“A long time isn’t forever,” I said, pulling the sheet down and glaring at the sheriff. “It isn’t forever! That means they’ll come back out!”
I knew I’d hit a nerve, because Granddad turned away, his back bent, and Momma covered her face with a trembling hand.
Grandma said, those blue-green eyes pleading, “You must tell what happened to you. They will go to jail, but we need to make sure that they have to stay a long time, that they’re punished. We don’t want them to hurt another girl, do we? We must protect the next girl.”
I thought about that. I thought about my girlfriends at school, Theo, Jackie, Stella. I thought about Trudy Jo’s and Shell Dee’s daughters. I thought about the two-year-old girl who lived across the lake who always hugged me when she saw me and called me “Mad.” I did not want this to happen to my friends. And I wanted them to go to jail!
Most of all, I thought about Annie. I looked at her under the blankets, still sleeping, a small and skinny lump....
“He had a knife,” I started, instantly angry, scared, shamed once again. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at their faces when I told. “And pliers. And cigarettes . . .”
Over an hour later, when I was done, and I opened my eyes, one of the attorneys had his head in his hands. Sheriff Ellery’s eyes were so swollen he could hardly see when he left.
Grandma was weeping, my momma looked half dead, my granddad, his shoulders down, head bent, glared out the window of the hospital.
Click, click, click.
The nurse gave me a Popsicle. It was green.
I woke up in the middle of the night, one bright star white and glowing, its light reaching my hospital bed. Granddad heard me and came immediately to sit by me. He kissed me on both cheeks, held my hand.
“I’m here, Madeline,” he whispered. “You are safe. Go back to sleep.”
I closed my eyes and let sleep sneak on in and take me to oblivion, but before sleep could claim me completely, I heard my granddad, strong and indomitable, dissolve into heaving sobs. I am sure he thought I could not hear him.
“I am sorry, my granddaughter, I am sorry,” he whispered. “I failed you, too, Madeline, and I am sorry. I should have protected you, insisted you come and live with us on The Lavender Farm. I am so sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t know. . . .”
Two hours later I woke up again and watched my granddad standing near the window, his shoulders slumped, his head bent, his life shattered.
When we left the hospital and went home, there were many changes in our house by the sea.
Everything of Sherwinn’s had been taken away, including his truck, which was later found exploded to the shell in a field. Pauly’s truck was in a lake, and Gavin’s car had been smashed by a tractor. “By accident,” Shell Dee’s husband told us.
“These types of things happen sometimes. Bad wiring,” Trudy Jo’s husband said.
“Babies.” My momma wept. “I am so sorry. So very sorry. This is my fault. Please forgive me. Forgive me.” We heard her say it a hundred times.
Annie wasn’t speaking still, but eventually we started to heal, our grandparents’ and our momma’s love, attention, and care helping us every day.
My momma never, ever forgave herself. Not for a minute, not for a second.
Her apology to us? Those gunshots, as strange as it sounds.
21
“T
ilt your head up, Madeline . . . to the left . . . turn to the side . . . too much . . . back . . . there we go.” The photographer shifted from one place to the next as I sat in my leather chair in my office. My smile froze, the
click, click, click
sending me to places I didn’t want to be. I felt myself start to sweat.
“Smile, please, Madeline,” the reporter, Quinn, asked me. She was young. She was in a brown suit. She wore horn-rimmed glasses I bet she didn’t need but sported them, anyhow, to look smart.
“I’m smiling.” I quit smiling.
“No, you’re not. Lift up the corners of your mouth.”
I rolled my eyes. “Are you ready, Arnie? I’m going to smile.” I pulled on the buttons of my black suit, crossed one leg over another, and tried not to rip my boring black heels off my feet and hurdle them.
Click, click, click.
I smiled, teeth showing, for ten seconds. “That’s it.” I quit smiling, stood up, the sweat rolling down my back.
“What?” Arnie said, surprised.
“We’re done.” My body wanted to heave and my breath was stuck in my toes, not moving.
Quinn and Arnie exchanged baffled looks.
“But, but, but—” Quinn stuttered.
“What you got is good enough. One of those photos will work.” I wiped the sweat off my brow.
“Okay. We’ll wrap it up. Thanks, Madeline.” Arnie bent to put all his fancy gear away.
“Have a seat, Quinn.” I gestured to my leather couch. “I’ll be right back. ”
I went to the bathroom in the hallway and splashed cold water on my face, ran it over my wrists, jumped up and down to move the air stuck in my toes, then leaned heavily on the sink.
I so hate cameras. After the Cape, Annie and I refused to have our pictures taken, even at school. My grandma had to call in on picture day and tell them we were sick. We ended up making crafts with lavender on those days, hanging lavender bouquets upside down in the kitchen to dry, or riding our horses.
No photos for us.
Click, click, click.
“Okay, Madeline,” Quinn said. “As you know, we’re doing an article on you to coincide with the Rock Your Womanhood conference coming up here in Portland, a huge event. So, my first question is . . .”
And we were off.
Q: What advice do you have for women, in general?
A: Don’t screw up your life. Seriously.
Think
. Make sound, rational, unemotional decisions. Do not delude yourself into making a bad one. Men will try to drag you into poor choices. Don’t let them. Don’t spend a bunch of self-centered time studying the latest self-help book or new-wave religion to figure yourself out. Remember that
most
of the time you spend wallowing in “I don’t know what to do with my life,” or whining, is self-centered. Reach outside yourself. Help others, go back to school, travel, work hard, love hard, nurture healthy relationships, save money, and stay out of debt so your finances don’t give you a heart attack.
Q: What advice do you have for men, in general?
A: Same advice. But I’ll add one more piece: Don’t be a dick.
Q: I know you specialize in relationships, so what’s the worst mistake people make about marriage?
A: That it’s gonna be a blast. It’s not. It’s gonna be a pain in the butt sometimes and you will look at your partner and say to yourself, “What was I thinking?” Trust me, he’s thinking the same thing about you sometimes, too. So, in your mystification, go back to bed, roll around naked, take yourselves out for a pizza and beer, and get on with it. Work to keep your spouse in love with you. Don’t look for your spouse to fill all your needs. That’s impossible and unfair. Get interests and hobbies outside your marriage. No need to be locked at the hip. Have new adventures together, laugh, give each other one compliment a day. Fight fair and remember that the person who is meanest during the fight, even if they win, always loses. They shut the other person down. The shut-down person will eventually leave.
Q: My sister and I don’t get along.
A: What’s the question?
Q: What can we do to be closer?
A: Be nice?
Q: No, really.
A: That really was my answer. Some sisters are best friends, lovey-dovey. A lot aren’t. Quit forcing yourself to try to be close to someone when it’s not working. You may never be close to your sister. Accept it. Call on birthdays and holidays, send cards or flowers, let her know you love her. Keep conversations short, noncontroversial. Don’t compete with your sister, don’t compare, don’t make snide remarks while smiling, don’t tell her she looks tired, don’t manipulate each other, don’t be passive-aggressive—that’s so annoying and people hate it. Embrace what you love about her, toss the rest, and be okay with not spending time with people, even family, who you just don’t like.
Q: You talk a lot about fulfillment. How should women find fulfillment?
A: A grateful heart goes a long, long way. Look around. What are you happy that you have? Be grateful for your health, be grateful you’re not being eaten by maggots in a coffin. Be grateful for your kids, ripe tomatoes, rainy book reading days, two legs, cherry blossoms, campfires, friends. You will, if you’re lucky, be ninety-one day. Make sure you can look back on your life and say, “I did that . . . I did that, too . . . I tried . . . I loved . . . I adventured . . . I dared . . . I sang and danced . . . I was kind and compassionate and honest. Have morals and stick to them. Do not hold yourself back. The person you are at ninety will hate you for not living more fully right now, in your youth. Buy a vibrator. And don’t wear ugly bras. Yuck. No beige. Never wear a beige bra.
Q: Is there a man in your life?
A: Hundreds. They’re called clients.
Q: A special man?
A: No.
Q: What’s your dream date?
A: A hot bath. Alone.
Q: Truthfully?
A: Yes. Men give me headaches.
Q: Advice to young women entering the workforce?
A: If you must work for corporate America, do not let it kill your soul. Do not base your confidence solely on your job. Have a huge life outside of work, so work is only part of you, not all of you. If you hate your job but must keep it, start stockpiling money, or working a second job, or work your dream job on the side, so one day you can release yourself from your corporate bondage.
Q: What’s your advice for women who are sandwiched between aging parents and teenagers?
A: Get drunk.
Q: You’re not serious.
A: Of course not. That would be stupid. Only stupid people get drunk. Get a massage. A long one with those hot rocks and lotions that smell like pine trees. If there’s a massage oil that smells like wine, get that one. Don’t drink the wine oil. Know that this time of your life will pass. Teenagers are going to be difficult, accept that fact, accept that your perfect child will make perfectly awful choices and will most likely lie to you. Know it’s coming. As for your parents, care for them, check up on them, keep to a schedule if possible. Hire a housekeeper, hire a lawn guy, take the pressure off yourself, and let your standards down. Treat yourself as your own cool best friend or you will fall apart. Most importantly, remember this: If you’re doing your best, it is good enough. It truly is good enough.
Q: What’s happiness look like?
A: It’s moments. A moment in a forest. A moment holding someone’s hand. A moment of quiet. It’s ridiculous to chase down happiness as if it’s prey and you’re the predator, and if you can just catch it, bite down on it, you’ll be there. That’s untrue. Happiness, most often, is a choice. Make the choice to sit, breathe, and be in that moment.
The reporter left after I gave her advice about her job (how to deal with jealous female co-workers), her mother (bipolar), her boyfriend (troubled). “You’re the best, Madeline. I would love to be you when I’m older.”
“Super. Then there will be two of us. I will call you Madeline O’Shea Number Two.”
Happiness is in moments. Where the heck did I get that?
Georgie stuck her head in. “Aurora King is early today.”
“Good. Tell her to go outside and toss glitter at unsuspecting people because I don’t want any in my hair today.”
“I’ll do that.”
“What is she wearing?”
“Green. Lots of fluff. She says that your aura is steely. Rigid. As if you’re preparing for collapse but you don’t know it yet so you’re holding yourself tight—tight to your spirit, but the spirit is unleashing itself. She sees exposure wrapped around your fiber, that’s her wording. She sees a piano and hankies and a spotlight and there’s a bit of purple around the edges for sex. I don’t know if that means purple sex, but I doubt it. I doubt the part about the sex for you, too. Remember I said I’d take you shopping any time.”
“Send Aurora King in and tell her not to throw glitter at me again.”
“Don’t throw glitter at Madeline,” I heard Georgie say as she rang off.
I opened my door to Aurora King and closed my eyes when I saw her hand swing up.
She threw green glitter at me.
Two days later I was still picking it out of my hair.
I wrote my column, which centered on choosing a career based on what you loved doing as a child. “Find Your Child, Talk to Her” was what I titled it. “Get a picture of yourself when you were a child. Ask that child, ‘What do you like to do? What are your hobbies? What are you interested in? Where do you like to go on weekends? What are you curious about? What makes you laugh? Who do you like hanging out with?’ Take that info and think about it. Shake it up, spin it around. How can you apply that to your own life. . . .”
I answered a ton of e-mails, some from the Rock Your Womanhood chiefs, others from people on a couple of charity boards I sit on, and I took calls from a few hysterical clients. One client, Janice, quit her job in a grand way: She had a banner made that read, “Omar, you have a small dick,” and strung it across her boss’s office when he was at a meeting.
“Do you want me to show you the banner, Madeline?” she’d asked eagerly. She was in a bar. She’d had too much scotch, that was clear. “I want you to call a cab and go home, Janice. I want you to walk by the river tomorrow until you can’t take another step. I want you to drink coffee and read a book. Tomorrow night, start journaling. Write down the O’Shea Make a Change plan we talked about. Start job shopping the next day, when you’re not hung over. This time, find something you like and believe in.”
“But it was true. Omar did have a small dick.”
“How do you know?”
“My friend is his ex-girlfriend. She said it was the size of her middle finger.”
Lovely image.
“Avoid making banners at your next job.”
When I was finally done, my brain fizzling, at eleven o’clock that night, I decided to stay at my own home. I actually drove by my spaceship house initially and had to back up when I passed the corner. My jaw fell open as I stared at what Ramon had done.
A long, elegant, arborlike structure had been built across the front of my property, parallel to the sidewalk on top of the rock wall. The arbor’s lines matched the lines of my modern house, and it was . . . stupendous.
That would be the word for it—
stupendous.
I parked my car, scrambled out, and gaped.
My neighbor, Roth Hamil, wandered over. He always walks his dogs at night. Like me, he has insomnia. He’s a proctologist. I would be up all night, too, if my day consisted of rectums. “Incredible, isn’t it?”
I nodded, speechless.
“He’s building a deck in my backyard when he’s done. I’m second.”
“What do you mean, you’re second?”
“Walt and Cherry got him before me. Then it’s my turn. George and Darren get him after me, then Pho and Stephanie.”
“You’ve all hired him?” I felt this soft, warm glow.
“Sure have. We’ve been watching him transform your yard. He’s got a lot of work now. Good man, he is. Good man.”
I nodded.
“He told me about the robbery. He told all of us.”
“We all make mistakes,” I said. “It was a desperate situation. Lousy home life. He was a kid, trying to help his brother. He paid his time in jail, now he’s trying to get his life back.”
Roth nodded. “We men are a flawed species. We don’t think right. He’s gotta forgive himself and move on.”
“Yep.”
“So, while he’s forgiving himself, he’s gonna build me a deck.” He rocked back on his heels. “I can’t wait.”
I made a call the next day to Keith Stein, the lawyer bulldog, and explained the situation with Ramon and his brother. Bulldog lawyer understood. His childhood had consisted of a drunken father and a mother who disappeared when he was in kindergarten. She was in charge of planning the class Christmas party and when she didn’t show up with the cake and party games he knew she’d taken off. “The other kids blamed me for having no party. It was terrible. What was worse was watching my momma before then, and knowing, absolutely knowing, that she was going to leave me. I knew it. Hell, yeah, I’ll help Ramon. Give me his number and I’ll call later this morning.”