Calm, Cool, and Adjusted (13 page)

“No, really. It’s not that I don’t want them, just that I don’t see them in my future.” I don’t mention this has a lot to do with my assessing the gene pool or thinking about my own. Which would be better termed a cesspool.

“I want four,” he says.

I laugh out loud. “Is that your way of avoiding second dates? I’ve heard some good ones, Jeff, but that’s pretty fantastic from the unattainable standpoint.”

“No, really, I want four.”

“All men who work twelve-hour days say that. Of course, they want four; they’re not going to be there to deal with the long days and the diapers and the food on the wall. They just go to the office and boast about all their kids.”

“Is that what you think? Who has to earn the college money for those four kids? Who has to romance his wife when she’s grumpy at the end of the day? That’s right, the man.”

“How do you know so much about this?”

“My mentor. He had five kids. I’m lowering my expectations to account for the busier pace of homework and expectations of the workplace now.”

Aren’t you generous?

“And men have to be responsible for everything that goes on in their home. They have to manage it, according to the Bible.”

“You’re talking about pretty straightforward roles.”

“I am. Call me a Neanderthal, but I like roles. I’m comfortable with roles. I want my future wife to stay at home and spoon-feed our children and sing lullabies to them, work in their classrooms, and bake cookies in the afternoon.”

“How romantic,” I purr. “Good luck with that. My mother always worked. My father stayed home with me and worked on his art. I survived.”

“I’m not putting anyone down, Poppy, only saying I like traditional roles. Like I said, call me a Neanderthal, and perhaps God will set me straight, but it’s what I know. What I want. I set my expectations high.”

Always a good way to be disappointed.

We arrive at the restaurant, and there’s a long line out the front door. It looks like we’re going to be waiting regardless of any reservation, and I worry that our conversation starters may have run out—I mean, we’ve already dealt with death, pregnant women, and that I’m obsessive. What else is there? We’re going to have to fall back on work, unless we can stretch the menu items into two hours of conversation.

Jeff helps me out of the car and, one good thing about having Morgan’s shoes on, I don’t feel like running. But I do feel like my shoes might turn into ratty moccasins at midnight. In fact, I’m hoping they will.

“We’ve got a table in the back. I hope you don’t mind removing your shoes.”

I think about Morgan’s nylon socks stuffed at the bottom of the toe, but I mention nothing. “No, of course not.”

“Welcome, Dr. Curran,” the mâitre d’ says. And we’re led to the back without another word. Lord willing, I’ll be in running pants in less than two hours.
Just don’t bring up Mom or babies. Or health— Oh my goodness, I’ve retired my entire repertoire and we’re not even sitting yet.

We’re led to the back booth, where Jeff opens a paper wall door for me. There are pillows to sit on. As I slip out of the shoes, one of Morgan’s nylons sticks to my nylons as though they’re breeding, and I’ve got this bulbous balloon of stocking at the end of my toe. Jeff notices, but he says nothing, and I just reach down and pull it off with an awful Velcro sound. It wouldn’t be noticed if it weren’t for the quiet back room. I should probably explain why my shoes don’t fit, but why bother. This is the last time I’ll have to endure dinner with someone like Dr. Jeff. Besides, he seems to like his women barefoot and stove bound.

As we’re seated (not so easy on a pillow in this tight skirt, I might add) Jeff looks at me, and I meet his gaze. In another lifetime, I might think he was incredibly adorable. All right, the truth is I do think that. But it ticks me off.

“So I imagine you’re wondering why I brought you here to this quiet little restaurant.”

Actually, I wasn’t.
Which may only prove my naïveté. I just lift my eyebrows in answer.

“It’s about your office.”

I feel my stomach drop. “M-my office?”

“I’m sure you’ve seen just how many people our office is accommodating right now. It’s crazy.” He slaps his forehead as though he can’t imagine how this happened. Naturally, I can’t help but think of the myriad of color ads with his beaming, fake smile in every city magazine within the fifty-mile radius.

“That’s great. With all that business, you’ll soon be able to find your surgical building,” I say brightly. Jeff is a nice man. I’m certain he’s a Christian, but his way of “helping” the world is beyond my reach. He plays on women’s deepest fears, and I can’t help but be reminded of this as he puts on the innocent act.
Spare me.

He clears his throat, “Like I say, we’re expanding and could really use the space next door, and I wanted to find out just how long you plan to stay there.”

My thoughts are abruptly cut off. Nothing comes out of my mouth. It’s open—I can feel the cold air rushing in—but I have no words. This is it? This is what this dinner was about? Just like the great pharmaceutical conglomerate, Jeff Curran is determined to put the body natural out of business. And me dressing for the occasion, in fancy shoes like a bad Cinderella rendition. No wonder he was anxious to get me back to Santa Cruz and let that do his dirty work for him.
Well, I don’t think so.

“Poppy, you’re not upset are you?” He asks with that fake-doctor concern. The one where they rip off the prescription and send you on your way.

My mouth is still open. I realize he’s trying to upset me, and so I will not give him the satisfaction. But really, can he be this clueless? Can he think one dinner in a sushi restaurant is going to make me hand over my lease? I mean, I know it’s crowded here and all, but come on, even he can’t believe his charm is that effective.

“Upset? Why would I be upset?” I finally say. “You’re welcome to ask anything you’d like. But then again, I’m not apt to give you the answer you’d like.”

“Poppy,” he says again with his hand on my own. This is like a high school guy trying to put his arm around me in a movie.

In my most calm voice, I continue, “I’ve spent years watching the medical establishment do more harm than good for autoimmune issues and allergies—in my opinion, naturally.” I add the disclaimer just so he doesn’t latch onto that and try to start up with the charm again. “I live to heal people, to seek out the true source of their problems. I don’t believe you can heal issues like childhood tauntings with surgery.” I fixate on a koi picture on the wall. “So you see, Jeff, not only am I not closing my practice anytime soon in that space, but the idea of you expanding the plastic business is never going to be something I help along.”

I turn back towards him and watch his Adam’s apple bob nervously. “Irregardless of how you feel—”

“
Irregardless
isn’t a word, but go on.” I say calmly. Thinking to myself,
People are letting a man who uses bad grammar slice them open like a vegetable!

“Your lease is up next year, and I plan to take over your space. I thought this was an act of friendliness by telling you ahead of time, so that you might plan.”

Just like that he says it. Like he’s saying “Um, you have a little smudge on your face.” I exhale and don’t allow any expression to come across my face. I imagine he’s already taken care of these arrangements with the landlord, and I know the income he generates would make my offer, and even my legal lease, a joke. So I stand up. In the land of the lease, money always takes precedence. While he may get away with this garbage, I don’t have to be nice to him while he does so just to eliminate the guilt he should feel.

“I see.”

“You’re mad.” Jeff says, still looking handsome, albeit slimy as all get-out.

“You have to answer for the things you do in this lifetime. If this is what you want to do with your career, you go right ahead. I’ll leave without any trouble once the landlord takes action, but any guilt you feel is not my problem. I’ll find another space. My patients will follow me because they embrace real healing. Not a temporary stab of Botox to make their wayward husbands stay a bit longer.” I don’t actually have this confidence, but I think it’s great practice for the wedding because I am sounding very convincing.

“That’s really what you think I do.” He moves his eyes to the cushion to tell me to sit down. Apparently he’s afraid I might make a scene.

“I’m sure that at some point, you’ve helped a child with cleft palette, or you’ve removed someone’s painful extra skin. There are always excuses.”

He stands up himself and I think he’d slam the table if it wasn’t resting a good four feet below him. “You really think you’re a better cut of Christian than me, don’t you?”

Of course, his show is just for me. We’re in this room ourselves. I look around, wondering if somewhere his cheering fans will appear. “Does it matter what I think, Jeff?”

“I need that building for my expanding practice. This is what I was called to do.” Again he looks towards the table as if he wants to inflict violence upon it.
Ah, our caveman appears.

I nod. “So then why feel guilty? If this is what you have to do, do it. You obviously don’t need my permission anyway. Do you want me to be happy about this, Jeff? Do you not see what you’re asking me?”

“You should congratulate me that I’m in a place to grow my business in such an overcrowded field.”

This makes me laugh, but he’s completely serious. I know men are on a constant search for significance, but at some point Jeff’s got to think about others in business as well. And now would be a good time. “So I should thank you for trying to destroy my business. Is that your take? Perhaps you’re waiting for me to turn the other cheek and prove to you I’m a Christian?”

“I’m not going to destroy anything.” Jeff slowly sits down, but his jaw is still clenching uncontrollably. “Your granola-crunching fan club will follow you. I’m sure the scent you put out over there will lead them like the breadcrumbs for Hansel and Gretel.”

At this point, I feel the first sting of tears. I know Jeff feels desperate, but he can’t possibly be this selfish, this cruel. “As if the Botox crowd won’t find you for their next fix.” There’s a mirror on the wall, and I walk to it. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, is that the beginnings of a . . . gasp . . . wrinkle!”

“This is all a big joke to you, isn’t it? You are the most maddening— Why don’t you fight me, then?”

“Because I don’t have the money to fight you, and you know that, Jeff. So why even bother with this ruse that we can still be friends? That’s what this is all about, right? You destroy my business, and don’t have to feel the guilt? If you’re doing what you have to do, why bother with anything as mundane as guilt?”

“I don’t feel guilty, but my practice is too successful for you to make fun of me.”

“Like you’re making fun of me, you mean? Plastic surgery is epidemic in California. Probably across the nation.” I shrug. “There are physically healthy people out there who want to be more beautiful. That’s your gig. I’m not looking for those patients, and you’re right—mine will follow me because they need help. I’m realistic, and money always wins, and since I’m not in it for the money, we know what that means.”

“You’re saying I am, I understand.” Jeff is a subtle blend of red and orange. If he believed in auras, his would be on fire at the moment and emanating from his ears.

“Jeff, I’m not going to apologize to you while you try to shut the doors of my business, nor am I going to give you the kudos you want to hear for how successful you are.” The waitress comes to the room but hears our raised voices and quickly retreats out the paper doors. “You’re scaring the staff. Can we have this conversation later? I’m hungry and you’re buying.” I’m not about to storm out and let him off the hook for dinner. I deserve that much. I wore heels.

I wonder if there’s lobster sushi.
I peruse the menu.

“All the more reason you should just walk from the lease. You’re happy with the size of your business, and I haven’t yet begun.”

People and their quest for money puzzle me. What more can you do with it? How much more can you buy? It’s disgusting, quite frankly. I sit back down and gaze around the paper room. “So is this where you bring women to break up with them?” I ask, taking note of the waitress’s strange retreat. “What do you do, pull a
Bachelor
on them?”

“A
Bachelor
?”

“It’s a reality show where a guy who’s supposedly a catch makes out with multiple women, usually in a hot tub so the network can get the obligatory plastic surgery work on camera, then picks a woman at the end, and the rest go home angry and meowing, only to find out later he was macking everything in a skirt on national television, and it wasn’t really true love after all.”

“And you watch this?”

“Sometimes. It’s like a car accident. I can’t help myself,” I admit. “So you’re not answering my question. Is this where you cut the ties?”

“I’m just not buying this calm, cool, and collected bit, Poppy. Tell me how to proceed with this.”

“I think that’s a conversation for your lawyer. They do have lobster sushi!” The waitress comes in and starts to back off once again. “Wait.” I tell her. “Can you get us some green tea? He’s trying to break up with me, but I want to eat first.” I giggle as she retreats.

“That wasn’t nice.”

“Neither was telling me you were bringing me to dinner with no discussion of work, when your goal was purely to have me shred my lease.”

“That wasn’t the reason I brought you to dinner. It just seemed convenient.”

“Of course it was. You got into the restaurant where you dump your girlfriends, and you thought it would be just as easy to dump me here too. Understandable.”

“Only once did I break up with anyone here. You’re right, she got a little hysterical.” He shrugs and his face contorts as though he had no idea she would lose it in this way. Obviously, he had some sort of idea or he would have done it privately. He was hoping for her fear of humiliation to save him. At least, that’s what I’m guessing.