What Doesn't Kill You (23 page)

Why hadn't I been looking? Dumb, huh? But you already know my decision-making style. Maybe selling the house used up all my proactive energy. I don't know, but I had to find a new residence pronto.

For a hot minute I thought about buying a condo. Lily strongly encouraged it, but I knew most of them cost as much or more than I had paid for my whole house. Yes, that was back in the day, but come on. I wasn't prepared yet to spend that much for a two-bedroom matchbox—a thousand-square-foot, second-floor walk-up with outside parking? Give me a break. And I wasn't kidding myself. I knew my credit rating was shot to hell, so I wasn't getting the preferred-borrower mortgage rate. Would they give me one? These days, who knows. The banks aren't in such hot shape either. Truth was, I wanted a time-out—to live in a place where I wouldn't have to worry about a busted hot-water heater, leaky faucets, toilets that won't stop running, mulch, leaves, snow, repaving the driveway, replacing the roof, repairing the garage door, or what I would do
if another rainstorm uprooted a tree in my front lawn. That was the owner's problem. For a while I wanted no worries—only a place where I could just be.

As soon as I mentioned my dilemma at the office, everybody had a suggestion about where I should live, so pretty soon I stopped talking about my search, because I did not want the second floor over their second cousin's store in Carteret, the garage their brother-in-law in Jamesburg turned into a one-bedroom apartment, or half of the duplex Aunt Esther rents in Spotswood.

I scoured the Sunday papers, tore out ads for places that looked like possibilities and spent my after-work evenings checking them out. There were dozens of brand-new construction “apartment home communities” like the one Amber and J.J. just left, but their walls were too thin. I wasn't used to hearing my neighbors' burps, sneezes and other personal noises. The layouts were awkward—designed to maximize space and minimize grace, the rooms were small, and the rents were astronomical because you got to be the
very first
tenant. One leasing agent repeated that about a dozen times while she showed me the apartment. Big whoop. I couldn't get that worked up about a room because no one had put a sofa in it before me.

I liked Julie's complex—it had been around since the '60s—solid brick construction, decent-sized rooms and closets, and none of the apartments shared interior walls. I have no idea how they did that, but it didn't matter because there weren't any two-bedroom units available for at least six months. I needed at least that much space. Besides, I know I could have ended up on the other side of the complex, but I wasn't sure I was ready for that much nearness. I wasn't being antisocial—really. Julie had turned out to be my bestest, dearest friend—in a way
I didn't realize I had missed since I was a kid. I mean, after I confided my no-bra status to Mary Marshall and she blabbed it to the class and all the boys started calling me No-Tit Tee: we didn't make it to best friends in the sixth grade. How do you do that to somebody you go to church with? Then, in high school, a girl I thought was like my sister iced me so she could get in with a hipper crowd. So after two strikes, I was out—kept my feelings and my business to myself. Which, come to think of it, could be why the Live Five suited my friendship requirements so well, for so long—or at least I thought they did. But with Julie I really felt she was someone I could count on in good times and sucky ones, and that when the occasion arose, I would do the same for her, but that didn't mean I was ready for us to be Lucy and Ethel.

Then, two weeks into my search and a month from closing on the house, Julie told me there was a “twin” to her complex, owned by the same company, built around the same time. She said it was about five miles from hers and they had two two-bedroom apartments available—would I be interested? Obviously, the short answer was yes.

A week later I signed the lease. So it was time to pack up my stuff and move on. I was still on my “do not put off what you can do today” kick, so once I had signed the contract to sell the house, I started consolidating and weeding out. I didn't have to make all the decisions right then. The kids said I could store things in their basement, maybe have a yard sale in the spring. That would be a hoot. I didn't grow up in a neighborhood where you spread clothes, books and household items on your lawn for other people to buy. Well, there aren't actually many lawns in Brooklyn, and nobody was interested in your
old
stuff anyway. But going to yard sales was a hobby in these parts,
so I could get with the program—make back a few cents on the dollar. It all helps.

You never realize how much stuff you can accumulate in a house. I had clothes in all the closets—makes separating the seasons so much easier. There were storage bins in any and all available nooks and crannies. Some of it was stuff I had forgotten I owned. Clearly, I didn't need it if I didn't remember it was there, and some of it I was probably still paying for. It was sobering, really. Part of the reason I couldn't afford to stay in the house was because of all the things I'd bought, and now I couldn't take them all with me. Ironic, huh?

I didn't sleep my last night in the house. All the packing was done. J.J. had rounded up a bunch of his buddies to help with the move the next day—I have the best son-in-law. I was camped out on the couch again. It was closer to the door, and I'd already said my good-byes to the rooms upstairs. Periodically I'd get up, roam around taking the last lap of the old-memories tour. I have to say Amber and I had a good time there. I hoped the next family would too. I wasn't leaving them a haunted house. Truthfully, handing over the key would be a relief—and getting the check. Once it cleared, I was going to have my own private bill-paying party—and when the DJ says, “Somebody scream,” that would be me, with pure relief. I was just sorry I had let it all come falling down around my ears. Maybe I needed to hear the crash to let me know it was time to move on.

I didn't hate my new apartment. I know that isn't the same as loving it, but it's a long way from miserable, which is what I bet you were expecting me to be. It didn't take me long to get settled in—thanks to my smooth move plan: less than twenty-four hours after the truck had left, clothes were in drawers and pictures were on the walls. I'm not saying it felt like home al
ready, because I'd be lying, but there was something kind of cozy about the way my life fit into my new space.

In a way, moving was like going on a diet—and succeeding. All those excess pounds you'd been packing on little by little—the ones you chose not to notice—have vanished and you feel lighter, freer. So when I looked around my newly svelte surroundings, I liked the trimmed-down me. Two bedrooms—I made one a guest room/office—living room, dining area, kitchen, bath and a half. I even still had a fireplace and a little patio—just right and all on one floor.

Once Amber was gone, even before my world shriveled to two rooms after I'd hurt my foot, the house was well on its way to outsizing me. I hadn't realized that just one other person makes such a difference. At first her absence was an opportunity for me to spread out, fill up some of the emptiness—which I don't mean to sound like I was lonely, because I wasn't. But so much of the place was unlived in. I had a dining room I used twice a year max and a basement warehouse where I stored enough napkins and pickles to last into the next millennium among other stock-up sale items. You know me—everything had a place, and I knew where and what it all was. The problem was I ended up with too much of all of it.

And I'll tell you one thing: toe trouble or not, I did not miss the stairs.

I
f you really want to do it, you'll find a way.” It was like one of those songs you can't get out of your head. It's fine at first, but at some point you just want it to leave you alone—but it won't. I kept hearing Julie say it, and quiet as kept, the thought of starting a business hung around in my head more than I let on. NAB was a dead end—they might as well have posted the big yellow sign on the door, maybe next to a U-turn. And even though I kept my résumé in cyber circulation, since Derma-Teq I hadn't gotten any nibbles that led to a full-course meal, and you know who ended up hungry behind that fiasco.

Since I had peewee-sized my life, my money worries weren't erased, but they weren't eating me up all the time either. So after work and on weekends, while normal people were having a life, I consumed the “stash or trash” shows like popcorn, looking for proof I couldn't do the same thing as much as confirmation that I could. I was well aware that in untelevised “reality,” it took longer than a day or two and cost more than
whatever they tell you to turn a dump into a showcase. But I would look at my notes—yes, I took notes—and try to figure out how much time and money an actual makeover would take. I surfed online and found companies that did shelving units, file drawers, attractive boxes, bins, desks and file folders, ordered some catalogs, even found an organization for organizing professionals—with a code of ethics, a local chapter, a certification process. I could even qualify to join as a provisional member. How did I get anything done before the internet? I went to stores that sell nothing but storage to contain all the other stuff you bought. It was a constructive outlet for my shopping expertise. I was observing, not purchasing.

Those design shows always have a Mess Master who gets credit for the transformation, but I knew there were a pack of Mess Minions behind the scenes, sorting, stacking and arranging 'til the break of dawn. I did not have minion one. What was the timetable to do a project solo? Granted, I wasn't looking to reconstruct your playroom or design that north wing you've been thinking about adding to Southfork. My specialty—if you can call it that—is organization. But should I focus on decluttering offices, since I had done that, homes—actually I'd done that too, at least mine—or try to do both? What would I call myself, my company? It wasn't exactly the most important piece of the puzzle, but I had come up with a name. Hadn't tried it on anybody. Hell, I couldn't say “my company” out loud because it sounded, well, crazy.

Which brings me to the biggest question I kept asking myself: Who was I kidding?

It's so much easier to talk game than to shut up and play. But what did I know about starting a business? Zip. Nada. It's not what my associate's degree was about. They taught me how
to work for somebody else, not for myself. And yes, I had been there with Olivia from almost the beginning—but not quite. I wasn't around when she hatched Markson & Daughter. Did it pop into her head one day, while she was folding laundry or taking Hillary to preschool or examining cucumbers in the market? It's a big leap from a hobby she started to keep from upchucking when she was pregnant to offering a product for sale. How did she arrive at the notion that she could turn her homemade potions and lotions into a bona fide, moneymaking enterprise? It never occurred to me to ask. Besides, her ex was rich, so what did she have to lose? Except she still had to muster the confidence to take herself seriously, research ingredients, standardize formulas, find jars and labels—which is where I came into the picture. So even though she was still concocting her brew at the kitchen table when I met her, Markson & Daughter was already an entity, at least to her. Where do you go for that?

Besides, what was I supposed to do for money? You need capital to start a business, and I didn't know anybody who had enough money to be called capital. Not that I needed a lot. I wouldn't have inventory or require a warehouse. Each job would be custom. I'd order supplies and furnishing to suit the client's needs. And when I realized I was thinking about clients, I had to take two giant steps back, because I had not said “May I.”

And with Olivia gone, I didn't have famous or important friends who would talk up my new venture—give me an edge to quote Phill, two lls. I mean, even the village idiot knows it's all about whose ear you've got and who takes your calls, right? Just because I was sure I could organize with the best of them didn't mean anybody would actually let me try it in their house. I mean, would you? Well, maybe, but you already know a lot more about
me than most folks. Anyway, I didn't have time; I had a full-time job—taking me exactly nowhere. Isn't that where this started?

Trust me, I had plenty of arguments for why I shouldn't chase this crazy idea, but I couldn't let it go. And Julie wasn't giving me any slack or letting me feel defeated before I could start. I mean, she herself was exhibit A. Two years ago she was answering phones, greeting visitors and making sure we didn't run out of coffee and bottled water. A year after that she was happy just to get a gig as Christmas help at the Markson counter—which, you will remember, appalled me. Now she was a department manager, about to be in charge of the brand for all the stores in New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania—truly a caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation.

On an afternoon when I was being a truly doubting Thomasina, she said, “We start where we start, and some people get a head start, but it doesn't mean they always finish first.” When did she get so wise? Right under my nose.

But I still wasn't convinced or willing to admit I had never contemplated a move that scared me so much. So even though we had both gotten our sack of lemons at the same time, Julie was now sipping cool, sweet lemonade and munching on luscious lemon bars, while I was still chomping on rind and seeds and complaining about the nasty taste. So I chewed—always mindful of my home-filled tooth—and I stewed.

I guess she'd had enough of my naysaying the day she told me if I was so smart, why didn't I quit coming up with questions and try some answers for a change. Alrighty then. Julie knew me well enough to be sure I'd take the dare. So I opened my mouth before I could reason myself out of answering and said, “I do have a name.” We were on the phone, but I could just see her head cock to the side, waiting to hear it. There
was no backing out, so I told her
“To a Tee.”
It came to me during one of my daily traffic crawls, which had become my daydreaming time. I had even played with the fonts on the computer to come up with just the right look—creative, modern, sleek. I hoped I sounded confident when I said it, because it was the first time anybody—including me—was hearing it aloud.

Apparently Julie said, “It's perfect,” but I never heard it because I was so busy defending my choice—it's easy to remember, it speaks to the service, it uses my name, it's part of my mission to create an environment for each customer that fits their needs to a tee. I had even gone back to my very outdated marketing and business-administration textbooks to jog my memory. When Julie could finally shut me up, she told me she agreed 100 percent, then leapfrogged to business cards and brochures, which she was already planning to distribute in the employee cafeterias and locker rooms of the stores in her territory and on the bulletin board at her church. Then I had to stop her because she was getting carried way, and it gave me a headache. I had a name for my make-believe business, and she was already advertising it. Before we hung up, she said she'd told her Markson rep I was starting my own company. Which I know was meant to really light a fire under my pot—and it did.

I was 97 percent sure Julie's sales rep wouldn't know me, and even more certain he couldn't find Didier's office without GPS, but gossip spread in that company like the flu. So the idea that word about my venture might find its way to the big corner office made the stakes instantly higher. Funny how motivating that was—the opportunity to prove, if only to myself, that I could do just fine without Markson.

And that night I dreamed about Olivia for the first time
since she died. She was in her pajamas, sitting on the porch in her rocker, like she had been that last day. But I was sitting with her and we were having our very first conversation—from the afternoon I showed up at her loft looking for a job with the listing I'd swiped from the placement-office bulletin board in my purse so no one else could apply. I was writing on a notepad and Olivia looked over my shoulder, admiring my penmanship and saying, more to herself than to me, “Definitely destiny.”

Hmmm—maybe it was.

The next day at work, in between fender-bender follow-ups, I played with slogans for
To a Tee
, doodled logos, made notes on my blotter about what to include in the flyer. When I got home I turned on the computer, and instead of checking the sites where I'd posted my résumé, I started a
To a Tee
file; now that I'd said it, I couldn't stop. I transferred my notes from the office and swore off design shows until I had put some part of my so-called business plan in action. Daydreams feel good, but I had to make a move toward something real or let them go.

I knew that from my very own laptop I could create flyers, business cards, brochures and postcards—I just didn't know how. Lucky for me, my globetrotting child had it covered. Amber came by long enough to give me a crash course. When I first mentioned my plan, she teased me about becoming an entrepreNegro, but she and J.J. were all for me exploring my free-enterprise zone. He offered to do my accounting, when I had some. My graphic-design lesson lasted about an hour. No argument from me. I know where Amber inherited her recessive patience gene. But she made it look so easy. And maybe because it just feels wrong being instructed by the person you taught how to eat with a fork and to always wipe from front to back, I didn't let on that I only understood about half of what she said.

Despite numerous accidental deletions, files I forgot to save, and the cuss words that went with them, nine nights later I had printed business cards and prototypes of flyers. I played up my experience at organizing Olivia's business, which sounded a whole lot more impressive than keeping my kitchen tidy. I tacked them to my bulletin board, taped them to the kitchen cabinets, the bathroom door, left them on the coffee table. I admired them, compared them. From day to day a different one became my favorite. When I started working for her, Olivia didn't have all this.

Now what was I supposed to do?

How many did I need? Where would I distribute them? And what the hell would I do if I got any response? I don't want to say I was paralyzed—that sounds so dramatic. But forward progress screeched to a halt.

I don't know if I was waiting for Olivia to reappear in my dreams, or a genie to pop out of my computer and show me “the way” Julie kept telling me I'd find if I wanted to, but since she was in training for her new position, and Amber was in Mexico City, nobody was bugging me about my progress. So I wasn't making any.

I was catching up on the papers one Sunday afternoon and relaxing after a Satruday at the dentist, finally, when Ron called, asked if it was a good time for him to come over and take care of the scratch on my car door. What scratch? Then I remembered J.J. pointing it out to me during the move. The mark was so small, I had missed and dismissed it. And as for Ron, I hadn't seen him since he got back from Florida, not that he hadn't left messages. I wasn't exactly avoiding him, but with selling the house, packing, moving, working, inventing a business and the graphics that went with it, I hadn't fit Ron
into the schedule. Guess I could have called the man back, huh?

Now, I was busy, not dead. I'd definitely thought about him from time to time—our diner dinner, the postcookie lip lock and the merry mistletoe encounter had kept me entertained when I needed a break from my fun-challenged life. And obviously Baby Son-in-Law had taken it upon himself to update good old cousin Ron—at least about the condition of my car.

Ron's call ended my lazy Sunday daze, but one of the nice things about my smaller digs was that all I had to do was tidy the newspapers, ditch the tea mug, swipe away the toast crumbs and I was ready for company.

I did put on my brand-new jeans. I had pretty much retired from denim when Amber was little. At the time I was interested in looking grown and responsible. Well, one day I was over at their house, helping Amber measure for drapes; she was going to get custom but decided they were too expensive—for now. She said she'd splurge when they moved to the next house. OK, she got at least some of my money sermon. Anyway, she pulls out some magazine—the spring fashion issue—and flips to the spread showing the dos and don'ts of denim for all ages. She points to a diva with a slick gray chin-length bob and says, “See, Ma, she's seventy-three and she looks hot. You'd look great in these. You're not
that
old.” Not
that
old? Thank you very much, daughter dear.

We were going to the mall anyway, so she dragged me from store to store—exhausting, I was definitely out of practice—and made me try on about 602 pairs. Straight leg, boot cut, flairs, classics, plain, embroidered, sparkled. I had two rules. No low rise—I was not interested in spillage. And no cargo style, because there is nothing I want to put in the pockets around
my knees. Finally she pronounced the winner. I thought my butt looked too big, and when did jeans get to be $100? She said they looked just right, and they were 30 percent off—an early Mother's Day present. Wonders will never cease. She said I needed a fresh look to go with my new bachelorette pad. Is that where I was living?

Anyway, I had on a cute white shirt and my big hips in my hip pants when I buzzed Ron in. Now, it's no secret that I found the man appealing. Except nothing about our association had seemed exactly kosher to me from the giddyup. I still hadn't wrapped my brain around whatever it was we were doing—how-some-ever, cute counts. So I fluffed my hair and let him in. He gave me that killer smile, a peck on the lips—said he was just letting me know he was outside working on the car, then he went back out. Was I a teensy bit disappointed the kiss wasn't more, well, you know, more. You betcha, but what did I expect? The man kept tossing the ball in my court, and I wouldn't play catch. But it did seem kinda rude to have him out there all by himself taking care of my bodywork. So I grabbed a jacket—red suede, not new, but it was cute—and joined him.