If You Could See What I See Page 2

  The owner has six Adirondack chairs in purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red on the deck. I never sit in the red chair.

  I can watch the sun come up as I’m on a rise. I watch the sun come up a lot. It’s proof another day has arrived. Sometimes I sit out on my deck in blankets and think about whether I want to join the day or call it a day.

  My tree house is cozy, a total of about eight hundred square feet, including the loft, but it’s perfect.

  A perfect spot for me to watch my own brain disintegrate.

  That night I felt the black rat’s claw ripping through my throat.

  The claw stretched out my esophagus and then my intestines, the blood flowing, clogging up my scream as broken, black feathers rained down on my face.

  The other rat’s claw tore through my vagina. It broke through my uterus and popped my ovaries, then forced itself up, up, up, its goal to hold the other claw in its knifelike grasp, as two lovers might hold hands.

  His face was on the rat’s head, and he was laughing, giggling, his nose on mine, his lips an inch away, trying to tantalize me, to tease. At the moment that the two claws met, my organs shredded, awash in blood, he kissed me, soft and sweet, his tongue darting in and out. “I love you, my Meggie,” he whispered, as the claws moved, wrapped themselves around my heart, and squeezed. I watched my heart burst.

  I woke up not being able to breathe, my throat constricted. I opened up my mouth as wide as I could, my head thrown back, and I saw, in the labyrinth of sickness that was my mind, the rat claws retreat. When the claws were poised above me, they waved in farewell, mocking me, then disappeared, and I took my first shaky, ragged breath.

  Sweat poured from my body and I stumbled naked down the ladder and onto my deck. It was raining. I tilted my head back to cool my face, the drops mixing with my hot tears. I dragged in one more breath, then another, until I could feel my own insanity ebbing.

  Would he ever go away?

  Could I live like this?

  For how long?

  I heard her heels before I saw her.

  Everyone in our company, and I mean everyone, recognizes the sound of my grandma’s heels. Regan O’Rourke does not walk. She strides. Tap, tap, tap. Move out of my way.

  Think of a slim, limber fashion model in her eighties, that’s our grandma. White hair, still thick, up in an adroitly rolled chignon. Makeup impeccable. An exquisite dress or tailored suit each day. Four-inch heels. She does not leave home without her baubles: pearls, amethysts, emeralds, etc.

  “When I wear diamonds, I know I’m not wearing the scent of poverty anymore,” she says. “People like me who have been in that wretched trench fear that the threat of a return visit is always around the corner for us. Sapphires help. So do rubies.”

  Hence, her love of her “baubles,” as she calls them.

  What Grandma has told me about life:

  No one promised you a bucket of pansies, so don’t be one.

  Everyone thinks a great life is one filled with fun and fluff. No, that’s a pointless life. A great life is filled with challenges and adversity. It’s how you knock the hell out of it that shows what kind of person you are.

  Keep a hand out to help someone up, but don’t give them two hands or you’ll enable them to be a weak and spineless jellyfish.

  Always look your best. Not for a man, that’s ridiculous, what do they know? Nothing. They know nothing. It’s for you.

  My grandma runs Lace, Satin, and Baubles with two iron fists wrapped in gold. She can’t help but be intimidating. I think I am the only one who is not afraid of the golden iron fists. She and I are too alike for me to be afraid. Plus I know she loves Lacey, Tory, and me to distraction. We, and our mother, are her life. She has always made that clear.

  When I left Lace, Satin, and Baubles to pursue my documentary film career, my grandma hugged me and said with her slight Irish brogue, “I’ll probably forgive you before I die, but don’t count on it.”

  She gave me two red bras, one for day, one for night. “Never forget your spirit. Now go shoot.” She later added another zinger: “When this silliness is over, come back and run the company.”

  I felt guilty, but I had to follow my calling or wither; I didn’t want to regret not doing it. Every few months Grandma would ask me to come back. It became a joke between us. In the last six months, however, I received calls once a week. The last call was unequivocal. “I need you home now. Stop this traveling gypsy nonsense immediately. You are giving me heartburn.”

  When I heard her heels outside my office, I hid my donut and an open jar of peanut butter and stood up to greet her. She didn’t knock, she walked straight in. She was wearing a pink suit, tailored to her size 6 figure, and pink heels with a silver toe. Her baubles? Four strands of pearls.

  “Hello, Grandma.”

  She eyed me, head to foot. “Did you fall out of bed, knock your head open, and forget to dress for work?”

  She’s charming. “No, Grandma. This is what I chose to wear.”

  “You’re in old jeans, a baggy T-shirt, and tennis shoes.” Her eyes, light green, emerald-like, absolutely stunning, glowered at me.

  She’s quite polite, too. “Comfortable.”

  “Completely unfashionable unless you are digging a ditch with your hands.”

  And she’s considerate of people’s feelings. “No digging today.” I hugged her. She was stiff at first—she is not a naturally affectionate person—but I felt her soften up. I did not pull back to see her face when I knew she was wiping away tears. She would have been humiliated to know that I knew.

  She cleared her throat, pulled away, then said to me, as if I hadn’t been gone for years, “I’ve told everyone you’re the chief executive officer now. I’ve set up meetings for you with all department heads to get you up to speed. Tory and Lacey are fighting, as usual, like drunken Tasmanian devils.

  “You get Kalani. I cannot possibly handle her and her brother’s wife’s curses or her stomach ailments or her love life anymore. Our sales are down, our numbers are abysmal. Revamp the website. Do something to celebrate our anniversary. Don’t forget to use the strawberry as a symbol. Rally the employees. There are four who need to be fired. Good at first, now they suck. Let’s see how quick you can figure out who needs to go.”

  She turned on those four-inch pink heels.

  “By the way, Meggie,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “I’ve decided to only work part-time now that you’re here.”

  My jaw dropped. “Is this a joke?”

  “No, it’s not. I’m an old woman. I’m going to have some fun, which I will explain to you, Tory, and Lacey soon. You’re going to be part of the fun if I have to grab you by the scruff of your neck and drag you to it.” She paused. “Lace, Satin, and Baubles is yours now, Meggie.”

  “No, it’s yours. I don’t want—”

  “It’s yours, Meggie, your responsibility.” She silenced me with those cool green eyes. “And it’s Tory and Lacey’s. And it’s theirs.” She tilted her head toward the other offices and the production floor. “They need jobs. This is their life and livelihood. In addition, you know how much money we give away to the community college for scholarships. I’ve had to lessen the amount because of this problem. You need to get that up again.”

  “Way to keep the pressure off me, Grandma.”

  “I am not here to keep the pressure off of you. Pressure is a part of life, part of this business. Buck up. You know every aspect of this company. You have an instinctive feel for what designs will sell and how to market our products. You grasp numbers almost as quick as Lacey. You understand how to work with people in the stores that carry our lines and with the employees and the factory. I know you can do this.”

  “I hope I can do this.”

  She tap-tapped back over to me and tilted up my chin with her well-manicured hand. She wore two pearl rings.

  “Hope is not a vision. Hope is not determination and focus. Hope will not fix this. I know you can do
this. You need to know that, too. Make a plan, take action.”

  She headed back toward the door, head high, shoulders back. “And I love you, Meggie.”

  She opened the door. “Your clothes I do not love. Total slop. Change them immediately.”

  She slammed the door.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Who was that?

  I slowed down as I turned out of my driveway to go to work the next morning, dawn barely breaking in violet and gold over the horizon. I hadn’t been able to sleep, so thought I’d be productive at Lace, Satin, and Baubles. Or at least not indulging my “awake nightmares,” as I refer to the nightmarish thoughts that traipse and tickle through my brain when I’m up. My breakfast was a sliced tomato, crumbled blue cheese in a Baggie, and a chocolate bar.

  A very tall, blond man, in shorts and a gray T-shirt was running down the street. The gray T-shirt said ARMY.

  My, he ran fast.

  My, he was gorgeous.

  My, he was all muscled up.

  Sheesh.

  He caught me ogling him like a freak, and I froze. He raised a hand and waved. I waved back.

  I tried to smile, but it didn’t work. My mouth stayed where it was. Flat. Straight across.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  Eye candy, as Grandma would say.

  Do not touch the eye candy, I told myself.

  You don’t want an eye candy explosion like last time.

  Lace, Satin, and Baubles takes up a corner of a city block in Portland that used to be full of factories and warehouses, which made rent cheap for the starving artists and writers who moved in. Now it’s full of high-rent condos, high-rent shopping, and tiny dogs that are embarrassed to be seen in their Superman costumes.

  Grandma saw the potential many years ago and bought the building. The building is painted pink with white trim, white shutters, and white doors. Our name, LACE, SATIN, AND BAUBLES, is in gold in front. There are two strawberries on either end.

  The first floor of our building, what we call the production floor, is enormous. The room is filled with sewing machines and desks and workstations for people grouped by department. Everyone is together, from seamstresses to managers. We have many people who started in our company as seamstresses and worked their way up to managers.

  There are lots of tables, shelving, and pink fainting couches. We have great air flow, and we keep the windows open as much as possible. It’s bright, clean, cheerful, with light pink walls and pink lights in the shapes of tulips.

  We have an enclosed patio with a fountain and garden that my Grandma and I planned years ago. The fountain is shaped like a strawberry and spurts water out the top. We have tables with pink umbrellas, three pink tulip trees, clematis, honeysuckle, trumpet vines, and planters filled with seasonal flowers.

  We have an annual Christmas party at a fancy hotel. We have a Halloween party, where all families are invited for a barbeque and costume contests. We have a summer party and take all the employees and their families on a boat trip down the river for dinner. We close for four days at Thanksgiving, one week at Christmas, and one week in the summer. We have potlucks once a month to celebrate everyone’s birthday.

  But we work, too, and we are home to many workaholics, including me when I was here. This is a business. We are not here to hang around and chat all day; we are here to build Lace, Satin, and Baubles, to employ people here and abroad, and to allow people the chance to have a career and support their families. We’re here to sell some kick-ass lingerie to major department stores and boutiques. We maintain a website and mail out a catalogue four times a year.

  I started working here when I was five. I ran errands. The employees told me what they needed—fabrics, more thread, clasps, etc.—and I went to get it. I worked here during high school and during all summers and vacations when I went away to college. After college I worked here full time, usually sixty to seventy hours a week, as Grandma continued to train me. I know this business.

  Our offices are upstairs. Grandma’s office, with a sweeping view of the city, is in the corner. Tory’s is next to hers, and Lacey’s is on the other side. We have offices for other employees, too. The office I moved into has a view of Mount Hood through a window that stretches across the entire light pink wall. It has white wood furniture, including a circular table, a huge white desk, a white dresser, and a pink fainting couch. Grandma likes the homey look.

  The pink fainting couches were my grandma’s idea. My grandma said that when she was young and starting the company, she was often hungry and sometimes felt faint. Hence, we have pink fainting couches all over, “to remind me that I know where my next meal is coming from and to always be grateful,” she says.

  Currently Sharon Latrouelle uses a fainting couch almost all day on the production floor because she gave her best friend a kidney and is still recovering. Roz Buterchof uses one, too, because she lost half a leg to cancer three months ago and needs to rest. Grandma paid her for the two months she was not in the office. Roz has worked for us for twenty-five years.

  The company is wholly owned by my grandma. My mother, who is currently out on a book tour, as she is a nationally renowned sex therapist, doesn’t want the company.

  Therein lies a huge problem for my grandma.

  Who will take over?

  I swallowed hard at the thought of what I knew she wanted me to do.

  I looked into a mirror with an ornate white frame hanging on the wall of my office.

  I looked like pale, worn-out, skinny crap.

  I looked around my pink office.

  I did not want to work. I did not want to inherit this company.

  I wanted to crawl into a dark cave and hide.

  “Oh, Meeegie! There you are, Meeegie!”

  I smiled back at Kalani Noe. We were on a Skype chat. Kalani calls me Meeegie. As in, Meee Gee. She cannot say “Meggie.” She is the manager/owner of our Sri Lanka factory. I met her ten years ago; she’s about five years older than me. At the time of our interview her face was all beaten up.

  She applied for a job at the factory as a seamstress. Her husband did not want her to have a job. A job meant independence. A job meant money. Both threats to him. Her lip was split in half. One eye was swollen shut, and there was a purple bruise down her left cheek. During the interview, she kept dabbing at her ear, which her husband had partially bitten off.

  “Hello. I Kalani. I want work here. Please. I work good. No blood tomorrow on face. Yes? I work here?”

  That was about the extent of her English.

  It was good enough.

  She worked her way up, she learned English, and she got rid of the husband because she had a job, and money, and independence. Later she bought the factory, partially with a loan from my grandma.

  “I glad to see you, Meeegie. I glad!”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Kalani. Wonderful, actually.”

  “Meeegie, you back?” She put her hands to her black hair. “You work for Grandma company now?”

  “Yes, I’m back, Kalani.”

  “Oh me. Oh my. All these years. Now you back, Meeegie.” She waved at me, both hands. “You come home. Finally. Good girl. You good lady. I glad. Family. Stick together. You grandma need you. She old woman now, I tell her that. She too old.”

  I pictured Kalani telling my grandma she was an old woman, too old. It wasn’t pretty.

  “Here at factory me, my momma, brother wife, other brother number two wife, niece, five here, no kid for me. Ya. That too bad, but I have the many niece and nephew, right?”

  “Right, Kalani.” Kalani had no children, she explained to Tory years ago, because her ex-husband hit her too many times “in the baby place, one time with bat, one time hammer,” and she could not get pregnant now. “How are you?”

  Kalani was good, she told me, except that her brother’s number two wife had put a curse on her and now she had a rash because of the curse, so she cursed her brother’s wife with a “fat butt. Now she have fat butt
. That from me. But my brother like. He like her fat butt. Not so good curse.” She sighed, crestfallen, then smiled. “Hey, Meeegie, I got boyfriend. Ya. He cute. Bang bang for me, but I no marry. He want marry, I say no way, Jose. That not his name. Name not Jose. I got that from Tory. You know, Tory?”

  I assured her I knew Tory.

  “You two no look like each other. That okay, that okay. She dark, eyes like gold cat, you pale, eyes like brown. Tory say she bad girl. She fun! She teach me okay be naughty.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I muttered.

  “She teach me women have pow—how you say—power. Women make decision. Not men. Men think with wiggly thing, balls knock together, you know? Women think with brain. Tory teach me men don’t have no good brains. I think she right. They think sex—money. Nothing else. Women they think business. Tory taught me, I the boss of my life, not no stupid men. I like it. I like being boss. I good boss to myself. No bad more husband for me. Last husband, he boom-boom my face, nose in wrong place on my face, see?” She pointed to her nose. It was indeed off at an angle.

  “You have a nice nose, Kalani, and I’m sorry about the husband. He was a pig.”

  “You no be sorry! He do it. I run away and he die in motorcycle accident, going fast, trying to hunt me. Like a hunter.” She mimicked shooting someone with a gun. “God good to me. He kill my husband, thank you, God. I live and I work for you and you old grandma and that funny Tory and Laceeey!”

  “And we’re so happy you work for us, Kalani.” I tried to get her to talk about the factory, the designs, a few issues we were having with products, the dye, the shipments, etc.

  But first she wanted to talk about American TV. “These TV shows about New Jersey. They true, they true? What about everyone have gun in America? That true you think? Everyone skinny, have fast car? And you find husband on TV show? Everybody do it that way? That how you marry?”