Reinventing Mona (28 page)

I handed him a tall glass of carrot juice and sat by him at the kitchen counter. “Tell me everything. Isn’t that why you’re here, John? Don’t you want to tell someone how much you miss Grammy? Aren’t you feeling a little guilty that everyone is asking you about how you’re getting along without Anne when you were in love with Grammy? You can tell me. I loved her, too. I promise I won’t judge the two of you. It’s not like the two of you would’ve been the first to have an affair.”

“An affair?!” John barked. “We certainly did
not
have an affair. I knew your grandfather. Caroline and Anne were friends. We never so much as held hands, I’ll have you know. It was a friendship, young lady.”

“A friendship that would have been more if you both weren’t married?”

With that, his eyes welled with tears.

Captain John stayed at the house for two hours that morning telling me more about Grammy than I’d ever known. It was the first time I’d ever considered Grammy as a woman with a need to emotionally and physically connect with a man. It’s not just that she was my elderly grandmother; she was an icy fortress that was tough to see through. I got to see her fun side, but I also saw the chilly front she presented to the world.

“Your grandfather was a good man,” John prefaced. “He built that business from nothing, you know. By the time he passed on, he employed nearly five hundred people,” John said like a man who felt guilty. “He was at the office constantly, though, and Caroline was very lonely. One day she came by to give Anne something or other for a charity luncheon they were co-hosting and, well, Anne must’ve forgotten about it or got caught up somewhere else, I don’t even remember. Anyway, we started talking and it was the first time I’d ever seen your grandmother smile, and though it was inappropriate I told her she had the prettiest smile.

“It was awkward, but the spark was undeniable. We both tried to kill it, but one day we ran into each other and I just told her it was high time we cleared the air. We took a long drive and let everything out, and I can’t tell you what a relief that was. For the both of us, I think. Anyway, we knew we couldn’t act on it, which was very difficult, and I hate to say this, but I think it was harder on her than it was on me because I still loved Anne very much. Your grandfather was a good man, but he was never around. Caroline and I went on our drives and snuck downtown to the picture show every now and again, which was perfect for me but made your grandmother very unhappy. When we returned to the island, I came home to Anne. Caroline didn’t have that. When she came home it was to an empty house where your grandfather wouldn’t return until ten, eleven o’clock at night sometimes later.

“Caroline was very, very depressed. On several occasions, she told me not to call her anymore because it was too hard seeing me, being in love with me, and not being able to be with me for any more than a few hours. Remaining platonic was difficult for both of us. She was always kind to Anne, but I could tell that she was jealous. I know that must sound awfully egotistical, but it’s what she said.” John sighed and asked me if he should go on.

I nodded.

“She was horribly depressed. Caroline even started taking those mood elevators to help her get through her crying spells. The poor woman used to spend days on end in bed. I didn’t know what to do. Mona, I hated myself for being the cause of her pain. I wanted to spend more time with her, but I was married. She was married. I promise you we never even kissed.”

I couldn’t understand why it was so important for John to clarify that he and Grammy never had a physical relationship when clearly what they had was a love affair. Several times, he assured me that he had not defiled my grandmother, though I wonder if his repeated denials of an accusation that hadn’t been made were simply a chivalrous attempt to protect her reputation with me. He said he tried to respect Grammy’s wishes to end their relationship, but after a few weeks, she always wound up calling him, saying she’d try to compartmentalize better.

“Caroline was a mess until you came along, Mona,” he continued. “Honestly, I think you saved her. About a week after you moved in, she called and asked me not to call her anymore. Anne and I were on a cruise over the holidays so I hadn’t heard about the accident or your moving in, so I laughed and asked her how long this New Year’s resolution was going to last. She was icy like she hadn’t been before, and said this was really it. She had a teenage granddaughter living with her, and that if this all blew up, she could never be an appropriate role model for you. And that was it. Caroline never called again. We never saw another movie or took another drive. We saw each other and she was always cordial. A few times, there were moments when that chemistry sparked between us, but your grandmother always looked away or ended the conversation. Then she was completely immersed in Coronado Clean, which was her life until that whole matter was worked out.”

John stopped at my perplexed expression. “Coronado Clean?” I asked.

“I’m surprised you don’t remember. About a year after you moved in with Caroline, there was a plan to open a strip club near the base. People were so upset about the element such a place would bring to our island, but Caroline did the lion’s share of lobbying to keep those people out of Coronado.”

As if on a director’s cue, Vicki walked into the kitchen in her silk pajamas. “Ohmigod!” she gasped at the sight of the captain. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”

I introduced the two, John as an old family friend and Vicki as my favorite live-in decorator.
Vicki, this is John, who had an affair of the heart with my Grammy. John, this is Vicki. She gives lap dances.

“You’re a very creative young lady,” John said. “Interesting bathroom decor.”

Vicki promptly announced that she had decorated the two downstairs guest rooms and was getting ready to “Tarafy” the living room. Her cadence sped with excitement “Do you want a tour of what I’m going to do? Mona wants it to be a surprise, but I’d love to show someone who knows her how it’s all going to look. Well, my brother has been on the tour and he knows Mona, but anyway that doesn’t count ‘cause he wasn’t really into it, so I didn’t get the type of validation I so need and deserve.” She giggled. John politely nodded, prompting Vicki to outstretch her hand for his as though he’d just accepted her invitation to the VIP room.

I rinsed John’s empty glass and thought about what he’d shared with me about Grammy. Caroline. I couldn’t imagine why I wasn’t appalled that my grandmother may have very well had an extramarital affair, though I did feel a certain heaviness that she’d been so unhappy for all of those years. I’m not sure if I was angry with John for causing Grammy so much pain, or grateful to him for the happiness he brought her if only in thrifty spoonfuls.

“Oh, this is great!” exclaimed John from the guest bedroom.

“Do you like it?” Vicki fished for more.

“I love it. You have the magic touch, Vicki. You sure know how to add new life to a bedroom.”

I shuddered. Though I knew they were talking interior design, the soundtrack was unsettling.

When I entered Francesca’s name in my computer search engine, I hoped to find that she was still alive. This, as it turns out, was a grotesque understatement as Francesca’s name turned up more than 700 results. I had to wonder if there were other Francesca Greenwoods, which there were, but mine occupied most of the cyberspace with articles she authored opposing the war against Iraq, meditation for senior citizens, and a feature on Missoula’s upcoming bicentennial celebration of Lewis and Clark’s expedition. Francesca was on the board of directors at Hunter’s Glen retirement community, past president of the Older Women’s League, and even ran in a close race for city council in 1992, Clinton’s Year of the Woman. Her most recent rants were defending the Dixie Chicks’ condemnation of President Bush, and a call for the city of Missoula to prominently feature Sacagawea, the sixteen-year-old mother who guided the expedition, in its celebration. “If there’s anyone who gets less recognition than women, it’s Native Americans. I know we’re supposed to feel grateful that they put Sacagawea on the new dollar coin, but since that is used only slightly more than the Susan B. Anthony silver dollar, I’d say we still owe the gal something more meaningful, Missoula,” Francesca mused. She was so much more alive than I’d ever hoped.

I sat back in my chair and opened more web sites that contained her name, hoping to find her e-mail address. I couldn’t find her contact information, but learned more about how Francesca had been spending her time since the accident. Two years ago, she was part of a committee that led 4,000 volunteers to create the Dragon Hollow Play Area next to the new hand-carved carousel. Her city council campaign focused on slowing the commercial and residential development of Missoula and beautifying the walkway along the Clark Fork River. “There are too many homes in South Hills and Miller Creek,” she told a reporter. The Clark Fork River. South Hills and Miller Creek. The words I hadn’t heard, uttered, or read in fifteen years caused thunder in my heart. My eyes scanned to the bottom of the article, where Francesca was described as the sole survivor from the “Magic Bus Accident of 1987.” Sole survivor? Not since Jayson Blair’s articles in the
New York Times
had a two-line characterization been so inaccurate. For a split second, I wondered if I’d imagined my entire life on the commune. If life other than Coronado ever really existed.

I heard the familiar chime of someone sending me an Instant Message.

Surfing porn
on the net again, Mona Lisa?

And with that simple tease, I knew that my life had gone exactly as I remembered it, as unmemorable as major chunks of it were. Mona Lisa, my existential affirmation that was indeed really here. I swooned so at the sight of his e-mail address I was grateful for the electronic shield Internet communication provides. The last thing I needed was a male chauvinist dog seeing me twirl my hair around my index finger and bring my knees to my chest I thanked the technological lag that kept my giggle from reaching Mike’s ears.

Hey stranger
,
I wrote then erased. Too accusing
.
Oh, hey
what’s up?
Trying too hard to be casual. I opted for a simple
Hi
once I realized that my response time was taking way too long.

What are you doing up so late?
Mike asked. I looked at the clock to see it was two-thirty in the morning.

I’m looking for a woman in Missoula. I’m thinking I want to go back and visit her. I haven’t been back since I left.

The same could be said about anywhere.

How very clever for these wee hours. What are you doing up? Don’t you have to lead the good men of America astray with your musings on the power of the penis?

Thinking about stuff. Life and shit and all the crap that you wish you could do over if you had a second chance.

Who are you and what have you done with my friend, Mike?!

Cute.

Am I?
I flirted.

Who are you and what have you done with my friend, Mona?

You’re not much of a friend these days.

Sorry. I’ve been busy with work.

Who cares?

I thought you did.

No, I mean who cares what your excuses are. If you wanted to call me, you would have,
I erased then replaced this with
Nope.

That was a lot of typing for “nope.”

Sorry, I had to grab a glass of water.

The IM screen said you were typing.

It was wrong! Anyway, tell me something.

What?

No, I mean just tell me something that’s been going on with you. Tell me anything you want.

And I meant it. I didn’t have an agenda, scripted lines of what he was supposed to tell me. He could’ve told me about his new spark plugs and I would’ve hung out online with him till sunrise. When Adam shared his hopes for the future, I silently made lists of things I needed to pick up at Target.

I’m not sure what to say, he wrote.

Do you ever miss me?
I risked. I saw the tiny print telling me that he was writing. And writing. Then writing some more. This could be brutal. How long does it take to type —

Yes.

I collapsed into my chair, now even more grateful that he could not see me. I wanted to ask why Mike let our friendship lapse to the point where he had to miss me, but I refrained for fear of looking like the lunatic I really was. Searching my mental files for something coy to say, I came up with nothing.

I miss you, too,
I confessed
. But you wouldn’t’ve had to miss me if you picked up the damned phone and called me!

Sorry. It’s been a crazy month with work. Plus, you dumped me, remember?

I discontinued our business relationship, I didn’t dump you. Big difference.

So tell me about this woman in Missoula you’re going to visit. Is she cute?

She’s nearly eighty. Speaking of which, I think your sister got my grandmother’s old boyfriend all hot and bothered this morning. Does this sort of thing run in the family?

When are you going to visit her?

I’m not sure. Why?

Wondering if you’d like company.

You?

No, Adam. You should bring him to see how he’ll take to your past life and Grandmother Jones in Missoula.

Oh, I don’t think he’d care for it there. Too earthy.

I’m kidding, loser! Of course I meant me.

The last time I went out with Adam, he told me I was amazing. Amazing. I’d never amazed anyone before in my entirely unamazing life. And here was a good-looking, solid man—a man I had orchestrated my life around impressing—telling me that I was amazing and I could barely muster the enthusiasm to thank him. Mike, on the other hand—a man I chose specifically because he was the lowest specimen of male life forms—calling me a loser made me blush.

I desperately wanted to tell him that he could come with me to Missoula, but I strained to type the words. Perhaps it would be better if I made the journey on my own. I didn’t need the added pressure of Mike making wisecracks about the peace sign on Waterworks Hill or the distinctly granola feel of Missoula. Nor did I want Francesca to think Mike was my boyfriend and silently wonder at what point I became part of the mainstream our family disdained. Plus, visiting Missoula might be emotionally overwhelming for me, not the rock climbing adventure camp Mike probably imagined. Going alone was definitely the wiser choice.