Leaving Serenity (19 page)

“Well, who gets the seller’s fee? She doesn’t even have a license.”

I could
hear the anger
rising
in
Tom
’s voice
. “I do.”

“That’s not fair, Tom. On top of that, it’s
unethical
!”

Tom squared himself up to the former football player. “That may or may not be true, John.
But w
e’re in a recession
and y
ou haven’t sold a house in
six months.
These things happen.
”

John crossed his arms. “
But Tom
,
w
here’s your loyalty
?
”

“With the one who
made the deal
,
”
he said
as he
walked away.

I settled back
at my desk and
sen
t
the proof sheet to the printer. Tom
stopped
by
and tossed a book on my desk
. “Nikky, my girl, it’s time for you to get your license.”

I looked up. “Can I still do the publication?”

“
A
nybody who can sell a house the way you did today can do any damn thing they please.
Yes, I’ll still pay you to do what you’re doing now. What you sell will be icing on the cake.
”

I passed the test and received my broker’s license the next month. Selling houses was fun and never felt like work. I lived on my two-hundred and fifty dollar a week salary and stashed away my sales commissions. One accomplishment led to another as I watched my client base and bank account grow.

Cream
o
f
t
he Crop

             
Just before closing time on Christmas Eve, 1980, Tom called me into his office
.
S
ince I had moved up in rank
, my office was directly behind his
. He poured two glasses of champagne from the bar. Tom and I met in his office often after hours, rehashing the deals of the day. I had become accustomed to the richness of it and to Tom’s company. We were friends and partners, just like he had des
cribed my first day on the job.

             
“Merry Christmas, Nikky,” he said as I walked in.

             
“Merry Christmas.”

             
“Do you have any plans?” he asked.

             
“Nope. How about you?”

 
             
Tom laughed softly. “Nikky. Nikky. You and I are a lot alike. Where we live isn’t home. This is where we feel at home.”

             
I sipped the champagne and agreed. “You’re right. This place is my life.”

             
His eyes twinkled. “Are you happy?”

             
I nodded. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

             
Tom reached into a desk drawer. I knew that drawer. It was where he kept money, the money for my clothes, and cash for all occasions.

             
“I have a present for you,” he said as he handed me the check.

             
The check
was written to
me for
one
hundred
thousand dollars. I felt my face swell
as my eyes filled
with tears. I counted the zeros again and again.

             
“Oh God! I don’t know…oh, Go
d. What can I say?”

             
Tom sat on the corner of his desk like he had done so many times before. “There’s no need to say anything. You earned it.
Nikky, y
ou’re the cream of the crop. And the cream always rises to the top.”

             
I sniffled, stared at the check, and sipped the champagne.

             
Tom reached for the check. “Here, I’ll put it back in the drawer for now. You can’t spend it tonight, anyway. Will you join me for dinner at Primmosa? They go all out on Christmas Eve.”

I
wiped the tears from my
eyes. “I’d be honored. Just let me change.”

My office and Tom’s had private
,
full-sized baths. I kept several changes of clothes
there
for emergencies. I pulled a black sequined dinner dress, evening heels, and a black faux
fur
jacket from the bathroom closet. After I’d touched up my hair, I met Tom in his Mercedes. The
Christmas bonus I’d just received
was more than I could absorb, so I just let it lie
,
and enjoyed the ride.

“So, what are you going to do with the money? Buy a house?”

“I don’t know.
I think Mrs. Wilkerson needs someone
close by
.
”

“I’d like for you to buy a new car. Of course, you probably h
ave enough already to do that.”

             
I smiled. “Yeah, I guess it’s time to replace old Goldie. I’ve had that car since I was
sixteen. I’m quite attached to
her
.”

             
“Why don’t you keep it in my garage? I’ll have my man restore it for you. Goldie will be
brand-new,
like the day she was made.”

             
“Oh, Tom, that’s a great idea! I’ll buy a car next week, as long as I can still have Goldie.”

             
“That settles it. This is a nice car
;
it talks money.”

             
I look
ed
at the cream color
ed
interior of the Mercedes.
“
Yeah, this is nice. I’
ll buy one just like it.”

             
Primmosa looked
very
different
that night,
lighted by thousands of tiny red bulbs. Tom had reserved his table with another bottle of champagne waiting on ice.
He ordered his favorite, prime rib. I agreed to the same, not really caring what I ate. I knew that, at twenty-five years old, I had arrived. I suddenly wondered where my old friend, Wednesday, was that night. Then I thought about Jack.
Why am I doing this?
I wondered. This was my time, my moment to shine.

             
“Hey, Nikky, do you see your old friend over there?”

             
My eyes followed Tom’s finger to the attorney who had teased me the day I met Tom.
I noticed the beautiful woman at the table with him. I wondered if she was as happy as I was.

             
Tom leaned forward. “I’ll bet you my Mercedes that you’re richer than he is.”

             
I smiled. “Because of you.”

             
He smiled back. “Because of you.”

             
Tom leaned back comfortably. “At the risk of sounding like a parrot, what are you going to do with the money? By the way, how much did you make this year?”

             
“With the Christmas bonus, I made three-hundred and fifty.”

             
Tom and I burst out laughing, both enjoying the glorious taste of har
d, cold cash.

             
“Come on, Nikky. What do you do with it? You live in a garage apartment. I buy your clothes. You work sixteen hours a day and drive a ten year old car. I’m just curious.”

             
I shrugged. “I put it in savings.”

             
Tom pondered over my answer. “Let’s see. I love math, even when I’m a little
tipsy
. You made about two thousand on each sale. You’
ve sold maybe a hundred houses in three years. Two hundred
?” he demanded.

             
Tom’s curiosity and the champagne made me giggle. “That’s about right.”

             
He poised his finger to his nose, like he always did when he was thinking. “So, now you have three hundred thousand.”

             
I nodded. “Correct.”

             
“What are you going to do with it? You deserve something.”

             
I looked across the room at the beautiful woman with the rude, immature lawyer. “Tom, I want to be beautiful.”

             
“Okay, whatever that means.”

             
“I mean that I want a beautiful face. When I look in the mirror, I see the dog that those guys were barking at. I want to have my face reconstructed, and maybe a little more leverage—up top.”

             
“Aaah,” he said.

             
I wondered if I had embarrassed him. I was suddenly angry at myself for bringing up the subject.

             
“I’m sorry. That
’s
a poor
excuse for
dinner conversation.
”

             
“No, no. I, uh, I understand how a young woman would feel that way. Not that you’re unattractive, but you should feel good about yourself. I know a few people. I’ll check into your options
and
find a good surgeon.”

***

In the spring of 1981, I checked into a hospitality house near Vanderbilt UMC. The rest of that year was dedicated to straightening out my face and my head. My surgeon believed that
psycho
the
rapy went hand in hand with cosmetic surgery. Healing my head turned out to be a much longer process than healing my facial
flaws
.

I studied the pictures of Dr. Zandu’s work, and he
helped me construct the face I had always dreamed of. The hook in my nose would be gone. My ears could be made smaller and tapered back. The hollowness in my cheeks could be filled in to give me a softer look. Finally, my tiny breasts would be enlarged to a normal size. Dr. Zandu assured me that what I wanted was quite feasible.

The
post-surgery
swelling in my face
made talking difficult.
My therapist,
Kari
,
gave me a spiral notebook and suggested I use th
e
time
in bed
to
record the events
of my life.
Drugged up on pain killers and feeling suffocated by the facial mask, I began to write. Reliving my feelings toward my mother and Adam, the suppressed trauma from the rape, and my emotionally abusive marriage was more painful than
recovering from
the
surgeries
.

Later, Kari and I began to unravel my ingrained inferiority complex and study the reasons behind it. She suggested that I take up running to combat the claustrophobia. What surprised me most was the concealed anger I carried around with me each day. Until I faced my feelings, I didn’t even know that the anger existed.

My face healed, and I was only partially satisfied with the results.
My nose was smaller, but the swelling lingered. Dr. Zandu said that he would like to wait a year before correct
ing
the problem. The other facial adjustments and breast augmentation were successful. But the therapy that I began with Kari while at Vanderbilt would continue for many years. I found
out
that it is much easier to heal the body than it is to heal the mind.

Walking quietly through the dead town, I dread what I face at the end of this journey.
M
ost
feelings can be
overcome
or brushed away
. But grief has a mind of its own and
lingers until it’s ready to go.

Loss

In 1984, the economy was on the upswing, and so was I. With my surgeries and
the
healing process behind me, I purchased a lovely condo on Radnor Lake and bought a
puppy
. Poppy, an adorable copper and white shih tzu, gave me a reason
to
go home at the end of the day.
While snuggling in front of the TV with Poppy, I noticed the growing popularity of infomercials.

A few days before Thanksgiving,
I stopped by Tom’s office. H
e wa
s
reclined in his
leather chair
and
star
ing
through the skylight.