My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (7 page)

I looked at the clock. It was six. I had half an hour to decide. I snatched up the phone and dialed Edward's home number. This was ridiculous. I wasn't going to stand for it.

I was greeted by his voice mail. A sweaty tingle pricked my skin. Edward was always home at six on Tuesdays. Where would he be? I hung up and redialed. Again, his voice announced he wasn't home.

I dialed his cell phone. I'd only dialed it once, when I had a flat on the interstate. Edward made it clear that his cell phone was for emergencies only. I think he purchased a total of twenty-five minutes every month.

He didn't answer that either.

My chest felt tight as I hung up the phone. I staggered to the window in my apartment, which I lifted with a hefty shove. Sticking my head out, I tried to breathe in some fresh air, a near impossibility in the city. Then I heard the phone ring.

After bumping my head, I hurried over to the phone and snatched it up. “Where are you?”

“Leah?”

“Mother?” My heart thumped in my chest. I smoothed down my breeze-blown hair as if she had the power to see me standing in my living room with this shocked look on my face. “Hi there. How are you?”

“What's the matter?”

“Why?” I asked innocently.

“You sound frazzled.” A favorite of her words,
fraz
zled
had so many different meanings and intentions. Here it meant that I was doing a poor job of hiding my irritability at a situation that she wasn't privy to. Yet.

“Sorry, I thought you were . . . Edward.” Why lie? Maybe it was time to spread the news about my sudden concerns for our relationship. Maybe Mother could help me through my feelings.

I could hear her breathing.

“We're running late for something, and I don't know where he is.”

“I was calling about Dillan. Aren't you thrilled? Kate has finally found someone worthy of her.”

My eyeballs rolled as far back in my head as they could without rendering me unconscious. “We haven't even met him yet. He could be a jerk.”

“Did you see the way she talked about him? I've never seen Kate that passionate.”

I didn't know what else to say. Why was Mother calling anyway? She never called to simply chat. Small talk was a waste of time in her world. I looked at my watch. I would have to leave in five minutes if I was going to make it on time.

But then again, this could be a good excuse not to go.

I waited for Mother to continue.

“I just want Kate to be happy,” she finally said. There was something strange in her voice. Emotion. Huh.

“We all want Kate to be happy,” I said. But I knew Mother was really trying to say she wanted Kate to be normal.

Mother's voice reverted to tidy and polite. “Well, I just wanted to see what you thought about the situation.”

The part of me that admitted I'd been snappy when I thought the caller was Edward also wanted me to confess my hesitations about Kate's relationship. But my mother sounded so happy . . . so hopeful that Dillan might be the answer to her deepest longings—that one day soon the formal family portrait she'd always dreamed of might become a reality.

Admittedly, I was curious about Dillan myself. What about Kate was he attracted to? What made him think that bringing her home would fulfill his mother's dream? Maybe his parents were dead. That was a reasonable explanation. Or maybe in an insane asylum. There were too many possibilities to consider at this point.

I realized Mother was waiting for me to agree with her. “I think it's great,” I said. That's what she wanted to hear. In my mind's eye I could see that thin smile of satisfaction spread over her lips.

“Well, we'll see.” Always the diplomat.

I looked at my watch. “Mother, I'd better go. Like I said, I'm meeting Edward.”

“Something fun, I hope?”

“As fun as it can get with a physicist,” I said jokingly. I almost said psychiatrist. Wouldn't that have been something.

“Well, have a good time. We'll talk soon.”

I hung up the phone and grabbed my handbag, checking to make sure I'd put the paper with the directions in it. I stopped at the door of my apartment, keys in hand, and stared at my watch. How could I agree to do this? How could he ask me to go to therapy with him by way of a flower bouquet and a coupon? This wasn't even insanely expensive therapy. This was discount therapy!

My hands were actually trembling. A sick feeling washed over my stomach. Maybe Edward would take a hint if I didn't show up. Maybe he would see what a moron he was for how he reacted to the pink dress.

But that was just a fantasy. I couldn't bear the prospect of harming our relationship. So how could I not go? The sickness slowly faded. My stomach started rumbling with hunger instead. I hadn't eaten much all day, but there was no time to eat now. I closed my eyes and stepped outside, shutting the door behind me.

Waiting for the elevator, I had a sudden craving for focaccia.

I wasn't a fan of public transportation. I liked to drive. It was the Southerner in me. Edward thought I was insane. He took the T everywhere. But I liked my car. As I drove the short distance toward downtown Boston, fighting the mad and rushed crowd of cars on this Tuesday evening, I couldn't help the memories that flooded my mind. I recalled the first time I'd brought Edward home to meet my parents. I had been nervous, wanting him to make a good impression, wanting my parents to approve. Edward, whose excitement level could be measured by how far up his eyebrows rose on his forehead, even looked more anxious than normal. We held hands and walked up the long sidewalk and steep steps that led to the gigantic wooden door of my parents' five-thousand-square-foot manor. Dad had worked years and years in Washington so they could live peacefully in a house too big for them and too formal for any grandchildren they might someday expect. I'd always hoped they would move back to the South, where our Southern accents could really shine. Mother had opened the door, a pleasant and inviting smile on her lips. She shook Edward's hand, and she invited us in. Dad came down the spiral staircase, stoic and mannerly, his tall shadow leading the way.

We enjoyed a pleasant dinner, filled with predictable and easy conversation. Edward's long and impressive credentials took us through the first two courses. Dad's carried us through the third and fourth. The fifth course included a short explanation about the sister I hadn't mentioned. Over dessert we discussed favorite movies.

And that was it. That was the evening. Back then it seemed perfect. Everything had gone as planned. But as I drove now, something recurred in my mind. It was Mother's expression. There hadn't been a bit of surprise in her face when she met Edward. It was as if he was everything she'd ever expected me to bring home. Why was that bothering me now? Was it because over the phone I'd heard a hint of tantalized excitement in her voice when she was talking about Dillan?

I focused on the road, realizing I was getting close to the address I was looking for. I had folded the piece of paper neatly three times and stuck it between my fingers like a cigarette. I reread the address, the only line showing between the folds.

I found the building and drove around trying to find a parking spot, questioning my decision not to use the T. Finally I spotted a car leaving. I took its place and got out, dumping quarters into the meter. It only allowed an hour. That would be a good excuse to leave.

I walked two blocks toward the building, old and tall and imposing with dusty ornate windows and faded brick. It looked to be important once. It reminded me of Dad. I double-checked the address. This was it.

I opened one of the front doors and stepped through. Elevators waited lifelessly against the back wall. The lobby was clean but didn't look to impress. I moved to the elevators and pushed the up arrow. One slid open, its doors rattling and revealing its age. Inside, I punched the third-floor button. The elevator didn't even give me the courtesy of a
ding.
It just hoisted me up and slid its doors open again. I walked out, surprised to find a large, empty, unfinished area waiting for me. A group of people clustered near the windows, their chairs situated in a small circle. Nobody turned to watch me. I looked around. The floor was cement. Sheetrock stood where walls should be. New wood paneling was unpainted. The ceiling's electrical, venting, and plumbing showed. Maybe I had the wrong place. I had imagined a more intimate setting, like an office with plush leather and expensive wood desks and elaborate bookcases. And also, far fewer people. Like three . . . me, him, and the therapist.

I looked at the small crowd, trying to find Edward's curly golden hair. I glanced back down at the piece of paper in my hand. According to it, I had the right place. I reread the coupon.
Conflict Resolution Class.
The word
class
did seem to signify we weren't going to be alone. That cheap man! Couldn't he have at least paid for private therapy?

I was about to turn around and punch the elevator button when the doors whooshed open. I stepped aside, hoping to see Edward's face emerge. But instead a shorter man with dark hair and intense eyes stepped off. He looked at me, didn't offer a smile, then looked at the rest of the people standing by the windows.

“Is this the conflict resolution class?” he asked me.

“I think so,” I said with a shrug.

With a heavy sigh he walked toward the group. The elevator doors clamped shut before I could step back on.

Where was Edward? How could he be on time for everything in the world except this? I turned back to watch the crowd, squeezing my handbag strap until my knuckles were white. Then one of the women in the group turned my direction. Her gaze startled me, and I felt my face distort into something I intended as a smile but may have been a grimace. With a clipboard held against her chest, she walked toward me, her sandals tapping against the concrete. She extended a hand while still several feet out, which made the situation more awkward. Finally she arrived, her hand still extended. I shook it quickly.

“Hi there. I'm Marilyn Hawkins. I'm the instructor.”

“Hi.”

“What is your name?

“Edward Crowse.” I looked up at her. “I mean, we may be under that name.”

“Are you preregistered?”

“Yes.” I resisted the urge to slap my coupon down for the discount. Edward would do that, just to be doubly sure we were getting our bargain.

She scanned the messy top page of the clipboard, which looked to be filled with names and crossed-out names. Then she lifted that sheet of paper and scanned the next page. Finally she went back to the first page. “I'm sorry, I don't have that name here.”

“What about Leah. Townsend.”

“Right here!” She took her pencil and gave my name a charismatic check mark. “Glad to have you with us. We're about to begin, so if you want to join us—”

“What about Edward? Edward Crowse?”

She looked at her clipboard again. “I'm sorry, I don't have that name down.”

“Probably an oversight. He was the one that signed us up, so he should be there.”

She studied the paper. “Looks like you're already paid in full. But I'm sorry, I don't have another name here.”

I looked at the crowd of people, who had now taken seats in the circle. About five chairs were empty. “He'll be here. He's probably just running . . . late.” The word felt heavy on my tongue. I'd never used
late
and
Edward
in the same sentence.

Marilyn put a hand on my back. I felt myself stiffen. “Why don't you go ahead and join us. As soon as he gets here, he's welcome to come on in.”

I could hardly swallow. Marilyn urged me on, like it was what she was best at, and with leaden steps I walked toward the circle of people. Marilyn paused to look at something on her clipboard, but momentum apparently kept me going. Some people were chatting. Others sat and watched me decide which chair to take. I aimed for a grouping of three that had a view of the elevator, plopping myself down on the one in the center. I put my handbag on the one to my right. My neck felt hot, and I placed a hand around my throat to try to hide whatever red color was making its appearance.

A couple of seats to my left sat the guy who'd come off the elevator after I did. He was observing me with careful eyes. “Don't strangle yourself yet,” he said softly. “You never know, you might like it.”

“I'm not strangling myself,” I said with a frown. But I dropped my hand into my lap.

“I was joking.” His brown eyes smiled at me, though his lips held an even line. He stretched a hand across the space between us. “Cinco.”

I reached out to shake it. “Cinco. Odd name.”

“I'm the fifth in a long line of people who think they're important enough to name someone after them.”

“I see. Well, nice to meet you.”

“This is the point where you would normally introduce yourself.”

I eyed him. “Sorry. I'm not feeling very friendly. This isn't what I was expecting,” I said, glancing at the circle of people around me.

“What were you expecting?”

Luckily I didn't have a chance to explain. Marilyn, a throwback to the eighties with her blue leggings, stiff-collared polo shirt, and inflexible bangs, sat down between me and Cinco and brought the meeting to order.

I looked behind her toward the elevator, listening intently for any sign of movement from the old mechanical box. But the doors were quiet and tightly shut.

“As you're aware, this class is called Conflict Resolution, and as the title indicates, we're about learning to resolve conflict. I know most of you don't want to be here, but that just means I'm going to have to work harder to win you over.” She grinned. A nervous fellow across from me chuckled, and that satisfied Marilyn enough to release the hold she had on her smile. My gaze wound around the room as Marilyn's words
you don't want to be here
echoed in my ears. Nobody looked like they wanted to be here. And only the nervous fellow was attempting to do anything but scowl at her.