L.A. Weather

by María Amparo Escandón

  “It’s done. Mabel checked me and we’re on track,” she said into the phone’s speaker.

  “This is not right, Pats. We can’t go through with this.”

  “What? Cold feet? After everything we discussed? You’re not stealing your embryos; you’re rescuing them. Think of yourself as the Robin Hood of fertilized eggs. It’s like a mitzvah.”

  “I know, but it just doesn’t feel right. And I want you to know how grateful I am to you for volunteering to carry the babies. Is there a better surrogate mom in the entire planet? No! But how are you going to explain your pregnancy to Eric? He’ll think the babies are his! We really haven’t thought this through.”

  “We’ll figure it out in the next few days, you’ll see. For now, I’m going to start taking the meds.”

  Olivia was right, Patricia thought. Eric was an unsolved hurdle. Or not. There was a high probability that by the time she showed a bump, he’d be gone from her life. But she couldn’t disclose this to Olivia just yet. She called Keila.

  “Where are you, Mom?”

  “I’m at LAX. I’m off to Mexico City, last minute. I’ll be working on a new show at the gallery. I’ll be back on Friday night. What is it, honey?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice. Wanted to thank you for birthing me.”

  “Oh, Pats. That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me in a long time! I love being your mom, you know that.”

  “I do. Love you, too. Take care.”

  After she hung up, Patricia reached for the box of tissues on the floor and blew her nose. Somehow her visit to the doctor had brought about a forgotten feeling. She imagined herself wiggling through her mother’s cervix, headfirst, and finding her way out of her vagina into a life so impossible to understand that numerous religions had been invented in the attempt to give it meaning. She pressed her teary eyes with the tissue and tossed it on the passenger seat.

  Thursday, July 7th

  A feeling of helplessness flooded Oscar’s heart as he washed his SUV on the driveway, using as little water as possible. There were still months ahead without a drop of rain and the reservoirs were hitting bottom.

  He’d been missing Keila, the Keila he’d always loved. He longed to cuddle under the blankets as they used to and talk about unimportant things. A forlorn grimace settled on his face. He squeezed the excess soap from the sponge into a bucket and proceeded to caress the tire. How had his life come to this point? He remembered the day he met Keila in twelfth grade, an exchange student from Mexico with a smile that caused his heart to plunge into the depths of his guts. He could still recite from memory the carefully folded note passed down from student to student all the way to her hand in math class with a bold invitation to see One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, a movie that would surely win at the Oscars. Then, as the school year progressed and his relationship with Keila solidified, they went to see Deep Purple at the Cal Jam II rock concert at the Ontario Motor Speedway and became regulars at downtown Chinese restaurants, unlikely venues where punk rock bands such as the Germs and the Weirdos played. At sixty, he was still a fan. Even after Keila went back to Mexico City the following summer, he’d still go by himself just to miss her while he listened to his favorite songs. How many letters crossed the border north and south before she said yes and returned to Los Angeles to marry him two years later, halfway through college? He rinsed the tires with a trickle of water from the hose and went inside to write Keila a note inviting her to the movies. He folded it carefully and threw it in the recycling trash can.

  Nineteen hundred miles away, Simon Brik carefully unfolded the piece of paper that Keila had just slid across the restaurant table in downtown Mexico City. The only word, written in her hand, was “Yes.”

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked her, hopeful.

  Keila nodded, her eyes locked on his.

  “Then say it.”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  They skipped dessert, went to his apartment in the Condesa neighborhood, and as they reached the second-floor landing, Keila stopped.

  “Maybe not.” Her voice was almost a whisper, as if she were talking to herself.

  “We don’t have to do this, Keila, dear,” said Simon, caressing her hair. “I can continue wanting you. I’m used to it.”

  After a long silence in which she allowed Simon to cocoon her cheeks with his hands, she said: “What kind of tequila do you have?”

  Simon’s 1930s Art Deco apartment occupied the entire floor; the walls were covered with art, the sofa populated by plush cushions, the lighting carefully designed to create a feeling of cozy sophistication. Keila focused on his collection to diffuse her nervousness. A Carlos Amorales gouache on paper here, a Gabriel Orozco on the opposite wall, an Iñaki Bonillas and a small, early Francis Alÿs over there, by the window overlooking the canopy of the park out front. Keila recognized several of her own pieces, some dating back two decades, before sculpture, when she was still painting. The old hardwood floor squeaked under their weight as they walked around the living room.

  “Oh, look, that’s a nice Dr. Lakra you have there,” she said, pointing to a piece next to an antique armoire that had been upcycled as a bar and where Simon had just selected a crystal bottle of tequila.

  “Art. It’s my other obsession,” he said, looking directly at her. No blinking.

  They talked shop for a while, discussing the works of other contemporary artists as they drank a few shots. And sometime between ten thirty and midnight—neither would care to remember—Simon walked Keila to his bedroom and laid her on the bed.

  “Isn’t this a bit fast?” asked Keila.

  “I’ve only been seducing you for more than two decades, but sure, we can slow down,” whispered Simon in her ear. “I’ll take you home.”

  Instead of leaving, Keila put her arms around Simon and pressed herself against him. He undressed her and cupped her still-supple breasts in his hands.

  Their lovemaking was twenty years in the making, and yet it felt so new to Keila. That night, as Simon slept beside her, she wondered if this would be the first or the last time she’d sleep in that bed, with that man.

  Saturday, July 9th

  Of all the marathons that Claudia had run all over the country—Boston, Chicago, New York, Anchorage, Honolulu, Niagara Falls—there was one that gave her the most pride, not just for running it, but for breaking her own record: the incredibly challenging Grandfather Mountain Marathon in North Carolina.

  But on that balmy seventy-five-degree Los Angeles morning, she was watching the marathon on TV in her pajamas when athlete Mike Mitchell crossed the finish line in first place. She turned off the TV and with a great deal of difficulty wobbled from her bed to the bathroom to pee.

  Sunday, July 10th

  Having flown into Tahoe on Saturday, Patricia made time for an overnight visit to her new and definitely temporary friend Jesús before picking up Daniel. Even many years later, in her old age, she’d always remember the forty-five-minute kiss and the whispers of desire in that log cabin in the woods right on the state line between California and Nevada. What was it with men in buns? It seemed to her so androgynous, so sexy. After breakfast—he cooked, not bad at all—they fucked some more, she on top, always on top. Then, she showered, lifting her toes to avoid touching the scum-covered tile, and drove her car to camp to pick up Daniel.

  The campers’ play, based on the novel Middlesex (abridged and adapted for teenagers), was a total triumph. It helped that two of the parents were working Hollywood actors and had volunteered to direct the kids. Not only that, they had financed the scholarship program for several of the campers whose families could not afford tuition. Patricia herself had pitched in, as had many of the other parents. It was a California thing to do and she felt proud to be a native.

  Daniel spent a substantial portion of the flight back to Los Angeles listing for Patricia all the camp’s highlights.

  “I want to change my name,” he said. />
  Patricia took the statement in and gave herself time to think about her answer.

  “What do you want to call yourself?”

  “Dani. It’s Hebrew. It means ‘God will judge.’ It could be a boy name or a girl name.”

  “I like that. When do you want to do it? I can be your witness when we go to City Hall.”

  “Anytime this summer, but everyone can start calling me Dani now.”

  “What about your gender, Dani? Any thoughts?”

  “I know that physically I’m a boy and I’m fine with that. But sometimes I want to do girl stuff. I feel more connected to girls, but I also want to hang out with boys. I really don’t have to claim an identity. Alex says that I could consider myself gender fluid.”

  “And are you okay with this definition?”

  Dani nodded and shrugged at the same time.

  “What about friends? Did you make any?”

  “Dylan’s a great actor. Well, you saw them at the play in the role of Cal. Brook is cool. He’s trans. But I think my best friend is Phoenix. She’s from L.A. too. We’re going to hang out. Will you drive me to Pasadena?”

  “Of course. She can come over to our house too, if you’d like.”

  And just when the pilot said, “Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position,” Patricia understood that her child was no different from the person he was before camp. She turned to Dani, his face pressed against the window to get a good view of the Los Angeles sprawl below, and wondered what kind of fate waited for him in this city of endless tract houses surrounded by yards with pools and detached garages, inhabited by dwellers who might or might not be as accepting of her child’s gender fluidity as she was.

  Monday, July 11th

  It wasn’t just that water was scarce. All that carbon dioxide, all those greenhouse gases launched relentlessly into the atmosphere were provoking irreparable changes in the Earth’s climate. What was going to be the consequence of this on water quality? Oscar looked around his backyard, standing on the keloid scar, and, making sure no one saw him, looked up to the infinite blue and extended his arms, palms facing the sky, and pleaded to his maker, whoever that was, for humankind to take some responsibility.

  Wednesday, July 13th

  Hull rot was the enemy right around mid-July. Oscar knew this and was ever more vigilant. He had to protect his Nonpareil almonds from rotting and was willing to do anything to procure a healthy hull split, that delicate moment in an almond’s life when the nut finally flaunts its beauty. He had been shortening the irrigation time since early in the month to keep moisture at a perfect level.

  This time, Aunt Belinda went along, a rare occasion. Her knee replacement gone wrong prevented her from venturing onto the uneven ground between the trees, but she was eager to discuss the business’s finances with Oscar, and the SUV offered an ideal bubble of privacy.

  “You’ll have to tell her at some point,” she said on the way to the orchard.

  “It’s not the right time,” he said. “You know Keila, how she overreacts.”

  “This is unsustainable. We already went over the numbers.”

  Oscar sighed. Aunt Belinda, his faithful manager, was sounding an alarm he didn’t have the courage to hear. She’d always been the more levelheaded of the two. Oscar, always dreaming up new projects, not all of them sensible, ultimately acknowledged and appreciated her prudence. Her advice had prevented Oscar from making mistakes before, but never in a situation of this magnitude.

  “Your papá José always listened to Mamá Peregrina,” she said, referring to her parents and Oscar’s grandparents. “And I inherited my mamá’s knack for business. So, I’m telling you, be careful, Oscar. You could lose it all.”

  Oscar felt the weight of Aunt Belinda’s words, how charged with family tradition they were, how strong a warning it was, but struggled to accept the advice.

  “There’s still a chance that we’ll get more favorable weather. Let’s wait this out for now.”

  Wednesday, July 20th

  Patricia checked in at the fertility lab and after a few minutes was called in by Mabel herself.

  “Let’s do this,” she said, her adrenaline at full capacity. “We’ve got babies to make.”

  After scheming and scrapping a dozen options while barhopping around town and getting wasted, from going to the clinic in the middle of the night to stealing the embryos and performing IVF in some dark alley, Patricia, Olivia, and Mabel had agreed that the best way to go through with their plan was to do it in plain sight. So, Patricia had met with the doctor, confirmed that she was indeed a good candidate for the procedure, and scheduled her appointment like any other patient.

  “Did you take your meds, your hormones?” asked Mabel.

  “I did everything you asked,” said Patricia. “Thanks for all those samples, by the way.”

  “Hey, I’m a stickler when it comes to prepping a uterus for embryo implantation, and two weeks is barely enough time to get it nice and ready. Are you sure you don’t want even a little sedation?”

  “No. I’ll take the pain.”

  Had this not been a secret endeavor, Patricia would have live-streamed it to all her followers. Sharing her act of surrogacy on behalf of her sister would have been the ultimate experience, transparency at its fullest. But keeping it private offered a different kind of mystique, a rare privilege in these days of social media exposure, that she appreciated.

  “We’ll be done in no time. It won’t hurt any more than a Pap smear.”

  Patricia changed into the exam gown and lay down on the patient bed, and as Mabel started the embryo transfer, she thought about her sister waiting at home. What they had just done was completely illegal and reckless, but it was divine. Earlier, Mabel had replaced Olivia’s embryos with other ones that were to be discarded anyway. No one would ever know. Not the clinic. Not the judge. Not Felix. Especially Felix. In the Uber back to her house, she became convinced that she really only needed to deal with one person, and that was going to be a major challenge: Eric.

  Thursday, July 21st

  If this wildfire hadn’t threatened to burn down the iconic Hollywood sign, it wouldn’t even register: it scorched a mere eighteen acres right next to multimillion-dollar homes sprinkled here and there on the hill’s sloping terrain. This particular fire caused chaos as drivers on the 101 rubbernecked in smoke-filled air and tried to catch Instagrammable photos. The slowdown, which happened during rush hour, reminded Angelenos that they’d need to get accustomed to an ever-extending fire season that caused the loss of billions in property, increased tragic fatalities, and forced evacuations. Among them, stuck in traffic, was Keila, who was busy practicing her Kegel exercises as she drove, worried about how relaxed her pelvic-floor muscles felt lately. She refused to have to wear diapers in the future and she’d already had a couple of little pee accidents.

  By then she was resigned to miss a dinner date in Burbank with one of her book club friends.

  “It’s a disaster. I can even see a house on the hill burning right now. There are three helicopters circling around. No way I can make it. Let’s reschedule. Give me a new date,” she said, putting the phone up to her mouth as she spoke through the speaker.

  She got off the freeway and turned around, taking surface streets back home in a Blade Runner–like atmosphere filled with smoke. It was as if God had sent the fires that darkened the sky to compensate for the eternal sunshine he had awarded the city. She thought of texting Oscar the photo she had taken, but remembered that she was angry with him. She thought of texting it to Simon, but she needed to put out that particular fire before it got out of control, so she put her phone away. A subtle feeling of remorse tickled her esophagus and instantly gave her heartburn.

  Friday, July 22nd

  The fuel was chaparral and brush, the cause, unknown. Oscar tallied yet another wildfire in his notebook with a squeezed heart: the Sand Fire in the A
ngeles National Forest, which broke out on a record heat day of 110 degrees. Would his beloved California become one huge, dark land scar to be seen from spaceships? On his way to the garage to check on the contents of their fire-evacuation suitcases, he wondered if there was anything he could do other than obsess about fires and landslides and dust storms. Yes, there was, but he’d been avoiding it out of sheer fear: he needed to make good on his promise to his daughters to mend his relationship with Keila, but every time he thought about bringing her flowers or surprising her with a dinner date, he’d restrain himself. He had the feeling none of those romantic efforts that had worked before would really make Keila welcome him in her life again. He’d already wasted half the year and hadn’t made an inch of progress. He’d thought the way he’d handled Claudia’s tumor crisis would help, but nothing softened Keila’s stance. But, wait a minute, he thought: What was she doing to fulfill her share of their promise to the girls? And on his end, wasn’t the orchard secret the single biggest obstacle to getting past this god-awful crisis?

  Saturday, July 23rd

  “Selling the embryos on eBay would still have made you a father. I thought that was the reason you didn’t want to preserve them.”

  Olivia and Felix argued over avocado toast. It was their last breakfast at the kitchen table. The movers were on their way, and the house would be empty by day’s end. Lola had come back after a weeklong vacation, and she now kept busy in the twins’ bedroom, packing clothes and toys. Still, she could overhear most of the conversation, causing a spasm in her stomach.

  “Don’t forget to pack your tea,” Lola said to Felix later in the kitchen, bringing out of the cupboard a gallon-size tin filled with leaves that Felix had imported directly from India. “There’s still enough here for another year.”

  Felix took the tin from Lola’s hands and continued eating his avocado toast without even looking at her.

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘Thank you, Lola,’” Olivia said pointedly.

  Felix grunted, licked a blob of avocado off his lip, and said with his mouth full, “How do you know I wanted to sell them on eBay?”