Lovesick (27 page)

Lara raises an eyebrow. “He’s joking, right?”

“Of course he is.”

“Think about it,” I try. “Guests could choose from any number of denominations of cash, bonds, and CDs.
Looks like Paige and Andy still need a hundred bucks in cash and that high yield money market fund. Let’s splurge, Martha, and get ’em both.”

Lara gives the idea some consideration. Paige doesn’t.

I hand Paige her four-page to-do gift. She takes it with a sigh, flipping back and forth between the pages, occasionally holding it up to the light so she can read.

Lara drops her bags and gives her sister the “gimme” sign. Before I can stop her, Paige hands over the computerized wedding list.

While Lara examines it, Paige tells me, “It’s very nice.”

“It should help,” I assure her.

“Help whom? I assume you made this list for
you.
”

“For
me?
Why would
I
need a list?”

“Why
wouldn’t
you need a list? You love lists. You
live
for lists.
But not me. I’m going to pass,” Paige says. “Where are all my original notes?”

“That’s just my point!” I counter.
Now’s not the time to reveal that I’ve incinerated Paige’s chicken scratch.
“Your notes are everywhere. It took me forever to find yours and compile this. This is everything.”

“Not everything,” Paige says.

“Give me one example.”

“I’ll give you two: Where’s the caterer? Where are the invitations?”

“She’s right,” Lara pipes up, tapping the paper. “They’re not on here.”

“Yeah, I know they’re not on there,” I snap. “This is a ‘to-do’ list, not a ‘to-done’ list.”

“But I
need
to cross items off,” Paige insists.

“You’re mad at me because I’m making you use checkmarks? Do you have any idea how hard it was to find that little box on our word processor?”

“I’m not mad,” she says gathering her thoughts. “You don’t get it. I like to cross things off. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. That way I can always look back and see everything that I’ve completed. But I can’t do that with this list. You’ve gone and
deleted all the finished items.
”

“So you want me to add everything back?”

“This conversation is getting dumber by the minute,” Lara interjects, gathering up her shopping bags. “I’d stay, but I have plans to do absolutely anything else but stand here. I’m going to let you two lovebirds do your thing.”

From inside her purse, Paige’s cell phone begins vibrating. Two seconds later we learn it’s the news station. Thirty seconds later we know there’s breaking news—a loft apartment complex south of Market has caught on fire.

“I have to go,” Hurl Girl says, closing her phone and zipping up her purse.

Paige hands her sister her two shopping bags.

“This is my chance to cover some real breaking news even if
it is just a two-alarm fire. Reed’s got the flu. Andrea’s pregnant. None of our reporters are available and I happen to be twenty blocks away. It’s kismet. Don’t be mad,” she begs us.

If I listen carefully, I can make out the sound of fire engine sirens.

“I’ll take you,” I volunteer quickly.

“That’s okay, honey, I’ll take a cab. It’ll be quicker,” she says, scurrying down the lawn to the ledge of the park. “Just tell me how it goes.”

“Tell you how
what
goes?” I yell.

“Registering. Lara knows what I like. I showed her earlier. I promise, it won’t take long. Then you can check it off that nifty list of yours.”

Lara and I exchange looks. In that split second, Paige hails a cab.

“Let’s just do this another time,” I yell, running after her downhill and jumping onto the sidewalk. “What’s the rush? The wedding’s a month away.”

Paige is halfway in the cab. She kisses me softly on the cheek.

“Come on, you’re the logical one. You might as well just do it now. You’re already here,” Paige says. Then she looks me right in the eyes and speaks from the heart: “You want to do something nice for me? Don’t make me lists; spend some quality time with my sister. I know you two work together, but you hardly speak. You’re an only child, Andy. Haven’t you ever wanted a sister?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’re about to get one, and she’s getting a brother, like it or not.”

Paige slams the cab door shut, sticks her head out of the window, and points, first at Lara and then at me.

“And afterward, buy him a cookie,” Paige demands as the taxi takes off.

LARA does not buy me a cookie and I wouldn’t take one from her if she did.

We find Ms. Johnson on the third floor in a cubby office underneath a heavy white wooden sign that says
WEDDING
&
GIFT
REGISTRY.
Her desk is cluttered with pictures of grandchildren. Ms. Johnson is a nice enough woman in her late fifties, with Brillo short brown hair and deep creases around the corners of her mouth from smiling too much. From her nametag to the way she introduces herself, it is abundantly clear Ms. Johnson wishes to be addressed as “Ms. Johnson.” Lara and I comply, seeing as she is about to school us in the art of registering.

“We have an exceptional team of experts dedicated to helping you create the registry of your dreams,” she tells us as if she’s reading off a teleprompter.

I doze off somewhere between “experts” and “dreams.”

Ms. Johnson hands me a clipboard and Lara politely listens to the rest of her spiel while I take a few minutes to fill out the necessary paperwork. Why Macy’s needs
my
Social Security number so other people can buy
us
a hotplate is beyond me, but I comply.

“He is so good to come with you,” Ms. Johnson adulates, checking over the forms. “So few grooms take an interest now, but complain later.”

“I just want to make Paige happy,” I say, slapping Lara’s back gently.

Lara can go either way here.

“My Andrew
is
certainly one of a kind,” Lara says with a big, fake grin.

“I want a big family, Ms. Johnson,” I announce, likening us to her family portraits. “Trust me, this woman is going to be a regular baby maker.”

“What do you say we take this one baby at a time,” Lara suggests.

Ms. Johnson is delighted. You can read her mind. Lara and I are a solid, long-term investment.
Can you say “baby registry”?

Ms. Johnson hands Lara a detailed map of the store and then unhooks one of the
UPC
scan guns from the wall and presents it to me like a samurai sword. It’s the oldest trick in the registry playbook: shape the purchasing device like a weapon and hand it to the man. It’s not even Lara’s wedding, but she’s green with envy. Lara needs that gun.

“Point and shoot,” Ms. Johnson kindly instructs me.

She walks around her desk to show me how.

Tipping the gun down toward the floor, Ms. Johnson points to the LED display: “Then confirm ‘yes’ on the keypad.”

She escorts Lara and me to Glassware and I test the gun on some crystal.

I shoot. “These things should come with a safety” I tell Ms. Johnson. “You know, to avoid impulse purchases.”

“Aren’t you the clever one!” she chirps.

“Oh, come on. Andrew’s just being his regular jackass self,” Lara cries.

“Do
we
need to go back to couples’ therapy?” I ask Lara.

Ms. Johnson abruptly leaves to file a police report for domestic violence or get the paperwork for a divorce registry.

“Great, Einstein, so what happens when my sister shows up next week?”

“I bet Macy’s still allows people to spend money on us,” I say.

Lara pulls a Post-it-note-infested store catalog from one of Paige’s bags. We’ve already wandered into the Bath department, so we start there.

“Okay, we’re looking for The Charter Club Hotel Collection,” Lara says all business-like. She scrutinizes the sale signs. “Paige says you need wash towels
and
hand towels. She’s narrowed the colors to buttercream, sagebrush, or sable.”

“What’s sagebrush?”

“Muted green,” Lara answers.

“What’s sable?”

“Grayish brown.”

“What’s the difference between a wash towel and hand towel?”

“A wash towel is tiny. A hand towel is somewhere in the middle.”

Lara graciously holds up a few examples. The overhead speakers play the Muzak version of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

I place the barrel of the UPC gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.

“Oh, that’s sanitary,” Lara says.

It takes us forty-five minutes to nail down the towels. Operating the gun is trickier than first thought: when I’m not shooting
the wrong brand, I’m pulling the trigger one too many times. In both cases, I need Ms. Johnson’s help canceling the requests. Lara thinks I’m an imbecile until she tries. Ms. Johnson assures us that we can correct everything at the end.

We’ll be lucky to get through Bedding before Macy’s closes. Dining, Cookware, Kitchen Appliances, Home Decor, Luggage, it will all simply have to wait until our next visit. As a reward for getting this far, I add two white terrycloth bathrobes to the registry. Maybe Paige won’t notice.

“So that pesky woman from Blue Cross called
again,”
Lara tells me as she scrunches a pillow like she’s playing an accordion.

“Brianna? She’s just doing her job,” I say, cradling a pillow with both hands before violently head-butting it repeatedly.

“You clearly have a thing for her.”

“And you love Tyler Rich, nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah.”

“Don’t be juvenile.”

“Am not. Infinity.”

“You know, just because you’re getting married, it doesn’t mean you stop being attracted to other women,” Lara explains. “Brianna is very pretty.”

I’m not falling for this.

Lara hands me a pillow. I reject it immediately as too firm.

“Why don’t you try drooling on a few,” she suggests.

It’s not such a bad idea.

“Can we just give Blue Cross the records they need and be done with it?” Lara asks. “This insurance business is hanging over any sale we make of the pharmacy.”

“So Paige is fine with us selling?” I confirm.

I wrap a large down pillow around my head.

“If she wants this elaborate wedding, something’s got to give,” Lara insists.

I carry some samples over to the Calvin Klein display and toss them on the bed. Then I lie down at an angle so my shoes hang off the edge.

“We’re not going
that
overboard,” I say, rolling my head side to side.

I place another pillow over my face.

“Yeah, right. I know
all about
your fancy-delancy wedding hall. And now this $2,500 wedding gown.”

“What!” I scream into the pillow and jump out of bed.

“I promised her I wouldn’t say anything,” Lara says.

“I thought she was making her own dress.”

“Yeah, and she’s churning the butter for the dinner rolls, too,” Lara quips.

“This is bad,” I say.

“Andrew, my sister was dressing up Barbie dolls in wedding dresses before Barbie was ready to get married. She wants this showy wedding. The money’s got to come from somewhere.”

I study Lara. “I can think of one place,” I suggest.

Lara’s listening.

“Actually one person, and one amount: $20,386 and 23 cents to be exact.”

The color drains from Lara’s face.

“I knew you were a waste of time,” she says, snapping up her bags and booking down the aisle toward the exit. “I am so out of here.”

I chase after her. “Seriously. Six months ago, Gregory gives you twenty grand and this never comes up in any of our financial conversations?”

Lara isn’t speaking to me.

“Does Paige know about the money? Seriously, Lara, does she?”

“You have some nerve,” she hisses.

I block Lara just as she gets to the escalator.

“Why did you just say I was a waste of time?”

“I said
this
was a waste of time,” Lara insists, gesturing toward the showroom.

“No, you said
I
was a waste of time.”

Lara can’t decide whether to say what she’s obviously going to say.

“Look, I’m sorry that I have to be the one to tell you, but it’s just not going to work out with you two.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ask Paige.”

“Enough with the drama, Lara. Speak!” I command, allowing a few anxious patrons access to the escalator.

“She’s been seeing someone else.”

“You’re talking about your environmentally unfriendly pal Tyler Rich. I know all about the houseboat. Paige told me everything.
Nothing happened.”

“So then you know about Thursday?”

“Now you’re just making shit up to be mean.”

“Last Thursday, when Tyler came by the pharmacy to pick me up, he and I weren’t having dinner. Paige and Tyler were. I was her alibi.”

“Puh-leeze.”

“I’m sorry, Andy,” she says as I let her go. “It is what it is.”

Lara slowly descends to the second floor. When she hits the landing and turns the corner, I slowly bring the UPC gun to my temple and pull the trigger.

THERE is Zoloft in the wheel well of my trunk. Stashes of Celebrex underneath the seat cushions of our couch. Remicade in my right pocket. Lanicor in my left. The tiny plastic drawers above Gregory’s workbench no longer store odds and ends but heartburn medicine and blood pressure tablets. For the privileged few still in the Day Co-Pay program, the pharmacy is always open for business.

The late-night phone calls and customer drive-bys occasionally raise suspicions at home, but Lara is too consumed with our finances, and Paige is too consumed with our wedding to pay much attention.

Collecting from our deadbeats has been slow going. Sid was right: when you cross-check Lara’s Most Wanted against Gregory’s bloodsuckers, there aren’t many people left who can pay. At the pharmacy Lara’s become more adept at recognizing the freeloaders on her hit list, mostly because she’s created a cheat sheet with pictures. (When Lucille Braggs finally won BINGO in December 1997 and got her cheery photo in the
Crockett Quarterly
, I doubt she ever dreamed Lara Day would one day use that head-shot as part of a criminal watch list.)