Mirror, Mirror Page 2

  The fickle public is never going to give her what she needs. She needs to know she’s valuable no matter how she looks and only God can show her that.

  “Can I be frank with you, Quinn?” Pete’s dark eyes were somber.

  “Aren’t you always?”

  “I’m usually full of drivel and you know it, but this time I’m serious. I’m really concerned about Maggie.”

  Pete, Maggie and I have been friends for a long time and I trust his instincts where Maggie is concerned.

  “This insecurity thing is getting out of hand. She’s convinced herself that if she had a different look she’d have more jobs.”

  This is a long-running conversation between Pete and me. “Maggie is never short of jobs for long. The problem with two models living together is that they seldom have work at the same time. I wish Maggie would quit keeping track of every time I’ve got a job and she doesn’t. Maybe I should quit modeling altogether so that I’m not in competition with her.”

  “That would be a big help,” Pete said sarcastically. Then he leaned back and studied me. “And there it is again, that ‘take it or leave it’ attitude that makes you so mysterious and desirable as a subject.”

  “Whatever. This isn’t a conversation about me, Pete. It’s about Maggie.”

  He leaned forward and put his hands on the desk. “Frankly, Quinn, I think that if we don’t convince Maggie to start liking herself she might do something stupid.”

  “Something stupid? Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t even tell you why I say it other than I’ve known Maggie since before she could tie her own shoes and I don’t like the direction she’s going.”

  Me, either. But is there anything I can do to stop it?

  Chapter Two

  “Quinn, are you home?” I heard Maggie come through the back door and begin to rummage around in the kitchen.

  Dash, in residence on the couch, opened one eye and shut it again. I have area rugs that move more than Dash.

  It’s remarkable that an athlete like a greyhound that is able to run up to forty-five miles an hour can be so mellow and laid-back. The only adjustment Dash had to make to my place was learning to climb the stairs. Dash had never seen stairs before and watched me go up and down several times before he tried it himself.

  I live in a suburb of the Twin Cities in the home that my grandparents shared until they moved to senior housing. Now I mow the lawn, tend hydrangeas and peonies and shovel the sidewalk while they take computer and French-cooking classes in their new place.

  “Hey!” Maggie greeted me, a banana halfway to her mouth. “Did I get any calls?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed. “But there were for you?” Maggie got my share of competitive spirit as well as her own.

  “A couple,” I said vaguely.

  “Don’t hold back because you think it will hurt my feelings that you got a job and I didn’t. Spill it.” Maggie is always happy at my good news, but it’s a double-edged sword. Every job I get is one she didn’t.

  “I got a call from a local designer who is planning a new catalogue. Should be fun if I can fit it in.”

  “What do you mean ‘fit it in’?” Maggie’s brown eyes grew wide and her mobile face displayed a host of fleeting emotions—envy, regret, hopefulness and ultimately, good humor. “I’d give my teeth to do a catalogue!”

  “If you give up your teeth you aren’t likely to get into any magazine but the trade for American Dental Association.”

  Although everyone else thinks it is romantic and glamorous to model, I’d much rather build clay replicas of the Alamo with a fourth-grader recovering from surgery than prance under hot lights.

  “At least I have the health-club print ads to look forward to.” Maggie flung herself onto the couch, disturbing Dash, who, in a rare show of displeasure, opened both eyes to glare at her before dozing off again.

  She wore jeans and a frothy multicolored top layered over a hot pink camisole.

  “You’ve been in my closet again.” I eyed the outfit I’d purchased last week at the Mall of America. “Didn’t you promise that you’d let me wear my own new clothes first, before you got to them? Shades of high school, Maggie!”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Sorry you did it or sorry you got caught?”

  She grinned at me. “Both?”

  I glowered at her and she added, “Don’t worry. As soon as I get some money coming in from the fitness-club gig, I’ll buy my own things and let you wear them.”

  “Right. You’ve been promising that since you were twelve years old.”

  Maggie was recently hired to be the face of a local fitness club. Soon she will be peering down on us from billboards in colorful leotards with an “I’m Fit, and You Can Be, Too” smile on her face. I hope that doesn’t remind her that she thinks her nose is too big.

  “I am so glad you got the job. It’s perfect for you.” It has also done wonders for her spirits.

  She visibly brightened. “Just sitting on elliptical trainers and rowing machines will make me buff.” She tapped a long, well-manicured finger on her temple. “By osmosis, or something. Didn’t we learn that in school?”

  “What can leak in can leak out,” I warned.

  She plucked a box of snack cakes off the coffee table anyway.

  “Are you sure you want to do that? You know how hard you will be on yourself later.” Pleasure for a moment, recriminations for a day, that’s how Maggie works.

  She hoisted a cellophane-wrapped cake in the air. “It’s a celebration. I’m going to be the face of clubs all over the city. Everyone will think actually I work out.”

  Maggie rolled off the couch, scratched behind Dash’s ear and headed toward her room with the Twinkies.

  Modeling is about illusion. It’s obvious to me when I’m facing the camera, with a wind machine blowing my hair away from my face or batting fake eyelashes that look like tarantulas when they are lying on my makeup table. I might inspire young women to run out and buy a new wand of mascara so they can look just like me, but I know that the sleek, glamorous dress I’m wearing is pinned, clipped and basted to my body at the back, the filmy fabric itches and the casual, wind-blown hair took an hour and a half to fabricate into a “natural” look.

  One of the things I loved most about my ex-boyfriend was that he cared for me no matter how I looked. I tested him. The first time he came to my house to pick me up, I answered the door barefoot, with no makeup and my hair in Velcro-like rollers the size of cans of pork and beans, and the look on his face never wavered. But that wasn’t enough to keep us together. Eventually we realized our values were just too different.

  I made myself a cup of tea and recalled some of the earlier men in my life. In high school, guys fell into one of two categories. They either wanted a “trophy date” or were too intimidated to ask me out. The confident ones were usually so self-absorbed as to be no fun at all and the shy ones skittered away like baby mice when I ran into them in the hall. I either fascinated or terrified them in high school. Romance and I never had a chance.

  Fortunately I always had Pete and Maggie, so I was never alone.

  In college, things were better. My university had a great basketball team. For dating, that meant I had a much larger selection of really nice guys who were actually taller than me.

  “What’s up?” Maggie returned to the living room in pajamas covered with drowsy sheep.

  “I met a good-looking guy today. Nice, too.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. He’s a widower with a son. And he’s still in love with his wife.”

  “Ouch. There’s no way to compete with that. How long has he been alone?”

  “Two years. But it’s okay. I’m not interested. I just thought he was a really nice man. His ten-year-old has juvenile arthritis.”

  “Aha. It’s the little boy you’re interested in.”

  “You know me, I
’m a sucker for little kids.”

  “And I’m just a chump when it comes to men.”

  Too true. Maggie has been disappointed in love more than once. The most endearing thing about my friend—her open, vulnerable, loving personality—is also the thing that sometimes drives me crazy. Maggie’s pulsing, unprotected heart is out there, lying on a platter for all to see and anyone to break. Pete and I are very protective of her. Sometimes we are the shell to Maggie’s tender, defenseless and exposed “inner turtle.” A weird metaphor, I know, but apt.

  “Where are you going tomorrow? I know how you eat when I’m not around. I found burger wrappings in your car last time you were out.”

  “You search my car for telltale signs of junk food?”

  She threw herself into a chair. “I like to sniff the wrappers, okay? I am so sick of being on a diet!”

  I wisely refrained from mentioning the snack cake she’d just eaten. “Then quit.”

  “Right. Then I could do Volkswagen commercials. I could be the Volkswagen.”

  “Maggie, you have a great look. No one ever calls me ‘exotic’ or ‘lusciously appealing.’”

  “That is because ‘luscious’ is a synonym for ‘chubby.’ I should have stuck with landscape design or been a chef like my mother told me to be. Or a librarian. I would have made a great librarian.”

  “Chubby? You’re a size—”

  “Shh. Don’t say it. Someone might hear.”

  “You are twisted, my dear. I’ve never met anyone so paranoid about their looks. Especially anyone as ‘luscious’ as you.”

  “Years of practice growing up in a critical family, Quinn. I don’t expect anyone else to understand. Tolerate me, will you? Love me if you can, but at least tolerate me.”

  No one other than Pete and I could appreciate the full meaning of her cryptic comment, but we had lived it with her.

  Maggie’s parents are sweet, hardworking middle-class people who, in many ways, were like the ducks who were given a swan to rear in the story of the ugly duckling. Their two older daughters look much like their father and his masculine good looks do not translate well to the female gender. Maggie’s twin sister, although an identical twin, is a pale copy of Maggie.

  It is odd how two sisters can look so much alike and yet one is prettier, more vibrant and appealing. But that’s how it is in Maggie’s family—one incredible swan growing up in a family of perfectly lovely ducklings. Unfortunately, the ducklings weren’t particularly happy to be ducklings. They, dying to be swans, always tried to sink Maggie as she swam. Even though she understands their issues on a rational level, it ate away at the foundation of her confidence.

  More than once I’ve been tempted to climb onto my soapbox at a Tamburo family dinner and scream out 1 Peter 2:1. Get rid of all malicious behavior and deceit. Don’t just pretend to be good! Be done with hypocrisy and jealousy and backstabbing.

  “Leave a wasps’ nest alone and you don’t get stung,” is Maggie’s remark every time either Pete or I attempt to defend her. Wounded early, Maggie’s only hope of true healing is in God, but she has to start believing Him.

  She believes in Him, all right, but never relaxes fully into His care. She’s like me on an airplane, never quite putting my full weight down. I know that airplanes exist, I’m just not sure how they fly and don’t quite trust that they will stay in the air. Maggie believes in God, but she doesn’t trust Him enough to give Him the wheel.

  Our conversation dissipated into comfortable silence as she watched her favorite reality-television show. Bored by the inanity of it all, I studied her thoughtfully. She didn’t seem any different to me—insecure, but no more so than usual. Yet Pete was worried. I cannot imagine what “stupid” thing he thinks Maggie might do.

  I chalked it up to Pete’s creative imagination and went to take a bath.

  I met Pete for dinner the next evening at an All-You-Can-Eat-For-$7.99 place after a photo shoot. Pete and I usually go there once or twice a month. It drives Maggie crazy that our metabolisms can handle it, so we usually go on a day she’s out on a date.

  “How are Maggie and Randy doing?” Pete asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said cautiously. “As far as I’m concerned, the jury is still out about Randall Wilson.”

  “He’s a good-looking guy in a sort of muscle-bound, sleeves-of-his-shirt-are-too-tight-and-appear-to-be-cutting-off-circulation-to-his-brain kind of way.” Pete dumped enough ketchup on his meat loaf to make it look inedible.

  “True, but I’ve never had a conversation with him that didn’t consist of the words yeah, cool and whatever.” I stole a piece of chicken from Pete’s plate. “But I don’t know him very well, so it’s really not my place to judge.”

  “I worry about it a little sometimes.” Pete slathered jam on another biscuit.

  “Maggie is head over heels in love with the guy but my instinct says Randy doesn’t feel the same about her.”

  “I hope you are wrong.”

  Maggie has the idea that she’s not complete without a man on her arm, that she’s not “enough” on her own. Another blight bestowed on her by her sisters.

  When I got home I fed Dash, who deigned to rise to go to his dog dish but obviously considered it his stab at aerobic exercise. Then I finished gathering facts on Pluto—yes, it’s the farthest orb formerly-known-as-a-planet from the sun; no, Pluto is not only a cartoon dog—and prepared a math lesson to go with it—If you weigh seventy pounds on Earth, how much do you weigh on Pluto? Four.

  When I heard a key clicking into the lock on the front door, I glanced at the clock, startled to think that time had passed so quickly. Maggie must already be home from her date. Then I realized it was barely 10:00 p.m.

  “I thought you didn’t have dinner reservations until nine… Maggie?”

  Her long black hair was a tangle and she scraped her fingers through it as she poised in the doorway, wild-eyed and frantic. Tears made tracks of mascara down her cheeks, which were aflame with emotion.

  I pushed away from the table and moved toward her, but she bolted into her bedroom. “I want to die. I just want to die!” The door slammed behind her before I could reach it. The lock clicked into place and I heard her fling herself onto the bed and begin to weep.

  “Maggie, don’t lock yourself in your room. I’m here for you. What’s happened?”

  “Go away!”

  Ignoring that, I pulled a chair to the door. “I’m going to sit here outside your room for a bit. When you’re ready to talk, open it.”

  “Go away, Quinn!”

  “It’s okay. I’m very comfortable. Don’t worry about me.”

  There is a method to my madness. Maggie, though impossibly hard on herself, feels guilty if she thinks she is putting anyone else out, especially me. “I’ll be here when you are ready to—”

  The door swung open and a disheveled Maggie glared at me ferociously. “You know I can’t leave you sitting out here!”

  “It’s my house, too,” I said more calmly than I felt. “And you’re my friend. If I feel the need to sit out here, I will.”

  “But if you’re out here and I’m in there…” A sheet of tears rained down her cheeks. “Oh, Quinn, what am I going to do?”

  Chapter Three

  I pushed past her into the room. Maggie’s photo album was open on her bed. She had shredded all her photos of Randy and scattered them on the floor like confetti. As she paced back and forth, kicking at the scraps, she muttered words like cad, lothario and lout.

  Maggie has an excellent vocabulary when she’s upset.

  Most Scandinavians I know keep a fairly good rein on their emotions. I am the first generation in my family to be what my mother calls “huggy.” I tell my family I love them, kiss them when I greet them and ignore their stiff-necked “what if someone sees us?” ways.

  Maggie, on the other hand, comes from a large Italian family that relishes drama. They enjoy waving their hands when they speak and emoting all over the place. Normally,
Maggie and I balance each other out in this department, but tonight my calm reserve was no match for her fiery rant. Finally, I called Pete.

  “You know that ‘something stupid’ you were worrying about?” I said when he picked up the phone.

  “Maggie?”

  “You’d better come over. I think she’s on the brink of doing something that might fall into that category.”

  “What happened?”

  “She left for dinner with Randy but came home early.” I lowered my voice a little even though I knew that Maggie couldn’t hear me with her face buried in a pillow. “They must have broken up. She’s been crying and mutilating photos of them together. I can’t get any sense out of her. She might do better if there were two of us here to calm her down.”

  “I never liked him much, anyway,” Pete said sourly. “I’ll be right over.”

  By the time he arrived, the shower was running in Maggie’s bathroom.

  “Cooling down,” I murmured, and handed him a cup of black coffee. “She’s alarming me. You know how she is. Dramatic. Volatile. Sensitive. And now this. She doesn’t have a shred of self-confidence left. Her sisters and now Randy have seen to that.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she thought Randy’s opinion was the be-all and end-all. She went to school to be a landscape designer. Why did she quit to become a model?”

  “You know Maggie. She had something to prove. Her sisters told her it would be impossible for her. I wish she’d do something she enjoys rather than whip herself into a frenzy over a job that’s only skin-deep.”

  We stared morosely into our coffee cups.

  “Maggie is doing with the modeling what she’s always done, Quinn.” Pete sounded as weary as I felt over Maggie. “She is trying to make herself feel better by collecting compliments from others about her attractiveness. She doesn’t feel it in herself so she needs bigger and bigger ‘fixes’ from others. What better way to get people to see you as beautiful than modeling fabulous clothes?” He slumped deeper into the chair I’d purchased in a flea market in Wisconsin. “No wonder she’s devastated. There’s no compliment in being dumped.” She claims she doesn’t even know the reason.