Becoming Mona Lisa Read Free Page B

my eyes from the thing that had followed me into the bedroom, and grabbed the fading photo. In the dim lighting it was barely visible, but I didn't need to see it. I'd memorized the moment. Fifteen years had passed since the camera captured two young lovers in their third week of romantic bliss.
    We'd been students at Penn State. I was a sophomore, studying journalism; Tom, a senior, a music and drama major, who dreamed of becoming a teacher. I'd met him in a park on an ordinary day that changed my life. Forever.
    I moved to the window, and the sun cast its light upon my treasure.
    “ Hey,” I said to the familiar faces in the photo. Tom and I looked hopeful, happy - younger, more optimistic versions of the grown-ups we'd become. There was an inscription on the back. It had held up well, better than the faded picture, better than the people in it.
    Me and the man I will marry.
    A lot had happened since that day.
    Tom graduated.
    I didn't.
    In fact, I'd never finished anything. I was the queen of unfinished business, unmet goals, unfulfilled dreams.
    I deserved a fucking tiara!
    I plodded back to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet seat. “What happened to us?” I asked the people in the photo, both of whom remained silent.
    Tom no longer paid attention to me. I merely occupied the same space he did, and was no more or less significant than a couch. He didn't see me, but how could I blame him?
    Look at what I looked like!
    My strawberry-blond hair looked like a retired Ronald McDonald wig. I no longer bothered with makeup, and couldn't remember the last time I'd worn anything but khaki trousers, a blue apron, ragged jeans on the weekend, or my red sweat pants when I wanted to feel dressed to kill.
    I looked at my feet, at the nail polish that was barely visible, and only on my big toes.
    What is going on with this? Am I in some stupid contest to see how long it takes nail polish to fade?
    I used to wear high heels all the time, increasing my five-and-a-half-foot height, two or three inches. Now I covered the ruined pedicure with worn Keds. My body was still firm and slim, but I hid it beneath rags, and not because I couldn't afford clothes, but because I no longer cared.
    What the hell happened to me?
    My pocket vibrated. It was Tom. “Hi,” I said, fighting back tears.
    “Hi. Is something wrong?”
    You know there is, and it's my fault. “No,” I lied. “I had to tell you something.”
    “Talk fast. The Saturn people are out front.”
    “I saw Thurman's junk,” I said through a giggle.
    “In our garage?”
    “What?”
    “Pippin had junk in our garage?” Tom asked.
    “No. Junk, Tom! Do you know what junk means?”
    “Our house is filled with it.”
    “Tom Siggs, I saw Thurman's penis fall out of his pajama pants!” I nearly shouted, and my husband gasped.
    “What was he doing in our garage?” Tom whispered.
    “None of this happened in the garage, Tom.”
    I recited the story, and when I was done my husband was laughing as hard as I was. It was a delightful sound, and I couldn't remember the last time I had heard it.
    “Mona, I have to go,” Tom said, his voice lighter than it had been in a long time.
    “I know.”
    “Have a good day.”
    “You, too.”
    “That was a funny story.”
    “It was.”
    “Thanks for calling, honey.”
    “You're welcome,” I squeaked, my breath catching on honey.
    Tom disconnected. I turned on the water in the tub and stepped back to let it warm.
    While I waited, I returned to the kitchen with purpose in my step. I set my phone on the counter, shrugged off the old robe, and threw it in the trash. I would never wear it again.
    I walked back toward the bathroom. I shed my tattered sweat clothes, and stepped into the tub.
    Something had happened. Some wound I had made, that we had made, a wound made by lost dreams, and dissatisfaction – something between us began to heal.
     
     
     
    Three
    A make-over is good for the soul,
    but it is murder on the wallet.
     
     
    Ten