Page 124 of Lovebug
That is not something Mabel would normally do. But you know what Mabel also wouldn’t normally do? Mabel wouldn’t normally find out one of her counselors-in-training has effectively been stalking her. She wouldn’t discover that said girl is actually her cousin, the daughter of her long lost beloved aunt.
Mabel also doesn’t normally refer to herself in the third person.
That is an absurd thing to do—I know this—but it seems appropriate at the moment, and right in line with how I’m feeling: like I’m standing outside my body watching someone else’s life. Someone named Mabel who used to know who she was, but now doesn’t have a clue.
Last night’s visit with Chloe and Tina rocked me.
Angered me.
Confused me.
And I needed a day to get myself together.
If I’ve learned anything during this crazy month, it’s this: being the good girl sucks. It doesn’t get you anywhere, except for on people’s gullible list. It gets you cheated on by your fiancé and lied to by family members. Being a good girl makes it so everyone withholds information from you.
And there’s more. More information they aren’t telling me. I can feel it. My parents. My aunt. Chloe.
I’m realizing that maybe Calliope’s crazy idea for a Bad Mabel Experiment wasn’t so crazy after all. Clearly I didn’t give the concept enough of a chance. I mean what did I actually do? Watched a movie or two then took one look into my parents’ medicine cabinet before giving up? Lame. In my education and career I’ve always gone all in. I do all the reading, all the studying all the applying of myself all the time. But when it comes to my own emotional growth? Then I act like someone’s going to sweep into my life and magically make me into a fully functioning adult. But no one can do that for me. Not even Wally, the guy who is more of a grown-up than anyone I know.
He called and texted a bunch last night when I didn’t return to his place like I said I would. I told him enough of what happened that he wouldn’t worry, but was emphatic that I needed to be alone. Today he’s left several messages checking to see if I was okay and asking if there is anything he can do to help. I told him that there was in fact something he could do—eventually—and with no questions asked, he said he’d head over as soon as I gave him the green light that I was ready for his company.
So. Let’s review those steps my friends so graciously spelled out for me as starting points in the Bad Mabel Experiment.
Number One: Watch all the movies that were off-limits when I was a kid.
I’m all over number one. And as it turns out my mother has quite a stash hidden under her bed. Mostly from the 70s and 80s. And still on VHS. I’m learning that old-school doesn’t even begin to describe my parents. Today alone, I’ve watchedSex, Lies & Videotape,Top Gun– for a second time – andGrease. Quick wrap up on those: That monologue about the trash was amazing, Val Kilmer does way too much chin acting and—excuse my language—the end ofGreaseis a total shitshow. Right? I mean, John Travolta doesn’t take Sandy seriously until she starts smoking cigarettes and dressing like a super slender black sea lion? Who uses a ton of hairspray? Seems like bad messaging to me, but clearly Sandy was in the same disgruntled good girl boat I am, and she certainly seemed much happier once she jumped ship, so who am I to judge?On to…
Number Two: Snoop.
Cyndi will be so proud of me. I snooped like it was my job. I was in the attic, the basement, even the crawl space next to the laundry room. I explored sock drawers, underwear drawers, dusty boxes tucked at the tippy top of closets. I snooped like my life depended on it. And I did find some very puzzling items. The first was a stack of photos in my mom’s sock drawer, tucked way in the back in a soft envelope and hidden under one of the rose-scented cedar chip sachets she makes so her clothes smell nice. The photos were all of Aunt Tina. Some of her as a kid, but most as an adult, and many of them included pictures of Chloe growing up over the past fifteen years. Weird that she kept their correspondence a secret from me all these years. Really really weird. But before I could take that all in too much I found something even more alarming. In my Dad’s drawer there was a cigar box. Inside I found two passports, my mom’s and his. At first I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but then his birthyear caught my eye. 1953. I checked Mom’s. Also 1953. That would make them…sixty-eight years old, not fifty-eight like they’ve clearly been pretending. So those “slips” Dad had last month suddenly make much more sense. He was caught in a lie. But why? Why would they want me to think they’re ten years younger than they actually are?
Ding dong.
I’m interrupted from my thoughts by the doorbell. Perfect timing for…
Number Three: Get freaky in my childhood twin bed while the parents are away.
I fling open the door. Wally’s eyes widen as he takes me in.
“Wow. You’re wearing… spandex. And your hair is… really poofy.”
“Tell me about it, stud.” I say, surprising myself with the impressive huskiness I add to my voice. I give my puffy-haired-head a shake, then pull the fabric back from my pants with my thumb and forefinger and let it snap back against my thigh. “Ow.”
I recover quickly and raise my opposite hand to my mouth.
“And oh my God, are you smoking a cigarette?” he marvels
“Yes.” I hesitate. “Well. Sort of.” I puff some “smoke” in his face. “It’s the candy kind.”
He starts to laugh.
“Shut up!” I say, then wince. “I mean… please be quiet. I’m doing something here.”
“I can see that.” His lips get tight like he’s trying to hold back his amusement.
“Let’s fuck. Let’s screw. Let’s do the nasty things that nasty people do.”
Yes, I know Olivia Newtown John doesn’t say that in the movie, but who can actually say what happened after they got off those rickety amusement park rides? From here on in, I’m improvising.
