WINTER WEATHER. The cold no longer nipping, but biting. The only time I’m warm is when I’m running. This morning I was going so fast I felt like sparks were flying off of my heels.
Thinness has its own energy. I never realized that before. I’d always thought it was food that gave energy.
Still, reading about that model who died of anorexia freaked me out. As not-so-great as my life has been, I’m kind of looking forward to the future, which I can, ideally, influence. I don’t want to drop dead from starvation.
I need new clothes so badly. In addition to losing thirteen pounds, I seem to have grown an inch. My wrists are sticking out of the ends of my coat. There’s less natural padding to keep me warm.
Last month, when I went to my orthodontist appointment, there was a newspaper clipping in the window saying that he had moved to India to work in a free clinic.
That’s what Dr. Coner was like. He traveled to Afghanistan and Iraq and had pamphlets in his office for a charity that gives goats and cows to poor people. He worked out a payment plan for my mom and was nice about the fact that she didn’t pay it. “It all evens out,” he said when I apologized. “Everything does. Trust me. It’s the law of karma.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” I’d asked him. “Karma.”
“It means that the deeds you do and the choices you make will return to you in kind.”
I liked that idea; cause and effect. “So if I’m nice and behave, good things will happen? Like that?”
“Uh-huh. And it carries over from one life to the next.”
“Huh?”
“With each incarnation. So if you murdered someone in your last life, you’ll spend this life paying the debt for it.”
Karma carries over from previous lives? That took the fun right out of it.
Apparently, Dr. Coner had set out to earn some good karma, but who would tighten my braces? I wondered. Who would take them off at the end of the year? It’s bad enough being the only senior with braces. I didn’t want them for life!
Yesterday, though, I got a call from the new orthodontist.
“Hello, this is Coner Orthodontics. Is Mrs. Priestly there?”
Mom was locked in her bedroom in crash mode. “This is she,” I lied.
“This is Dr. Pistachio. Your daughter, Sage, has an appointment this evening. I’ve just taken over the practice for Dr. Coner.”
“Pistachio?”
“Please, no ice-cream cone jokes.”
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t.”
“Of course not,” he assured me. “Just every other character in town.”
“What time is the appointment?” I asked, trying to sound old.
“Five thirty. The problem is... you’ll have to enlighten me. The records are a bit of a mess. At what stage of the process is she?”
“At what stage?”
“Is this a tightening or a removal?”
I was about to say tightening. But then it came to me. The final step in my transformation. “Removal.”
“Okay. Cool. Then we’ll take some impressions for the retainer.”
“You sound young,” he said.
“I am. I had my daughter when I was fourteen.”
I had to laugh at the silence on the other end.
So I’m brace-less. My teeth look great, although they feel slimy and achy. The car had gas, miraculously. So now, I’m bopping through the market, buying groceries to make Mom a decent dinner.
She’s flatlining again, which makes her more manageable, but more depressing, too. It’s sort of my fault. Two nights ago, I came home from rehearsal to find some guy sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette. He had gray hair in a mullet and wore a Harley T-shirt.
“Who are you?” I said, none too pleasantly.
“Jerry. I’m your mom’s... well, I think I’m her date. She hasn’t exactly said yet, but this feels like a date.”
“When did you meet?”
“This afternoon. At AA. She spoke to the whole audience. She could make anyone sober. It was inspired.”
“Alcoholics Anonymous?” Among my mom’s many problems, drinking has never been one of them.
“Don’t worry, I’ve been sober for three weeks.”
“In the shower. Boy, she can talk. I’ve never met such a conversationalist. And smoke. She went through my whole pack.”
It’s an old trick of hers, bringing guys home. But she hasn’t done it since she started going to church two years ago. It was like God became her boyfriend, a more dependable one. But something must’ve gone wrong with this reverend, because she hasn’t talked about him in days; now this.
“I think it’s time for you to go. My dad will be home in about five minutes, and he is big and very angry.”
“You’re shitting me. She said her husband was a ‘no-show.’”
“Oh, he’s a ‘show,’ all right. And my dad told me if my mom brings men home to call the police.” I went to the phone. “He put the last guy in the hospital. Nine-one-one...” I started to dial.
“I’m going. I don’t need any trouble. I was just trying to have a good time. I was gonna take her for dinner.” He stopped at the door. “Truth be told, you’re kind of a bitch.”
A compliment, under the circumstances. “Out!”
Mom sobbed and screamed like a two-year-old when she came out and found him gone. “You sent my boyfriend away! Out of sheer jealousy.”
“Yeah. Right. I’ve always had a thing for toothless alcoholics.”
When she was done with the drama, she took to bed, where she’s been ever since. And yeah, I did feel kind of guilty spoiling her fun, which is why I’m at the market now getting groceries to make her a nice dinner.
“Ms. Priestly.” It’s the store manager. He’s a short, pudgy man with red hair and a gray mustache. He’s asked my mom out on dates six or seven times, and I wouldn’t have minded her going out with him, but of course she said he was too boring. “Hi, Mr. Murphy.”
“H-hello. How is your mother? Well, I hope?”
“The usual.”
“I-I’m afraid there’s something a little difficult.”
“What?”
“Your mom’s line of credit. The bill...” He leans in. “It hasn’t been paid since August.”
I look in my cart: my post-braces snacks, the dinner ingredients, coffee, toilet paper (which we are almost out of), cat food, sugar, eggs, milk, Tampax. Blood rises to my face.
Mr. Murphy’s face is also red. “She used to pay the first of every month like... clockwork, so I’ve tried to let it go. But just yesterday, I got a very heated letter from the company. Businesses just aren’t the way they used to be. They’re so... corporate.”
I want so badly to run out the door. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know...”
“Do you have cash with you today?”
Like a lame-o, I pull a quarter out of my pocket. My eyes fill and I wish for an earthquake to open a crack in the floor and suck me in.
“Tell you what. We’ll just take out a couple of items, and send you through, but I won’t be able to extend credit after today. It’s just not possible.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll just...” He pulls out the goat cheese and the coffee, plus chocolate chips. He looks even more embarrassed when he sees the Tampax and toilet paper. “That’ll do,” he says. “Take the rest.”
“Thank you,” I gasp. “I’m sorry.”
He pulls my cart forward and nods to the checkout girl. She gives me a dirty look, but puts my groceries through.
Once I’m out the door, I take a quick look back and see Mr. Murphy pulling money out of his own wallet and handing it to her.
You wonder how much worse things can get, and the answer is... a lot.
I must have been awful in my past life.