Читать книгу A Bitch Named Karma - Stephanie Haefner - Страница 8

Chapter 4

Marcus took me in his arms and let me cry and snot on his thousand dollar suit. After arriving at his apartment and changing into the most comfortable pair of pajamas he owned, I plopped onto his bed. He brought me a half dozen pillows and a mug of cocoa spiked with Baileys. My angel in Armani.

Marcus joined me in bed and we spent the day watching old movies and eating Chinese take-out. We also popped a couple bottles of wine.

“How could I be so blind?” I asked. “How could I not know he was getting some ass on the side?’

“I don’t know. Sometimes we’re oblivious to the obvious. I thought maybe he was cheating on you, but Brenda? That shocked me. Never would have guessed the piercings and tattoos would be a turn-on for him.”

“Don’t even get me started on that bitch. It kills me because she never even liked the dickwad—her word, not mine.”

I finished off my sixth or maybe eighth glass and felt the room spin just a little bit, like the slow final rotation on the Tilt-a-Whirl after the power had been cut. My judgment was clouded, I knew that, but Marcus looked pretty damn sexy lying next to me.

After more than three full decades of friendship, Marcus knew everything about me, all my faults, all my idiosyncrasies, and he loved me anyway. He sat up in the bed, propped with expensive feather pillows. I snuggled into him, rubbing my hand over his defined pec muscles. The flicker of the black and white movie on the TV in front of us illuminated his face and without even knowing why, I kissed him. My tongue slid past his lips, making it much more than one of our friendly pecks.

Of course he pulled away. “Lex, what the hell are you doing?”

“Marcus, I want you,” I replied and climbed on top of him.

“Come on, we’re just friends.”

“You know it’s more than that.”

I kissed him again, feeling far less hesitation this time. For a few blissful seconds, his arms wrapped around my body and I reveled in his delicious nibbles.

But then he gently pushed me off of him and stared me dead in the eyes.

“Listen to me. You are a mess. You’re vulnerable and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’ll hate yourself afterward.”

“No, I won’t. Please Marcus, make love to me. I need you. You can’t tell me you don’t want me too. I know you’d be lying.”

He lay there speechless and I knew there’d be no more fighting. I took my shirt off and crawled back to him. He pushed the hair away from my face and kissed me the way I knew he’d dreamt of for so long.

* * * *

When I woke the next morning, Marcus had already gone to work. I couldn’t stay there, in his bed, wearing only his pajama top. Embarrassment filled me as I recalled the evening—throwing myself at him, preying on his feelings for me. He’d always wanted our relationship to step past its platonic level. I was the one who’d decided it best to stay just friends. But now we’d had sex, a simple act of desperation for me—to him it probably meant the world.

I had to get out of there and for obvious reasons, my apartment was out. The friend list was rather short. Non-existent, actually. Only pure hopelessness could lead my brain to even consider this last option. As much as I hated it, spending some time at my parents’ house was inevitable.

Dressed in my dirty clothes, the ones I’d worn the day my life fell apart, I climbed into a cab. After a forty-five minute ride, I keyed into my childhood home and knew I’d hit the bottom. At least my next move would be up. It had to be, right?

The house seemed empty, with the exception of the TV blaring in my brother’s room. Not much had changed. I lived less than an hour away, but rarely made a visit. My mother’s sickening June Cleaver impersonation made me want to hurl. Every knick-knack sat in its correct place and every lace doily lay perfectly where it belonged. It smelled like Pine Sol, the same scent she’s used since the dawn of my existence.

I heard Andy’s obnoxious snort of a laugh over the noise of the TV. My twin, a complete loser, still lived at home and still worked at the same pizza joint he’d worked at in high school. How did we come from the same womb? We shared amniotic fluid, for God’s sake!

I brewed myself some strong coffee and flipped on the tube. Mom’s Victorian-style floral couch lent little in the way of comfort, but I curled myself up on it anyway. As I caught up with the ladies on The View, my eyelids slowly closed. I pushed them open only to repeat the same sequence three more times before giving in completely to my exhaustion.

“Alexandra, honey,” I heard first, then Oprah’s voice lecturing her viewers on the dangers of fad diets.

“Sweetie, wake up,” the mousy voice spoke again and I felt my arm being gently shaken.

I peeked one eye open, then the other.

My mother’s beaming face stared at me, her perfect white teeth matching the pearls around her neck. “What are you doing here, dear?”

“I need to stay a few days, okay?”

“Of course! Is everything all right?”

“I don’t want to get into it.”

“Okay. You know you can stay as long as you like. Your room is always ready for you.”

Most parents, upon gaining an extra space in their home, convert it to an exercise room or sewing room. Not my mother. When I left fourteen years ago, she kept the room for me, but returned it to its feminine glory of pink walls and floral print bedding—the décor of the days before I had a say.

At exactly six on the dot, we gathered at mom’s formal dining table for a traditional Marshall Family meal: meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Mom and Dad exchanged small talk as we ate. I knew the topic of conversation would turn to me eventually.

“So, dear, where is Zachary? It’s been ages since we’ve seen him. How is he? I thought of him just the other day. I came across the cutest birthday card at the supermarket. It had a cartoon on the front of it with a golfer and I know how much Zachary likes to play golf. I couldn’t remember the exact date of his birthday, but I planned on calling to ask you.” Clueless to the fact that I’d tuned her out, she could babble on and on about the most mundane things. “So, has there been any talk of a wedding for the two of you?” she asked next.

I stared at her as she awaited my answer, her eyebrows raised in anticipation. I knew what she hoped and prayed for. In my mother’s eyes, I was an old maid.

“No, Mom. He’s been having an affair with Brenda behind my back for months.”

“No! He wouldn’t do that! He’s such a nice boy. Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mom. I walked into my apartment and saw his penis inside her.”

My use of the “p” word at the dinner table flabbergasted her. She never could handle my bluntness. “Oh, well, um...” She stood and cleared away some dishes from the table.

“Do you need to be so graphic with your mother?” Dad asked once Mom had entered the safety of her kitchen oasis.

“Hey, I could have told her I walked in and saw him fucking her brains out. I thought my original statement had significantly more tact.”

He just shook his head.

Andy, as usual, laughed his ass off as he shoveled more food into his mouth.

* * * *

For the next few days, I threw myself the biggest pity party ever. I borrowed some of Mom’s perfectly matching sweat suits and basically sat my ass on the couch and didn’t move, drowning my sorrows in high-calorie, high-fat, high-carb foods. Dr. Pepper and Chester Cheetah soon became my best friends.

I watched old re-runs of Jerry Springer and new episodes of Judge Judy, flipped on some soap operas to see if anyone’s life came even close to the grand level of patheticness of mine. Some came close, but not quite.

My cellphone rang only once, though I refused to answer it. Rachel left me a voice mail begging me to call her so she could apologize. I didn’t feel like hearing it. I prayed to hear The Rembrandts I’ll Be There for You ring tone, the special song for Marcus. Not only did the words fit us, but we’d made a date every Thursday night from 1994 though 2004 to watch the ins and outs of our favorite “friends” on TV.

I wanted to talk with Marcus, but sheer terror prevented me from calling him myself. He’d been right about the night we were together. I was vulnerable, but even worse, I wanted to get back at Zak and I’m sure he knew that, too. My insides churned when I thought of what I’d done. If only he’d forget it ever happened. I longed for our together-forever-always-be-there-for-you friendship but deep down, I feared a permanent annihilation.

Mom walked in the door with armloads of groceries. “Alexandra! Guess what?” she said enthusiastically.

“What is all the excitement?” I asked gaily, but she didn’t pick up on my sarcasm.

“I was at the market, trying to pick out some oranges, when Pastor John came up to me. He said ‘Hello Maryanne, orange you glad to see me?’ Isn’t he so witty? I invited him over for supper tonight so you can meet him.”

My dull, “Hooray” didn’t phase her one bit.

“He’s been our pastor for six months now and we haven’t had him over yet. He’s only thirty-four you know, never been married. Such a shame. It’s so hard to believe this nice man is having a hard time finding a woman to spend his life with. He told me he loves to play tennis. Remember when you played tennis in high school?”

“Mom, you can’t be serious. Are you really trying to set me up with your pastor?”

“Oh, no! I simply thought he’d enjoy a meal with our family.” Her animated face glittered like a tinsel-covered Christmas tree. I knew my mother. At that moment, images of Pastor John and me walking down the aisle were flashing in front of her eyes. I could even hear the wedding bells chiming in her brain.

An hour later, I forced myself out of the indent I’d made in the couch to freshen up for dinner. I looked in the mirror, noticing a chocolate smudge on the hot pink sweatshirt I wore and decided on a wardrobe change. Mom lent me one of her button-down sweaters and a pair of slacks. God help me, I was wearing slacks. The waist came up so high I could almost tuck my boobs into it and the pleats and tapered legs did nothing to show off my figure.

Pastor John arrived right on time, bearing a bottle of sparkling grape juice. He rattled off another corny fruit joke as Mom showed him into the dining room. She giggled like a schoolgirl and I searched for an inconspicuous place to throw up if need be.

Mom introduced Pastor John to me and his eyes popped out of their sockets as they casually glanced at my boobs. Isn’t it against the rules of heaven or the pastorhood for him to look at my chest? He shook my hand leaving it covered in sweat.

We sat for dinner and Pastor John and Mom kept their conversation going. He tried to come up with as many witty food jokes as he could and Mom ate up each and every one.

“Alexandra, honey, isn’t he just a hoot?”

I murmured an “Ummm hmmm” while my inner monologue answered with, “Yep, what a prize. I can see why there’s a line of ladies waiting to get in his pants.”

Dinner finished and we took seats in the living room with glasses of the grape juice. While Mom sat engrossed with Pastor John’s story of church drama and Dad pretended to listen, I opened the liquor cabinet and doctored my drink with a shot or two of vodka. Or maybe it was three. It’s hard to guesstimate when trying to keep one’s alcohol abuse on the down-low.

I sipped my concoction and Mom brought up every topic she could think of that remotely interested me, trying to get the Pastor and I to talk. After some two-minute stretches of conversation about tennis, Mexican food and the color aubergine, he announced the need for a good night’s sleep. The awkward evening finally ended with Mom telling Pastor John we’d see him Sunday at church, including me. I hadn’t stepped foot in that church since my rebellion against organized religion in the early nineties. No way was I going now, not with my mother playing matchmaker with Mr. Holy himself.

* * * *

I knew my self-pitying funk had come to an end when the feel of cotton fleece on my skin felt like a million ants crawling all over my body. Mom lent me her Volvo for an emergency shopping spree. I couldn’t afford a whole new wardrobe on 5th Avenue, so Target would have to do. The store’s bright red bull’s-eye logo scared me, but once inside, I took comfort in its quaintness and found quite a few decent things. Some of the clothing lines actually came from real designers and the fabrics consisted of only minimal amounts of polyester.

I strolled past the lingerie department, spying cute bra and panty sets and grabbed one. But before tossing it my cart, I realized it was a pointless purchase. I didn’t have anyone to sex it up for anymore. Granny panties and Cross Your Heart bras were the only lingerie items in my future.

As relieving as it was to wear something other than coordinating sweatshirts and pants, shopping wasn’t the same without Marcus to tell me if something looked good on me or not. I missed him so much. We’d never gone this long without talking. I decided to suck it up and call him, or at least call his cellphone when I knew it would be off and leave a voice mail.

After cashing out, I took a seat at the mini Starbucks near the exit of Target. Who knew you could get a damn good Chai Tea Latte at the same place where they sold jumper cables, Barbie dolls and toothpaste?

I dialed Marcus’s number. It went straight to voicemail, just like I knew it would.

“Hi, Marcus, it’s Lexi. I, um, miss you. Please call me.”

A huge weight had been lifted as I took the first step toward getting some of my life back. Once I secured one piece of normalcy, everything else would fall back into place.

I felt good—the best I had in a week—and decided to treat myself to a cut and color touch-up that I desperately needed. Only one huge problem with that plan: my loyalty to Brenda for the past six years left me terrified to trust my locks to anyone else. Trying a new stylist was far more nerve-wracking than sleeping with a guy for the first time. With the guy, I expected it to be awkward, messy and uncoordinated, and more times than not, I was left far from satisfied. But there was an easy fix for that, a glass of wine and my favorite vibrator. If I got a bad haircut, it ruined my week, maybe even my month. At this point in my life, the last thing I needed was hair drama.

I drove around town searching for the trendiest looking salon, all about judging the book by its cover. That was my life. A stunning cover was crucial.

I settled on Le Salon Magnifique. French equals class. How could I go wrong?

The place radiated elegance and sophistication. Clients lounged in chrome chairs while stylists in sleek black robes wove their hair magic. Soft music played, accented by the trickle of a water fountain, giving the place a very Zen-like ambience.

I walked up to the counter. “Give me the works!”

A pedicure, manicure and facial later, I sat regally on my throne. The stylist walked over and I gave her my instructions.

She regally drew a pair of gleaming scissors from her station and dove into her work like an artist. I closed my eyes and let her hands work their magic. Just like those silly shampoo commercials, I lost myself in the orgasmic feeling that descended over me, promising myself I would not moan out in ecstasy.

My dye job came next and once the foils were in place, I sat at the dryer flipping through the latest Cosmo for half an hour. The stylist unwrapped my head and began blow drying my damp locks. The color looked a little off and the more she dried it, the brighter it became. My beautiful chestnut hair now resembled the sickening shade of the traffic cones on the street outside. Horrified, my stomach turn upside down and I suppressed the urge to vomit. I stood and stepped closer to the mirror. Maybe if I blinked real hard, when I opened my eyes it would be back to normal.

Nope, I still looked like Carrot Top.

“What the hell did you do to me?” I demanded.

“Uh, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? It’s completely fucked up!”

“Maybe there was something wrong with the dye,” she answered smugly and snapped her bubble gum.

My anger morphed into intense sadness and I used every last ounce of energy to hold in my tears. While further inspecting my fiery locks, I spotted her reflection in the mirror. Behind me was that Karma Bitch. She lay sprawled across the counter, head back, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. In her hand she held a tube of bright orange hair dye.

“Unbelievable!” I said, ripping off my smock, tears long gone, and stormed out.

I drove home and found a Mercedes parked in the driveway. I stomped into the house with my fire-colored hair frizzing in every direction.

“Lexi!” my bubbly blond little sister screamed and skipped over to me, throwing her arms around me. “I’m so happy you’re here!”

“Yay, let’s throw a party.”

Abby lived a perfect Super Suburban Barbie lifestyle. Even as kids, I always knew she’d grow up to be just like Mom, pearls and all. Daniel, her boyfriend, made big bucks doing only God knows what. He’d explained it before, but boredom overcame me three-point-five seconds into the spiel. Abby’s job as a Kindergarten teacher had been her dream since the first day she hung her backpack in a kindergarten cubby.

We stood there in the foyer, Abby hugging me way longer than necessary. Why had they come, unannounced, in the middle of the week to visit Mom and Dad?

“Alexandra, dinner will be ready soon,” Mom said, walking into the foyer. She noticed my huge hair. “Oh dear. What happened?”

“Small problem at the salon today,” I said gritting my teeth.

Andy walked in next. “What’s up, Bozo?”

I wanted to pummel him like I had when we were kids, but my inner lady refused to make a spectacle of myself. With a mumbled “fuck you” under my breath, I walked past.

Once in my room, I worked some product in and managed to smooth my hair into a bun sort of thing. All tucked away, it looked somewhat better. I changed into one of my new outfits and made my way to the dining room. Each place setting held the necessary silverware, a fancy folded linen napkin, water glass, wine glass, bread plate and dinner plate. Mom’s good china, only brought out on holidays or other major fetes, stared up at me. What was the occasion?

Abby led the same old dinner conversation, going on and on about her school kids and every other boring detail of her life. I zoned in and out, but caught when Abby screamed, “We’re engaged!”