Manifesting Daddy

By Donna Butler

Melanie Brodie has reached that age where she's got to juggle the demands of her two spoiled teenagers with the never ending requirements of her crabby, elderly mother. As if that wasn’t enough, perimenopause is out to get her, too. It seems like every time she jumps through a hoop, she trips and falls on her sweaty, hormonal face, infuriating everyone she was trying to help. As frazzled as she looks and feels, it's no wonder her husband has lost all interest in sex.
Her girlfriends are funny and supportive when they're not being too weird or wild. But she can't possibly tell them about the crazy thoughts that have been going through her head lately. And her wonderful father, the only one who could really soothe her raging depression and demolished self esteem, has been dead for years.
The more life spits in her face, the more she craves Daddy. She can think of one way to reunite with him- but could she really take things that far? Or, should she go along with the ridiculous, supernatural suggestion of her wacky, New Age friend and see if the universe truly is a magical place that responds to her deepest desires?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna Butler
• Release date: Sep 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452339870

Book preview

Manifesting Daddy

by

Donna Butler

Copyright 2010 Donna Butler

Smashwords Edition

http://donnabutler.com

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CHAPTER ONE

It never occurs to you, until some attentive soul suggests it, that you’re depressed. Instead, you drag your miserable carcass from one date on the calendar to the next, operating under the assumption that you suck, every person and every thing you are responsible for sucks. Most of the people in your life suck. The past more or less sucks. The present definitely sucks. And the future will, in all likelihood suck. You don’t feel like you have a disease or nervous condition or any other ailment a pill could cure. A handful of pills, maybe, washed down with an icy pint of good vodka. But not a single tablet taken once daily, with or without a snack at bedtime. And really, you’re past caring if the way out is painless or excruciating. Tidy or obscenely gory or an embarrassment to your survivors. You don’t give a rat’s ass if people see your death as a romantic, tragic end or a foolish, selfish act of desperation. Eventually they’ll stop talking about it. You just want out. It’s the only normal reaction to the life you’ve been leading.

That morning I sat on the toilet and dabbed a wad of tissue between my legs, hoping to see blood. I always felt a little better once my period started.

Unlucky.

I kept a box of over-the-counter sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. Skinny, brittle blue

ovals that had a tendency to break in half when you tried to wrestle them from their plastic bubble. The box held forty-eight of the things, and I guessed there were probably thirty-five or so left in there. It would take a while to get enough of them out of the freaking bubbles, but that was okay. I could make time.

I grabbed the box, plopped back down on the toilet, pulled out a sleeve and started pushing. The first three pills came out whole. The fourth broke neatly in half. The fifth one crumbled to dust on one end, which meant I’d have to count it as five sixths of a pill. My hands trembled as I tried to free the tenth pill. After that, my eyes burned and leaked so bad I had to stop to wipe them. I couldn’t very well kill myself if I couldn’t see straight.

A loud clatter from the vicinity of the kitchen brought my ass off the toilet seat for a second. The clatter was quickly followed by a thud, which was followed by You bitch, which sounded like Matt screaming at his sister.

I remained on the stool for five more seconds. In that skinny, brittle sliver of time was room enough for me to step outside of myself and feel the tidal pull of obligation. Responsibility. Compassion. Love. Freaking motherhood. It stopped me every goddamned time.

Matt was on the kitchen floor holding a small chunk of his cell phone. The rest of it was scattered across the floor. His jeans were a wrinkled mess after spending a week in the laundry basket. Worse, the hem stopped halfway up his calf. His sneakers were filthy, and his curly blonde hair, so cherubic when he was a baby, needed a hard trim. Poor kid already looked like his mother was dead.

Can’t you make Shannon stop being such an asshole? First she kicks me, then she shoves me down, right on top of my phone. Which broke, he said. She’s such a stupid bitch. I swear I hate her.

Oh my God. The lying shitbag ate all the cereal. Shannon was a shouter- mad, glad and all points in between. When she was in elementary school, the school nurse was forever testing her hearing, determined to uncover a medical explanation for the girl’s big mouth. But her ears were fine.

Stop yelling and watch your language, I muttered, already tired of the ordeal.

"She says I ate all the cereal like it was half a freaking box, Matt said. There was hardly any left. There’s never enough food around here." He turned his glare on me.

I’ll see about replacing your phone, I said. It’s gonna run me fifty dollars, which will come out of Shannon’s allowance.

What the hell? She advanced on me, hair flying, hands on hips, eyes wide with astonishment, like a guest on The Jerry Springer Show. I never understood how she hoped to become a veterinarian some day. And not just because her grades were awful. If she did manage to find people foolish enough to entrust their sick, frightened pets to the care of a loud-mouthed, bad tempered, hellcat like her, she’d spend most of her earnings on bandages, stitches, skin grafts and rabies shots. Even as a newborn, she could make your ears ring.

I put a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her out of my way. Get your coats on, guys, before you miss the school bus. I’m late already, so I can’t drive you.

"I am not paying for his freaking phone, she yelled, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. I’ll kill him first. And when are you going to fix our shower? I hate using your bathroom. Dad leaves so much hair on the soap, it looks like there’s a toupe in the soap dish. It’s disgusting. I hate this family."

I’ll fix the shower tonight. On my way out the door, I felt a soft tap on my shoulder.

What about that permission slip? You keep forgetting it, Mattt said, his brow wrinkled like a worried old man’s. If I don’t hand it in today, I don’t get to see the movie.

Good luck with that, Shannon told him. I think she’s got Alzheimer’s.

I’ll fax it from work today, honey, I said. Damnit. There’s the bus.

I stood in the driveway and watched them chase the school bus for half a block before they turned the corner and I couldn’t see them anymore. We lived in a great neighborhood. One we could only afford because John and I worked full time. Most families had two newish cars. Some cut their own grass but most used lawn services. Kids played safely outside, built snowmen in the winter, rode skateboards in the summer. Still, once Matt and Shannon disappeared around that corner, I knew anything could happen to them. Shannon could trip and fall. Matt could land on top of her and they both could lay there bleeding and shivering, unnoticed as the school bus roared down the block. I shook my head to dislodge the thought. Then I climbed into my silver Toyota, turned on the engine to let it warm up, then hurried back into the house to brush my hair, grab my purse, and put away the sleeping pills for a better time.

It was nearly 8:15 when I burst through the door of the dental office. Sheila was already in the waiting room, bent over a glass and chrome coffee table, straightening stacks of magazines.

She was tall, thick and pale with frost blue eyes and dark, oily hair that made me think of an otter gliding through a pond. She had the creepy, vicious sense of superiority you see in people who were attacked in high school for being nerds. Melanie, how many times have we had the discussion we’re about to have again? She didn’t bother to look up.

Whether she was annoyed because I was late or because I’d left the night before without straightening the magazines, I couldn’t guess. Either offense could have gotten me fired at that point. Knowing her, she was deliberately trying to stump me.

I don’t expect an answer, Melanie, she said, sighing as she stood up and brushed

imaginary dust from her hands. The corners of her wide mouth sagged with disgust. I don’t know about you, but I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to counsel you about tardiness. As I’ve said before, if you’re going to continue to manage this office, I need you to be prompt and reliable. I need you here first thing in the morning to take a head count and get the office up and running. Your behavior suggests an immaturity and irresponsibility that’s inexcusable in a woman your age.

It had to be the first time a thirty-year-old had called me immature, but she was the boss, and at forty-four I was her flunky. I’m sorry, Sheila. I’ll get it together. I promise.

I’m always clumsy a day or two before my period starts. Over the next few hours, I spilled coffee on a stack of invoices, dropped the telephone receiver while talking to a patient, and caught my foot in the strap of my purse, nearly toppling the bookcase that broke my fall. On the way back to my desk, I slammed my knee into the sharp, metal corner of a drawer I’d left open. I would have cried if my phone hadn’t rung just then.

Melanie? Jill Coolidge. Just wanted you to know I got the kids to school as soon as I could, but I’m afraid they may have been a few minutes late.

Matt and Shannon? What happened?

Well, I was on my way to meet the girls for coffee. With spring break just a couple months away, we wanted to have a pow-wow before we did our shopping. There are some things you just hate to buy if you’re only going to use them a few days. So we thought we’d compare vacation plans and see if, you know, there were things we could borrow from one another. It’s kind of fun, actually. Where’s your family going this year?

We’ll be staying at home this year. I guess the kids missed the bus?

Oh, sorry. Yes. I was on my way out of the house when I saw them walking. Poor things, they were so out of breath. From running, I guess. Shannon should be what, seventeen by now?

Right.

And still no car? You know how to stick to your guns. Bobby couldn’t survive longer than two months after his sixteenth birthday without a car. We got a great deal for him. Would you like the name of the salesman?

Oh, that’s not-

We thought about getting him something used, but his grades have been outstanding. Straight A’s three out of four semesters, so he deserved something brand new, don’t you think?

Uh, sure.

He would be more than happy to tutor Matt in algebra if you’d like.

Huh?

This morning Matt said he’s really struggling with math.

You know Jill, I have to run, but thank you-

I’m sorry. I forgot you’re at work. So few of the moms in our neighborhood do. You poor thing, you can’t just sit and chat when you want, right? Anyway, I was glad to help. And don’t forget what I said about Bobby. He’d love to help Matt with algebra.

I hung up the phone, shook a couple tablets from a bottle of pain reliever into my hand and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Please stop limping, Sheila whispered when she passed me in the hallway. You’ll make the patients uncomfortable.

Oh? Uh- sorry.

Seconds later, I felt someone rush up behind me and grab my arm. Did I hear her right? Juniper, the definitive New Age hippie, lives for peace, love, spirituality and vegetarian shoes. But at that moment, I saw murder in her eyes. That or the glare from the lime green tunic she’d paired with a purple turtleneck. Tan bell-bottoms and black ballet slippers completed the arresting ensemble.

I frowned. Hear who? You mean Sheila?

What the hell happened to you? Why are you limping?

It’s nothing, I said. Just banged my knee.

"And that Nazi had the nerve to tell you not to limp? She should have sent you home to rest. She’s a doctor, for crying out loud."

It’s not that bad, I said, wanting to calm her down. I’m not one to stereotype, but Juniper certainly possesses the volatility associated with red hair, which, when you think about it, really clashes with the whole peace and love thing. Sheila can’t diagnose knee injuries, I said. She’s a dentist.

She’s a freak who gets off on fear. I could never work for her. Juniper was a hygienist for Dr. Patel, the homeopath of the practice Sheila headed. You want me to write you a prescription for your pain?

Seriously, I’m fine, I said as jagged bolts of pain shot through my knee. I wondered if a blood clot was forming. A clot that might travel up my leg, into my heart or one of my lungs.

If that’s the case, you’ll be joining me and Marisol at Pillow Talk tonight.

Damn, I forgot about that, I said. It’s not just my knee. I was running late this morning, and I drove off while the kids were still chasing the school bus.

And?

They missed the bus and had to get a ride from a neighbor. One who couldn’t resist rubbing my nose in her perfect life to make sure I never forgot what a loser I was. I should make a good dinner tonight to make up for the rough morning the kids had. I also have to fix the computer for John. My normally technophobic husband was obsessed with the computer lately, surfing the internet for hours every night. How he got himself up for work in the morning was beyond me. Oh, and Matt and Shannon will die if they have to go another day sharing the shower with me and John. That’s another thing I have to fix.

Then just stay for an hour or make John fix that stuff. Marisol misses you. She’ll be hurt if you stand us up. And I’ll be pissed if I have to listen to her call you names in Spanish all night.

Tonight just isn’t good for me, Juniper, I said, as if that would somehow matter. As if we both didn’t know I was the biggest pushover the world had seen.

As always, when I stepped inside Pillow Talk, it took a while for my eyes to adjust to the scenery. On the south and west sides of the room, the walls were pink, blue and yellow, padded and tufted like pillow topped mattresses. On the remaining two sides were a series of alcoves with hot pink, button tufted banquettes and matching satin sheets that hung from wooden poles and could be pulled like curtains, for privacy. Near the center of the room stood a half-moon shaped bar that twinkled with thousands of fiber optic stars. Juniper thought the decor was sweet, in a campy sort of way. I thought it looked like a perverted toy maker’s idea of a bordello for wayward dolls.

Where’s Marisol? I asked, dumping my purse and coat onto the garish pink leather bench that curved around the table where Juniper sat.

She’s in the crib. Juniper pointed towards the center of the room. Check it out. She’s getting her butt kicked tonight.

The Crib was just that- a huge baby crib minus the legs, sitting atop a platform two or three feet above the main floor. Inside, grownups in various stages of drunkenness engaged in pillow fights. I eventually spotted Marisol dodging a flurry of pillows while trying to pull feathers from her hair. A guy had his arms firmly around her waist, making retreat impossible.

Isn’t it against the rules to grab your opponent? I said.

Yeah, but look at him. He’s sexy.

She’d better hurry up, I said, grimacing as I lowered myself to the bench. My knee was already stiffening up. I can’t stay long.

A waitress arrived dressed in the winter uniform of flannel pajamas, fuzzy slippers and a long, pointed slumber cap. Goodnight ladies. What can I get for you?

Three Slumber Parties, please, Juniper said, ordering the strongest drinks they served. And a basket of cheese pillows, extra salsa. She turned to me. You think we should get two orders?

Not on my account, I said. I told you I can’t stay long.

Oh, keep your panties on. Marisol’s climbing out of the ring right now.

I watched her lift a long, firm leg over the railing and descend the few steps to the main floor, I was struck, as always, by how unfairly gorgeous she was. Thick, shiny black hair, full lips, Jennifer-Lopez-in-Selena curves. In her clingy, leopard print dress and high heels, she was still sexy with a head full of feathers. A lot of women would have hated her, especially for continuing to look that good in her forties. But jealousy had never been part of our relationship. A rarity when it came to female friendships, but true nonetheless.

She grinned and quickened her pace when she saw me. Hey baby, she said, spreading her arms to capture me in a feathery, perfumed embrace. I told Juniper you better not stand me up tonight. On Marisol’s Latina tongue, Juniper sounded like Hoonipare. It was hard not to snicker when she said it, though I’d had thirty years to get used to it. Did you see me up there? They don’t fight fair.

All’s fair in lust and war, I said, scooting down the bench to make room. Do you know that guy? He’s hot.

She frowned. What guy?

Oh, come on, Juniper said. The one who was trying to mate with you.

"Mate with me? Like dogs or something? You’re disgusting, Juniper. Don’t talk to me anymore. I don’t know any of those men. I came here to see Melanie. She reached over and squeezed my hand. I hear you need cheering up."

I put on my best spunky girlfriend face and turned to Juniper. Okay, you’re blushing. What load of crap did you feed her?

I’m not blushing. It’s the walls. All the pink is reflecting off my face.

I turned to Marisol. Okay, okay. I had a bad day. I told her about my morning. Matt and Shannon, the name calling, the busted cell phone, the missed school bus. I made it sound funny, like I was Carol Brady or Peg Bundy. I fed them what I thought they could handle.

Marisol shook her head. That whole Mom thing isn’t the life for me, but as long as you’re happy, I’m happy for you. She paused. "You are still happy, right?"

The waitress arrived just then with our drinks. I grabbed the nearest glass and took such a big gulp, I nearly choked. You still don’t want to get married and start a family? I spluttered in an attempt to shift the focus from myself.

I’m sure it’s lively and rewarding and all that, but hell, no. Marisol said. And I don’t give a damn if my cousins think I’m a lesbian. I don’t want to be fat and boring like they are, talking about tumors and rashes all freaking day.

Yep, that’s me, I said.

No. My cousins. Valentina and Soledad. Their husbands don’t let them leave the house by themselves. Not even to shop for freaking tampons. Their whole family follows them to Walmart. You think I could put up with that?

You’re not an old-fashioned Latina, Juniper said. And not all wives are miserable. Only some. Especially the ones who try to keep their misery hidden and won’t even tell their friends. Friends they’ve known since childhood. Juniper stared at me. Now who’s blushing?

Hot flash, I lied. What is this, anyway? I thought we just came to chill out for an hour.

Marisol shook her head. Juniper says something’s wrong with you. Your aura is the wrong color or something.

Oh, here we go, I said. Is it too brown? Should I lay off the lattes?

Juniper turned to Marisol. I told you she’d avoid the issue.

I shook my head. You are so lame. I was tired of faking the smiles, cracking the jokes, playing the charade and pretending I still gave a damn about anything. But I loved them too much to burden them with my pain or risk losing their friendship by letting them see what a freak I was. And there was nothing they could do to help, anyway.

And you’re full of shit, Juniper told me. Won’t you at least let me treat you to a massage?

I laughed. "A massage?"

I sense a deficiency in your root chakra. Seriously, Ding-Dong. You need to be touched and pampered and reassured.

That hit close to home. I came to catch up with Marisol, I said. I want to know if she’s fallen in love yet. Talk of romance would make them forget my aura.

Marisol groaned. A tragic story.

Marisol thinks a dull cocktail party is tragic. What happened? I asked.

I fell in love with my podiatrist. Remember my ingrown toenail? She took a long sip from her drink. He’s smart, funny, successful, kind. Everything I’d ever want or need. I never had as much fun as I did in his exam room. Such meaningful conversation. And he was respectful. Never stared at my boobs or anything. So I dragged it out. I made him for check for infection, bunions, hammer toes and anything else I could think of until I could tell he was getting fed up. After my followup appointment, I went home and cried for four hours. I knew we could never be together.

Married? I said.

She nodded. On my way out, I noticed a huge picture of his wife and kids on the desk in his office. There are no single, straight men over forty. Juniper can vouch for that.

I gasped, turned to Juniper. What?

"What do you mean, what? I told you last week that Raphael came out to me," Juniper said.

The hurt and disappointment on her face made me feel like a pile of rat turds. How could I have forgotten the tearful phone call, not to mention my surprise at her ridiculously faulty gaydar? Raphael was loveable, sure, but I hadn’t expected her to fall in love with him that way. Yeah, I- you know, it just still surprises me that you couldn’t see it, I said, thinking she deserved a friend who wasn’t so weighed down by her own shit that other people’s pain was too trivial to remember.

She reached over, took my hand and squeezed it as if to say she forgave me. I keep meaning to ask you, is that house next door to you still empty? Just like that she changed the subject. How she knew me so well and still managed to love me enough to rescue me from embarrassment was beyond me.

I nodded. The sign’s still there.

I had a dream about that house last night, she said.

Dios mio. Marisol grimaced.

Juniper didn’t only dress like a fortune teller. She saw auras, felt ghostly presences and had dreams that