Litsa Dremousis

A Young Irene Dunne, Maybe

The craziest girl I ever knew had a father who was both a minister and a therapist, so maybe it wasn’t her fault.

“Connie, you look like a young Lauren Bacall,” he’d tell her.

“My father says I look like a young Lauren Bacall,” she’d tell me.

“Does that make me Bogey?” I’d laugh, trying to change the subject.

“You can see it around my eyes,” she’d continue.  “And I have the same alluring-type mouth.”

I ’d lie: “I have to get back to the office” or “I’m on deadline” or “I told Jeff I’d meet him by 6:00.”

But she never caught on.

One night as we drove to China Garden for dumplings she announced, “My father says you’re a bad influence, and that’s why I’m single. He says a young Lauren Bacall wouldn’t be single unless her friend gave her bad advice.”

“Lauren Bacall was 19 when she made To Have and Have Not, I replied.  ”You’re 32. He doesn’t pin that on me, does he?”

“Are you criticizing my father?” she asked and turned down  “Achtung Baby.”

“Oh, look! A parking spot!” I signaled and pulled over.

I couldn’t remember why we were friends anymore and pretty soon we weren’t.

“I’m having surgery on January 24th,” I told her over the phone. Rain pounded outside, and I stirred more Hershey’s into my cocoa.

“What day is that?” she asked

“Um, January 24th.”

“I know, but what day is that? Is it a Wednesday? Because I might be doing something with Michael if it’s a Wednesday. Wednesday’s are our nights.”

They’d been dating two weeks.

“You’ve been out with him three times. Couldn’t the Wednesdays be a coincidence?” I asked.

“Helen, you don’t understand,” she sighed wearily. “This is love.”

On January 28th, she called. “How are you?” she asked. “I’ve been thinking about you so much.” Her tone implied she’d scaled K-2, or learned Swahili overnight.

“I’m okay,” I said. “There was some weird bleeding at first, but it’s mostly stopped.”

“You know, I told Michael I was worried about you and he said I’m a really good friend,” she went on as if I hadn’t answered.

“Connie, I’ve got to go. I have to cauterize something,” I said and meant it.

We used to have each other’s keys, and now I don’t know where she lives. I heard her father died last year. I wonder who she looks like now.

 

Litsa Dremousis wrote, directed, and produced the plays, “If I Wake Before I Die” and “9:00 in the Afternoon.” Her work appears in The Believer, McSweeney’s, BlackBook, Paper, Poets & Writers, and on NPR.

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