Second First Impressions: A Novel

All morning, I keep trying to guess when the Parloni sisters might take their siesta. Perhaps tormenting Teddy on his first day at work has given them an energy boost and he won’t come down to visit at all. I tell myself that I’m glad to have a little peace and quiet.

Mrs. Petersham called the office earlier and asked us to go to the store for some new magazines. “I am well qualified for this,” Melanie assured me, grabbing a fist of petty cash. “Choosing magazines is a strength I should have put on my résumé. I’ll be back.” Eventually?

I’m catching up on my to-do list. It only took two clicks off the PDC home page to find the new site manager of Providence. Rose Prescott, Junior Management Associate, is a blue-eyed blonde with a strong stare. She would get picked first for team sports at school. She would blast a hockey puck into your face. There is absolutely no similarity to Teddy at all, from her coloring to her fierce aura.

“Teddy would be smiling properly,” I say out loud to the empty room. The photographer would have one hell of a time just getting a shot of him where he wasn’t laughing, blinking, yawning, or moving. I’d love to see his passport. I print Rose’s corporate profile out and add it to my PDC folder.

The next thing on my list, I’ve been procrastinating on.

Dad answers the phone on the second ring. “Reverend Midona.” Put it this way: If God calls, Dad can’t be accused of not taking this seriously.

“Hi, it’s Ruthie.”

He presses the phone to his chest and I hear him calling: “Abigail. Abigail.” This goes on for a while and I just sit there waiting. “She’s coming from the garden.” He goes to lay down the receiver.

I rush out, “How are things with you?” Put a tick in the dutiful daughter column.

“Fine, busy, fine.”

“I hope you haven’t gotten that flu that’s been going around.” I completely make that up. I wouldn’t have a clue what germs are filling up his church, but desperate times call for desperate conversation topics.

“I don’t have the flu,” Dad says, and now we both just sit, phones to our ears.

I break first. “Did Mom tell you that I’m the manager here at Providence while Sylvia is on her cruise?” As soon as I hear the hopeful boast in my voice, it feels like an error. This feels like that moment when you’ve set up a joke perfectly, and the other person has a killer punch line.

He delivers it. “I hope you’re remembering to lock the office. Here’s your mother.”

“Okay then. Bye.” I hold the receiver away to exhale. I’m shaky and tears are threatening. I’m careful now. Aren’t I?

I open my checklist app to make sure I performed my lockup routine properly last night. One item— the recreation center door— is unticked. Did I actually do that? I know I was there, but I think I got distracted. I close my eyes now and visualize myself, out there on the path, the door handle cold under my palm. But my ears were listening for faraway motorbikes.

Mom interrupts my miniature meltdown. “My little Ruthie Maree. You know, I was just thinking about you. How are you?”

Even though I called her, I’m irrationally annoyed. I need to go. “Good, thanks, Mom. How are you?” I sound too brisk. “Want to do speakerphone?” No one can say I don’t try.

“Your father has disappeared.” She’s vaguely amazed. “I wonder where he went.”

“Maybe he climbed out of the window.” Slid down the drainpipe. Jogged away. I take a second to close my eyes and rebalance all the mixed-up feelings I’ve got right now. It’s the sensation of being repelled, then clutched too tight. This is why calling home is always a chore on my list, rather than something I want to do.

“Well, that’s very creative.” Mom is bland about the situation between me and my dad. For all I know, she hasn’t noticed it.

I think of a topic. “How’s the young mom with the new baby— what was her name? Are they still living with you?” I can’t count how many haunted-looking strangers have sat at our dinner table and slept in our basement emergency accommodation. There’s always a fold-out sofa bed made up with fresh sheets and a towel folded on the end. Charity begins in the home, after all.

“Oh, Rachel and Olivia. You would have loved this baby, Ruthie. She was the sweetest little thing. Barely a peep out of her all night.” Softer, she adds, “Even though that baby was so quiet, the house feels silent now.”

“When did they leave?”

“Last week. It was rather sudden. Rachel left us a voice mail on the office phone, though.”

That’s a lot more than most people do. Most are grateful for the assistance given, but once they’re on their feet, they keep walking. I know that’s how it’s always been, but my mom’s hurt and I’ve got an indignant how rude building up inside me. “Sounds about right.”

“It’s a good thing she’s left,” Mom reminds me, choosing to ignore my bitter tone. “Thanks to how generous our congregation is, they’ve both made it across the country to her grandmother’s place. I can rest easy.”

Until the next one knocks on the door during a midnight rainstorm. Mom gave a piece of herself that someone else took. I have no idea how she replenishes herself. I don’t think she even lets herself have a bath and a nostalgic TV show. As I ponder that, she moves on.

“How’s life in Providence?”

“Nice and quiet.” As soon as I say this, I see Teddy walking down the path to the office. “I mean, actually, there’s been a few interesting things happening while Sylvia’s away.” My parents have known Sylvia for years through the church.

“She must be having the time of her life. I’ve been checking the mailbox every day. Remember when she went to Tahiti?” Mom probably still has that Tahitian church postcard on the fridge and it’s been years.

I press refresh on my in-box. “I haven’t heard from her, either, and she hasn’t been replying to my work updates. She swore she’d be online every day. Maybe there’s something wrong with the cruise ship’s internet.”

“You know what Sylvia’s like. She’ll reply when she can.”

I wince. I do know Sylvia. “Anyway, we’ve got a couple of temporary staff here. They’re my age. It’s been pretty fun, having them around.” I write on a Post-it: CHECK REC CENTER. I stick it on the back of my hand.

“Wowee,” Mom says with real excitement. “That sounds like new friends. You won’t know yourself, Ruthie Maree.”

“One lives next door to me now. He’s my age, he’s pretty nice.”

“A boy.” She’s doubtful. She still thinks of me as fifteen years old, not twenty-five. “Oh, I don’t know about this, Ruthie.”

“It’s completely fine. He’s the son of the owner.”

“As long as this boy doesn’t come inside your place,” Mom says slowly, turning the concept over in her mind. “Then it should be all right.”

I picture Teddy leaning on my bedroom doorframe with a smile on his mouth. He’d curl up on the end of my bed if I let him. If I disappoint her, too, then Dad again, who am I left with? “No, of course not, Mom, he’s just a worker here. He’s not my friend or anything.”

When I look up, Teddy is standing in the doorway and he’s laying his hand over his heart in a theatrical display of hurt.

Mom says, “Are you being nice and careful, sweetie? Locking up the front door at night?”

“That was a long time ago.”

I don’t know what’s worse, her careful question or the sarcasm in Dad’s voice. Sometimes, in my dreams, I’m just checking a door handle, over and over. “Sorry to have to hang up, but the … maintenance guy just walked in. Can I call you back tonight?”

“I’ve got pickups tonight, silly billy.” She’s been out driving her van picking up donated food from restaurants and grocery stores since I was a kid. “But I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning. I want to hear everything you’ve been getting up to.” We hang up and she’s unaware that I’m a loser and she’s gotten my full update.

Teddy pulls up a chair and sits across from me. He plucks the Post-it note off the back of my hand and sticks it to his chest. “Hi,” he says, closing his eyes. “I am your friend, whether you like it or not.”

If that’s true, maybe I’ll walk out first. Someone can see the back of me as I walk away. I start to push my chair back, but he just says with so much need: “Please stay.”

He’s tousled and tired and I have to admit it: he’s someone I want to look at. While his eyes are closed, I can. His dark navy T-shirt is stretched tight across his body, and I’ve got some new tattoos to look at. I’ll let myself have a few from the midbicep region. Goldfish. Swan. Jar containing one (1) human heart. He’s moving his arm now, and I get a couple of bonuses. A stiletto shoe, a dagger, a black feather. And it’s when his arm is extended out from his body, turning his wrist up to me, that I realize his eyes are open and he’s showing himself to me.

“Sorry, sorry.” I’m sure I go red. “So what have they had you doing?”

He folds his arm back across his stomach. “My first mistake was to say I’m not a morning person.”

“Oh Teddy. Very foolish.”

“My new start time for the rest of the week is six A.M.” He gives me a look of genuine resentment. “You could have trained me, so I knew how to play this. But you just threw me in the deep end on purpose. What did I ever do to you?”

The gas station hysterics come to mind. Ditto getting Providence on his dad’s bulldozer list. He’s blissfully unaware of either crime. Here’s the most annoying part of this: It’s impossible to maintain the irritation I wish I could have with him. He’s my friend, whether I like it or not.

“I knew you could handle it.”

Big grumbling sigh. “After I buried the white shirt under a lemon tree, Renata told me I’d buried it under the wrong tree. So I dig it up, rebury it, and I think I’m done. But then she decides maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, so I redig it, and have to hand-wash it in the laundry.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“You are not remotely surprised. What crazy shit have you seen?” His eyes have gone wild.

“I’ve seen everything. And don’t forget, every time one of you quit, it’s me digging and reburying. Anyway, I’m sure you need to get back to them.” The pull to walk up to the rec center is almost overwhelming. He waves me down.

“I’m not done venting. That only takes us up to a quarter past nine. Ruthie, the things I’ve done this morning are just illogical. Is she … of sound mind?” He shakes his head. “I did the Cupboard Cake Challenge.”

“Ah. I’ve done that.” (Make a cake with what you can find.)

“They had no flour. I ended up making this weird peanut flour in the food processor.”

“The point is, you tried.”

“Renata made me set the table for a tea party, with all the good china and a tablecloth, and serve them like a butler. I had to invent a tragic backstory for my character, and the cake was …” He tries to find a word. “An abomination. She made me bury it under the lemon tree in the original hole.” His bleary eyes catch onto mine. “I have to do this again, every day, from six A.M.? It’ll be like purgatory.”

“Has Aggie talked to you about your salary?”

He perks. “It’s this strange arrangement,” he begins, then hears himself and shakes his head. “I mean, of course it is. She says she’s devised an incentive scheme. Every week I’m working for them, the salary doubles, to a capped amount that is some CEO-level shit. I could be at Christmas dinner telling everyone I’m officially a part owner of my studio.” He looks sideways, daydreaming.

“That’s great.” I smile encouragingly even though inside, I’m drooping.

“But I’m not going to make it. You were right.” He leans forward and drapes himself facedown across my desk. His cheek is on my calculator and the screen fills with numbers. “I should have known. You’re always right.”

“You’re very professional. Not at all dramatic.” I’m smiling anyway.

I don’t know what to do with this lax male body. His hair is twisted into a knot, held with a grim rubber band, and it’s depressing how much I wish it was loose, washing over me like a tsunami.

From this side of the desk, all I can see is the big rounded slopes of his shoulders cling-wrapped in cotton. The vulnerable shells of his ears. I can only see the side of the rose tattoo inked on the back of his arm, but I know it is pretty enough to be printed on wallpaper. All of him is.

“Daisy.” I tap my finger on one of many flowers inked on the inside of his wrist. “Ah, I see.”

Every time he was bored, he added another daisy for his sister. The girl in me wants to sigh that’s so sweet. The woman in me wants to know exactly how many other females are indelibly marked all over him. If he has a big heart somewhere with a name in it, I’m going to be pissed off. How did that big surge of hot air fill my lungs? “How many sisters do you have?”

Despite his deadness he replies, “Four. They all think I’m useless.”

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“It’s true, I am. They tell me a lot.”

“You know what my mother always says? You’ve got two hands and a heartbeat. You’re not useless. I really should go check the rec center door. I was careless last night.” I laughed in the bath and I walked around in the dark with my head full of him. It’s frustrating how handsome men scramble up the people around them.

His hands are curled over the edge of my side of the desk. Right there, inches from me. GIVE and TAKE. They’re really beautiful hands, and I’ve seen what they can create.

“I need you to help me get through this.” His eyelashes are dark on his cheek. “Do you hear me? I need you.”

On the back of his right hand is that temporary number 50 and I’m glad it’s there to remind me. A few lettuce leaves, a rest, and Teddy will be swimming off without a backward glance.

I am too honest in my response. “And what happens to me, when I get you through this? Ever think that maybe I need help too?” I hear him inhale in a way that makes me want to rewind time.

“I’m back,” Melanie singsongs, dumping her bag on her desk and giving me something to focus on besides my increasing pulse rate and mixing emotions. I’m sure the guy facedown on my desk is relieved he doesn’t have to answer me.

She grins. “Uh-oh. Is the Teddy-Bot broken?”

“I think so. I was just going to try to prize open his control panel. I think I’d have to cut his hair off to get to it, though.” I pick up a pen and lift his hand. It drops back, loose.

Melanie is explaining about traffic and tapping on her phone, and Teddy’s dead, so I can do this next thing. I use the tip of my pen lid to trace the G on his first knuckle. I keep my breathing steady, because he’s close enough to hear it.

Under Mel’s chatter, I tell his corpse, “Sometimes, at night, I feel like the last person on Earth.” He doesn’t flicker an eyelash. Next, I draw over the letter I. “Sometimes, I work through the whole weekend. Twenty-four, seven is a long time. I’m getting tired.”

Melanie booms, “And then I realized they were porno magazines. Can you believe that?”

I laugh dutifully at her and when I drag my pen on the sexy down-up lines of the letter V, his hand flexes and he shivers all over. I toss the pen across the room and pretend I never, ever did that.

Melanie is at the end of her stories. “Is he still dead?”

“Yes, sadly. Vale Teddy. Let’s put him where all the other Parloni boys are. Concrete blocks around his ankles, then into the lake.”

“The turtles need to eat something,” she agrees, walking around. “You take his arms, I’ll take his legs.”

“I’m alive,” Teddy decides and sits back upright. Anyone who doubts the presence of a spirit or soul hasn’t seen his hazel eyes spark back to life. There’s the faint outline of calculator buttons on his cheekbone. He’s so lovely, I couldn’t speak now if I tried.

Something’s changed now. My words and my touch have put something new in the way he regards me. He says to me, fingers flexing: “Could you do that again?”

“Do what?” Melanie’s eyes are flat and suspicious.

He regards me for a moment, reads the DO NOT in my expression and lolls back in his chair, rubbing his knuckles. “What’s going on, Mel?”

“Living my best life. I just went and bought magazines for an old lady. She made me stay for a cup of tea. It tasted like orange peel, but I drank the whole thing.”

No more hiding in the bathroom from our residents? “Mel, I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t be too proud.” She’s pink-cheeked and smiling as she begins unfolding a receipt and change, stepping in behind my desk to get the file. She then seems to remember something and looks down at me with fear in her eyes. “I have to confess. I kind of spaced and got Mrs. Petersham a magazine that said Fifteen Ways to Make Him Scream on the cover.”

“Never too late to learn,” I say, and they both laugh like I’m actually funny.

“Teddy, you are a good influence on our Ms. Midona, she’s loosening up nicely. Maybe I should have saved that article for you.” Melanie pats my shoulder. “I could incorporate it into my Sasaki Method.”

“I keep hearing about this method,” Teddy grumbles. “I hate being left out.”

“I don’t think making anyone scream is in my near future.” I can’t believe I said that out loud, in an office. Neither can they; they’re both open-mouth-delighted. I look at the Post-it on his chest and ask Melanie, “Did you unlock the rec center this morning?”

“Why are you so obsessed with it?” Teddy is so bored with it he yawns. I’ve seen every arctic-white tooth in his head by now.

Melanie says, “It was already unlocked. I thought you did it.”

Under the background of Mel’s relentless chatting as she begins filling out the petty cash record, Teddy asks me, “Ruthie, what’s going on?”

“I screwed up.” All I can do is regulate my breathing. I’ve never been so grateful for a Melanie interruption.

“Magazines are so pricey these days. I’ve got a new renovation project that would impress even PDC. Want to guess what it is?”

Teddy’s unwilling to take the interruption, eyes still on my face. “You’re okay, you didn’t screw up,” he promises me fiercely. And my body believes him. Each breath is easier, until I’m back in my body.

Melanie says with a flourish, “Ruthie Midona is my project. I’m fixing her right up.”

Teddy seems offended for me. “My old motorbike in storage needs fixing up. Ruthie doesn’t.”

“She needs to rev her engine all right,” Melanie parries back smartly.

I interject. “Ruthie has not agreed to this plan yet.”

(Ruthie is also privately amazed to be talking to people of her own age like they are her friends. Maybe Ruthie should lean into this?)

Melanie continues, “I am creating a dating program designed to get her out of her turtle shell. Fun and dates and meeting new people and romance. We need to do something important from the movies.” She likes leaving dramatic pauses, and this one is a doozy. “… Makeover.”

Annnnd I’m leaning back out. “That’s a no.”

“But look at her,” Teddy says to Melanie, like she’s going to be fighting an uphill battle. I begin to recoil inside like a big painful spring until he finishes with, “Why mess with perfection?” He holds my gaze in a way that feels like a steadying hand.

Melanie says, “I agree, of course. She’s an amazing person. But I think if she could just jack up her confidence, she’d let other people see how funny and smart she is. Cue soul mate, and me in a lilac bridesmaid’s dress.”

I stare at her. “You are getting so far ahead of yourself it’s insane.”

“But is that what you really want?” Teddy asks me and the question feels too intimate to reply. He perseveres anyway. “If it’s what you want, then I’ll help you too.”

Melanie’s pleased. “Ruthie, we’re both helping you, that’s settled. Please let me have my makeover montage. I have been dreaming of plucking your eyebrows from the moment we met.” This is said with sweet ardency.

“I tried to be cool in high school and it didn’t go so great for me. I don’t want to date someone who meets me when I’m hot from my Melanie Makeover. I want someone to actually be into … this.”

“And how do you describe ‘this’?” Melanie has her notepad again. “I didn’t get too far in the profile draft. You gave me nothing to work with.”

“A tidy girl,” I borrow Teddy’s phrase to make him laugh, but he just stares deeper into my eyes and I cannot look away. The room goes black and the flecks of gold in his eyes are my only light. My other senses heighten and I can navigate this new world purely by touch. I try again. “Buttoned-up tidy girl seeks …”

His eyes put images and thoughts into my head. Tidy girl seeks a tall messy man to press her up against things. She wants to get messed up, flat on a bed, on the edge of desks, walls, moonlit lawns. Every door unlocked, always. All she wants is skin, the satin heat of it all, a thick rope of black silk hair coiled in her palm …

A chair squeak breaks my train of thought. Teddy’s leaned forward. He wants to know my next words so badly his knuckles are white. “What?” His voice has a dare in it.

I think about what the word give means and how much I want to take.

Melanie, the creator of dramatic pauses, can equally be counted on to fill a silence. “Cute twenty-five-year-old professional seeks same.” She hesitates, eyes sparkling, then goes for it. “You must know fifteen ways to make her scream.”

Dead serious, Teddy says, “I know thirty ways.”

If Teddy Prescott came into my bedroom and showed me what he knows, it wouldn’t matter how thin our walls are or how much noise I made. He’d be the only one at Providence who’d hear me.

“I know fifty ways to hide your dead body,” Melanie scolds, tapping Teddy on the top of the head with a ruler. “Ruthie is looking for a soul mate, not a genital mate. Get that through your thick skull.”