Читать книгу The Last Time I Was Me - Cathy Lamb - Страница 8

Although my grief for my mother covered me like the wings of a thousand black crows for the initial six days of my journey, by the seventh day I felt those wings lifting me up for the first time since her death. I talked to her in the car, pretending she was sitting right by me. We had stimulating conversations and we laughed a lot. She had cheered my speech to the advertising schmucks and revealed that she thought my retaliation against Slick Dick was justified.

I stopped in the small town of Weltana because I liked the trees and it was raining when I arrived.

I love rain.

I rolled my growling Bronco to a stop off the side of the highway in front of a little yellow building with green trim. It was called The Opera Man’s Café. The walls inside were made of logs. A fire burned in the brick fireplace and a chef with a white braid flipped pancakes two feet up into the air and sung along at full throttle with Bocelli on CD. Little white lights twinkled from the open rafters over long wood tables.

When my pancakes arrived I smothered them in maple syrup and butter, the way I liked them; the way I have not eaten them in twelve years because that would have driven me into a downward emotional spiral into hell.

During those years I craved pancakes so much I would sometimes dream of them in the approximately four hours of sleep I snatched each night when my caffeine fix and whacked-out stress level would soften to a dull roar in my head or when I passed out from one too many drinks.

I dreamed about those pancakes and hot syrup far more than I dreamed of sex.

Come to think of it, I rarely dreamed about sex.

Which tells you something about me.

So I poured the syrup on until it formed little lakes and started in on my pancakes in that cozy café under the fir trees in the foothills of Mount Hood made by a cozy chef with a white braid.

But if I had been able to see the future, I would have trembled in my knee-high black boots that day and headed for Kosovo or Mongolia.

But how was I to know that a naked run along a river, a raucous bar fight, a self-painting ritual to decrease my self-anger, and a court trial that exploded into a media circus, would follow?

How was I to know that I would finally be forced to do battle with my deep and abiding obsession with liquor?

Oh, and one more wee little tidbit: How was I to know that the woman in the café who looked like she’d stepped off an Italian Renaissance painting, who spoke at great length with the cook about germs and germ-killing, would decide that a certain man had polluted our earth long enough and would execute the Elimination Plan, and that the other woman in there would help hide his body?

That “other” woman?

That would be me.

How was I to know that?

Had I known, I would have choked on my pancakes.

And that would have been a shame because I love pancakes.

“Welcome to Weltana, young lady,” the chef said to me as he rang up my bill, his braid over his right shoulder. “Are you staying around town or passing through?”

I’d put him at about seventy. He reminded me of a white crane-but he was the most attractive white crane I’d ever seen. His name was Donovan and I later found out he used to be an opera singer in New York.

“I’m not sure,” I told him. “I’m not too far from the ocean, am I?”

He shook his head, handed me my change. “No, ma’am. You’re about three hours from it. Did you want to see the ocean?”

Did I want to see the ocean? I sure did. Up close. Intimately knowing my own grave site would be helpful. “Yes.”

“Well, by gum, if you take the highway outside of town toward the city you can bypass Portland and head straight on out by driving west. The sunsets are spectacular.”

I could use a spectacular sunset. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen one. I had been too busy working my way into burnout and convincing myself that my faster-than-lightning life was dandy. That takes a lot of time, you know. Lying to yourself.

“’Course we have spectacular sunsets here, too. Take a drive straight up the mountain. You know, a sunset is God’s last painting of the day. It’s his last gift to all of us before he gives us the gift of a sunrise.”

I nodded. A last gift. I had given my ex a last gift and Slick Dick had called the police. It had been a particularly prodigious, poignant, and profound present to the prick that his psyche would probably be hard-pressed to forget. (I have always liked alliteration. Goes back to a favorite English teacher in eighth grade named Mrs. Gaddinni. In times of stress it comes in handy.)

“Are you on vacation?”

Vacation. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a vacation.” I needed a scotch on the rocks.

“Ahhh.” Those blue eyes looked hard at me. Like I was worth something. “So, makin’ a change in your life?”

Got me. “Yes, you could say that.”

“Changes are good sometimes. Changes keep our hearts pumpin’.”

“Sure does.” Sure as heck they do. Sometimes a change allows us to disappear, too. Disappearing for good appealed greatly to me.

“So you’re looking?”

“Looking?”

“For a place to stay, a place to settle down for a while.”

Hmmm. He was a smart one. He was peering at me closely and I knew he was paying more attention to what I wasn’t saying. “I guess you could say I am.”

“Gee whizzers. I’ve got the perfect place for you.” He looked longingly at the Italian Renaissance woman for several seconds before he said, his voice gentle, “Rosvita, this is…” he paused.

“Jeanne Stewart,” I said.

“Jeanne Stewart. Jeanne, this is Rosvita DiLorenzo.” I shook hands with the Italian Renaissance woman. Her black hair, shot through with angel-wing white hair, was wrapped in a loose bun with a red flower tucked in the back. She wore no makeup. She had one of those curving figures and was wearing a sparkling red shawl, red jeans, and cowboy boots. She wore white gloves.

I was later to admire her work with a .45.

“Nice to meet you.”

I murmured some pleasantries. I can be polite when pushed.

“Rosvita has the finest bed-and-breakfast in town, Ms. Stewart. Rosvita, this young lady is looking to settle down for a while, although she wants to see the Pacific Ocean.”

I looked at the chef. He reminded me of banana bread and cinnamon.

I had not decided to settle here. Not at all. But I had to admit that I liked the tiny main street of town. I liked all the trees and Mount Hood towering behind me. I liked the pancakes and this chef who was pleasant and sung opera so well I shivered. Not a bad start.

“I have a room if you’re interested in staying in town,” Rosvita said, her gaze intense “It overlooks the river, breakfast is included, and there are no germs there. I clean with disinfectants, two types, and bleach. I vacuum each day after dusting. Food is fresh and the refrigerator is completely cleaned out and scrubbed down twice a week. With bleach.”

I nodded.

“All food is cooked to a pulp to kill any and all bacteria. So you don’t need to fret that you’ll get salmonella poisoning. Salmonella poisoning is caused by gram-negative bacilli. Salmonella is a virulent member of the Enterobacteriaceae family. A family you don’t want to belong to, Ms. Stewart. Symptoms are fever, stomach pain, and diarrhea, although constipation can also occur.”

I nodded again. Valuable stuff.

“I make sure that the bathtubs are cleaned spotless. Inside a tub that other people have used can lurk many germs and diseases, and I am utterly aware of it. In fact, I’ve even heard that in a hot tub there’s a possibility-however slim-of contracting herpes. You do know what herpes is? Herpes is caused by Her-pesvirus hominis which is an infectious agent, not unlike a secret agent, and it does horrible viral damage. Symptoms are-”

“Rosvita, please.” The chef held up both hands. “Let us not talk about herpes in a place that sells pancakes and bacon. It’s bad for the digestive system.” I could tell he found her immensely entertaining, despite the herpes talk.

Rosvita put her hands on her red jean-clad hips. Closed her mouth. “My brother is a famous criminal defense attorney and he will tell you that there are many businesses that have been sued for enormous amounts of money because of diseases they have inadvertently passed on to the customer-”

I jumped when Donovan burst into an opera song, his voice diving and soaring. When Rosvita stopped talking, Donovan stopped singing. “My dear Rosvita, why don’t you show Ms. Stewart your place?”

She looked me up and down. “Come along.”

As we left, Donovan stared with mopey eyes at Rosvita, threw his arms out wide and burst into another opera song about unrequited love.

Rosvita’s house was not far off the main street. It was painted light blue with white trim. Flowers tumbled from boxes at each window. The yard was huge with a rolling expanse of grass, a few old fir trees, and a gated garden that was high on flowers. She guided me to the backyard and down some steps to the river. The river water was pure and rippling, trees towering on either side, the sunlight dancing off each crest.

We stood in silence for a moment as I breathed. I still needed a scotch, but the quiet rush of the river was de-sizzling my overheated mind.

Rosvita abruptly sat down and crossed her legs into a yoga position.

What the heck. I sat, crossed my legs, palmed my hands. We breathed in and out together and, after about a half hour, we headed back to the bed-and-breakfast. The parlor was lush and cheerful, stuffed full of comfy furniture, about six different lamps with funky lamp shades, several plants, and a ton of books. On closer inspection, I noted that all the books had something to do with diseases.

Current diseases.

Past diseases.

Jungle diseases.

Diseases during wars and famine.

Diseases pioneers suffered from on the Oregon Trail.

I paid her before I had even seen my room.

“It’s a super place for me to indulge in my nervous breakdown,” I told Rosvita.

She didn’t blink an eye as she took off her gloves and placed them neatly in a white box lined with lace. “I’m pleased to hear it. You go ahead and do your flipping out and I’ll make sure that it stays quiet around here for you and your nervous breakdown. And clean. It’s clean here.”

“Thank you, Rosvita. But so that you are fully informed-my nerves are in tatters; my psyche has been ground to pieces in a mental garbage disposal; and my emotions have been through a meat slicer. I cry easily, although I have made serious efforts not to cry for the last twelve years. I am prone to embarrassing outbursts. I have recently made rash and wild decisions, but have yet to regret any of them. I have found that I have a vindictive and vengeful side and am pleased to welcome it into the fold of my other personality characteristics. I am simply,” I told her, “not altogether.”

There was silence for a moment as we pondered this.

“Well,” said Rosvita. “If you can gather up your tattered nerves, your shredded garbage-disposal psyche, and your meat-sliced emotions, I can take you upstairs to your room, where you can further your nervous breakdown.” She spun on her cowboy boot heels and headed up the stairs. She reminded me of Tuscany and flamenco dancers and cotton balls. I followed her.

If there is a room in heaven that is light blue and pristine white, it would look like this room. The bed had a spread that was fluffy and white with a white lace canopy fluttering in the breeze overhead and at least eight blue and white pillows. There was also two white wicker nightstands, each topped with a lamp with a frilly blue-flowered shade, and a white wicker desk and dresser. Charming.

French doors opened to a deck which overlooked the Salmon River. I could hear the river gurgling and burbling, the fir trees making their wind-whistling noise. I thanked her and she left, patting my arm gently. “Nervous breakdowns are challenging mental diseases,” she said. “Call me if you need me.”

I grabbed a bottle of scotch out of my suitcase and had a few drinks. To christen my bed of blue heaven, I decided to pull a pillow over my head and cry.

And cry.

And cry some more.

And this is what I learned on that bed of blue heaven: When you live your life trying never to cry, when the tears finally bust through, they make a real wet mess.

I put the scotch on the nightstand. I was gonna need it.