It taunts me, hanging there flashing all those stripes and colors.” Caitlin motions with grand gestures at her dress in her closet. We are sitting on leopard-print beanbag chairs on opposite sides of the living room playing badminton over her metal coffee table. As each serve sends a rush of wind over a PEZ dispenser, the Superwoman’s head rolls around with a “ping, ping” on the copper-and-aluminum surface.
“I decided that we should think of ourselves as backup singers to Sadie’s finest performance.” It is a stretch, but I like my new perspective.
“We won’t have to worry about being overlooked, that’s for sure.”
“We’ll look like a Broadway version of the Partridge family bus.”
“Or waitresses in an Austin Powers movie!” We laugh and bat the birdie back and forth.
Ping.
Ping.
“How real is New York, Caitlin?”
“That’s what Jim asked me last night.”
“Oh, yes. Your reunion date. How was it?”
“Like all early dating reunion dates—a bit like starting from scratch.” She retrieves the birdie from a potted plant. “That isn’t true. I was nervous because I had thought we were over before we started, but he seemed comfortable and really glad to see me.”
“I think that is why people have dogs. They are always happy to see you.” I put my racket down to concede the match.
“That was left field. Racket up. No quitting until we have a winner.”
Caitlin lobs the birdie toward the ceiling. “Jim does have big brown puppy-dog eyes. And he is so kind. He brought me something from Mexico. Hold on.” She interrupts the game and walks over to a small vintage jewelry case. I watch her smile broaden as she removes a piece and brings it over to me. She walks as though carrying precious cargo.
I stare down at a jewel-coated bug broach. The shape is disturbing, but on second glance, I see how delicate it is. “Exquisite,” I say.
“His aunt in Mexico makes them. I guess she is a well-known artisan.” She flips the bug on its back and there is an inscription: “The amber is for my brown-eyed girl. The red is for my affection.”
“Flip again.” I direct her actions so I can see the red stone in the center of the bug. It is a heart. “Caitlin, you have found a guy as romantic as you are.”
“I know. And we do have a connection. Well, other than those endless couple of weeks when I thought he had deserted.”
“It also seems fast. I mean, fast to receive a bejeweled beetle.”
“Like you and Beau—romantic matches and it happened just like that.” She snaps her fingers.
“We are not romantically balanced. Beau is far more about flowers and stealing kisses than I am.”
Or he used to be.
I ignore my mental digression. “But yes, it did happen fast. Faster than I would have…”
Caitlin narrows her long-lash adorned eyes. “You aren’t going to become dissatisfied with life again, are you?”
I shake my head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
This is as far as I can go in conversation with any of my friends or family these days. After my desire for a bigger life last year brought me full circle to appreciate what I have, people act as though I used my one free pass to life exploration. I like my life. I’m thankful for Beau. I appreciate my friends. But I don’t feel my phase of sacrifice or growth is over. I learned priceless lessons during my makeover, and I don’t think God is finished with those lessons yet.
When does the sometimes helpful discomfort with life become the destructive seed of discontentment? I have nobody to ask these things. Everyone is tired of analyzing my life with me, but there is so much going on in my mind and heart these days.
My life is obviously a retired topic, so I return to Caitlin’s life. “What if the New York scenario becomes only working with or under Isabel? Will that be enough for you?” I start up our game again with a fine serve.
“I think it is better than the alternative—allowing my parents to run my life. I have been making it on my own without depending on my parents’ wealth or connections. Why would I want to go back to that feudal system?”
“I believe in you, Caitlin. Whether you start your own place or partner with Isabel, you will find your groove.”
“My groove? Are you under the spell of the dress or something?”
My phone rings “Stayin’ Alive,” thanks to Angelica, who thought it would match our wedding attire. “Good timing,” I say and answer before Caitlin starts her Travolta moves.
“Mari, it’s Mom.”
I swing and nail Caitlin on the nose with the birdie before putting my racket down. “How is Dad? What did the doctor find out?”
“Mari, it isn’t great news. Not the worst, so don’t get frantic, but your father is restricted to bed rest right now. He has a blood infection of some kind. Nobody seems to know how or when he contracted it, but chances are he has had it for a while. His fatigue is so much worse. He can’t work. He can barely walk across the kitchen without becoming breathless.”
“Oh, Mom. How are you doing? What about the shelter?” I take in a breath. “And your campaign?”
“Marcus is here. I will be fine. And the campaign can wait,” she states with conviction, but I don’t believe her.
I hear Dad yelling, “I won’t let her quit!”
“I thought Marcus was finishing his program at the university this term.”
“He is. But Dad will be good in no time, Mari.”
I hate to do this, but apparently I must. “Put Marcus on the phone.”
My mom is flustered but she follows my instruction. If Marcus is the one who told Mom and Dad to initially call me about this, I know I can trust him to give me the actual home scenario. If Marcus is anything, he is straightforward.
His first words make my head tingle. “I’m sorry about the news, Mari. We certainly were hoping it would be different.”
What? Marcus is speaking on behalf of the family as though I am a concerned neighbor or a distant acquaintance. My tone comes off less perturbed and more scared. “Marcus, can they really do this without help? More help?” I clarify.
“I will stay on longer if need be. My situation in Chicago is somewhat flexible.”
“Marcus, take the phone to the roof deck. Then we’ll talk.” While I wait for him to climb the stairs to the top of the youth shelter, I walk into Caitlin’s dressing room, which is an actual bedroom. A year ago she decided that extra space for all her fashion creations and purchases was more important than splitting rent with a roommate.
For a few moments I only hear Marcus breathing in the foreground and the sounds of daily shelter activity in the background—kids discussing the chore chart, asking questions of Mom and Dad, slamming the front door on their way to school, sports, and the nearby Metro stop.
“I’m here.” Marcus’ voice is warmer now. I picture him seated on the bench with flower boxes sprouting lavender and rosemary on each end. A trellis of yellow roses is his backdrop—the nation’s Capitol, his view.
“What do I need to know, Marcus. I trust your judgment.”
“Straight out, Mari—he’s not good. And if your mom plans to go ahead with the campaign, and I think she does, this place could be in trouble. I’d like to think I alone could manage everything, but I’ll be working on my dissertation…” He pauses long enough for me to formulate my revised life plan. He hears me sigh heavily.
“Mari?”
“It’s sinking in, that’s all.”
Marcus assumes I am talking about my dad’s health. “He’ll be okay. He just needs absolute rest, which you know is a nightmare for him.”
“No, what I need to do next, that is sinking in. I’m coming to DC for as long as it takes.”
In the living room, a shout from Caitlin is followed by a loud crash.
“Mari, hold on. I could check in with you every week, and then we could assess this kind of change later. It’s not like you can just quit your job.”
“Thanks, Marcus, but these are my parents. And I won’t have to quit. I’ll take a leave. You forget that the guy I was dating, am dating, is now my boss.”
I hear a siren on the Washington, DC end and then Marcus’ voice. I can tell he is cupping his hand over the phone. When his words come to my ear they are close, intimate. “Mari, not a day goes by that I forget.”
My heart catches a beat.