Becoming Mona Lisa Page 3

  “I'm Denise. I'd be happy to help you,” she lied. “Why don't you have a seat over here,” she offered, motioning toward a counter fully stocked with cosmetics.

  “Why don't I,” I said, taking a seat on an uncomfortable stool that clearly said I wasn't welcome to linger. “I'm Mona. I stopped taking care of myself five years ago. I'd like to start again.”

  “I appreciate your honesty,” Denise said, flashing the fake smile again. “What kind of cosmetics do you normally use?”

  “None.”

  “And your beauty regimen?” she squeaked, and I sensed she was forgetting to breathe.

  “You're kidding, right?” I said, and Denise made a small noise I assumed was a laugh, but could have been the beginning of suffocation. “It's okay to laugh,” I said. “And, it's okay to wish you'd been kidnapped this morning and stuffed in the trunk of your car. Look, I wouldn't want to help me, either.”

  “You have an excellent sense of humor, Mona,” Denise said, sounding more relaxed.

  “Looks aren't everything!” I blurted, and Denise actually laughed.

  “You're very pretty, Mona. You just need some help.”

  You have no idea. “Can you help me, Denise?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “Jeez, perhaps I shouldn't have led off with the wisecracks.”

  “I wasn't being sarcastic,” Denise said defensively.

  “Oh.” I checked my watch. I had a little over two hours. “What can we do, in say, thirty minutes?”

  “We can work miracles.”

  Denise flew into a frenzy, and thirty-two minutes later I was gazing into a mirror at a woman I almost recognized. “What did you do?” I asked a little breathlessly.

  “I simply accentuated your positives,” Denise said, and I figured it was a canned response, but totally bought it anyhow.

  “You're damn good, Denise.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I'd like to buy everything you used, including the beauty regimen we discussed,” I said with conviction, pulling out my Kohl's charge and the gift card. “I'm prepared to give up a kidney if necessary.”

  “We don't accept body parts,” Denise said, and I laughed, as she rang up my enormous pile of cosmetics.

  “That will be $184.12,” she said, and this time I was the one not breathing.

  “No shit,” I said.

  “No shit,” Denise whispered.

  “Any wiggle room in that kidney policy?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay, let's use the Kohl's charge,” I said, handing the card to Denise. She hit some keys, produced a small white slip, and handed me a pen. “Here goes,” I said, signing away my life. “About how long will all this last?” I asked.

  “The moisturizing products, a while. The makeup, about a month, maybe two.”

  “Sheesh. Can you work on that body part policy before I see you again?” I asked.

  “I'll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Denise.”

  “Thank you, Mona.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  “Thanks, you do the same. Come back again,” Denise said, and although I suspected she was genuinely relieved to get rid of me, she sounded sincere.

  I spent the next thirty minutes in the Misses department. When I was done, I had two new sweaters, a white blouse that was actually white, two pairs of jeans, a dress I'd snagged from the clearance rack, a zero-balance gift card, and another fifty bucks on my Kohl's charge.

  “Not bad,” I congratulated myself.

  I needed to do something for Tom, something unexpected, so I took a quick trip through the Men's department, but found nothing suitable.

  Your wife's an asshole. Have a new tie.

  Not gonna cut it.

  I dragged my bags back to the parking lot and hopped into the Jeep. It had begun to rain, and I hit the wipers. “What the hell?” I griped, as a flier stopped in the middle of the windshield, glued there by precipitation. I reached out the driver's side window and pulled the soggy paper into the truck.

  “The Sheraton. Well, what do you know about that.” I glanced in the rear view mirror, which was filled with hotel. “A romantic getaway?”

  I didn't know what the hell Tom and I would do on a romantic getaway, but I didn't see where it could hurt.

  I swung the Jeep around the parking lot, and pulled in front of the hotel.

  Your wife's an asshole, have some room service.

  This could work.

  I got out of the Jeep and practically skipped to the front door. If I'd been paying attention, which I wasn't, or if the sun had been out, which it wasn't, I might have noticed - reflected in the sparkling-clean door - a familiar deer car. I might have seen the driver, and the horror and disbelief in his face. I didn't see that, either.

  I opened the door, and stepped into the lobby.

  Won't Tom be surprised.

  Four

  The art of surprising someone takes careful thought.

  Those of ill planning often result in mayhem.

  By noon, I had a new hair style, a huge Kohl's bill, a good start on a new wardrobe, and was parked at the express line, covering one-half of Edith Purnell's shift. The first hour went remarkably well. I had no severe express-line offenders, and I felt as though I'd taken tentative steps toward improving the landfill that had become my life. I had failed at nearly everything I'd tried in the twelve years since I'd said the words, I do. I couldn't fail at what I knew was the last chance to save my marriage.

  At one-fifteen, things began to go downhill. My first violator had thirty-six items which she intended to pay for with a WalMart gift card. The order came to just over fifty dollars. Imagine my surprise, and hers, when I discovered the gift card had only ten bucks remaining.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered, and I threw a sympathetic glance at the elderly man who was next in line. He turned as fast as his aging body would allow and checked the remaining lines, each of which overflowed with the retirement crowd.

  “I'm sorry,” I mouthed, and he shrugged. He looked down at the single item he held, eighteen chocolate chip cookies I imagined he'd planned to share with his geriatric wife over their afternoon decaf.

  “Perhaps they can help you at Customer Service, sir,” I said softly, as the woman dug frantically through her worn, pleather hobo bag. The toddler in her cart sneezed, bodily fluids flew everywhere, and the old man cringed. I reached under the counter and groaned silently.

  Where the hell had my co-workers hidden the disinfectant, and the antibacterial hand sanitizer?

  “I don't have enough money,” the woman said, and I imagined myself at the Sheraton's Honeymoon Suite, a few hundred yards from Denise's makeup counter. “Can we put some of it back?”

  “How much do you have?” I asked, smiling Denise's smile.

  “Thirteen bucks,” she whispered, and the old man with the cookies moved his hand to his chest.

  “Here's what I'm going to do,” I said. “Let's void the entire thing, and if you don't mind, I'd like to check out Mr. Cookies here.”

  “Thank you, sweet Jesus,” the old man whispered breathlessly.

  The young woman stepped aside, and I hit the magic button that set my light flashing.

  Beth waddled toward me, and I checked the clock. I had ninety minutes remaining. I wondered if I'd survive.

  “I need a Void,” I said, and Beth reached into her apron pocket and produced a massive number of keys. She popped the smallest key into the register, and hit three buttons.

  A white slip popped out of the machine, and she fastened it to her clipboard.

  “All set,” she said.

  “I'll take you now, sir,” I offered, and the old man, with some effort, released the cookies from his arthritic fingers. “That will be three dollars, even,” I said, and he handed me a twenty.

  I punched the appropriate keys, and my drawer popped open. I gave him his change, and stood slack jawed as he handed the ten, the five, and b
oth one-dollar bills to the young woman. “You need this more than I do,” he said, and her eyes welled with tears.

  “Thank you. I'm really sorry. It's been a rotten year,” she said defensively, and the old man smiled. I got a glimpse of what he'd looked like as a young man, and I imagined he was quite magnificent.

  I also saw the woman for the first time. She was my height, and if she hadn't been tired and worn, she would have been pretty, perhaps beautiful. She was younger than I, yet aged by a life undefined by numerical years. Her blond hair was tucked into an elastic band, and tiny tendrils framed the small face pinched from stress. For a moment I stared at her.

  She was just another version of Mona Siggs, and I wondered how often she looked in the mirror, and asked herself what the hell had gone wrong.

  I couldn't imagine the horror she must have felt. She was probably doing her best, and on the display in the middle of WalMart, she'd been reminded that it just wasn't enough.

  “The years go fast, my dear. Try to get things worked out,” the man said, before he walked laboriously from my checkout. With seventeen dollars, he'd come close to restoring my faith in humanity.

  “Dear God, give me strength,” the woman whispered, and before I could stop myself, I was reaching into my right-hand pocket.

  “Here,” I said, handing her a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill.

  “I can't,” she said, and the tears she'd been holding back slid down her cheeks.

  “You can.”

  “My husband left last week. He cleaned out the checking account before he did. I've been off work because Teddy's had pneumonia,” she whispered, and as sympathetic as I was to her plight, my mind wandered to thoughts of the missing Purell. “Do you have a husband, Mona?” she asked, gazing at my name tag.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he nice?” she asked.

  “He's wonderful,” I said, wondering if I, too, might cry.

  “Hang onto him,” she said.

  “I plan to,” I said, praying it wasn't too late.

  “I'll pay you back,” she said, as I began rerunning the thirty-six items over the infrared sensor.

  “You already have,” I whispered, and she noticeably relaxed.

  I bagged the items, while she wiped Teddy's nose with a wrinkled Kleenex.

  “Who was that man?” she asked, and I shrugged.

  “I don't know.”

  “I'll never forget him. I'm Carla, by the way,” the woman said, extending her hand, which I shook. “I won't be forgetting you, either. Oh, and here's your change.”

  “Keep it. Take Teddy to McDonalds or something. There's a value to fries that defies any nutritional wrongdoing,” I said, and Carla smiled.

  “Thank you, Mona. I'm going to do that.”

  Now life lessons, especially at WalMart, are in short supply. I wondered if it was fate that led me to work a three-hour shift for an A&E junkie. I was struck by the act of kindness I'd witnessed, by how it moved me. I suspected I would also remember the old man. He reminded me of another great man, a husband so unlike the dickhead Carla described.

  I finished the rest of my shift without issue and cashed out my drawer. By ten past three, I was in the Jeep headed home. I checked my appearance in the rear view mirror. If I had to say so, I looked pretty hot. My hair was still salon perfect, and Denise's miracle was holding up pretty well.

  I was home in less than twelve minutes. I rounded the corner and saw a familiar car.

  “Crap,” I whispered.

  I'd hoped to change into the dress before he arrived. I grabbed all three bags from the backseat, closed the door, and shuffled up the pitted sidewalk. Leaves crunched beneath my feet, and I found myself in a finer mood than I'd been in a long-ass time.

  I opened the front door, and was greeted by a typical silence. The radio was off, the television dark. The kitchen was vacant, and I set my bags on the floor in the hallway.

  “Tom?” I called.

  No response.

  I continued down the hall to the room I shared with my husband. An assortment of clothes was folded neatly, and piled on the bed. “What the hell?” I whispered. “Tom?”

  I checked the spare bedroom, which should have been an office, but was filled to the gills with Aunt Ida's hoard of Fangerhouse shit. I found nothing unexpected inside, such as a missing husband.

  “Tom?” I called again, louder this time. The bathroom door was closed, and I knocked gently. “Tom?”

  “What do you want?” he asked, sounding strange.

  “What's wrong?”

  “Go away,” he said, and at this point I was genuinely worried.

  “No. Tell me what's wrong.”

  “Why would you care, Mona?” he asked, sounding wounded.

  “I'm coming in.”

  “I could be naked,” he warned.

  “You don't sound naked.”

  “How does naked sound?” Tom asked, and I smiled weakly.

  “Not like you sound. I'm coming in, Tom.”

  “Okay,” he said, and I entered the bathroom. He sat, fully dressed, on the toilet seat with a pile of shredded wallpaper in his lap. He wore the expression of a boy who had lost his dog to a busy, city street.

  “How long have you been in here?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the tub.

  “A long time.”

  “What's wrong? Did something happen to your mom?” I asked. Tom's mother was a widow who lived in the neighboring town. Tom's father had died of pancreatic cancer when we were in college. It had left a wound in my husband's heart that remained raw despite the passing of time.

  “Mom's fine.”

  “Are you going to tell me what's going on?”

  “I don't know what to say,” he said.

  “Did you get fired?” I asked, and finally he looked at me.

  “Would I still have that fucking car if I did?” he asked, and while I was tempted to laugh, I didn't. Tom Siggs never used that word. Something was horribly wrong, and I had a feeling my husband was going to make me work to find out what.

  “Tom, please. Please tell me what's wrong,” I begged.

  “I don't know where to start,” he whispered in a voice thick with emotion.

  “Just start.”

  “Do you love me, Mona?”

  “Yes, Tom. I do.”

  Something was happening, and although I was scared to death, I felt relieved we were finally discussing our present state of misery.

  “You never say it.”

  “I know,” I admitted.

  “Why?” Tom asked.

  “That's the part I don't know, but I'm working on it.”

  “You have an interesting way of doing that.”

  “You don't like my hair?” I asked, and Tom looked at me again.

  “This has nothing to do with your hair.”

  “Oh. What does it have to do with?” I asked, and he hung his head and remained silent. “What the hell is wrong?” I asked, sharper than I intended.

  Tom flew off the toilet seat. Bits of wallpaper scattered everywhere. He turned and I saw something alarming in his eyes.

  “Okay, Mona. Let me ask you this. Exactly how many penises did you see today?”

  “What??” I said, nearly shouting.

  “Answer the question!!” Tom commanded, standing between me and the door. I felt the first inklings of fear. I was trapped in an eight-by-eleven room with a madman.

  “What the hell kind of question is that?” I asked, finding myself shouting as well.

  “ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION!” Tom screamed, and I started to cry.

  “One,” I whimpered, and Tom looked like someone had hit him.

  “Holy Mary Mother of God. No fucking way,” Tom muttered, trying to pace in the tiny space.

  “Tom, what is this?” I said.

  “It's Thurman?” he asked, no longer shouting. He looked at me and I saw sadness, confusion, and disgust in his eyes.

  “What's Thurman?” I asked, totally confused, but slightly
less frightened.

  “The man you met at the Sheraton?”

  “What?”

  “I saw you,” Tom said, the volume of his voice beginning to rise again. “I saw you at the Sheraton. If you'd been thinking about something other than your boyfriend, you might have seen me, too. I saw you with your fancy makeup, and the spring in your step!”

  I felt like someone who had finally found Waldo, as everything clicked.

  “You saw me,” I whispered, and although it wasn't a question, Tom nodded. “You've tortured yourself for hours over this, haven't you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You still love me?” I asked bravely, my voice barely audible.

  “Yes. I still do.”

  “I wasn't meeting a man at the Sheraton,” I said, and Tom looked at me again.

  “A woman?” he said, and although he sounded sad, I could see his man-gears turning.

  “No.”

  “Then what, Mona?”

  “I was booking us a romantic getaway.”

  “Who?”

  “Us. You and me,” I said, and my Tom started to laugh. I laughed, too. Whatever psychotic episode had occurred, I was pretty sure it had passed. I relaxed, no longer afraid Norman Bates might pop out of my shower.

  “You scared me,” Tom whispered, and I sighed loudly.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I like your hair,” he said, and I smiled.

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” he said, reaching out to touch it. I couldn't remember the last time he had touched me, and the contact felt foreign.

  “You thought I was banging Thurman?” I asked, and Tom sighed.

  “Not until you told me you'd only seen one penis today,” he replied as the corners of his mouth turned into a weak smile.

  “I would think you'd give me credit for having better taste than that.”

  “Do you have good taste?” he asked.

  “I married you, didn't I?” Tom chuckled weakly, then fell silent. We sat quietly for a moment in the ugly bathroom, like two uncertain people at an important crossroad.

  “What happened to us, Mona?” he asked, reaching for my hand.

  “I don't know.”

  “Can we come back from this?” Tom looked at me and I shuddered. I wanted to lie to him, but I couldn't. He deserved the truth.