Ginny Aiken: Priced to Move

Davina, deadpan, bends to slip Aunt Weeby into the car, her movements gentle, as tender as those of a mother for her child. When she stands back upright, I come close and touch her arm. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Miss Andie. Miz Weeby’s a favorite of mine.”

“You can drop the Miss with me. I’m just Andie. And my aunt’s something, all right. Just don’t ask me what.”

The disco-style, color-changing lights in the limo keep Aunt Weeby fascinated, as does the small fridge filled with juices and sodas. Once home, she doesn’t fight Davina, and we get her settled on the parlor sofa.

After everyone leaves and it’s just the two of us, though, a tug-of-wills war eats up the rest of our day. Aunt Weeby being Aunt Weeby, wants to do everything she’s always done the way she’s always done it, never mind the broken leg in its Pepto-pink cast.

By the time I settle her into bed—you don’t want to know about that hike up those stairs, since she refused to sleep on the queen-size, double-decker AeroBed I inflated in the study—I’m exhausted. Drag-down, knock-out beat. My every muscle screams when I go back to the kitchen to make myself a cup of cocoa. But in spite of my exhaustion, something about this house makes me crave the comforts of childhood. Aunt Weeby’s always been a firm believer in the power of prayer and chocolate therapy, not necessarily together or in equal measure.

When the phone rings, I groan and ignore it for two shrill shrieks, but then my call deprivation gets the better of me. I answer with little enthusiasm.

“Andie?”

The woman’s voice is familiar, but not so much that I recognize it. “Yes?”

“It’s Peggy. Peggy Sanders. Remember?”

Oh. My. Goodness. “Of course, I remember. We spent too many summers planning and plotting how to ditch our chores and go swimming not to. How are you?”

Her relief comes across loud and clear. “I’m fine, but I’m not Peggy Sanders anymore. At least, not technically. I married Josh Ross, from youth group. Do you remember him?”

“Wow. I do remember him. That’s great. What are you two up to these days?”

She laughs. “I’m not so sure you really want to know, but since you asked, I’m up to my eyeballs in dirty diapers, dirty dishes, and dirty kitty litter.”

“Girlfriend, are you sure the ammonia fumes from the diapers and kitty litter haven’t pickled your brain?”

“Oh, I’m sure they have. But enough about me and my pickled brain. How are you? Last I heard, you were jetting all over the world buying up the crown jewels of third world countries.”

“Not exactly. I did score a ton of frequent-flyer miles buying exotic gemstones for my boss, but I never got close enough to sneeze at any crown jewels. I usually hung around boring business offices and the occasional muddy mine entrance.” “That’s way more interesting than dealing with multi-species poop.”

As we both laugh, I realize how much I lost when I gave my all to the pursuit of my supposedly awesome career. Memories of lonely nights in New York return with a vengeance. Ouch!

How could I have left such a fun friendship in the dust I kicked up in my mad scramble up the success ladder? And even now, after I return home, it’s Peggy who calls, not me. Color me mortified.

“Hey, Peg,” I say, suddenly serious. “I owe you a huge apology.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t seen you in ages. How could you owe me anything?”

“That’s just it. I lost track of what really matters. I never stayed in touch with you or anyone besides Aunt Weeby and my parents. And let me tell you, the Big Apple may be great for retail therapy and Broadway, but there are just so many Coach bags and show tickets a girl can consume.

Besides, when you’re alone, your best bet is a cat. And then mine died.”

“And you think my brain’s pickled? That’s awful, Andie. Didn’t you find a church home? And how about your neighbors? What was wrong with them?”

“Church was Sunday. The rest of the week was work, work, work. And you don’t know New York. It’s like a beehive— well, the apartment buildings are. You know, every worker bee buzzes home to the correct cubbyhole, slams the door, and hunkers down. It’s so not Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood .” “Better you than me,” Peggy says. “I couldn’t have done it. But you must have liked it some. Otherwise you’d have come home sooner. Right?”

Would I? Not then, I wouldn’t have. “It took me a good long while to figure out I’m not like that either, but I’m here now. I did love the gemological side of my New York life, though. That’s about all I did love. And it wasn’t enough.”

From there the conversation leaps all over the place. Finally, we agree to have lunch on Saturday, when Josh has his guy time with their two little boys. We hang up, and I smile.

What an awesome feeling to know I still have a friend, a good one. Thank you, Lord, for looking out for me whenI didn’t have the sense to do so. I even have a home—the real deal, not my glorified closet in a très chic building in Tribeca.

Halfway up the stairs, I turn to check out the parlor and foyer one more time. They haven’t changed; they haven’t had to. The classic furniture radiates that aura of quality—good simple lines and rich, warm taupe upholstery. The Asian rug, with its traditional gold, black, and cream pattern, couldn’t be more ideal. The cherry side and dining room tables were Great-Great-Grandma Willetta’s grandmother’s once upon a time, so they’re probably worth a bundle, and the drapes are ivory silk, luxury again. The soft scent of fresh flowers on the foyer console reminds me of all the other times I’ve walked into this house. Aunt Weeby will go without coffee, biscuits, or country ham before she’ll forego her flowers. And they’re fresh. Only fresh works for her.

I’m so not a New Yorker. Except for the shopping: Macy’s, Saks, Bloomies, the designers’ boutiques . . .

As I go upstairs, I glide my finger over the silky-smooth banister. Memories of family vacations, holidays, lazy summer afternoons, and above all else, love, blossom in me like a field of daisies under the summer sun. At the landing, I hug myself, and turn a slow, happy circle.

Then I grin. Forget about that approaching three-oh hill. No one’s around. No one’s gonna bust me. So I hike up a leg, and . . .

“Yeah, baby!” The banister’s as slick as ever, the exhilaration the same. Thank you, Jesus, for Aunt Weeby, Miss Mona,and the faboo banister too.

That was then, three days ago. This is now. I’ve crash-landed into The Twilight Zone .

Time? It means nothing. Days zip past me in a hazy blur. I now have a good—bad, actually—idea of what sleepwalking feels like. And I never wanted to know in the first place. Now I’m in this new dimension—well, my body is—and I hear and say all the right things, but my mush-for-brain can’t quite get around it all. Day after day of meetings with gemstone vendors and jewelry suppliers go well. I know most of them from my years in New York, and I do know my gemstones. But then there’s the other. You see, I’m suddenly the victim on a manic version of What Not to Wear . It’s not one of my fave shows anymore, not after what I’m going through. What’s worse, my survival isn’t assured in this GroundhogDay cycle of planning meetings, rehearsals, and millions of fittings for the clothes Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby want me to wear on-screen.

But surprise, surprise! By the time two weeks of this madness have gone by, they have disagreed over every shirt, skirt, dress, and pants each has suggested.

And I wouldn’t be caught dead in anything they choose. Starting with the inverted lampshade Aunt Weeby calls “darling.” When she pulls it out of the dress bag, I go into shock. My reaction hovers between laughing, crying, and running back to New York and a fresh new ulcer. It’s the exact shade of her cast and that diarrhea medicine.