The Whole Package Page 4

  “She’s coming to . . .” a voice said. “Cheryl, can you hear me?”

  Something passed in front of her face and a putrid smell raked through her nostrils.

  “Aargh,” Cheryl cried, trying to move her head away. Another jolt hit her, longer this time. Sharper. “Stop!”

  “Yup. She’s back with us,” the voice half chuckled.

  Cheryl’s eyes flew open. The man in front of her was no angel; it was Andy. He was leaning in close and studying her with concern. Yanking her hand back, Cheryl turned away in distaste. She wondered how long she’d been touching his hair.

  “Cheryl, I am so sorry,” another voice boomed. A pair of muscular calves walked toward her. They were covered with matted, curly black hairs. In a flash, it came back to her. The elevator, racquetball, Stan . . .

  “Nice work, Stan,” Cheryl said, letting out a jagged breath. Bringing a hand to her head, she followed the pain to a puffedout welt. It felt like a hard-boiled egg. “You’ve officially incapacitated me.”

  Stan crouched down, rocking on his heels. His bleached white socks were practically glowing. Cheryl couldn’t help but suspect he bought a new pair every time he played. “Well, I certainly would have hit you if I could’ve,” Stan laughed, “but you did this one to yourself.”

  “Don’t doubt it.” The swiftness of her retort, the husky sound of her voice calmed her.

  Cheryl made a move to get up but her head throbbed with pain. “Ouch,” she whispered, eyes smarting with tears. “What the hell happened?” Wildly, she looked around. Cheryl was willing to do anything to get away from the pounding in her head, the view of Stan’s neon socks, those pulsing pendulum lights on the club ceiling.

  “Cheryl,” Andy said, jumping back into her line of vision. “You’re all right. The ball just hit you in the head. I promise you’ll be okay.”

  What was he even doing here? Hadn’t he looked her up and down and shrugged?

  Andy’s green eyes sparkled. “Just so you know, I have medical training. The Heimlich, CPR, all of it. Tell me what you need.”

  What Cheryl needed was for Andy to go home; to get away from her and stop acting like some knight in shining armor just because their boss was standing there. This kid was trying to get her job. Cheryl jerked her head back toward him and really looked. He was younger than she was, cocky . . . clearly desperate to hang out with Stan or he wouldn’t even be here. Cheryl wondered if she could get him banned from the club.

  As if on cue, a club employee appeared. Hopping back and forth in a pair of lime green alligator shorts, he peered down at her. “Is she okay?” he asked. “I hope she understood that playing was at her own risk.”

  “She understood,” Cheryl said.

  “That’s good.” The health club worker hesitated. “Um, I’ve got some stuff I need you to sign and . . .” He was biting his nails and half-holding out a stack of papers toward Cheryl.

  Cheryl gave a little laugh. “Give me a pen.”

  Visibly relieved, the health club worker passed her the papers. Cheryl knew she should be irritated that the club was more worried about the threat of a lawsuit than her well-being but she couldn’t help but be impressed at their bravado. “You should have people do this when they join,” Cheryl said, handing the papers to him. “Streamline it into the membership application.”

  The health club worker nodded, gushing, “I’ve been trying to get them to do that for years.”

  “Membership application?” Stan repeated. “That wasn’t for the health club. You just signed your salary renegotiation.” Stan laughed loud and long at his own joke. To Cheryl’s surprise, Andy didn’t laugh. Instead, he sneaked a look at Cheryl and rolled his eyes.

  “Hilarious, Stan,” she said, confused by Andy’s response. The fastest way to get ahead was to laugh at Stan’s stupid jokes. Everyone knew that. Maybe Andy was dumber than he looked.

  “Your color came back,” Andy said, reaching out a hand to her. “Do you want to sit up?”

  “Um . . .” Cheryl adjusted her position on the floor. She just wanted to rest for one more minute. Every time she talked, it felt like a freight train was running through her head. “Maybe in a sec.”

  Stan cracked his knuckles and smeared on some cherry Chap-Stick, studying her like a sick stingray at an aquarium. Shifting her knees, Cheryl realized how cold the floor was beneath her. Her teeth started to chatter. Almost immediately, Andy noticed and draped some club towels over her. They smelled like chlorine and were slightly scratchy—maybe someone should talk to the Racquet Club about Egyptian cotton.

  “Better?” Andy asked.

  Cheryl let out a jagged breath and said, “I’m fine. Haven’t you ever seen a woman on the floor before?”

  Stan laughed. Cheryl took in another deep breath, trying to focus on a rhythm to separate herself from the blinding pain inside her head. Bummer she’d never had kids. Lamaze would have come in handy in this situation.

  “Did you find anyone to call?” Andy asked. His voice was sharp and directed at Stan. Suddenly, Cheryl realized Stan was holding her BlackBerry.

  “Give me that,” Cheryl barked.

  The last thing she needed was Stan’s fat fingers navigating through her e-mail. As it was, the wrong file could pop up at any moment. Cheryl kept folders on everyone at TurnKey. She had documented failures, successes, and weaknesses because she never knew when she might need the information to get ahead. Nobody would be happy if he saw what she had written. In fact, most of it could get her fired.

  “Stan, give it to me,” Cheryl insisted. “Give me my BlackBerry.”

  Unfortunately, this was said along with a natural effort to sit upright and grab for the phone. The sudden movement jostled Cheryl’s bruised brain with a headache so intense that a horrific wave of nausea hit. “I think I’m going to . . .”

  The health club worker squealed. Stan and Andy groaned. Cheryl, thankfully, blacked out.

  THE MACY’S BAG was bright red, waiting by the bedside table. Doris eyed it, excited to finally try on her purchase. She hadn’t done it at the store because the lighting always made her look sickly and those three-way mirrors seemed to enjoy showcasing the dimples in the back of her thighs. In spite of this, Doris had taken pleasure in telling Katherine Rigney that the size 14 fit just fine.

  The bag had sat by the bed for most of the day. Doris built the anticipation by finishing up little tasks like making phone calls, organizing her bridge game, and coordinating a holiday donations committee for her church. Then she vacuumed, dusted, and straightened the house, just like she did every afternoon. Now, the time had come to see how her slinky anniversary gown looked.

  A bubble of anticipation built in her stomach. With trembling hands, Doris removed her glasses and necklace. Closing the bedroom door, she hesitated for a minute, and then locked it. If Mandy came home from school early, there was no doubt her daughter would burst into the room and offer some unwanted opinion. Once the room was secure, Doris got undressed, folded her pants, and hung her sweater set back in the closet.

  In three quick strides, Doris was across the room and grabbing for the white box the gown was lying in. Opening the lid and peeling back the red paper, she lifted the light fabric. The slight beading against the creamy silk bodice sparkled. Doug would be very impressed. It would remind him of their wedding day.

  Taking a deep breath, Doris lowered the gown over her head. The silk got stuck at her shoulders. After giving a slight tug, it fell into a gentle cascade, embracing her body like the arms of a lover. Doris smiled girlishly, put on her glasses and turned to the mirror.

  Seeing her reflection, Doris nearly screamed. The nightgown did not look like a wedding gown and Doris certainly was not a blushing young bride. She was a woman approaching forty with a thick waist, conservative haircut, and glasses. Dressed up in a gown that was too tight around her stomach, hips, and thighs. A gown that made the fat on her arms look like overstuffed sausages.

  “Doris,” she could practical
ly hear her mother say. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You look just fine.”

  Doris peeked into the mirror once again and shook her head. The silk on the evil outfit was sticking to folds of fat that weren’t fit to be seen. She pinched the lower part of her belly and cringed.

  The cover of the bed gave slightly as Doris sank into it. Taking off her glasses, Doris pressed her palms against her eyes. Even if she was her own worst critic, she wasn’t an idiot. There had always been a marked difference between her full figure and someone with a naturally petite frame, but somehow she had gotten by. Until now.

  Doris had noticed the weight gain as it happened but chose to ignore it, fully expecting her body would bounce back. Even with a full-bodied figure, Doris had always been fit. She’d played sports all her life and jogged with her mother every morning. After her mother died, someone . . . Jackie? . . . had suggested Doris join a yoga class instead but all of the stretching and breathing was a little too reflective, so Doris had dropped out after a week. Then, life just seemed to get complicated. Doris was helping her father sell the house, driving Mandy’s carpools, working with various charitable organizations . . . Physical fitness became a low priority. Getting energy from sugar and caffeine was a much easier choice.

  If Doug had noticed the change in her body, he hadn’t said anything, but if he saw her in a gown like this, what on earth would he think? She looked ridiculous. She looked fat. At the thought, a sudden onslaught of hot sweat made her underarms swampy. Doris’s head got light and in a moment, her heart was pounding.

  Deep breaths. Take deep breaths, she reminded herself. That’s what the doctor had told her.

  After filling her lungs with oxygen in a slow, even rhythm, Doris should reach into the drawer of the bedside table and find the bottle of Xanax. The cap would stick a bit—it always did. Instead of throwing the bottle across the room in a fit of frustration, she should stay calm and keep trying until the lid popped off. Even the smallest piece would help induce a Pavlovian response, calming that dreadful, panicky feeling that made her feel so out of control.

  Doris followed the steps. For once, the lid came off easily. The pill was bitter in her mouth, chalky. But unlike the acrid bile in the back of her throat, the taste was familiar. Safe. A few minutes passed before Doris felt her body go numb. The sensation reminded her of high school parties; getting drunk and performing comedic stripteases as her friends cheered her on.

  Always the wild child, Doris had been the one to lead Jackie and Cheryl to mischief. They toilet-papered houses on Halloween, flashed boys during spring break, bought Pink Floyd albums and that first bag of weed. Doris was always thinking of the next prank, except when they were on school grounds. There she was always careful not to get into trouble, thanks to her commitment to Florida State. Doris had been scouted as a freshman for her soccer skills. As a freshman! Even today, that thought made her flush with pride.

  Doris had been so careful to protect her reputation at school, not wanting to risk her scholarship. If Cheryl or Jackie tried to get her to do anything crazy like smoke cigarettes with them out back, Doris would take only two puffs. Then, she’d douse them with Love’s Baby Soft perfume and spritz her tongue with spearmint Binaca until it burned. At the memory, Doris gave a sad little laugh. If she would have known how her life was going to play out, she would have been a lot less diligent. In fact, she may have just gotten drunk every day at first period.

  With a sigh, Doris watched as the room softened and came back into focus. The strands of the rug looked like soft, bleached wheat. Their purity soothed her. Taking a deep breath, Doris lifted her head and looked around the room.

  The walls were a bright, clean white and matched all the touch points in the room. The wicker by the bay window, the porcelain vanity table in the corner, the ivory brush set on the dresser . . . Doug had once complained that their bedroom was too white, that it felt like something out of the “Imagine” video. Doris thought that was ridiculous. A piano would never fit and Yoko Ono certainly would not be invited.

  Standing up slowly, Doris put her glasses back on and sneaked a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. The color had returned to her cheeks. Her glasses were no longer steamed and blurry. She was fine.

  Tearing off the gown, Doris decided to return it. Knowing the act would affect Katherine Rigney’s commission made her feel better. That conniving woman had picked out five hundred dollars worth of jeans for Mandy and then managed to sell Doris on a sparkling, perfumed body powder, just because Doris was afraid to say no.

  Doris went into the bathroom, turned the shower to full blast, and stepped in. The new plan was this—have a cup of coffee, maybe a handful of cookies, and put on a sensible, Doris-style dress. After all, Doug had loved her just the way she was for more than twenty years. What could make him stop now?

  “WE ARE PREPARING for our final descent into Chicago,” the crackling voice came over the loud speaker. “Make sure your seat backs and tray tables are . . .”

  Jackie shot up like a rocket, fluffy pink face mask askew. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and her platinum blond curls smelled like something had curled up and died in them, probably somewhere mid-Atlantic. Fumbling underneath the seat, Jackie pulled out a pastel leather purse.

  The cool satin lining brushed against her fingertips as she searched for her compact and trusty cylinder of Angel perfume. Even after the romance of the French scents, this sweet and spicy blend in the light blue glass bottle had always been her signature scent. After spraying it onto her hands, she ran them through her hair. Breathing in the familiar smell, she sighed. Aromatherapy.

  As Jackie slid her purse back under the seat, her seat mate’s eyes fluttered. The elderly woman seemed to smile at Jackie, before closing her eyes again. Her blanket had fallen around their ankles so Jackie picked it up and retucked her in, silently wishing her dreams of fairies, unicorns, and of course, a handsome prince.

  Shifting around in her seat, Jackie decided to lift the thin plastic covering the window. Schwwwwahhh! went the film, such a great sound. She was surprised the little monster behind her hadn’t discovered it and repeated it for six hours straight. She turned her head and peeked back. The kid was fast asleep or dead. Either one was fine by her.

  When Jackie had first boarded the plane, loath to fly coach for the first time in ten years, the “au contraire, au contraire . . .” singing through her head was punctuated by a rhythmic vibration of her seat. She had whirled around and caught the eye of the perpetrator—an evil five-year-old with a freckled face. His poor mother had her eyes squeezed shut, determined to pretend the kid didn’t exist even if he hijacked the plane.

  Jackie gave a disapproving shake of her head. The kid smiled, waited until she started to turn, then gave her seat another good, swift kick. This time, Jackie had spun around with the slit-throat sign, indicating the kid, then his mother. The little snake went still with fear.

  All kids were mass manipulators in little bodies. For Jackie, that knowledge made them much easier to handle. Doris’s daughter had learned to respect Jackie at a young age because she wasn’t given another option. After watching the two of them together, Doris and Cheryl had even dubbed Jackie “the kid whisperer.” That said, perhaps her abrupt exit to Paris had been just as hard on Mandy as it had been on Jackie’s friends, but if it had been she hid it well. There had been many phone calls where Mandy had chirped on and on about her life over the transatlantic line.

  In spite of a general aversion to kids, Jackie had to admit it would be nice to see Mandy again. It would be nice to see everyone. Jackie’s presence was going to be a big surprise—Doris and Cheryl had no idea she was on her way home—but Jackie lived for dramatic entrances.

  Giving herself an excited hug, Jackie pressed her nose against the window. Snow was melting against the plastic glass. Wet streaks reflected in the lights on the wing; red and white shimmering against the dark sky. Squinting, she waited for Chicago to app
ear below, enjoying the sensation of the plane lifting and turning underneath her. Jackie loved flying. The risk, the adventure . . . the strange things it did to her body. She moved her feet around in her pumps. They felt like elephant paws.

  Suddenly, the plane dipped through the clouds and Lake Michigan appeared as a dark pool below her, the lights of the skyscrapers blinking red and green—and oh!—there was the Drake! So many romantic weekends well spent. Peering hard, she spotted the miniature skyline of her hometown. Schaumburg’s industrial centers and clock tower loomed in the distance.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice boomed once again over the loudspeaker, “please have your customs cards filled out and ready for landing.”

  Jackie jumped guiltily. She hadn’t even started. Running her fingers through her hair, she once again looked at her empty customs form. The first question had tripped her up.

  Destination? Unknown.

  Chapter Five

  “WHERE’S MY BLACKBERRY? I NEED MY BLACKBERRY!” CHERYL SAID, opening her eyes.

  Looking around, she realized she was in a portable hospital bed. The starched sheets were cool against her hot legs and medical bracelets were hanging from her wrist. A blue curtain had been pulled to make a semiprivate room. Andy sat in a chair in the tiny space, flipping through a magazine. Stan was nowhere in sight.

  “Hey, you’re back,” Andy said, hopping up from a chair and strolling the two feet over to her. “How you doin’?”

  Those green eyes studied her with concern, probably because her hair was matted to her forehead and she was still dressed in gym clothes. Cheryl turned away, tugging the sheets up to her chin. “Shut up. Where’s Stan?”

  A pretty nurse pulled the curtain, the sliding metal hooks announcing her entrance. Her hair was in a perfect blond bun, her eyes wide and gray. Andy already had her on a first-name basis.

  “Hey, Molly,” he said. “I think this one needs some more happy juice.”