The Last Time I Was Me Read online

  “Are you on vacation?”

  Vacation. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a vacation.” I needed a scotch on the rocks.

  “Ahhh.” Those blue eyes looked hard at me. Like I was worth something. “So, makin’ a change in your life?”

  Got me. “Yes, you could say that.”

  “Changes are good sometimes. Changes keep our hearts pumpin’.”

  “Sure does.” Sure as heck they do. Sometimes a change allows us to disappear, too. Disappearing for good appealed greatly to me.

  “So you’re looking?”

  “Looking?”

  “For a place to stay, a place to settle down for a while.”

  Hmmm. He was a smart one. He was peering at me closely and I knew he was paying more attention to what I wasn’t saying. “I guess you could say I am.”

  “Gee whizzers. I’ve got the perfect place for you.” He looked longingly at the Italian Renaissance woman for several seconds before he said, his voice gentle, “Rosvita, this is…” he paused.

  “Jeanne Stewart,” I said.

  “Jeanne Stewart. Jeanne, this is Rosvita DiLorenzo.” I shook hands with the Italian Renaissance woman. Her black hair, shot through with angel-wing white hair, was wrapped in a loose bun with a red flower tucked in the back. She wore no makeup. She had one of those curving figures and was wearing a sparkling red shawl, red jeans, and cowboy boots. She wore white gloves.

  I was later to admire her work with a .45.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  I murmured some pleasantries. I can be polite when pushed.

  “Rosvita has the finest bed-and-breakfast in town, Ms. Stewart. Rosvita, this young lady is looking to settle down for a while, although she wants to see the Pacific Ocean.”

  I looked at the chef. He reminded me of banana bread and cinnamon.

  I had not decided to settle here. Not at all. But I had to admit that I liked the tiny main street of town. I liked all the trees and Mount Hood towering behind me. I liked the pancakes and this chef who was pleasant and sung opera so well I shivered. Not a bad start.

  “I have a room if you’re interested in staying in town,” Rosvita said, her gaze intense “It overlooks the river, breakfast is included, and there are no germs there. I clean with disinfectants, two types, and bleach. I vacuum each day after dusting. Food is fresh and the refrigerator is completely cleaned out and scrubbed down twice a week. With bleach.”

  I nodded.

  “All food is cooked to a pulp to kill any and all bacteria. So you don’t need to fret that you’ll get salmonella poisoning. Salmonella poisoning is caused by gram-negative bacilli. Salmonella is a virulent member of the Enterobacteriaceae family. A family you don’t want to belong to, Ms. Stewart. Symptoms are fever, stomach pain, and diarrhea, although constipation can also occur.”

  I nodded again. Valuable stuff.

  “I make sure that the bathtubs are cleaned spotless. Inside a tub that other people have used can lurk many germs and diseases, and I am utterly aware of it. In fact, I’ve even heard that in a hot tub there’s a possibility-however slim-of contracting herpes. You do know what herpes is? Herpes is caused by Her-pesvirus hominis which is an infectious agent, not unlike a secret agent, and it does horrible viral damage. Symptoms are-”

  “Rosvita, please.” The chef held up both hands. “Let us not talk about herpes in a place that sells pancakes and bacon. It’s bad for the digestive system.” I could tell he found her immensely entertaining, despite the herpes talk.

  Rosvita put her hands on her red jean-clad hips. Closed her mouth. “My brother is a famous criminal defense attorney and he will tell you that there are many businesses that have been sued for enormous amounts of money because of diseases they have inadvertently passed on to the customer-”

  I jumped when Donovan burst into an opera song, his voice diving and soaring. When Rosvita stopped talking, Donovan stopped singing. “My dear Rosvita, why don’t you show Ms. Stewart your place?”

  She looked me up and down. “Come along.”

  As we left, Donovan stared with mopey eyes at Rosvita, threw his arms out wide and burst into another opera song about unrequited love.

  Rosvita’s house was not far off the main street. It was painted light blue with white trim. Flowers tumbled from boxes at each window. The yard was huge with a rolling expanse of grass, a few old fir trees, and a gated garden that was high on flowers. She guided me to the backyard and down some steps to the river. The river water was pure and rippling, trees towering on either side, the sunlight dancing off each crest.

  We stood in silence for a moment as I breathed. I still needed a scotch, but the quiet rush of the river was de-sizzling my overheated mind.

  Rosvita abruptly sat down and crossed her legs into a yoga position.

  What the heck. I sat, crossed my legs, palmed my hands. We breathed in and out together and, after about a half hour, we headed back to the bed-and-breakfast. The parlor was lush and cheerful, stuffed full of comfy furniture, about six different lamps with funky lamp shades, several plants, and a ton of books. On closer inspection, I noted that all the books had something to do with diseases.

  Current diseases.

  Past diseases.

  Jungle diseases.

  Diseases during wars and famine.

  Diseases pioneers suffered from on the Oregon Trail.

  I paid her before I had even seen my room.

  “It’s a super place for me to indulge in my nervous breakdown,” I told Rosvita.

  She didn’t blink an eye as she took off her gloves and placed them neatly in a white box lined with lace. “I’m pleased to hear it. You go ahead and do your flipping out and I’ll make sure that it stays quiet around here for you and your nervous breakdown. And clean. It’s clean here.”

  “Thank you, Rosvita. But so that you are fully informed-my nerves are in tatters; my psyche has been ground to pieces in a mental garbage disposal; and my emotions have been through a meat slicer. I cry easily, although I have made serious efforts not to cry for the last twelve years. I am prone to embarrassing outbursts. I have recently made rash and wild decisions, but have yet to regret any of them. I have found that I have a vindictive and vengeful side and am pleased to welcome it into the fold of my other personality characteristics. I am simply,” I told her, “not altogether.”

  There was silence for a moment as we pondered this.

  “Well,” said Rosvita. “If you can gather up your tattered nerves, your shredded garbage-disposal psyche, and your meat-sliced emotions, I can take you upstairs to your room, where you can further your nervous breakdown.” She spun on her cowboy boot heels and headed up the stairs. She reminded me of Tuscany and flamenco dancers and cotton balls. I followed her.

  If there is a room in heaven that is light blue and pristine white, it would look like this room. The bed had a spread that was fluffy and white with a white lace canopy fluttering in the breeze overhead and at least eight blue and white pillows. There was also two white wicker nightstands, each topped with a lamp with a frilly blue-flowered shade, and a white wicker desk and dresser. Charming.

  French doors opened to a deck which overlooked the Salmon River. I could hear the river gurgling and burbling, the fir trees making their wind-whistling noise. I thanked her and she left, patting my arm gently. “Nervous breakdowns are challenging mental diseases,” she said. “Call me if you need me.”

  I grabbed a bottle of scotch out of my suitcase and had a few drinks. To christen my bed of blue heaven, I decided to pull a pillow over my head and cry.

  And cry.

  And cry some more.

  And this is what I learned on that bed of blue heaven: When you live your life trying never to cry, when the tears finally bust through, they make a real wet mess.

  I put the scotch on the nightstand. I was gonna need it.

  CHAPTER 3

  For the next several days, I strolled along the river and told it my problems while drinking the very best wine I could find at the local store. It was made in the Willamette Valley vineyards. When I could walk no farther, I stumbled to a rock, sat down with my wine, stuck my feet in the water, and cried until I felt my guts were about ready to spring forth.

  When I could manage to stand without bursting into another round of tears, I toddled my way back to my bed of blue heaven room. That became my routine: Walk. Drink. Cry. Pass out.

  When I woke up on the fifth day, I called Roy. It was 3:00 in the afternoon. I decided to have a scotch. He reminded me of my court date. I agreed to show up.

  He told me how much money Ex-Asshole wanted.

  “That is a lot of money,” I mused, swirling the ice in my glass. “But I have to say it was worth it.”

  My lawyer, Roy Sass, laughed. “I’m sure it was, honey.”

  After my townhome and furniture were sold and the money added to my savings, I knew I would have an impressive chunk of money. As a workaholic who made a large salary, and a naturally frugal person, except for buying mammoth amounts of shoes, money was one thing I had. But I sure as heck wasn’t going to hand over a darn dime to Slick Dick despite that small assault.

  “Lemme tell you something, Roy,” I said, trying to rein in the sudden but not unexpected fury that surged through my voice like burning brandy. “I. Will. Not. Give. A. Dime. To Slick Dick. Ever. I would sooner set up a trust fund for female beetles battling sexist cultures in the backwoods of Alabama than give any to him. I’ll try again for another analogy: I would rather give my money away quarter by quarter to support the ongoing search for ghosts. One more example: I would rather rip all of my money into tiny shreds and eat it.”

  I could hear Roy chuckling. He has a short ponytail, a weathered face, and kind eyes that harden up to something scary when
he’s in court. He is at least six foot six with shoulders like an overgrown ox. He’s been a massively successful lawyer for four decades. In his spare time, he runs a dog rescue operation on his farm. People bring him strays or he rescues them from the pound and finds them new homes. He is partial to beagles, mutts, golden retrievers, black labs-and did I mention mutts?

  “Roy, did you get my check for twenty thousand?”

  “I did, honey.”

  “Good.”

  There was a silence. “You didn’t cash it, did you?”

  “Of course not, honey.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This is business, Roy. I want to pay you.”

  “It is never business with you, honey, it never was, it never will be. I’m doing this for you for free because I love you, and every moment of every bit of work I do for you I’ll be thinking of your mom. I couldn’t help her, but I can help her daughter and damned if I won’t do everything to make this right.”

  “Roy, I-” I can’t hear the word “mom” without getting choked up.

  Losing my mother was like losing light. And warmth. And joy. I put a pillow over my face.

  “Don’t ‘Roy’ me, sweetie. This is final. Now, what do you want me to do to Jared?”

  I pulled my wet face from the pillow. “I want you to make his balls rot.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, dear,” he said. “You know, your mother would enjoy knowing his balls were rotting.”

  Yes, she would.

  She hated the man.

  “We meet Thursday nights from six to nine. You are to be on time. You are to control your anger and temper. You are to come ready to spill your guts and prepared to hear what your co-anger management classmates tell you. You are to take responsibility for the problems that got you here in the first place. You are not to whine or feel sorry for yourself, because I have no pity for you and neither does anyone else. I don’t give a shit if you had a lousy childhood and that’s why you’re angry or you have a rabid ex-husband or psycho-freak wife. I don’t give another shit if you’re mad at the system, the police, the judge, the exterminator, your dentist, or the local pet shop owner.”

  “I’m not mad at the pet shop owner,” I told Emmaline Hallwyler, my new anger management counselor with a voice like a drill sergeant. “Not at all. I will have to admit to some lingering, simmering anger with my dentist, though. Every time I see him, he tells me I have bad gums. Bad gums!”

  She ignored that part. “You are to dance when I say dance and to fly when I say fly. You are to sing when I say sing and to scream when I say scream. You are to create when I say to create. You are to be, above all, honest with yourself and with others. No prayers, no religious talk allowed here, no telling other people that they have to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior or they’re going to hell.”

  “It is highly unlikely that I would suggest that anyone was going to hell. Even if there’s a wait line into hell, I can assure you I will be shuttled to a place quite near the front. Do you have a religion problem in anger management class?”

  I could feel her animosity surging over the wire. “I had a man who proclaimed himself to be a religious person in my last session. I let him preach to everyone in the room about God and forgiveness and hell for exactly forty-seven seconds and then I informed the others that he was here because he had beat up his three previous wives and all three had restraining orders against him. That shut him up damn quick. There’s nowhere in the Bible, I reminded the sanctimonious prick, that says you can beat the shit out of your wife-so cut it with the religion.”

  Her voice rose and fell like a drill sergeant preacher.

  “He muttered something about only the Lord being able to change him. I told him the Lord helps those who help themselves, and that currently the Lord was undoubtedly wondering exactly which fiery compartment in hell he should be assigned to for beating to shreds three of God’s children. I asked him if he thought the Lord approved of the way his fist managed to bust open his third wife’s jaw?”

  “Ahh. A real charmer.”

  “He said he didn’t think that God was happy about that, but that we all sinned and that Jesus died on the cross for our sins, so his sins are covered and he’s forgiven. I told him that his sins are covered in the blood of his ex-wives and that he was going to go straight back to jail and to hell which is where God puts all wife-beaters, if he couldn’t get a grip on his God-given fists.”

  “What did he do?”

  “What they all do,” she said. “I stared at him until he squirmed like a worm. The other people in the class tore into him like you might tear into a lobster tail and he cried until he slobbered. I told him to shape up, quit being such a religious hypocrite, admit that he was a wife-beater, and fix himself. I tell people how it is, Ms. Stewart. They don’t like it, they shouldn’t have been shits and landed in my class. After that I told him to sing.”

  “Did he sing?”

  “It took some prompting, but yes, he did. It was awful. Sounded like a dying rat. So, Jeanne, I have your record. Lemme take a look at it, though. Haven’t read it. Hang on a sec.”

  I waited. I knew what was coming.

  There it was.

  A chuckle.

  A snort.

  A giggle.

  A quickly inhaled breath.

  The phone became muffled and I knew Emmaline Hallwyler had put her hand over it so I couldn’t hear her, but I knew what she was doing.

  Laughing. She was laughing.

  Emmaline Hallwyler eventually got back on the line with a little hiccup. “Seems like you had a little incident with an ex-boyfriend.” I heard that muffled sound again. She sounded like a hyperventilating chicken. She coughed. “Also looks like this is your first offense. Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is my first recorded offense, although if I had the opportunity I might try to commit another offense against Slick Dick.”

  I heard her snort. “Ran out of time?”

  “Yes. The police arrived at my door. The police kept laughing as they read me my rights.”

  There was the hyperventilating chicken again. “Those damn police.” The chicken harnessed her laughter with a cough. “Now, back to the requirements-don’t be a second late and don’t be pathetic and we’ll get along fine.”

  “Right. I will endeavor not to be pathetic.” I wondered if I could bring my knitting? Rosvita had decided that I needed something to do with my hands that was germ-free so she was teaching me how to knit each evening. But perhaps knitting would make me look pathetic?

  “So, your screening interview will be this Friday at noon. Do not be late.”

  “My screening interview?” What, she had to evaluate me to see if I’m angry enough to be included in the class? Perhaps I should bring something to throw while I was there to display my anger? Like Slick Dick’s head?

  “Yes. Your screening interview. You and I can get to know each other and I can decide whether or not I like you.”

  Whether or not she liked me? Now that’s a tricky one. Most people do like me, I think, if they weren’t scared of me. I do think that. Except for my twenty-three-year-old ladder-climbing assistant who wanted my job, but that was nothing personal and I can’t blame her for it. “Why would you care if you liked me or not? I’m a client. I’m not coming to be your best friend.”

  “Well, hell’s bells,” she snapped. “Can you hear me crying onto my files? Sniffling into my hankie? For God’s sake, I don’t need a best friend. I have one already, the same one I’ve had since fifth grade. Her name’s Sheri and she’s got big teeth and laughs all the time. No, I need to know if I like you enough to fix your problems for you.”

  “Gee whiz. Lemme see,” I said. “I have a true abundance of problems: I have no job. I’m so skinny my bones rattle. I have assault charges filed against me. Slick Dick has also filed a civil suit against me for a horrendous sum of money. He will probably win, leaving me bankrupt. I’m currently, even at this very moment, having a nervous breakdown. With a criminal record, it will be difficult for me to become employed again. Would you like me to repeat what I told eight-hundred-thirty-four people in a meeting in the near past about vaginal cream and sugary cereals? That’s going to be a real problem in terms of being employed in advertising again. And, dear me, I don’t want to forget to mention that my mother also died recently. I miss her more than I would miss my own heart. Did I mention Slick Dick took my mountain bike? If you could solve even one of my problems, that would be super. I had no idea psychologists could do so much for people these days. None.”