Paper, Scissors, Death (2 page)

“Thank you, Mrs. Lowenstein!” seven pre-adolescent girl voices piped in unison. “Thanks, Mom,” added my eleven-year-old daughter, Anya. The girls were delighted with the pages they’d created with my help.

“You are welcome,” I said. All in all, it had been a pretty terrific play date at Time in a Bottle, my favorite scrapbook store.

I felt positively glowy. Approval was a scarce commodity in my life, and the fact that I was getting my strokes from children didn’t diminish my joy one bit. I was sharing the second great love of my life, scrapbooking, with the first love of my life, Anya.

Jennifer Moore, mother of Nicci, echoed the girls’ praise. “That’s right. Mrs. Lowenstein deserves a super-big thanks. She put together this whole project.” Turning to me, she added, “Really, Kiki, you outdid yourself. Boy, are you creative. Their pages look really cool. No wonder people call you the Scrapbook Queen of St. Louis.”

Wow. This was a nice turn of events.

Jennifer had never paid one bit of attention to me, no matter how hard I’d tried to strike up a friendship with her. From the tips of her French-manicured nails to the zebra-striped flats on her toes, Jennifer exemplified what I think of as essence of Ladue lady of leisure. The mothers in this tony suburb are
tres chic
and tres sleek. Try as I might, I don’t quite measure up. Oh, I try to make up for my shortcomings by being a willing volunteer and going out of my way to be nice, but not everyone is interested in what I have to offer. Jennifer sure wasn’t. But the day she heard another mom asking me questions about scrapbooking, her ears perked up. She was looking for a pre-Thanksgiving activity for her daughter, Nicci, and did I think I could help?

In a flash—photo flash, that is—I said, “Sure!” Now my daughter was spending time with the coolest girls from her class at the Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy, locally known as CALA, our city’s most exclusive private school. This was definitely a day to remember. And I had lots of practice saving memories.

“Girls, would you please stand over by the wall? I want to take your picture.”

“For your own scrapbook?” asked Nicci.

“That’s right.” I moved the girls into a formation that allowed each child to display her prized piece of artwork. As I looked over the variety of results, it was a real struggle to contain the grin that threatened to stretch my face to unladylike proportions. No matter how extensively I plan a session like this, the individual vagaries of each participant’s taste and skill level determine the outcome. And what a wide-ranging outcome it was.

Kaitlyn Godfrey chose to make her turkey a vivid lavender and added a hot-pink wattle and orange-striped tail feathers. Ashlee Hueka spelled the upcoming holiday “Tanksgiving” and steadfastly rejected any attempts to bring her English in line with more conventional standards. Claire Kovaleski couldn’t make up her mind about placement and moved each piece until nubs of torn paper dotted the whole layout. Linsey Murphy pouted until I replaced her turkey die- cut with a panda bear. Minnie Danvers confused the journaling paper (ivory, so handwriting would show up) with the photo matte paper (deep green). Nicci Moore decided to decorate her turkey with sparkly ballpoint pens she carried in her purse. Britney Ballard explained she hated Thanksgiving because her father, Bill (my husband’s business partner), always made her eat dark meat, and she used lettering stickers to give her turkey a protest sign, “Eat more BEEF!!!”

All in all, the special outing for the group of pre-teens had turned out well, even though it had been a lot of work.

“Don’t you ever get bored with this?” Jennifer asked.

“Nope.” I clicked the shutter on my digital camera. “Wait, girls. I want to take another. One of you closed your eyes. It’s always a good idea to take extra pictures.”

Nicci left her pals to give her mother a hug. “Mom, this was awesome. Everybody had a great time. Can you and I scrapbook when we get home? We’ve got all those photos in the basement.”

Jennifer smiled down at her daughter. Nicci seemed like a sweet kid. I hoped this might foster a friendship between her and Anya.

“I guess we could, honey, but I don’t know where to start.” Jennifer turned to me. “You’ve really gotten these girls excited.”

I smiled. I had no illusions that my young friends were going to run right out and fill albums with photos and their written reflections on life, but I did hope that one or two might be tempted to try scrapbooking. We all have lives of value, no matter how different our journeys. From the variation in their pages, each of the girls seemed well on her way to a highly individualistic and exciting life. Every girl, that is, except my Anya.

Only Anya constructed her “make and take” page in an exact replica of my design. That worried me. Other mothers complained about sassy mouths and rebellious behaviors—witness Ashlee Hueka’s disastrous haircut, an experiment gone wrong at a recent sleepover. And Linsey Murphy’s two detentions for skipping classes to watch boys play hacky sack.

But dear, dear Anya exhibited only the most biddable behavior.

I worried about her. Was this a prelude to becoming a woman? Were her hormones starting to rear their ugly heads? Or was it a reaction to her father’s recent moodiness? My husband George had seemed distant and preoccupied lately, although a good round of golf the other day had perked him up considerably.

Watching my lovely daughter push a strand of platinum-blonde hair away from her face, I felt a surge of protective love. What happened to that little rabble-rouser who organized a strike in kindergarten to get chocolate milk? Who melted all her crayons into one big lump in first grade by using the microwave in the teachers’ lounge? Who let the crawdads out of the aquarium in fourth grade because “all God’s creatures want to be free”? What happened to my rowdy, playful Anya? What was wrong? Why didn’t she jabber and horse around like the other girls?

Maybe over the Thanksgiving holiday we’d have a chance to talk. Without the dodge of “loads of homework,” or the evasion of “my favorite TV show is on,” maybe Anya could be coaxed into sharing what bothered her, what had made her so quiet lately.

“Can I get a copy of that photo? Where are you taking it to be developed?” Jennifer asked. The whole time the girls had been working on their projects, Jennifer had been on her cell phone. Jennifer was one of those mothers who was part fashion stylist, part career counselor, and part social director in her daughter’s life. She seemed very organized.

“Of course you can have copies. I’ll get them to you.”

“Kiki, you sure are an expert scrapbooker.”

“I’m pretty crazy about it.”

I’ve only been good at two things in my life: scrapbooking and getting pregnant. This was the one skill I could share without nasty social repercussions.

“No kidding,” said Dodie Goldfader, Time in a Bottle’s owner. Dodie was a big woman with a voice rivaling a boom box. “Last year Kiki chased the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile down Highway 40 at seventy miles an hour because she wanted a photo. That speeding ticket made for an expensive page embellishment.”

I said, “I’ve always wanted a weenie whistle.”

Jennifer laughed. “I like photos and all, but gosh, it looks like you put a lot of time into this. Do you and Anya work on your scrapbooks together?”

“Once in a while. Anya’s been scrapbooking for years. And she loves the scrapbooks I’ve made. Every kid likes to be the star of a scrapbook page.” As we talked, I picked up supplies and returned them to their original places.

What surprised me was that Jennifer didn’t lift a finger to help. That was just one of the ways we were different. Another was how we talked about people. As the girls were being dropped off, I overheard Jennifer and a couple of the other mothers snicker about Dodie. One woman bet she was related to the Woolly Mammoth they unearthed at nearby Principia College. Okay, Dodie is large and unusually hairy for a woman. Even so, that was not a nice thing to say.

And I’m a big believer in nice. That’s me, Kiki Lowenstein, the original Mrs. Nice Guy. Heck, I’ve apologized to empty carts I’ve bumped at the grocery store.

Dodie passed out class calendars, discount coupons, and small goody bags to the girls. Competition for scrapbook dollars is keen. As the hobby grows, everyone wants to get in on the act. Keeping her clients happy with small freebies, great classes, and a never-ending flow of new products is the key to Dodie’s success. In every way but one, Time in a Bottle is the preeminent scrapbook store in the St. Louis area. All Dodie lacks is an in-house scrapbook celebrity and expert.

Dodie offered Jennifer a goody bag. “Nobody knows more about scrapbooking than Kiki. I keep asking her to come work for me. I get all sorts of scrapbookers who want to teach in exchange for supplies, but no one is as talented as she is. Kiki’s work has been published in every major scrapbooking magazine. She’s famous.”

I couldn’t help but blush. If Dodie only knew how important scrapbooking was to me, she’d charge me by the hour for therapy instead of paper supplies. Time in a Bottle was my home away from home.

“That so?” said Jennifer. “You are published?”

“Darn tootin’,” said Dodie. “Look at this.” Dodie directed her attention to one of my albums. “Aren’t these pages adorable? See how each layout tells a story? That’s what makes her work special. Believe me, I could keep her busy twenty-four-seven making custom albums and teaching private lessons.”

Jennifer slowly flipped through the pages. She was viewing my most recent and elaborate work. Her eyes took in the mix of patterned papers, the designs, and the embellishments. “Do you teach adult classes? I mean, I have supplies but I don’t know where to start. A lot of my pictures are in those magnetic albums.”

“Oh, boy. You want to get those out right away.” I explained how the sticky background and plastic covering for magnetic pages is a deadly combination that can cause photos to fade.

“Hmm. Could I pay someone to do that for me? To take the photos out?”

“I can help you do that. It’s really easy.” I gave a surreptitious yank at my blouse because it was riding up. I’m self-conscious about my weight. George tells me I’m beautiful, and I’m fine the way I am, but all the other mothers at CALA are built like pencils. In their world, anything above a size zero is borderline obese.

Through the front door came three more CALA moms, chattering like a flock of busy starlings. They were all beautifully dressed, well-groomed, and thinner than a single sheet of vellum. I gave another yank at my blouse. Seeing how thin they were made me feel awkward. The shame of being overweight made me hungry.

Who am I kidding? Everything makes me hungry. There’s an emptiness in me I can’t seem to shake.

The front door to Time in a Bottle opened yet again to admit Linda Kovaleski, Claire’s mother. Linda always seemed a bit confused. “Is this the party place?”

Like the other mothers, Linda was tan, underweight, and stylish in her designer clothes. My hair is an outrageous cap of curls; theirs smooth, perfectly cut, and shaped to enhance their best features. And their makeup was always perfect. From the tips of their fingernails to their creamy lips, the women of CALA were impeccably groomed. Maybe that’s why I feel like I don’t belong. My mother-in-law, Sheila, would be the first to tell you I lack polish.

Jennifer promptly forgot about her magnetic albums. She hurried over to join her friends.

“Anya, honey, ready to go home?” My daughter was standing alone, pretending to be engrossed in the latest paper crafting magazines. I hoped she hadn’t picked up on my insecurity. Time to put some spin on the afternoon. “This was fun, wasn’t it? I can’t wait to make a page of this day. I wouldn’t want to forget it.”

But as it turned out, I wouldn’t need a page to remember the day. In fact, I would give anything to blot that day from my mind. As Anya and I climbed into my Lexus SUV, a uniformed policeman approached the car and gestured for us to talk.

“Yes?” I rolled down the window. “I’m not speeding. I haven’t even turned on the engine.”

“Mrs. George Lowenstein? Ma’am? I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s about your husband. You need to come with me.”

___

Kiki’s instructions for removing photos
from magnetic albums

1. Start by photocopying the pages. This is particularly important if you have identifying information accompanying your pictures. Once you remove your photos, it may be difficult to match information with images.

2. Set a hairdryer on low and train it on your pages. Move the air stream at all times to keep from overheating any one spot. As the background softens, test to see if you can pull up the plastic page cover and photos.

3. Slide a piece of dental floss or an old credit card under the photos to separate them from the background.

4. Try Un-Du, an archivally safe solvent for loosening adhesives, if your photos still stick to the background.

5. Restore your faded or damaged photos by scanning them and manipulating them with photo-imaging software. Some scanners also include photo restoration software.