Mrs. Perfect

“Well, they do,” I say shortly. “People with money are respected. People with money are listened to.”

“You think you need money to be respected?”

I think of South Pasadena, where I grew up. I remember how my dad’s business suffered when Mom left, I remember the gossip and scandal. Cissy and I were mocked. Teased. Dad was demoralized. He hid.

“Maybe.”

“You know, Taylor, if money brought respect, why do I respect you more now than when you were the head honcho of everything?”

She must see my expression because she nods. “And I don’t just respect you, Taylor, I’ve realized I like you. I even admire you.”

“You admire me?”

Her gaze holds mine. “You do things many women are afraid to do. You tackle enormous projects, hard-core projects. Someone needs help, you offer your time. Someone needs a hand, you’re there in person. You do something lots of people don’t do anymore. You give. You give of yourself, and you don’t ask for anything in return.”

There’s something so honest and kind in Marta’s voice that I look down into my wineglass before she can see how much her words touch me. She doesn’t realize how much I needed to hear something good about me, something positive.

“You’re a lot like my Eva,” she continues. “Eva really wants everyone to like her. Eva wants everyone to approve of her. Not because she isn’t wonderful, and not because she truly needs approval. It’s because she’s sensitive. She cares about other people. She likes making other people happy, but as I’m trying to teach her, you can’t hinge your happiness on other people’s. It’s impossible to always make others happy. Some people just don’t want to be happy. Others are looking for someone to blame.”

Her expression is concerned. “Perhaps it’s time you stopped listening to that little voice in your head and grew a new voice. One that’s nicer to you than the one you’ve got talking at you now.”

“Marta,” I protest, but she looks at me so long that I squirm.

“We’re not so different. I actually don’t think women are all that different. Somehow we’ve all ended up with mean little voices in our heads. Voices that say we’re not good enough and we’ll never be good enough.”

“You have those, too?”

She grimaces. “Yes. And one day I just got sick and tired of all that crap in my head, so I stopped letting the voices yap away. I kicked them out, and I think you need to do that with the nasty voices in your head, too.”

I look at her skeptically. “What did your voices say?”

“I was unlovable. I was bound to fail. That no one would ever want me. That no one would ever be faithful.” Her shoulders shift. “They’re not uncommon fears. But I was just sick of them. Sick of them making me feel bad all the time.” She leans forward, taps my arm. “Maybe it’s time you stopped focusing on what you do wrong, Taylor, and start celebrating what you do right.”

Later that night after Marta leaves and my girls are in bed, I stand in the kitchen at the sink, finishing the dinner dishes, and think about everything Marta said.

Marta said a lot.

She said so much that my brain still hurts.

But one thing stands out: I don’t trust myself right now, and I don’t trust the little voice in my head because it is warped. It does say mean things . . . it says mean things about me. And it talks endlessly, a constant dialogue critiquing everything I think and feel and do.

You blew it.

You did it wrong.

You always do it wrong.

You messed up.

You can’t get it right.

You can’t get anything right.

You’re stupid.

You’re lazy.

You’re foolish.

You’re dreamy.

You’re impractical.

You’re selfish.

You’re bad.

You’re bad. I silently repeat the last one as I load the dishwasher, knowing these voices are part of that horrible, hollow feeling inside of me. Knowing I’ve somehow created this horrible, hollow feeling inside of me. But I’m not hollow, and I’m not horrible. For all my mistakes, I do love my girls, and I try my best to take care of them. For all my flaws and my vanity and my pride, I do love Nathan, and I love him with all my heart. The truth is, I do try. I always try.

Maybe Marta’s right about something else. Maybe trying your best, and doing your best, even if it’s not perfect, is enough.

Maybe it’s unrealistic to think I can be perfect.

Or to put it in Marta-speak, that’s why we have religion. God’s perfect. We’re human.

As I turn off the water, I reach for a sponge. Wouldn’t it be amazing to stop expecting perfection and focus more on being real? Being human?

Wiping off the counters, I have another thought. Maybe Dad’s biggest mistake wasn’t being left by Mom, but cowering. Apologizing. Hiding.

My fingers grip the sponge so hard, I squeeze water all over the counter.

I’m so sick of apologizing.

So sick of feeling less than. I want to be happy with me. I want to finally like me. Would that be so wrong?

“Mommy, I’m thirsty,” Tori says, suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway in her pink princess sprigged pajamas.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” I say, dropping the sponge in the sink and turning to face her.

“I can’t sleep. There are too many spiders in my room.”

“There aren’t any spiders,” I say, fighting exasperation.

“Yes, there are.”

“Tori.”

“Come see.” She holds out a hand to me, her expression determined as well as resigned.

I take her hand and we walk back to the little room she shares with Brooke. A small night-light is plugged into the wall, illuminating one wall with soft yellow gold light. I look around the room and see nothing. “There’s no spider,” I whisper. “Now go to bed.”

“There is a spider.”

“Tori . . .”

“Look.” She slips her hand from mine and walks to the foot of the trundle bed and points at the wall. “See?”

I go look and see. A spider not quite as big as my palm sits on the wall just a few inches above the heating vent. It’s big. It’s blackish brown. It is not—on the plus side—hairy.

“See?” she repeats.

Bless her. “Yes, I do. Just a sec.” Back in the kitchen, I get a wad of paper towels, then I grab the spider and take it outside and dump it in the bushes next to the front door.

My arms are covered in goose bumps as I close the door, but Tori’s beaming at me. “You did it! Hooray!”

I lift her onto my hip. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

She wraps her arms around my neck. “If I can sleep with you in your bed.”

She looks at me so hopefully that I can’t tell her no. “Only if you promise not to pee the bed.”

In the morning I wake up and slide quietly from be

neath the covers so I don’t disturb Tori, who is still asleep and sharing my pillow. After closing my bedroom door, I check on the other two. They’re still asleep, too.

I make coffee, then sit at my computer at the dining room table, check e-mail, and see that I’ve got two messages, one from Nathan and one from Marta.

I open Nathan’s first. T, I’m sorry I missed your call. I want to talk. N

I read and reread his e-mail. He wants to talk . . . he wants to talk . . . he wants to talk. What does that mean?

I type a brief answer: Call when you can. I’m just home hanging out with the girls today.

Next I read Marta’s e-mail. Taylor, do you want to be auction chair again? Marta

Wow. Interesting question. A good question, too. I get up from my chair, pace the kitchen and living room.

Part of me would jump at the chance to be auction chair again. I started working on the auction months ago, before school even ended last year. Our first meeting was last August, and Patti and I poured ourselves into organizing and motivating the committee.

Being auction chair meant so much to me then. It doesn’t mean as much now. Having my family together again, that’s what’s important now.

I sit back at my computer, answer Marta’s e-mail: If I could have anything, I’d have Nathan home with us again.

After pushing send, I get up and pace again as the old fear comes back at me, the fear of being less than, the fear of being forgotten, abandoned. But instead of running to my beloved box of Cheerios, I face the fears that I’m no one and nothing and realize it’s not true. I am someone. A very flawed someone. But flawed or not, I matter. I matter to a lot of people. Even more important, I matter to me.

The girls end up sleeping in, and after they wake up we just hang out, enjoying being lazy. I’m glad. It’s Saturday and a gorgeous day already, too, with clear blue sky and morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows and bouncing off the small antique crystal chandelier I hung in the kitchen light fixture.

Delicate rainbow prisms splash on the opposite wall. Little crystal knobs I rescued from a thrift store catch the light and dress up the creamy white cabinet doors.

Brooke enters the kitchen with my box of Cheerios under her arm and sees the splinters of light shimmering across the narrow room. “Rainbows, Mom.”