Here I Go Again: A Novel by Jen Lancaster
My knees buckle when I see the cat is alive, well, and sharing a plate of bacon with Mamma.
My mother frowns. “Good Lord, sugar, what’s a matter with you? Look lahk you’ve seen a ghost!”
Okay, do not even get me started on the irony of that statement.
“Hi, honey, would you like some breakfast? Your mother made biscuits that are out of this world. Please eat some so I stop,” Daddy implores me.
I’m so overcome with emotion that I can’t say anything, instead choosing to hug him again and again and again.
“No need to cry, sugar. The biscuits aren’t really that good. I don’t make ’em with lard anymore, because your daddy and I are gittin’ fat.” Then she pinches him, but gently.
My dad grins at my mother. “I don’t know; you still look pretty good to me.” Then he grabs her for a prolonged kiss.
Clearly I have landed in the Twilight Zone.
I don’t mind one bit.
I’m not entirely sure what else to do, so I pull up a chair and I help myself to a couple of biscuits with jam and butter, and they’re seriously the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.
I’m one sip into a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice when my father asks, “Are you excited to go back?”
That’s when I begin to choke. Go back? Where? In time? In space? What’s happening? I hack and sputter into my napkin while Daddy whacks me on the back.
“Judging from your reaction, you must be excited. Prolly tard of seeing me and your daddy snugglin’ all the time.”
I tell her, “Trust me when I say I will never be tired of that.”
“I imagine the varnish should be dry by now, right?” Daddy asks.
“I’m sorry?”
“Sugar, did you not sleep well? You’re all over the map today,” my mother says.
“I’m a little groggy,” I admit.
“You’ll be glad to be home,” Daddy decrees. “You’ll be back in your own home and you’ll have those beautiful new floors.”
I have a home?! But before I can even ponder what that means, my mother says, “We don’t mean to kick you out, darlin’, but your daddy and I sure could use some quiet time. This has been truly lovely, but it’s a bit much.”
What’s a bit much?
“Plus, honey bunny, we’re leaving for Canyon Ranch tomorrow.” She gives Daddy an affectionate poke. “I mean, someone’s got to play all that golf while I redesign their spa.”
That’s when I notice the huge stacks of wallpaper and fabric samples behind her, all adorned with a Ginny Ryder Designs logo.
Oh, my God, she did it, too! She actually listened to me! She found her calling as an interior designer! And she must be great at it, if she landed a project like Canyon Ranch.
My mother begins to herd me to the front door and says, “I see you have all your stuff already. All righty, sugar! See you soon!” Then she plants a kiss on me, hands me a purse, and sends me out the door with a small whack on my bottom.
I have no idea what’s happening here, but I hope it never ends.
So I’m ready to go home, I guess. I just need to figure out where that might be. I open the purse—not a Birkin, but who cares?—and the first thing I stumble upon is my iPhone.
I have one waiting text.
Deva: lassie rodeo, do you require my hope?
I text Deva back.
ME: no thx, i’m full up on hope right now
My heart swells to nearly bursting when I notice that one of the cars is covered with boating bumper stickers and I see a parking permit for Diversey Harbor. Way to go, Daddy and Mamma, I mean, Mom and Dad. If I’m going to be a better, newer, different me, I should probably start addressing my parents like an adult.
Seriously? Everything is perfect right now.
Except . . . I have no idea where I live. But I can figure that out from my driver’s license. I start to dig around in my handbag, which is really kind of massive.
Why do I carry so much shit in my purse? I dig and dig and dig, but I still don’t unearth a wallet.
Really, what the hell?
I have all the usual stuff, like tampons and elastic bands and an iPod. I’ve got one of those small e-readers. (I read now?) (Wait, Daddy’s a writer; I guess I must.) There’s Kleenex and granola bars and a bunch of weird plastic items that I don’t even recognize. I have three kinds of hand sanitizer! What’s my obsession with antibacterials? Am I a germaphobe now? Do I live in a bubble?
Okay, this is a little ridiculous—there’s a frigging banana in this bag. I would never carry a stupid banana around with me . . . except I guess I would and I have and I do.
I am very interested to get to know the new me. What do I call myself? Am I Lissy? Am I Melissa? Neither one of those names feels quite right anymore.
I should probably call myself “disorganized,” because this purse is a holy mess. I finally dump the whole kit and caboodle onto the porch. Okay, cool, here’s a gas bill. Where’s the address on this thing? Ah, looks like I live on . . .
“Belle?”
. . . Washington Street in Hinsdale. Huh.
“Belle?”
The suburbs. I never really thought of myself as a suburban-dwelling adult, yet here I am. What else don’t I know about myself?
“Belle. Belle. Melissa Belle Murphy, what are you doing with all that stuff?”
I look up and the entire universe feels like it’s shifted. “Brian? What are you doing here?”
“I was across the street saying good-bye to my parents.”
“Oh.” I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s so ruddy and vibrant and has hair in all the right places.
“Did you hit your head or something?” Brian’s staring at me like I have three noses or an unfortunate piercing, yet he’s holding out his hand to help me up.
I’m not sure what else to say, so I respond, “I think so.”
“Well, we’d better get you checked out before we go home.”
“No, no, I’m okay. But are we going to the same home? Together?”
“That’s kind of how it works, Belle,” he says with an amused expression on his beautiful, beautiful face. That’s when I spot his simple gold band. I glance down at my hand and I’m wearing one, too.
“We’re married? I mean, we’re married! Woo!”
Brian grows more concerned. “How hard would you say you hit your head?”
“No, no, I’m fine . . . honey.” I try out a term of endearment, just to see if it sticks.
He grabs me and gives me a quick kiss. “All right, then. Let’s go home.” Then he helps me scoop all the crap back into my purse and we walk hand in hand down the driveway.
I’d say I didn’t know how this happened, but I do. The key to everything was helping my parents fix themselves.
Certainly I want to catch up with everyone from my past, but I have a feeling that everything has fallen into place exactly like I hoped it would.
When we get to the end of the driveway, I try to open the door of the ultra-high-end luxury sedan parked there.
“Um, Belle, what are you doing?”
Okay, can I tell you how much I love being called by my middle name? That’s the perfect antidote to both Lissy and Melissa. It feels so right, harkening to my past but also speaking to my future.
Everything is perfect.
“Um, we’re not driving your mom’s car, Hell’s Bells. Come on; let’s get out of here.” Brian clicks a button on the remote and there’s a weird chirping that triggers the door sliding open on a shiny new beige minivan.
Okay, that’s not mine.
Yet the Brian who’s climbing into the driver’s seat begs to differ.
And that’s when I see something that knocks the wind right out of me.
There are two captain chairs in the middle of the van and a big bench seat in the back. The chairs contain two smaller versions of Brian with my coloring, in deft concentration over their Nintendos.
They’re probably his nephews, right?<
Then movement in the backseat captures my attention and I come face-to-face with a fourteen-year-old version of myself—blond hair, eyes that switch from blue to green depending on the outfit and mood, and the strong jawline capped off with a determined little chin. She’s clad in skinny jeans and a Bieber Fever T-shirt, and she’s holding one blingy ringy-dingy of a cell phone.
This person looks me up and down with more than a modicum of contempt. “Are you seriously wearing that heinous outfit, Mamma? You look like you got dressed at a garage sale. Or that you’re homeless and have really atrocious taste.” Then she rolls her eyes, huffs loudly, and returns to her texting.
Mamma.
Mamma?
Whoa.
Karma really is a bitch.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
They say a change will do you good and nowhere is that aphorism more evident than in this book. So I’d like to offer a million thanks to Scott Miller and the rest of the team at Trident. You’ve yet to be wrong, and I am so appreciative.
Also leading the change management team is Tracy Bernstein, who encouraged me to stretch, grow, and finally not base a heroine on my own life. I’m really proud of what we’ve accomplished here. And I’d be nowhere without the wisdom and skills of Kara Welsh and Claire Zion. Thank you for being so firmly Team Jen. Craig Burke, you rock, and Melissa Broder, you complete me. (By which I mean you humor and take care of me, which is the same damn thing. What Would Dick Cheney Do? indeed).
Extra big props go to my girls, starting with Stacey Ballis, who altered my future by saying, “But what if Lissy did this, instead?” Spot-freaking-on you were. I am so lucky to have you!
I’m equally fortunate to be surrounded by all of my family of choice—Tracy Stone, Gina Barge, Joanna Schiferl, Angie Felton, Wendy Hainey, Poppy Buxom, and Blackbird. Extra-special thanks with sugar on top goes to those who were kind enough to give me (and Lissy) an early read—Karyn Bosnak, Caprice Crane, Laurie Dolan, Benjamin Kissell, Lisa Lampanelli, and Sarah Pekkanen. How lucky am I to have so many talented women behind me? (Very lucky, in case that wasn’t clear.)
I’m equally grateful to those behind the scenes at New American Library—production, sales, marketing, etc. Your efforts are deeply appreciated, so thank you. And, of course, the booksellers and readers have rocked my world since 2006. I do this for you, so thank you times infinity.
The most thanks go to the long-suffering Fletch, the folder of the laundry and the cooker of fish dinners. You complete me even more than Melissa. Thank you for my hair metal education and for not laughing (too hard) when you’d catch me watching Kix and Ratt videos on YouTube. You’re right—those guys were WAY more masculine than the boys in WHAM. Who knew?
Finally, to Mr. David Coverdale, I throw the horns for you. You’ve still got it, sir. Indeed, you do.
Other Titles by New York Times
Bestselling Author Jen Lancaster
Bitter Is the New Black
Bright Lights, Big Ass
Such a Pretty Fat
Pretty in Plaid
My Fair Lazy
If You Were Here
Jeneration X
Jen Lancaster, Here I Go Again: A Novel