Do or Di (7 page)

My mental image of a mistress, before I joined the ranks, was that of a sultry creature who swanned about in sexy lingerie, long cigarette holder optional; a smoldering Betty Davis type. I didn’t picture someone like myself, all stained sweatpants and a ratty (favorite) T-shirt, which says:
Don’t Make Me Break Out My Flying Monkey
s
with the outline of the Wicked Witch on the front. And I surely didn’t picture someone domestic enough to make their own buns. I’m not trying to say that because I’m domestic, I’m not a bad person. What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t
plan
to be a bad person. I didn’t set out with the intention of taking another woman’s husband. If our affair was like homicide, then I saw myself more as accidental manslaughter versus first-degree murder type. There was no plan or intent. It just happened. And I feel bad about it; remorse should count for something in the parole hearings.

I leveled off a cup of flour with the back of a knife before adding it to the bowl. I cracked the eggs, their shells splitting along invisible seams, and tucked the bowl under my arm for leverage. I walked around, mixing by hand, the muscles in my shoulder burning. Times like this a Kitchen Aid mixer looks pretty good.

It’s not that I can’t afford a Kitchen Aid. It’s more the commitment. Kitchen Aid mixers are the Sherman tank of kitchen gadgets. They have a squat elegance married to utility. When I got my first real job I cashed my first paycheck and went down to Sears’ kitchen department. The mixers were lined up like tiny sumo wrestlers on the shelf, crouched and ready to do business. I just stopped at stared. Kitchen Aid had gone beyond the plain white one my mother had. There was silver, black, red, and an electric blue. I loved the blue; it was a friendly Cookie Monster color. I stroked the cool metal side of the mixer for a moment. Would I love the blue forever or should I play it safe and get the white? If I got the white, would I always secretly long for the blue? I decided to wait a bit longer and think on it. Then I discovered, Kitchen Aid was turning out new colors every year: green, copper, chrome, and a nifty pastel pink to mark the fight against breast cancer. I’m not typically a pink person, but how can you say no to a cancer-fighting mixer? How is a person to decide when every year they come out with something new? Soon they would have plaid or striped options. I would bring home the brochures and prop them up on the kitchen counter, trying to determine which one is my destiny. So far no clear decision.

I slid the rolls in the over and shuffled toward the bathroom, dragging my giant pink fuzzy slippers. I cranked the shower up to boil and stepped in, thinking over what was planned for the day. I listened to my copy of the show after Jonathon left last night, lying in bed making notes of things I should have done better. Colin may be as slick as an oil smear on a duck after an industrial spill, but he’s good. He thinks on a dime, and he’s always two or three comments ahead of every caller. I’d never admit it publicly, but I was learning a lot from him.

I juggled the rolls, my packed lunch, my briefcase, and my purse and tried to open my door with my foot with my keys in my mouth when Diana stepped out of the gloom in the hallway. I started to drop the pan with the rolls, but she was able to catch them before they hit the floor. There was a smear of melted icing on my freshly pressed shirt.

“What the hell?” I yelled out. My heart was beating a thousand beats a second. She was like some kind of teen ninja jumping out at me. Who waits for someone outside their front door?

“You told me not to let myself in so I was waiting out here,” Diana said. “I didn’t feel like going to school. We’ve got this test today, and to be honest, I haven’t studied for it. I thought it would be more fun to hang out with you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You don’t need to yell, I’m standing right here.” She walked past me. “You’re going to need to pick out something else to wear.” She pointed at the oily smear on my shirt. “I can help.”

“What makes you think I should take fashion advice from a teenager?”

Diana looked over at me. “What does age have to do with it? Besides I’m good at this. The outfit you’re wearing is totally wrong for you. You should wear something that creates a longer line, it will make you look taller.”

I stood there looking at her. I couldn’t determine what was more disturbing, that she was there, that she was telling me that I didn’t know how to dress myself, or that I was secretly afraid she might be right. The whole point of the Positive Partnership program was to provide these kids with mentors, not the other way around.

“Look, no matter what you think of me, ask yourself: did Diana dress well?”

“You mean Princess Diana?”

“Yes,” she said with the voice of a parent tired of explaining something over and over.

I thought back for minute, mentally rummaging through years of tabloid magazine covers.

“There was that turquoise suit with the shoulder pads.”

“It was the 80s. She was young. She learned and she’s been able to teach me. That’s good news. It means there’s hope for you.”

“Hope for me?”

“You repeat a lot of things, ever notice that?”

I dumped everything I was holding on the table near the door. “Listen, we need to talk. I should never have signed up for that program, and the fact that you’re now reconsidering your need for an extra mentor isn’t my problem. I’m sorry the program doesn’t consider your connection to Princess Di a
legit
mentor.” I made finger quotes when I said legit. “You had no right to break in here last night and waiting for me this morning outside my door is just creepy. And shouldn’t you really be in school?”

“So are you saying you won’t be my mentor?”

I rolled my eyes at her. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised she was a bit slow on the uptake; I don’t recall anyone confusing Princess Di with Einstein. “Wait here, I’m going to change my outfit and then I’m going to take you to school.” I stomped past her into the bedroom. I yanked off my shirt and rifled through the closet. I pulled a shirt off the hanger and then paused. It did sort of chop me up. I pulled out a different shirt. When I came out of the bedroom she was gone. There was a note on the table next to my things.

I took off since you’re pissed. Talk to you later
. Her writing was made up of plump cherubic letters, the i’s dotted with bloated circles. I sat on the kitchen stool and forced myself to take a few deep breaths. It was clear I wasn’t going to easily get rid of her. For whatever reason, she had fixated on me. There were two options that I could see:

Diana was somehow able to channel Princess Diana and was here to haunt me.

Diana was a crazy teenager who would most likely kill me in my sleep and peel me in some macabre serial killer kind of way and mount my empty skin on her wall.

Either way it wasn’t looking good for me. When I got to work I would tell security to keep an eye out for her and turn her away. Then it was time to call for a locksmith to install a deadbolt.

* * *

One of the many problems with cubicle dwelling is the lack of privacy. I sat at my desk giving furtive glances behind me while I did a Google search on hallucinations. I have always believed that one should have the information needed to understand their situation, and Diana clearly counted as a situation. A range of things could cause hallucinations, but none of them looked particularly appealing to have. I could also eliminate a few of the options, as I was fairly certain that she was too young to be developing age-related dementia. Schizophrenia was possible. I clicked over to the internal Web site; the station had an employee assistance program that was designed to help with a range of issues and had a page that listed resources.

“Morning,” a voice called out behind me. I jumped up and slapped my palm down on the keyboard like I was playing Jeopardy and knew the winning answer. I spun around and plastered a smile on my face. All I could think to do was make sure I was blocking the computer screen which I was fairly certain had the header
So You Think You Might Be Crazy
on the screen in giant forty-eight point font.

“Morning!” I sang out like I was trying out for position as an evangelical church youth director. Colin stood in the doorway with Wayne at his side. Wayne was holding a pile of folders and looked as if he might toss them in my general direction in order to distract me while he made a run for it.

“Wayne wanted to meet with us for a few minutes,” Colin said.

“No problem.” I tried to give a warm smile, but Wayne still looked leery. I could see I was making quite the impression. “I made cinnamon rolls; they’re in the break room. If you hurry, there should still be some left.” I needed them to get out of my cube. Colin didn’t need any additional ammunition on me.

“Why don’t we all head down? We can talk in there,” Wayne offered.

“You two run ahead and I’ll join you in just a minute.” As Colin moved to the right to leave, I shifted with him, keeping myself between him and my computer screen. He gave me a look and then shifted left, and I slid along with him. We slid back and forth a few times as if we were doing a slow motion version of the electric slide. Wayne backed up and watched the two of us.

“What is with you? Are you looking at porn?” Colin gestured his chin toward the computer and gave a teasing laugh. He took a step closer to the computer. I dove to the floor and yanked the plug out as if the computer had gone rogue and was about to launch tactical missiles on some innocent non-assuming country like Canada. I looked back at Wayne who stood there with his mouth open looking down at me.

“Research. I was doing research,” I said on my hands and knees.

“Okay,” Colin said slowly.

I stood up and brushed off my knees.

“How about we get down to business?” I walked past both of them toward the break room, attempting to stride with a sense of purpose. Colin and Wayne trailed after me. I popped a few rolls in the microwave and poured coffee into some mugs.

“Maybe you should lay off the caffeine?” Colin offered as they sat down. I thought about coming back with a snappy comment and then figured he might be onto something and made myself a cup of herbal tea instead.

“I wanted to say how pleased I am with how the show is performing,” Wayne said to me. “I know you would prefer to work on your own, but by working together you’ve shown the kind of team spirit I like to see.”

“How is Kevin?”

“I talked to him last night. He’s really working the rehab program. He’s confident he can get a handle on this addiction,” Colin said.

I considered that he might do better if he stayed intoxicated if he planned to work with Colin long-term. I looked up from my tea and noticed that both Wayne and Colin were looking at me strangely.

“Well, glad I could help.”

“You’re doing a great job. Did you see yesterday’s call sheet?” Wayne asked. “The call volume was double the average. Double. We had calls coming in about the show well into the next program. People love the interaction between the two of you.”

“Kevin is going to be off work for at least another month or more,” Colin said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Erin, I’m sure you see where this is headed.”

“You want me to develop my own show for their slot,” I offered, but no one acknowledged this idea.

“The show was being evaluated for syndication options. I’m asking you to continue co-hosting on a more permanent basis. We’ll stick with the modified name, He Said, She Said. Did you know the show was written up in the paper? Do you know what this kind of media attention would cost us if we wanted to buy it? This is a full-length article smack in the middle of the style section.” Wayne looked as if having an article in the paper was akin to discovering a picture of the Virgin Mary burned into his grilled cheese sandwich. He held the paper up like a holy relic. It was possible he was tearing up.