What Looks Like Crazy Read online

  I ate a piece of leftover chicken and took a walk. It was a start. Although it was still light outside, I could see families inside their houses, gathered at dining room tables. I passed a man in one yard, pitching a ball to his son.

  I felt the familiar lump in my throat, and I was okay with it because it beat the hell out of sitting alone inside my house, which I had spent too many months doing. Granted, people had a right to grieve, but I was tired of grieving. I’d seen too many patients get comfortable in their grief; they wore it like an old sweater. Friends and family made excuses for them. Less was expected. I did not want to live like that.

  Thad was right: I had to move on.

  By the time I headed home, I’d made a decision. I was tired of feeling crummy about my ruined marriage and my life in general. I was ready to start living again. There was possibility and adventure and real joy out there, and I was ready to find it. It was not likely to knock on my front door, turn off my television, and drag me from the sofa.

  I got so excited at the prospect of the new and adventuresome life that lay ahead that I started jogging. I hadn’t jogged since college. I made it two blocks before I got a stitch in my side and became dizzy, but I ignored it. By the time I reached my front door, I was nauseous. Maybe I was overdoing it. Maybe I should ease slowly into my new life instead of jumping in with both feet and swimming toward it madly.

  I unlocked my door, crossed the living room, and fell in a heap on my sofa. I reached for the remote control and turned to The Movie Channel because I could usually count on films to have happy endings.

  On Friday, I saw one of my patients out and returned to my desk to work on my progress chart. I had made a list of short-and long-term goals. I was going to start taking better care of myself. I was going to stop eating frozen dinners and takeout, and I was going to start preparing healthy meals so that I didn’t clog my arteries with gunk. Next to my list of goals was my grocery list, all fresh vegetables. I would need to buy a vegetable steamer. I added it to my list. Maybe I’d become a vegetarian or a vegan. I’d go to dinner with friends and they would applaud my disciplined lifestyle when I turned up my nose at red meat.

  I tried to imagine a life without steaks or burgers. What would I eat fries with?

  I asked myself whether I was using my lists and charts as avoidance behavior so that I didn’t have to think about seeing Jay. I began making a list of what signs to look for in avoidance behavior.

  “Kate?”

  I looked up and found Mona standing in the doorway. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to hear about Liam, because I’d already learned more about him than I wanted to know. “I’m sort of busy,” I said.

  Mona stepped inside and closed the door. “Alice Smithers is outside,” she said quietly. “She asked if you could possibly work her in this afternoon. She doesn’t look so good, and her outfit is all wrong.”

  I gave an inward sigh. I knew I had no choice but to see Alice. My next patient wasn’t due in for half an hour.

  That’s the problem with being a psychologist. People are always expecting you to help them solve their problems, even when your own life has fallen into the toilet.

  “Okay, send her in,” I said. I gathered up my lists and charts and stuffed them into my center drawer. I stood and greeted Alice. Behind her, Mona was making faces and pointing to Alice’s clunky shoes. Indeed, they wouldn’t have been my first choice. “Please sit down, Alice,” I said as Mona closed the door.

  Alice sat on the sofa. “I’m so sorry to just barge in on you like this, Dr. Holly, but my situation is desperate.”

  I took the chair beside her. “What has happened since I last saw you?”

  “I’ve made a grave error. I was so worried about finding another job and trying to pay my bills on time that I decided to get a roommate.”

  “That was quick,” I said.

  “Her name is Liz Jones. She’s a cocktail waitress. Last night was her first night, and she invited her boyfriend over. His name is Roy. I could tell he was a big loser the minute I laid eyes on him. They drank and played music all night. I don’t think I got more than ten minutes’ sleep. Not only that, they trashed my kitchen and raided my refrigerator.”

  “Did you say anything to her?”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.”

  “I see.” Stupid me. I’d forgotten Alice preferred vats of boiling oil to confrontation.

  “Besides, they were still in bed when I left.”

  “Did you ask Liz for references before you agreed to let her move in?”

  Alice looked down at her feet. Her face was red, and I could tell she was embarrassed, but I didn’t know whether it was due to her circumstances or whether she’d just realized what bad taste she had in footwear.

  “No,” she said. “I know it was a bad decision, Dr. Holly, but—”

  “Kate,” I said.

  Alice nodded and yanked several tissues from the box. “My life is such a mess.”

  I nodded. If I had a dollar for each time I’d heard those words, I could afford to live next door to Mona. “How are things at work?”

  Alice shrugged. “We’ve sort of called a truce while I look for another job. I sent out several resumes, but I haven’t heard anything. It’s too soon.” She removed her glasses and mopped fresh tears. “Boy, I really screwed up.”

  “Sounds to me as though Liz, not to mention her boyfriend, is only adding more stress to your life, and that’s the last thing you need,” I said. “You may have to ask her to leave. And tell her to take Roy with her,” I added.

  Alice began wringing her hands. “I don’t know. I was really counting on that money. She promised to have five hundred dollars for me on payday. That’s half my mortgage payment.”

  “You didn’t ask for money up front?” I asked, trying to keep the amazement out of my voice.

  She gave an enormous sigh. “No.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was just unfathomable that Alice Smithers would take in a complete stranger without references or at least some kind of deposit.

  “I know I did a stupid thing,” she said. “I know I’m going to have to push for the money and set ground rules, even if it kills me.”

  “Most definitely,” I said, hoping we had made some progress.

  On Saturday morning Francois ushered us through the back door of his salon and led me to a chair. It was all very chic, with soothing spa colors. Francois wore black skintight denim with a loose-fitting white linen shirt. He picked through my hair and gave a dainty sniff. “Dees hair does not vork. Eeet is all vrong.”

  I looked at Mona. “What did he say?”

  Mona shrugged. “I have no idea. Cut out the gay Frenchman act, Frank. Speak English.”

  “The hair sucks, babe,” he said, sounding more like a bartender in a cowboy bar.

  “Can you do anything with it?” Mona asked.

  “It can be salvaged, but she’ll need a good cut, and I strongly recommend a new color.”

  I looked from Mona to Frank. “You’re going to dye my hair? I don’t want you to dye my hair.” Frank gave me a hard look, threw up his hands, and stalked away.

  Mona frowned. “Great! You just hurt his feelings.”

  “I don’t want him to dye my hair!” I repeated, knowing I sounded like a broken record. “I thought I was here to get a trim.”

  “The man is a professional,” Mona said. “He knows his stuff.”

  “He might know hair,” I whispered, “but he doesn’t know squat about French. That’s the worst French accent I’ve ever heard.”

  We both looked toward Frank. He was sitting at the far end of the salon, arms crossed, chin hitched high. “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  “Pouting.” Mona hurried toward him. “Frank, Kate is so sorry she hurt your feelings. She is very confused and depressed right now, which is why she let herself go to begin with. Please forgive her.”

  He sighed. Finally he stood and walked toward me. “Here’s the deal,”
he said. “Your hair is too long. It makes your face droop, and that adds age. I can cut it, add highlights, and take ten years off your face. It’s your call.”

  I knew my mouth was hanging open. I had not realized I looked that awful. Bad enough that I was shaking in my heels at the thought of seeing Jay again; I didn’t want him to think I’d turned into a hag. “You can really make me look ten years younger?”

  “Give or take a couple of years. I’ll have to call Collette in to do your makeup.” He picked up my hand, studied my nails. “Oh, hell.” He dropped my hand. “I’ll have to call Paulette to do your nails.”

  He looked at Mona. “You are going to so owe me.”

  It was after five by the time I left the salon with Mona at my side, my makeover complete. I didn’t recognize the woman who’d stared back at me in the mirror once Frank, aka Francois, and his team of experts had finished. All I could do was gape at the incredible job they’d done. My long dark hair had been streaked with reddish-gold highlights and cut in a sassy style that barely grazed my shoulders. My makeup was flawless, and I had been given careful instructions on how to reproduce the look on my own, which accounted for the large bag of beauty products I carried.

  Mona and I climbed into her Jaguar and sat there for a moment. She grinned. I grinned. “I look really good, don’t I?” I said, having witnessed Francois’s weeping over me—the masterpiece he’d created with his own hands.

  “You rock.”

  “Good. May we eat now?”

  “Before or after we look for your dress?”

  “Dress?”

  “Honey, you have to get a dress. I recommend short, black, and sexy. You’ll need high heels to go with it, too. And you’ll need a thong.”

  “Why do I need a thong? I don’t even like thongs.”

  “Not only are you going to wear a thong, you are going to find a way to let Jay know you’re wearing a thong.”

  “Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure how I was going to work it into the conversation, but Mona had steered me right so far.

  Mona turned the key in the ignition, and her Jaguar purred. “Poor Jay,” she said. “By the time we’re finished with him, he’s going to wish you’d just tied him to the back of your car and dragged his body through the streets.”

  chapter 4

  I was dressed in my new size-six black dress and my new stilettos, waiting by the front window for Mona to arrive. Some people were meant to wear stilettos, but I am not one of them. I had been practicing walking in them for the past hour, but I was still an accident waiting in high heels.

  I was also a nervous wreck, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before I’d see Jay again. I’d never taken psychiatric drugs or tranquilizers, but I would have considered popping a Valium right about now. I probably could have asked Thad to write me a prescription, but that would have meant a trip to his hot tub, and God only knows what else. Better to risk a full-fledged nervous breakdown, I thought.

  As Mona’s white stretch limo pulled onto my street, I reached for my small black evening bag, which held the bare necessities: house key, lipstick, cash, and a hair pick.

  I hurried out, pausing briefly to lock my front door. As I walked toward the limo, I noted Bitsy’s face pressed against her window, her mouth forming a giant O. It was hard to say what shocked her more: the limo or my dress, which left little to the imagination.

  Mona’s chauffeur, Jimbo, met me at the door of the limo and opened it for me. From Mona, I had learned the correct way to get into and out of a limo. I sat on the edge of the seat—facing outward—and very daintily swung my legs around before Jimbo closed the door. According to Mona, presentation is everything when getting into and out of a limo.

  “Da-yum,” Mona said. “I barely recognize you. I think you gave Jimbo a hard-on. If he drives into a tree, it’s your fault.”

  My stomach growled in response. Mona arched one brow. “I haven’t eaten all day,” I said.

  “You want a candy bar?” She reached for her purse.

  “I can’t eat. This dress is way too tight. There’s not even room for me to eat a peanut. If I put anything in my mouth, my head will blow off.”

  “Hey, no exploding body parts in this vehicle,” Mona said. “You save that crap for cabs. Cab drivers are used to that sort of thing. I once went out with a cab driver named Kahil. You wouldn’t believe what goes on in the backseat of a cab.”

  “Pretty disgusting stuff, huh?” I said.

  Mona shrugged. “That’s the real world.”

  I just looked at her. What did Mona know about the real world? She’d lived like a princess for more than a decade. The shimmering dove gray dress she wore had probably cost twice my monthly rent. And what did she know about hunger? She could eat anything she liked and still be a size three. A normal-sized woman looked like a Wal-Mart Supercenter next to Mona.

  “Guess what Liam and I did last night?” Mona said.

  “You had sex?”

  “No, we ate Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and watched Popeye cartoons until two a.m.”

  I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “I thought that was our special thing. I can’t believe you did that with some guy you barely know.”

  She looked at me. “You’re in a sour mood.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I should never have agreed to this.”

  “You look nervous. You look like you’re on the verge of a breakdown.”

  “Of course I’m nervous,” I said. “I haven’t seen Jay in six months. And I’m annoyed at my mother for inviting him to the grand opening and putting me in this position.” Plus my thong had slipped inside my butt crack, which I found pretty disgusting.

  “Jay is going to want you back, sure as hell.”

  I gave an unladylike grunt. “We’re talking about a man. He probably met somebody as I was squealing out of the parking lot.” I had tried not to think along those lines because it hurt too much, but it was possible that he was already involved with someone. Not that he didn’t have a right, I reminded myself.

  “I’m glad Liam is different from other men,” Mona said. “He’s sensitive. Did I tell you he has dimples?”

  “Yes, I believe you mentioned it a few thousand times.”

  Mona spent the rest of the drive discussing Liam, and it was up to me to either listen or bail out of a fast-moving car and risk death. We arrived at Little Five Points and found the neighborhood in full swing, despite its being Sunday night. No doubt the tourists hoped to catch the end-of-the-month and back-to-school sales.

  Not only did tourists enjoy the area, but it also appealed to the artsy bunch, the Rasta knowledge-seekers, the tattooed, the pierced, the Goth, as well as the hip and young. It had deteriorated thirty years earlier due to racial unrest and a host of other problems. It became a haven for illegal activities, and violence had spread like a pox. But the people had fought back, and grants were approved to revitalize Little Five Points.

  The limo stopped in front of my mother and aunt’s building, where a sign read JUNQUE GALLERY AND FURNISHINGS. Mona was the first to step out. Her movie-star appearance drew stares. That she looked younger than I did, despite our being the same age, proved her Botox injections were working. I appeared right behind her, taking great care not to fall off my four-inch heels. The late August humidity was so thick, you could hang it on a clothesline. I noted the looks aimed my way, and offered up a prayer of thanks to Francois and company.

  Uncle Bump met us just inside the front door. He looked me up and down. “Holy Moses, Kate, is that really you?”

  Beside him, Aunt Lou took a long drag of her nonfiltered cigarette and looked equally impressed. “Work it, girl,” she said. Her smoker’s voice sounded as though it had been put through a paper shredder.

  “Whoa, Kate!”

  I winced inwardly at the sound of Lucien’s voice. I glanced in his direction and wondered how I could be related to a man with so many tattoos and pierced body parts.

  “You are hot!” he said, his eye
s bulging and his shaved head shiny with perspiration. “Too bad you’re my cousin, know what I mean?” He stuck out his tongue and wagged it in front of me. I shuddered at the sight of the stud through the very tip.

  Aunt Lou stepped close to him. “You do that again, and I’m going to put my cigarette out on your tongue.”

  Lucien gulped and closed his mouth.

  “Let’s move on,” Mona said breezily, taking my arm and steering me toward one of several portable bars.

  The large showroom was filled with people wearing everything from tuxedoes to caftans and jeans. An enormous sculpture made up of an assortment of clocks sat in the very center of the room, surrounded by smaller sculptures. Furniture of every imaginable design and color hugged the walls. Mona and I sipped wine and looked about.

  “I don’t see him,” I said, wondering how I could be immensely relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  “He’ll be here, don’t worry,” she insisted.

  “Kate!”

  I heard my mother’s voice and turned. She and Aunt Trixie hurried toward us. They wore matching black satin overalls with corsages of white tea roses. They stopped short and stared.

  “You look absolutely stunning,” my mother said. “Doesn’t she look stunning, Trixie?”

  “Stunning,” Trixie said. “And look at Mona.”

  “You look like celebrities,” my mother said, “except that you’re so thin.”

  “We have to stay thin and beautiful while we’re still able to breed,” Mona said.

  She smiled at Mona. “By the way, thanks for telling all your rich friends about our little store. You wouldn’t believe how many of them have come in.”

  “That’s nice,” Mona said and slipped me a smile.

  I knew that smile. I also knew that Mona, the youngest widow in her neighborhood, had, in exchange for certain favors, vowed to discourage her friends’ husbands from offering her a comforting shoulder after Mr. Moneybags died.

  A waiter suddenly appeared. Tall flutes of champagne filled his tray. Mona and I drained our wineglasses and exchanged them for the bubbly. We took turns toasting the Junk Sisters.