Locating the nearest ladies’ room, I run inside and slam the door behind me. But there’s no escaping the resiliency of the eagles. They’ve soared their way in here as well, at least a hundred of them, flapping their wings for freedom, hovering, circling, diving, intent on breaking out of their embroidered wallpaper prison. An Aztec tapestry hangs on the wall above the toilet, adding a certain I-don’t-know-what . . . turquoiseness to the mix. A miniature cactus sits in a pot on the sink, crooked and lonely.
I drop to my knees, lean over the toilet, yank back the seat, and heave.
She’s here. In this awful, kitschy, eagle-soaring hellhole.
It pours out of me . . .
Lonely.
All the semi-digested contents of my stomach . . .
Lost.
God, it stinks in here.
She’s here.
Sometimes, when it gets bad like this, I imagine my heart, my stomach, my liver, kidneys, and spleen, all the innards of Mary Iris Malone, pouring out of me like a hose, leaving behind a sagging skin–shell, a deflated air mattress, a soft mannequin. I’d be Born-Again Mim. A fresh start. One hell of a New Beginning.
I collapse on the bath mat (an altogether hideous depiction of cowboys and Indians, complete with stampeding buffalo and six-shooters) and try to catch my breath. A minute later, there’s a knock on the door.
“Mim? You okay?”
I sit up, take a long pull of paper towels and wipe my mouth. “Be right out!”
Above the toilet, a sign reads:
USE TRASH CAN FOR PAPER TOWELS AND FEMININE PRODUCTS
DO NOT FLUSH
And like dominoes, the memories tumble; a yellow-tinted bathroom knocks over the most Carlish Carl, knocks over Arlene, knocks over old wisdom, knocks over youthful innocence, knocks over, knocks over, knocks over . . .
Looking at the handle on the toilet, I smile. Young Mim of Not So Long Ago, upon discovering the well of friendship to be completely tapped, found new friends, an ensemble cast of saviors.
Mom is here, in this stinking place. But this time, there are no Carls or Arlenes or Pale Whales or Karate Kids or Fabulous Walts or Consummate Beck Van Burens to save the day. There is only Our Heroine, and once again, she is on her own.
At the sink, I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth. There is no mirror, so I stare at the droopy cactus.
Lonely.
Crooked.
A trash can sits in the corner, boasting perfect trajectory. With precision, with skill, with lionhearted determination, I swipe the potted cactus across the room and into the trash can—hole in one. I wipe my hands on my jeans, exiting the Southwestern ladies’ room forever and ever, and good riddance.
Down the hall, Kathy is talking to a guy at the reception desk. He’s tall, attractive, a few years older than me. As I approach, my stepmom straightens up. “You okay?”
I nod, then smile at the receptionist, who, upon closer inspection, really isn’t good-looking at all. Like a connoisseur of fine wines lost in a hack’s vineyard, I have been spoiled rotten by the beauty of Beck Van Buren.
“You must be Mim,” he says through crooked teeth. “And how are you today?”
“Swell. Listen, I just chunked in your ladies’ room, so you might wanna spritz something piney in there. Or floral. Whatever you have in stock. It should be strong though. Weighty, you know?”
He gapes at me, growing uglier by the minute. “I’m sorry, you . . . you what?”
“I ralphed.”
He tilts his head.
“Drove the porcelain bus?” I say. “Ate in reverse? Buicked my Kia?”
Now they’re both staring.
“I vomited in your bathroom, man. And now the place stinks to high heavens.”
They’re still staring, but with completely different looks on their faces.
“Also, can I get a Mountain Dew?” I ask, smacking my lips. “It’s like I just chewed a tube of wood glue or something.”
The receptionist gives Kathy a look that I interpret to mean Is she serious? Kathy’s eyes respond with Deadly. Mildly Attractive Male Receptionist scurries off, presumably after a Mountain Dew.
“Come on,” says Kathy, starting down the hallway.
“What about my drink?”
“You wanna spend any more time here than you have to?”
Next to me, Daniel Boone’s bust is wearing a who, me? smile.
I jog to catch up with Kathy, noticing, not for the first time, what a curious walk she has. It’s equal parts sass, z-snap, and street smarts. Her earrings jangle, her artificial curls bob, her too-tight jeans ride, her acrylic nails click, her bedazzled belt sparkles, her pregger boobs bounce—in this moment, I must applaud Kathy, and all the delusional fashionistas before her, clinging just as fiercely to their lost youth as they are their fake Louis Vuittons.
She hands me a slip of paper with the number 22 written in a mildly attractive handwriting. As we pass room 11, sweat beads across my forehead. I feel—and hear—my heart pounding against its adjacent innards, sending vibrations through my rib cage, my recently emptied stomach, my skin, my Zeppelin tee, my red hoodie.
Room 17 passes in a blur. God, we’re walking fast.
The narrow hallway is consistent in design with the rest of the place: nature-y oil paintings, plush carpeting, flowery wallpaper with a bunch of ridiculous eag— “You ready?” whispers Kathy.
“What?”
She points to the door: room 22. On the other side, I hear the clear, deep baritone of a man who has lived his life.
40
The Drive Back
September 6—noon