"Will that be cash or charge?" the sales clerk asked her.
It'd be her last splurge before the austerity program went into affect, she vowed.
But she didn't have enough money with her to pay for them. Nor could she write a check that wouldn't bounce— wouldn't that impress Mr. Cameron with how well she was following the guidelines of his budget? Finally she used her In the City Visa card.
She'd make it up from her next pay. Her first loan payment wasn't due for three weeks, and she had another paycheck due before that. Conveniently, she'd managed to forget the unpaid bill due her garage.
11
Thursday after work I drive up Highway 14 and pull into the parking lot of The Wishing Well. By the time I've walked around back and made my way through the rose bushes, the evening's starting to fall. I've never been here so late in the day before. I sit on the crumbly stone wall and lean against one of the roof supports. It's even more peaceful than on a Sunday afternoon, and I just drink in the tranquility for a long time.
I need something good in my life right now. I've already lost a couple of pounds, and I still haven't had a cigarette since Tuesday night, but I feel terrible. My jaw aches from being clenched so much and all I can think of is cigarettes and food, food and cigarettes. Whenever I turned around at work, someone was stuffing a Danish into their mouth, chewing a sandwich, eating cookies or donuts or a bag of chips. The smoke from Keith's cigarettes— one desk over from mine— is a constant reminder of what I can't do anymore.
Sitting here, just letting the quiet soak into me, is the first real down time I feel I've had in the last two days. It's dark when I finally reach into the pocket of my dress and take out the penny I found in front of the trust company the other day.
Splash.
"So there's this guy," I say finally. My voice sounds loud, so I speak more softly. "I think I like him a lot, but I'm afraid I'm just going to get hurt again..."
It's the same old litany, and even I'm getting tired of it. If the well had a wish for itself, it'd probably be for me just to go away and leave it alone.
Wishes. I don't believe in them, but I'd like to. I think of what Jilly said about them.
It just depends on how badly you want them.
To come true.
For all the times I've visited the well, I've never actually made a wish myself. I don't know why. It's not just because I don't believe in them. Because there's something here, isn't there? Why else would I be able to hear all those old wishes? Why else would the ghosts come walking through my sleep every night? Truth is, I've been thinking about wishes more and more lately, it's just that...
I don't know. Two days into my new healthy Brenda regime, yes, I'm still hanging in with the diet and not smoking, but it's like I'm conspiring against myself at the same time, trying to undermine what I am accomplishing with other messes. Can't eat, can't smoke? Then, why not blow some money you don't have?
I made the mistake of stopping at one of the sidewalk jewelry vendors on Lee Street and I used my In the City Visa card to buy fifty dollars' worth of earrings. I didn't even know those vendors took credit cards. Then, when I got back to work, there was a guy from a collection agency waiting for me. The garage got tired of waiting for the money I owed them. The collection agency guy had a talk with Rob— my boss, the paper's editor— and I had to agree to letting them garnishee my wages until the collection agency's paid off.
Which is going to leave me desperately short. Where am I going to get the money to pay off the bank loan I took out earlier this week, not to mention the money I borrowed on the paper's Visa card? This diet and no-smoking business is saving me money, but not that much money.
Whatever good I'm supposed to get out of doing the right thing still seems impossibly out of reach. Even though I haven't smoked in two days, my lungs seem more filled with phlegm than ever and my mouth still tastes terrible. All I had was popcorn again today, and a quarter of a head of lettuce. I'm losing weight, according to my bathroom scale, but I can feel the fat cells biding their time in my body, ready to multiply as soon as I stick a muffin or a piece of chocolate in my mouth. I'm worse than broke.
I guess the reason I haven't ever made a wish is that this is the only place I know where I don't feel so bad. If I make a wish it'll be like losing the genie in the bottle. You know, you've always got him in reserve— for company, if nothing else— until you make your final wish.
What would I wish for? To be happy? I'd have to become a completely different person for that to work. Maybe to be rich? But how long before I'd blow it all?
The only thing I'd really want to wish for is to see my dad again, but I know that's something that'll never happen.
12
Monday morning found Jilly sitting on the wooden bench in front of Amos & Cook's Arts Supplies, impatiently waiting for the store to open. She amused herself as she usually did in this sort of a situation by making up stories about the passersby, but it wasn't as much fun without somebody to share the stories with. She liked telling them to Geordie best, because she could invariably get the biggest rise out of him.
She'd been up all night working on the preliminary sketches for an album cover that the Broken Hearts had commissioned from her, only to discover when she finally started on the canvas that she'd used up all her blues the last time she'd worked with her oils. So here she sat, watching the minute, hand on the clock outside the delicatessen across the street slowly climb to twelve, dragging the slower hour hand up to the nine as it went.
Eventually Amos & Cook's opened and she darted inside to buy her paints. It was while she was heading back up Yoors Street to her studio that she ran into Brenda coming the other way.
"You're looking good," she said when they came abreast of each other.
"Well, thanks a lot," Brenda said sarcastically.
Jilly blinked in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You and Wendy are always telling me how I shouldn't worry about being fat—"
"We never said you were—"
"— but now as soon as I find a diet that's actually letting me lose some weight, I'm looking great.' "
"Whoa," Jilly said. "Time out. I have never said that you needed to lose weight."
"No, but now that I have I look so much better, right?"
"I was just being—"
Friendly, Jilly had been about to say, but Brenda interrupted her.
"Honest for a change," Brenda said. "Well, thanks for nothings."
She stalked off before Jilly could reply.
"You have a nice day, too," Jilly said as she watched Brenda go.
Wow, talk about getting up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, she thought. She'd never seen Brenda running on such a short fuse.
She was a little hurt from the confrontation until she realized that besides Brenda's bad mood, there'd been something else different about her this morning: no cigarette in her hand, no smell of stale smoke on her clothes. Knowing that Brenda must have recently quit smoking made Jilly feel less hurt about the way Brenda had snapped at her. She'd quit herself years ago and knew just how hard it was— and how cranky it made you feel. Add that to yet another new diet...
Quitting cigarettes was a good thing, but Jilly wasn't so sure about the diet. Brenda didn't need to lose weight. She had a full figure, but everything was in its proper proportion and place. Truth was, she often felt envious of Brenda's fuller shape. It was so Italian Renaissance, all rounded and curved— and lovely to paint, though she had yet to get Brenda to sit for her. Perhaps if this latest diet helped raised Brenda's self-esteem enough, Brenda would finally agree to pose for some quick studies at the very least.