on my BMW, so I looked for cars that were in the eight to ten thousand dollar range. A lot of them were manual transmissions. It had been a while, but I knew how to drive one.

My dad had insisted that Kay and I learn on one, his old Isuzu Trooper. “Almost half the cars out there are stick shift,” he had said, and that was true at the time. “If you can only get into every other car and drive, you can’t drive.” Never afraid to scare us for the sake of a lesson, he had continued, “Say you get abducted, and you get a chance to escape and the only car is a stick shift. My girls are going to know how to drive one.” And so we did.

“Perfect car for a teenager.”
The frat man was standing beside me.

“What?”
I asked.

“My son is turning sixteen in a few months. I’ve been looking at getting him one of
these myself.”

“Oh God,” I said, wondering if I did need money from Jill to go to the salon. How the hell did I look old enough to have a teenager? “No, this is for me.”
I saw him look back to where I had parked my beamer. “I’m cutting back on expenses.”

“Oh, well that’s ok.”
He rocked back on the heels of his loafers.

“Good, I’m glad that’s ok.”
I said. I was quickly losing the good, responsible feeling I had when I pulled on the lot. I wanted to yell.
I’m so glad you approve, that is such a load off!

He had already started into his spiel, oblivious that I wanted to slap him. His head moved like a bobble head doll’s above his collar, “You
gotch’ur sun roof, you gotch’ur illuminated entry, you gotch’ur power windows, with driver one touch down feature…” I’d already looked at them online, and this car was right in line with the Blue Book value.

I interrupted him, “Is this the drive out price?”
I asked, pointing at the sticker, “No hidden add-ons?”

“Well, yes, but we can get this closer to what your used to, add a six disc CD changer to it. Just because you’re moving down from a BMW, it doesn’t mean that we can’t add some nice features to make it a little less painful.”

I was starting to wish I had a different salesperson until I spotted the alternative. There was a short squatty man helping a woman about my age not far from us. His belly was big and round, and seemed to have swallowed his belt below it. I heard him call her “little lady” and figured this was as good as it would get.

“No extra features.
” I said, “Let’s get started on the paperwork.” We went inside and sat down at his desk, big and metal, like my school teachers had. I handed him the paperwork on my BMW. In exchange he offered me a bottle of water or coffee that looked like it had been sitting for a while. I took the bottle of water and waited while he went into the back to start the paperwork. After fifteen minutes had passed with no sign of him, I was wishing that I had told him I was going outside to smoke. Just as I was about to leave a note on his desk, he returned.

“How much are you going to put down?”
He asked.

“Um, I wasn’t going to put anything down, just a simple trade.”
I answered.

He sat down in the chair beside me. “You see, the problem is that you’re upside down on the BMW.”
I stared at him, thinking that couldn’t be true. It was slightly below the Blue Book value when I bought it. I had been paying on it for two years.

“That means you owe more than it’s worth. We’ve seen this a lot lately, the value of luxury cars has gone down as a result of the economy.”

“That can’t be.”
I said, confident that I would go to another dealership and trade it in, although the knot in my chest was starting to tell me differently.

“I printed out the
Blue Book value on the BMW, you can see for yourself.” He handed me a piece of paper. His tone softened and he spoke slowly. “You need over four thousand dollars to make up the difference between what it’s worth and how much you owe. We can’t roll the negative equity over into the Civic, because the bank won’t lend you that amount for that car.”

“Shit.”
I said, my hand instinctively moved to cover my mouth. “I don’t have four thousand dollars. I don’t have a thousand dollars. If I did I wouldn’t be here.”

“Here’s my card.”
He said, handing it to me. “If something changes, give me a call.”

I walked to my car, trying not to panic. This was something I was going to do, not something I had to do. An option was eliminated, no reason to cry, although that was exactly what I was starting to do.

I drove to Vivian’s as planned. My car that I had loved and been so happy with, suddenly felt like the weight of the world on my shoulders. I had thought I was going to be sad to drive off the lot, leaving it there. Instead I’m leaving with the sick feeling that I’m stuck with it.

By the time I get to Vivian’s I have composed myself. I walk in the door, Buddy running to greet me. I don’t know if it’s the music, the upbeat tempo of Louis Armstrong or the smell of roasting chicken, but the energy is palpable, cheery. I wish I lived here.

Vivian walks into the kitchen from out back, “Cate, you’re here!” She says, as if she’s surprised to see me, but I’m right on time.

“Have I got something for
you! You’re going to love it. Follow me.” She walks back outside. There are rows of the small containers she uses for planting seeds, all filled with small green plants, each a few inches tall. The sun feels good, warm on my face.

“More herbs?”

“Better! They’re
moonvines and morning glories. But the moonvines, that’s what you’re going to love. They’re the ones I showed you in the greenhouse.”

She holds them up, looking at them closely. I look too, but I’m not sure what I’m looking at. “See, these are strong. They’re going to do great in the ground.”
She walks over to the side of the deck, where the wood railing begins. “These are both vines, so you want to plant them in the ground where they have something to climb. We’ll plant the morning glories around the trellis at the garden entrance, but you’re in charge of the moonvines. They should go here, by the deck. You want them close.”