Groundswell
I’m alone in my apartment when there’s a knock at the door.
“Yo-ho-ho!” I hear from the hallway.
I open the door and Bryce and Trevor shuffle in wearing Santa hats and carrying presents. “Hey, boys! What are you both still doing in town? I thought you’d be on your way to Philly by now.”
Trevor says, “Driving to Nana’s in St. Louis tomorrow and Bryce is coming with. My family’s gonna be there.”
“You’re not heading home for Christmas?” I ask.
Bryce shakes his head, causing his Santa hat to slide to the side. “I was already there for Hanukkah. I’m a member of the tribe, son! Festival of lights! Eight crazy nights! Shalom, playa!”
“After St. Louis, we’re doing Aspen for New Year’s,” Trevor adds.
“I likes my powder fresh,” Bryce confirms.
“Nice. I thought you’d left because you guys haven’t been home, so now I have a chance to give you these.” I hand them two wrapped packages. Bryce rips open the paper to reveal premeasured, ready-to-hang curtains.
I explain, “The rods are already up, so these will just slide on.”
“These drapes, dog?” Bryce asks. “’Cause that is off the chain! Ready to get my privacy on, son! You wants to see my bone chones, you gots to pay a dolla!” He high-fives both Trevor and me. This was actually the more utilitarian gift of the two, so I’m delighted at their enthusiasm.
Trevor opens his gift to find a large casserole pan. “That requires some explanation,” I tell him. “Anytime you want me to fill this with a casserole, you bring it up here, okay?”
“You could make us something anytime we want?” Trevor asks, incredulously. “Like, dinner? Like, even once a week?”
I nod. I wanted to do something nice for the boys, but I also have quite a bit of time on my hands right now, so I figured the best gift I could give would be that of myself.
Trevor looks from the pan to me back to the pan, almost overwhelmed with the bounty of it all. “Will you use cream of mushroom soup and spaghettis and canned tuna?”
“If that’s what you want.”
There is cheering and chest bumping and a good bit of dancing. Who knew “spaghettis” could cause such a reaction?
Bryce nudges Trevor. “Hey, playa, give her ours.”
Proudly, Trevor hands me his gift. I gingerly open the newspaper-wrapped present, without once questioning if they actually read the paper first. I saw my new therapist for the first time today and we discussed how my constant judgment of others has been an unhealthy pattern.
I open the box to find a sturdy mug boasting a picture of Trevor with his thumbs up and the caption “World’s Best Landlord.” Bryce hands me his, too, and I find the same thing inside, only this one has a photo of Bryce.
I’m surprised at how touched I am by their gesture. I love that they put thought into their gifts and how they’re going to make me laugh every single time I drink a hot beverage.
Bryce explains, “Now you gots a set for your friends and shit.”
Although I’m not entirely sure if anyone whom I don’t pay is speaking to me right now, I assume at some point there will be people in my life again and I will have them over for coffee.
Everyone in the family is waiting to follow Geri’s lead since she’s the injured party. My Christmas dinner plans are on hold until I can determine how I’ll be received. Of course they all heard what happened. You can’t keep masquerading as your sister/sending your little sister into anaphylactic shock a secret, at least not in the Bishop household. And Deva said she needed space but promised to revisit our friendship when she’s back from Aspen.
“Wait, are you seeing Deva in Aspen?” I ask them.
“Stayin’ in the guest room, playa!” Bryce exclaims.
“She’s getting ‘World’s Best Hostess’ mugs,” Trevor admits.
I tell him, “She’ll cherish them,” without a hint of insincerity.
I bid the boys good-bye and return to my task at hand. My new therapist believes I need to process the events that led me here, so she’s given me an assignment. But before I can even begin, there’s a knock at the door again.
I’m laughing as I open up. “You guys want a casserole already?” But it’s not Bryce and Trevor standing there; it’s Geri and Mary Mac.
“We’re coming in,” Mary Mac announces. She’s carrying a grocery bag that clinks as she moves. She wanders back to my kitchen while Geri stands in front of me with her arms crossed.
She eyes me for a full minute. “I’ve decided to forgive you,” she tells me. “But you have to do one thing for me.”
“You’re seriously going to forgive me?” I ask, voice wavering. “This truly is a Christmas miracle! Anything! You tell me anything and I’ll do it!”
“Let me style your damn hair already. This Wonder Woman thing you have going on? I’m over it. Get a chair and meet me in your bathroom.”
I peel off my sweater and pull on a T-shirt; then I grab the chair from my desk and drag it into the master bath. In the time it takes me to change, Mary Mac’s put something delicious smelling in the oven, while banging around preparing appetizers.
Geri’s already in the bathroom with her scissors, lotions, and potions, as well as two glasses of wine. She hands one to me.
“Bitch,” she says.
“I know,” I admit, eyes cast down.
“No, silly, Bitch wine. I told you, I’m good. I thought about everything and I’m over it. You and I are starting again. We’re officially Kool and the Gang.” She begins to run her hands through my mane and asks, “What are you thinking? I have a few ideas in mind, but I want to hear what’d make you happy.”
“What about long layers?” I ask.
“Sounds good,” she replies, holding her scissors and gathering my hair into a low ponytail.
Then, before I even realize what’s happening, she lops off one solid foot at the elastic band.
“What are you doing?” I shriek.
Oh, my God!
My hair! My gorgeous hair!
“Do you know how long I’ve been growing this? What, I mean, how, I mean what the f—”
“Huh,” Geri says, holding up my tail for inspection. The long strands glint under the harsh light of the bathroom. “What do you know? I guess I was still mad at you.” As I’m about to shout like no one has shouted before, I catch a glimpse of her grinning in the mirror. “We’re going to be okay, you and me.”
If losing my hair means being on solid ground with my family, then this is a small price to pay indeed. “Then . . . I guess it’s worth it,” I finally reply.
Geri tucks my ponytail into a plastic bag and shoves it in her purse. “I’m keeping this, though.”
“To the victor go the spoils,” I reply.
She nods. “Besides,” Geri says, “you’re gonna look like sex on a stick when I’m done with you, and you’ll never miss all this bulk.” She then proceeds to give me Julianne Hough’s rough-cut bob and, for good measure, weaves in a few coppery-colored highlights, taking me from “stern librarian” to “total beach babe.” I can’t stop touching my hair and admiring how freely it swings. I still look like me, only a better version.
“I’ll be damned if I’m not actually sex on a stick now,” I say.
“Never doubt me,” Geri says.
“Doubt you?” I cry. “Damn, I’m ready to invest in you. Seriously, if you need a cash infusion for your business, you talk to me. I have decent savings and I really believe you can make something of your own salon.”
“Let’s talk about that in the new year,” Geri says. “Now we eat.”
We exit to the living room, where Mary Mac’s set up a buffet of all her best dishes. I begin to salivate the second I catch a whiff of her spareribs.
“What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?” Mary Mac asks.
“Um . . . no plans,” I reply.
She nods. “Well, you have plans now. You’re going to stay with my children while Mickey and I spend the night at the Palmer House. Bring earplugs, you’ll need them.”
I begin to fill my plate. “Any other surprises you two have planned?”
They exchange a glance and then say, “No,” in unison, like there’s something they don’t want me to know.
I sense they still don’t trust me.
But they do love me.
So there’s that.
• • •
Christmas passes without incident (unless you count Aunt Helen’s Jell-O salad as an incident), and I make it through New Year’s Eve with flying colors. However, the stress of the last six months—or my blatant refusal to get a flu shot—must have finally taken its toll, because I spent the first two weeks of the new year flat on my back, and not in the sexy way.
Really, it was more of a couch-bed, in-and-out-of-consciousness, catch-up-on-the-Housewives way, only this time I had Mary Mac to bring me matzo-ball soup.
(Do not even start me on what that woman does to matzo-ball soup. Bottle it, sell it, share it with the world, in the name of all that is good and holy.)
I don’t fully have my strength up until the third week of the month, so I’m only now truly beginning to work on my project for my therapist. I need a change of scenery from my apartment, so I head to Whole Foods and grab a table overlooking the river in the upstairs dining loft. No one recognizes me now with my new cut and color, and that’s actually a welcome change. I’m done being semi-famous.
I stir honey into my tea and then open my laptop. My therapist advised that I write down everything that’s transpired, so I start at the beginning.
Do I know you? I type, and then I can’t help but smile.
Maybe it’s only a single line so far, but it’s the first step in a new and improved life.
I’m not sure what’s going to happen next for me, and that’s truly refreshing. I’ve had every moment of every day plotted out since I was sixteen. I always feared the loss of control, but I realize now that my greatest failing was in not loosening up.
The well-appointed woman peers at me over her Whole Foods shopping cart, brimming with free-range chicken, organic fruit, and glass-bottled Kombucha.
I may not be proud of everything I’ve done after I finish writing this story, but I absolutely believe it’s the necessary, most cathartic next step. Geri insists I should try to get published, but maybe I should write more than the first two lines before I shop for an agent.
I close my eyes and try to remember what happened that first day when someone jostles my table.
“Here’s what I’ve figured out—Geri’s going to stay at your place and she promises she’ll keep up with Trevor and Bryce’s casseroles while we’re away. Oh, and I finally found your passport in your underwear drawer. Which is a major bonus, because it’s not exactly like you can board an international flight without one.”
My eyes fly open. “I’m sorry, I think you—” Then I realize I recognize not only the names of all parties involved, and the voice, but also the face.
The most handsome face I’ve ever seen, with kind robin’s egg blue eyes and tawny hair and the most magnificent tan.
“Boyd?”
My heart immediately begins to hammer out of my chest. “Boyd, what are you doing here?”
He points at his tray laden with salad bar items. “Meeting you for lunch? I’m a little early, but I finished at the travel agency so I figured you might like the company.” He glances down again. “Shoot, I meant to grab a Kombucha. Be right back, Ray.”
Then Boyd kisses me on the crown of my head before he saunters away from our table and lopes down the stairs to the beverage coolers. I immediately grab my phone and dial Geri, but it goes to voice mail and the same happens with Deva.
I need answers and I need them fast, so I type Boyd’s full name into a search engine. The first hit is a news article about how the Rip Curl surf company in Queensland, Australia, has signed professional surfer Boyd to represent their brand and he’s due down there for a press conference.
I guess he’s not just a bartender anymore.
But how did he end up here?
With me?
Making travel plans?
I mean, Boyd doesn’t need to be anything but a bartender—I realize that now. And I believe that once I finish figuring myself out, I’d have gone back for him. Yet somehow, someone decided to speed up my own personal timeline.
But who and how and why?
An employee rushes past so quickly rolling a garbage can that it creates a breeze on the back of my neck.
Oh, my ponytail.
Geri must have taken my ponytail to Deva and perpetrated one of the more complicated methods of swapping with me. I wondered why Deva had been avoiding me. I’d thought we were cool when we were in the emergency room with Geri, but then she was all weird a day later, claiming she needed space.
Deva didn’t require “space”; she simply couldn’t keep a secret.
When I count my blessings, Deva’s at the top of the list. She’s the first woman friend who ever liked me in spite of all my terrible qualities. She saw the potential of the person I could be and she stuck with me. I so look forward to showing her exactly how good a friend I can be.
Astral projection would account for all the time I was out for the past few weeks when I thought I was sick. But why would anyone want to body swap with me?
I quickly group text both Geri and Deva: Did you do this??
Deva replies first:
Pack your nun-screen, Regal Beagle—Austria is hat!
And from Geri . . . my sister and my friend, who is wise in ways I never thought possible:
Sometimes we all need a push.