What Doesn't Kill You (21 page)

Ron didn't really have loaners. His customers were multivehicle owners, and some of his restorations took months, so he lent me his SUV. Fortunately, it wasn't one of those gi-normous ones. I stood on the running board (much easier than getting in the truck), thanked him again, gave him a kiss on the cheek—because what he was doing was genuinely nice, and I sure did appreciate it, from the bottom of my heart. I turned on the CD player when I got on the road. He had some nice tunes, jazzy sax, real good driving music. And I know I had a smile on my face. I had almost forgotten that sometimes a crappy day can get better.

When I went back to pick up my car a few days later, I was feeling kinda down about turning in my coach and going back to the pumpkin. But when I stopped in the office for the bill, I was completely outdone. The clerk handed me my keys and a receipt with a total due of $00.00. I said there must be a mistake, but Ron wasn't in. Fine. I'd settle it with him later. Then I walked past the car three times before I recognized my license plate, because my ug-mobile was mouse gray no more.
I'd call it titanium, with metallic sparkles that flickered in the sun. The interior had been shampooed, the seats gleamed, and the bent antenna was ramrod straight. And the engine purred like a happy kitty.

I didn't catch up with him until that night. He said he hoped I didn't mind that he took the liberty of doing a paint job—said it was a new color he wanted to try out and he thought I'd like it. Right. He also said the repair was on the house. I said he couldn't do that. He said, “Yes, I can. Sometimes it's good to be boss.”

T
hat night I kept checking the garage to make sure I hadn't dreamed the whole thing because it didn't make sense. Neither did a lot of what I'd been through in the last twelve months, but at least this gave me a smile and made me feel special. That hadn't happened in a while. And when I drove to work the next day you couldn't tell me my ride wasn't the cutest thing on the road. The guys at the office thought it looked pretty nifty too. Julius even said I should let him know if I ever wanted to get rid of it. That's quite a turnaround. Granted, he'd never seen my coupe, and I started to say something about what I used to drive, but for once I put my hand over my own mouth and accepted the compliment.

When I checked in with Julie to say hey and tell her what Ron had done, I mentioned I wanted to do something for him, to say thanks, but I didn't know what because it would involve a trip to the store, which I couldn't afford. Before I got any
farther with my rendition of the “No Luck, Life Sucks” blues, Julie said, “If you really want to do it, you'll find a way. There's a reason they call it a
token
of appreciation.” Well, that snapped the rest of the words back in my mouth before I got to the chorus. Julie wasn't usually so blunt, but she got my attention. We didn't talk much longer. It's hard to say much with your lips poked out. But once I got past the sting, I realized she had a point. It's the thought that counts, right?

It took me a while to sell myself on the concept. I had always been a fan of the flashy statement—the more impressive, the better. But when I came home and went in the kitchen to scramble some eggs, because that's what I wanted for dinner, I took stock of my cookbook collection. Yes, a lot of it was decorative, but when Amber was growing up I really used to cook from the recipes, especially the cookies. There were always bake sales and classmates' birthday parties, but no matter the season or the occasion, Amber requested my Yummers. That's what she said the first time she tasted my double chocolate cherry nut cookies. “Yummers, Mom.” After she got to the age when the size of her jeans took precedence over dessert, I had pretty much hung up my baking pans. If I wanted to give somebody goodies, I'd buy a gift basket, so I was reluctant to fire up the oven. What if they didn't look professional? I had to throw that one out—a whole lot of store-bought cookies try for that “homemade” look. Suppose they didn't taste that good? Mind you, I never had a leftover. If J.J. was in the house they barely made it to the plate. Suppose Ron didn't like cookies. At that point I knew I was stalling. When you come right down to it, who doesn't like a cookie? And since I was bestowing tokens, I added Julie to my list since I appreciated all she had done, including kick me in the butt to get me moving on this. So far the best thing about losing my job—and believe me, it took a
whole lot to put that sentence together—was getting to know her outside of work. And while I was at it I'd make Amber and J.J. a batch—not the anniversary gift I envisioned, but I was sure they'd get a kick out of them, even if Amber only ate a couple.

So baking became my project for the week. One night I got out the recipe—the cookbook automatically fell open to the page. It was creased and stained with butter, batter, vanilla and little fingerprints—lots of memories. I checked for ingredients I already had and made a grocery list. Next day I stopped on the way home and did my shopping—which didn't cost much at all—and that night I found my trusty cookie sheets. While I was at work I remembered I had a stash of decorative tins in the pantry, the ones that are too pretty to throw away and you never figure out what to do with them. I managed to find three I liked and some paper doilies for the insides without needing the step stool. I also checked my usual hiding spots around the house and found a frame I had bought because it was pretty and on sale. I had come across a snapshot of Amber and J.J. from back in the day, huddled over their homework. I thought they'd like to have it.

Friday night I prepped walnuts and dried cherries and measured out my dry ingredients, which lets you know the state of my social life. Hermits go out more often. But by the weekend I was ready to rock. I must admit I was in a good mood that whole week. My project gave me something to look forward to. Standing at the counter like I used to was not going to work, so I made myself a workstation at the kitchen table, put on some tunes—there hadn't been music in my house in I don't know when. And the smell—you cannot be grouchy in the presence of cookie aromas. And while I tried to keep my sampling to a minimum, I am happy to say I hadn't lost my touch.

I had just taken a batch out of the oven when the jingling of keys meant Amber was coming in. I thought she'd be pretty surprised to find me doing my Shaniqua Stewart thang, but she came in fuming. “I'm sick of him acting like we have to save every penny. My father already gave us money toward the down payment.”

Uh-oh. Another wrinkle in wedded bliss. Seems Amber had found her dream house and J.J. did the math and for him it did not compute. Brand-new, four bedrooms, five baths, a three-car garage, granite, stainless-steel appliances—all it was missing was a moat and a throne room. I liked London too, but the Queen's house has been in the family a long time. She couldn't afford to buy it now either. I asked how much it cost. It was amazing how easily the number slid off her tongue. It sure made me choke. Amber fumed that it would be tight for a while, but they would both get promoted and make more money.

I might have said the same thing—last year. Then she talked about how I had taught her to buy the best because people will always recognize quality. Sounds like me, doesn't it? She proceeded to quote chapter and verse from Tee's Economics 101: “Buy it now, it'll cost more later.” “Sometimes you have to spend money to save money.” “What's the point of having good credit if you don't use it.” And the ever popular “Isn't that why I go to work every day? So I can afford the nicer things in life?”

I had no idea my child was such a devoted disciple. But I was living through the flaws in my theory, and however painful it had been for me, I was apparently a little too good at keeping the downside hidden from my daughter. Yes, she also got the hard-work message, and I never wanted to burden her with my worries, certainly not as a little one, and definitely not now.
But I guess I had done her a major disservice by not letting her see the whole picture. Truth was, I didn't start to see the whole picture until it was right up in my face and I couldn't look anywhere else. Man, I couldn't even get through baking without a major life crisis.

So I gave Amber a cookie and told her to sit down. This was going to be harder than the sex talk. I didn't think anything was more embarrassing than explaining why he sticks
that
in
there,
but admitting I was going, going, gone broke? It was difficult to make myself look her in the eyes.

I didn't know where to begin, so I jumped in before I could chicken out—'fessed up that I wasn't thinking about selling the house for convenience. I couldn't afford the mortgage anymore. It felt like when I'd told her there was no Santa Claus. I could see her lip start to quiver, and I had to keep talking or we'd both be red-eyed and snotty. I did my best not to sugarcoat the story. I had to let her know I had made mistakes with my money—big ones. I had to do whatever was necessary to keep her from following in my heavily indebted footsteps.

First thing out of her mouth was how she and J.J. would fix it. I had to stop her right there—told her thank you very much, but no. Nothing would make me happier than to see them in their own house, one they could afford. What her daddy gave them was nice—very nice—I admit it, but unless they added more they would be saddled with a mortgage that would put a hurtin' on their cash flow. I assured her I'd get myself straightened out and no, I wasn't sure how, but she had to let me handle that. Then she fretted about how much I'd spent on the wedding. I had to admit that if I'd known then what I know now, I'd have done things a little different. OK, a lot different, but I loved every minute of it. I didn't regret
it, and neither should she. And that was the honest-to-God truth.

By then I was exhausted, so I fixed their tin of cookies, gave her the photo, told her to stop, get some milk and go home to her husband and work it out. Oh, and I made her promise not to tell her father about my money problems. They talked, he and I didn't and he just didn't need to know that much of my business.

And after we hugged and she kissed me good night, I mentioned, as nonchalantly as I could, that my Thursday nights were now free. Well, Amber's smile would have lit up the Milky Way.

Julie was easy. I invited her over for dinner after work one night. Nothing fancy—burgers with onion rolls, my fresh-cut seasoned fries and a salad. After that I presented her token of my appreciation. She was tickled. I made coffee and we had the TV on in the background while we nibbled some of the baker's batch and talked about nothing in particular, like how happy I was to finally be back in my bedroom, and how I'd found a pair of flat slides in my closet that fit over the taping I still had to do to my toe so I wouldn't have to go through the winter in sandals and socks.

Julie told me she hadn't been home in a while, so she planned to visit her family in Toronto over our Thanksgiving, then she looked up at the TV screen and said, “Will you look at that mess.” It was one of my organizing shows and they were tackling a home office with papers, cartons, shopping bags, files and the samples for their T-shirt business thrown all over the place. Julie wrinkled up her nose and wondered how anybody could run a business like that. “They can hardly find the computer.” I told her how I had to tame Olivia's clutter bug back at the
beginning in the loft. She couldn't believe it. “Everything was always so nice at Markson.” I was happy to inform her I was the reason and told her what I was doing at NAB. I had found stuff in that office that had been there since low-rise pants were around the first time. They were called hip-huggers then, and why anybody needs a new generation of butt cracks to look at I'll never know. Anyway, organizing the stuff at the office had made my day and everybody else's go smoother, not to mention the break it gave me from yet another disgruntled claimant.

We kept an eye on the progress while we talked. The moldy turkey sandwich they found buried in a long-lost box of office supplies was nasty, and why a grown man would become unhinged over parting with his Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers lunchbox was beyond me, but we stopped to watch the “reveal.” The room looked three times bigger, and there was a whole wall of good-looking storage for inventory and supplies, papers had a filing system to call home, the new L-shaped desk had sleek accessories and a place for everything. I always wondered how long the rooms stayed in their pristine state, but hey, at least they had a good start—the rest was on them. Julie said it was a miracle. I said, “I can do that.” It was just logic, common sense and a dollar's worth of style. And she said, “Well, you should charge for it.” I told her I had always made it part of my workday, so I was getting paid, and she said, “No, like a business.”

A business. Yeah. Right.

But Julie was serious. And I said I was hardly in a position to start a business. Money was tight, I was tired when I got home, I had never taken a design course…

And she said, “If you really want to do it, you'll find a way.” It was becoming her theme song already, but when I thought about it, Julie had pretty much reinvented herself after Mark
son let her go. She had started as a receptionist and was on her way to sales executive. I'm not even sure she saw that coming, but somewhere along the line she decided to go for it.

So I promised I'd think about it. Which I did while I cleaned up the kitchen. Yes, I was good at organizing things, but who was going to hire me? And how was I going to advertise, and what would I charge, and I needed a job, not an adventure. Then I saw Ron's tin on the dining room table, which gave me something else to worry about. How was I going to get him his cookies?

I mean, this whole episode started with him, but his was the only box left and they were best while fresh, so the clock was ticking. And what was my problem? I don't know, it just seemed so fourth grade for me to go marching into his business to give him my goodies, so to speak. I didn't want to draw attention to myself and have his employees whispering about this woman whose car he painted, because I was sure it wasn't something he did every day, and there was no reason for him to have to explain it to anybody, not on my account.

And I didn't know his home address, which meant I'd have to ask Amber or J.J., and I didn't want them to wonder what was going on, because it was nothing more than a simple thank-you. Or I could call him at the shop, disguise my voice and ask him to meet me behind the tree on a dark corner, so I could get him “the stuff.” I hadn't worked it out by the time I went to bed. But when I laid back down after a middle-of-the-night, “getup-and-pee-'cause-there's-no-point-holding-it” bathroom run, I told myself to just call the man. He was a friend of the family who had done an exceptionally nice thing for me—that's all. Whatever might have been, wasn't—I had seen to that. Surely he had not been sitting home waiting for me to come around. I
chose not to get specific about what he might have been doing and with whom. There are things even I don't need to know.

So next day I got up, looked in the mirror while I brushed my teeth and gave myself the lecture about being a grown woman who was perfectly capable of a simple thank-you. Is that why I dialed the shop four times before I stayed on the line long enough for anybody to answer? When Ron came on the line I temporarily lost control of my tongue, and before I regained it I had asked him if he could come by my house that evening because I had something for him—probably a lot like what I'd said to Julie, but when I'd hung up from her I hadn't spent the rest of the day beating myself up for sounding juvenile or wondering how I got myself into this in the first place. Come by the house? What was I thinking?