Change is Good
by Elizabeth Esse Kahrs © 2007
The phone is wedged between my shoulder and ear. Sandra unloads on me as I unload the dishwasher.
“…And I keep finding change,” she says. “God Annie, it's everywhere. Change on the floor, change in my pockets, change in the litter box.”
My ear is getting sweaty.
“It's only change. Right? But change is good. Right? Only small amounts—but it's good. Right?”
I have no idea what she's talking about. Money? The change of Life? Changing the litter box? She's always going off on these symbolic tangents.
“And I keep losing weight. I'm snacking all the time! Dark chocolate almonds—70% cocoa, have you tried them? But I have to control my sugars. I could start digesting my organs. That can happen, you know… Are you there?”
“Yeah, I'm here.”
I'm in my bedroom now, phone stuck to my ear. I'm changing into my jammie pants, staring at the change on the floor.
“Oh, and did I tell you? Apparently, I have a hot body.”
“Really.”
“Yes! I'm telling you. Annie—I've got rug burns! It's just like when we were thirteen—I'm good and I know it.”
I bite my tongue. Rug burns? From the podiatrist? Did she have sex with him?
“That's great,” I say.
She pauses to take a gulp of something. Probably green tea.
“So, how are you?” she asks.
I let out the breath.
“I'm Good. Workin' on the book—”
“Oh—did I tell you? Bob's going to Jamaica with that woman!”
“Uhh, no.”
“I knew he would—with all those emails back and forth—but you'd think he'd let a little dust collect—ya know? Oh shit—I'm getting another call. Can I call you back?”
“Sure.”
“You're gonna be around, right?”
“Right.”
I sit on the edge of the bed rubbing my eyes. I'm so sick of these calls. Anyone else, I wouldn't tolerate it—in fact, I'd tell them to take their hot body and shove it up their ass. But this isn't anyone. This is Sandra, my best friend since I was thirteen; the closest thing I have to a sister.
There had been signs over the years. Articles clipped out from O! Magazine, letter bombs arriving in the mail. It had started out harmless enough, like an Enjoli commercial—I can bring home the bacon AND fry it up in a pan. But it had quickly progressed beyond this point, way past Can This Marriage Be Saved? and on to yoga and crystals, chakras, and Feng Shui. Years ago, she had sent me a copy of Woman Who Run with the Wolves , and I'd sensed trouble then. But it had taken Sandra a full twenty years to finally clip and store enough wisdom— Time for You , Finding your Soul mate, Aha! Moments— to take action. Like a squirrel hoarding nuts, she had let this knowledge build and fester, until finally, she had become militant enough to ask the question, “What am I going to DO about it?”
Quickly, she had set about making a diagnosis. It seems her husband's energy had been dragging her down, affecting her health, her psyche, for years. Despite the disruption to her family, (“The kids are surprisingly good with it.”) she would need to get him out of the house, immediately—separate, divorce, or else suffer an untimely death due to toxic exposure. Her blood pressure, a recent diagnosis of diabetes—none of it would have ever happened—but for this unhealthy man, this soul sucker, already old at the age of forty-five—unfortunately, the father to her children.
She was losing it.
I used to be able to humor her away from such nonsense. But this time, she had dug deep, all the way to China, playing in this sandbox of enlightenment. She had befriended a psychic, embraced The Secret, and now, she was seeking change among the feces in the litter box. Sandra had crossed over to the land of psycho friend, a moth going into the light.
The phone rings and I know it's her. I can't do it, not anymore. She needs medication, someone to talk her down from the ledge, so that she does not drive three hours to Rochester to meet John, the man she has “met” in an online chat room.
“I've never felt this intellectually stimulated before.”
I want to slap her. I want to scream, “What the hell are you doing?” But this would require at least one lengthy phone call and a guaranteed explosive confrontation where I would no longer hold back. So I don't answer the phone. I don't pick up the phone to call her. I don't email her. Even though I know there's a good chance they will discover Sandra's headless body tossed alongside the shoulder of the New York State Thruway.
We have a history together; we know things about each other; we grew up in the same town. This is part of the appeal—staying friends with a person who can fill in the missing pieces. We ate that can of Betty Crocker chocolate frosting in my room. I sang People who need People in her closet. She fell down my stairs after we drank bourbon and root beer. How can I turn my back on all of that?
Throughout the weekend, I wonder if she is still alive. Surely, I would sense a decapitation. Sunday, I check my email, but it's quiet. I go about cleaning the house, waiting for the phone to ring. By eight o'clock, I can't stand it anymore and I call her.
“How was your trip?”
“Oh, alright.”
She sounds uncharacteristically low beat.
“Was he nice?”
“He was okay.” She lets out a sigh. “Not soul mate material.”
“Well, there's still the podiatrist, right?”
“Didn't I tell you? My aunt cast a Wicca spell on him—the energies no good.”
I am speechless.
“So, I'm going to Theresa tomorrow, find out what's up.”
Theresa is the psychic.
“What do you think she'll say?” I ask.
“Well, my chakras need opening, for one thing—and probably some crystals.”
“I'm sure that will help.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely.”
She is quiet a moment.
“Oh Annie. Life is so complicated. Why can't it be like when we were younger?”
It sounds promising. Still, I wait for her to launch into one of her me me me monologues.
“So—how's the book coming?”
I should not be fooled by this. She's just throwing me a bone.
“Good.” Best to keep my answer brief.
“Are you close to sending it out?”
The follow up shocks me. I listen as she continues to speak in a voice I have not heard for a very long time, her voice.
“I know it's going to happen for you, Annie. It just might take some time. Remember—we're good and we know it.”
I do remember. I'm close to tears.
“Thanks.”
“Well, I'll let you get back to writing.”
I hang up the phone, drained from the conversation.
Some day, I might lose it, too.
THE END
Elizabeth Esse Kahrs is a freelance journalist and fiction writer. She has been a columnist for Parent and Kids for the past six years. An excerpt from her first novel, The Trouble in My Mirror, recently appeared in The Huffington Post.
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