When Felix showed up at the Alvarados’ front step that evening, with him and the twins soaked, Olivia asked Patricia to start a hot bath for the girls and handed them to her. As she was closing the door, Felix stopped her.
“I hear Patricia is pregnant,” he said.
“Right.”
“I guess she doesn’t need a husband.”
“I guess not.”
“I wonder how that’s going to sit with Eric.”
“Eric has no say.”
“Diana understood the father was some Mr. Sperm Bank, can you believe it?” he chuckled.
“What isn’t there to believe?”
“So cute, her innocence.”
“Yes, that’s funny,” said Olivia dryly, holding her laughter. “You can’t say anything around these kids.”
Monday, November 21st
Oscar hadn’t rejoiced the previous day. He had watched the rain hitting hard on the pavement, creeks by the curbs quickly disappearing into the storm drains, frantic windshield wipers, dripping umbrellas, people running for cover. He should have been elated. This was the most anticipated rain in years. But instead, a horrible thought overcame him as he looked down from his bedroom window on his flooded garden: Had he destroyed his almond trees in vain? Had he acted too soon? Was the drought over? On that morning, when the lawn was still wet and squirrels were still shaking the water off their fur, he fell on his knees and banged his head on the windowsill.
Tuesday, November 22nd
It took weeks for Keila’s clay pieces to dry, what with all the humidity. But now they were finally ready for the kiln, so she carefully set them inside and turned on the gas. “This is not environmentally friendly,” she said aloud to herself. “I’ll have to replace this kiln with an electric one. It won’t have the same result, but we all need to adapt.”
Wednesday, November 23rd
An erotic netsuke figurine twisted into a knot was what Keila saw when she walked in on Claudia and Hiroshi, who were having sex in her bedroom, her legs up in the air, his body sideways, wrapped around her torso, and more arms than she could count.
“We need to find another place to fuck,” said Hiroshi after Keila apologized and shut the door.
Thursday, November 24th
“Well, our prayers were answered,” said Oscar, standing at the head of the table as he started his traditional Thanksgiving speech in a ceremonial voice. “We’re getting more rain than we can handle. That’s a very positive turn of events. God knows how much we need it here in California. I’m thankful, but I think we could have saved the trees, had we waited a few weeks.”
“What a mistake! Pulling those trees out!” wailed Claudia, slamming her fist, barely missing the plate in front of her.
“We didn’t know it was going to rain so much! It’s not Dad’s fault,” said Patricia, coming to Oscar’s defense.
“I’m not saying he did it on purpose. It’s just that the timing was so fucked up. Now what?”
“Stop right now!” shouted Keila. “We don’t need to fight over this, let alone question Dad’s decision. It’s Thanksgiving and we should be focusing on the good.”
Everyone remained silent.
“Well, I’m going to start,” Oscar said, clearing his throat. “This hasn’t been an easy year for anyone sitting at this table, but together we’ve survived a near-drowning experience, an estrangement, a brain tumor, three divorces, embryo theft, a wildfire mandatory evacuation, and the loss of our almond orchard. But it’s not over. We need to work together as a family to compensate for those dark and powerful forces that are working against harmony in our country and on our planet.”
“I propose we develop a list of actions we can take to counter this trend. Anyone up for it?” said Patricia.
Everyone raised their hands and waved as if trying to catch butterflies.
“Ditch plastic bags!” said Dani.
“Ditch plastic bottles,” said Claudia.
“I’ve already given up straws!” said Olivia.
“Me, too,” said Keila.
“Ride-sharing to the extent possible!” said Claudia.
“That’s a tough one in L.A.,” said Keila. “We won’t be able to wean ourselves so easily out of our cars.”
“I’m getting an electric car when I sell my TV pilot,” said Claudia, still uninformed about the difficulties of selling intellectual property in Los Angeles.
“I pledge to design and build energy-efficient homes,” said Olivia.
“I won’t flush the toilet unless it’s absolutely necessary,” said Aunt Belinda, surprised at everyone’s sudden expression of disgust.
“I’ll join marches against anti-immigrant policies,” Oscar chimed in.
“I want to propose something more radical,” Patricia said. “Let’s all go vegan together. No more meat consumption equals a more compassionate and kinder world for animals and fewer methane emissions,” she said, standing up for emphasis, looking for a nod, a yes, a let’s-do-this. But instead, the omnivores sitting around the table stared, salivating, at the steaming turkey on its platter, its skin perfectly crispy-browned, and the huachinango a la veracruzana—the fish’s glassy eyes staring lifeless at the ceiling—not a holiday dish, but one of Keila’s most popular from her vast repertoire.
“C’mon, guys, commit!” she said, frustrated.
“I don’t mind. I’ll join. Everything tastes the same to me anyway,” said Claudia.
“Why don’t we eat now and commit later?” said Keila. “Pass me the huachinango.”
Friday, November 25th
When faced with the option, Patricia much preferred Cyber Monday to Black Friday. No driving anywhere. No crowds. Better deals. More stuff to choose from. But this time she went along to the mall just to humor Olivia and to supervise Claudia, who insisted on tagging along, explaining that she should also have a say on what kind of cribs the new babies were going to get.
“We’re just going to see what’s out there,” said Olivia.
“Then let’s not go,” said Patricia. “The whole point is to get the discounts. If we’re just going window-shopping, let’s turn around and go on a different day when there are fewer people.”
“If you don’t want to buy baby stuff now because you’re afraid of another miscarriage, let me tell you, Olie: this time it’s not your uterus. The babies are safe,” said Claudia from the back seat of Patricia’s Prius.
Claudia’s words landed on Olivia with a loud thud, as if someone had dropped a batch of stones on her, the smooth Mexican river pebbles, like the ones used in landscaping, paths, and driveways. Her sister was right. But why had her blunt statement hurt? Wasn’t she elated about Patricia’s kindness in carrying the babies for her? As Patricia sped down Santa Monica Boulevard toward Century City, Olivia closed her eyes and kept quiet, trying to listen to her feelings. Yes, she was elated for the gift of motherhood in her impossible circumstances, but a sense of loss overpowered her joy. She forced herself to acknowledge it all, opened her window, and yelled into the onrushing air, “Accept the good!”
December
Friday, December 2nd
It was a Santa Ana day, again. The eighty-mile-an-hour winds whistling through the canyons and passes said so. Inflatable Santa Clauses, reindeer, and assorted holiday decorations flying away from rooftops and lawns said so, too. Patio furniture and umbrellas getting thrown off into swimming pools, small cars trying to stay in their lanes on the freeway, and pedestrians on the lookout for falling palm tree branches—all of that indicated that the Santa Ana season was in full force. Patricia’s hair, usually groomed, was now an unruly tangle, a toy for the wind to play with, when she arrived at the restaurant and gave her car keys to the valet attendant. She would have looked for street parking as she often did, but she was running late to her lunch with Benjamin, her Target ex-client.
“We’re shooting a commercial on Monday, but I wanted to fly down early to see you,” said Benjamin.
“Well, that�
�s awfully nice of you, considering that your team gave the account to another agency.”
“It wasn’t my decision, Patricia. I always admired your work and loved seeing you at the office. Maybe we can spend the weekend together?”
“Whoa! This is a little abrupt. We haven’t seen each other since we had sex in June. A lot has happened. I divorced Eric, and now I’m pregnant with my sister’s embryos.”
“That’s all? A social media ace turned into a divorced surrogate mother.”
“One doesn’t exclude the other. Follow us on our new joint Instagram account: @2.mommy.sisters.”
“I don’t see you in a few months and all this happens?”
“Right. And as you can imagine, I’m not dating anyone right now. Who knows? Maybe in the future. But at this point my world is Dani, my job, my pregnancy, my sister Olivia, and my mom and dad, who just made up after a long, dark period.”
“Well, then, let’s toast to that world of yours that seems as full as an infinity pool.”
“I’ll have a virgin mojito.”
Sunday, December 4th
Felix sounded unusually apologetic when he delivered the news to Olivia. The Alvarados’ doorstep had become their habitual meeting spot when he dropped off the girls on Sunday evenings. The sisal mat on the floor didn’t really mean it when it spelled out the word “Welcome.” Not for Felix. But this was where they talked, always briefly and, as of late, strictly about the twins’ issues. He took his time to hug them before they rushed inside to have supper with Keila.
“Wait, don’t close the door just yet. I need to tell you something important,” he said to Olivia, who had already taken a step back into the house. “An opportunity came up; it’s work-related. I don’t know how to say this. You won’t like it: I’m moving to Vancouver. The real estate market is insane over there with all those foreign billionaires buying mansions and penthouses.”
Olivia couldn’t wait for him to be gone.
“How do you envision exercising your visitation rights?”
“That’s the thing. I might not be able to,” he said in a tone that Olivia understood as contrite. “But, please, let’s avoid making this a big deal. Let’s keep it out of the courts.”
Hiding her delight, Olivia staged a measured angry response.
“So, you’re abandoning your children. It doesn’t surprise me. You never wanted them.” She stopped there so as not to make him change his mind and stay.
“I understand why you’re mad at me. I know this means the responsibility of raising the girls falls mostly on you.”
Not that it changes anything, thought Olivia. She remembered the few instances when he actually had assumed that responsibility, albeit reluctantly: once when she had to travel to Houston for three days to evaluate a property and he stayed home to look after the girls, and the other when she tripped over a hose in her backyard and broke her ulna. He watched the twins for two days while she was in the hospital getting her arm put back together.
“I’ll try to come and visit them during the winter. It’s low season for Realtors over there.”
“You do just that,” she said, trying to sound cold and upset.
“I’m sorry for doing this to you.”
As if we needed him, thought Olivia, shutting the door without saying another word.
Wednesday, December 7th
The neatly arranged funeral pyre involved logs, branches, sticks, and twigs made of bisque clay. On top, a crackled Raku ball dipped in cobalt glaze with iron blotches resembled Earth. A bloodlike pool of red glaze oozed out from underneath the entire structure. She lifted the kiln shelf and set it carefully on the table next to other similar pieces depicting the planet in various scenarios: in a freshly dug-up grave hole, on a mortuary embalming table, its foot sticking out from under a white sheet with a morgue toe tag that read EARTH, and a tombstone with an engraved epitaph that said HERE LIES EARTH. I WARNED YOU.
“This must be your best series so far,” said Oscar, standing by the door, startling Keila.
“You scared me!”
“So sorry. I’m impressed by what you’re doing.”
“I’m not sure that portraying Earth’s death is the right message. It’s not really about saving Earth, but about saving life. Earth will ultimately be fine; it will continue on without humans and other species. It has already survived five mass extinctions. It’s the Sixth Great Dying that I’d like to get across. I might have to rethink all the pieces.”
“You’re so right. That’s what some people don’t see.”
“And yet, it’s clear to me that we’re stuck in our California bubble talking to ourselves, the converted. We make movies based on the science, we create art based on research, we come up with evidence as clear as a melting glacier, but all we hear back from the other side, if anything at all, is ‘We don’t believe,’ as if we were talking about a religion.”
“It’s not about beliefs. It isn’t faith-based. It’s fact-based.”
“And then there’s the other thing I’m realizing: my work is useless as a megaphone. How many people can be exposed to the message in an art gallery? It’s such an elitist medium. I like to work with clay, and I will continue to do so, but I also need to join the cause and fight.”
This was the Keila Oscar loved. He felt a rush of fascination flooding his entire body, making him dizzy. There she was, his wife of forty years in her dark brown bob, her characteristic strand of gray hair falling down the side of her face, showing him the way with her clear head, her convictions. He approached her slowly, removed her leather apron, her clay-stained T-shirt, her bra, and ran his hands along her collarbone, her bare shoulders, down her breast, then traced her areola with his index finger, making a quick stop on a tiny freckle that was about to climb up her nipple.
“Count me in,” he whispered before kissing her.
Keila pushed him on the red sofa and kissed him back, reaching for his belt buckle.
Friday, December 9th
On the way to Hiroshi’s restaurant, Patricia, who was deftly maneuvering her Prius in the god-awful early-evening traffic down Olympic Boulevard to give her sister Claudia a ride to her dinner date, said: “Stop judging my driving!”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Claudia, sitting in the back seat so she could stretch her leg.
“I’m looking at you in the rearview mirror. You’re giving me the eye again. Stop it!”
“Okay, okay, but I’m about to throw up back here.”
“Next time take an Uber.”
The two sisters kept quiet, but as Patricia crossed the Bundy intersection she said: “I found one of the new pacifiers I bought in your room. Care to explain?”
“What were you doing in my room?”
“Getting your laundry bag. But that’s irrelevant. You promised me you wouldn’t steal again. Why do you do it? You have the money to buy what you want. And even if you didn’t, it’s illegal, unethical. Is it just because you can?”
Claudia squinted and wrinkled her forehead as if she were looking directly at the sun. “But you stole the embryos.”
“The embryos are half Olivia’s. It was a rescue operation. Now, stay on topic, this is important. Is it the thrill of getting caught? Do you find it exciting?” added Patricia.
As Patricia made a left on Lincoln and headed toward Pico, she heard a small voice coming from the back seat, the voice of her oldest sister, now a reprimanded little girl: “I’m addicted. I need help.”
Sunday, December 11th
The weather forecaster on the TV screen, a Korean woman in a tight skirt and high-heel pumps, reported in a vivid tone that a heavy downpour was imminent and that Los Angeles was experiencing its wettest year in God knows how long. More than fourteen inches of rain since October was clearly a record for the city. It was more than 200 percent of the typical rainfall in any given year. Not that anything was typical anymore.
As soon as the traffic report began, Keila put down her glass of wine and look
ed out the window. Sure enough, rain was starting to fall hard. It was 8:07 P.M. She wondered, with trepidation, if there would be news in the morning about a landslide, about houses tumbling down muddy hills along the coastline, or a flash flood sweeping cars and trees away. If all went well and there were no tragedies, for sure roofers all across the county would be crazy busy patching leaks like the one they’d just discovered in the garage.
“Oscar?” she called.
“I’m already writing it down in my log. I’ll check the rain gauge in the morning,” he replied from the bedroom in a muffled voice.
And all of a sudden, in this otherwise uneventful exchange, Keila and Oscar, one in front of the TV and the other in their closet, came to realize that they inhabited the same world again.
Monday, December 12th
“I have another secret,” Keila said to Oscar, simply and bluntly. They were having sushi at Hiroshi’s restaurant for the third time in the past two weeks, compliments of Hiroshi himself.
Oscar dropped his chopsticks but recovered quickly.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“When I went to Mexico City to fire my gallerist, I put my parents’ house on the market. I got a call from the broker this morning. It just sold.”
“Why did you do that? It’s all you have left from your parents. You love that house.”
“Yes, but I love the equity even more.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I decided not to tell you until it was a done deal. You wouldn’t have wanted me to sell it.”
“You must have a good reason, I suppose.”
“Indeed. We’re using the money to get out of debt and to start a new business. I already registered the name; it’s my turn now: ‘Happy Sunshine Fields.’”
Wednesday, December 14th
Hiroshi Mukai had landed in Los Angeles from Osaka a few years back, lured by the freedom to create Japanese dishes without constraint. He had worked in an okonomiyaki shop in Dotonbori and eventually felt restricted; with the exception of fugu, which did require years of training, he wanted to make takoyaki, kushikatsu, yakiniku, tempura, udon, soba, even sushi, but his clientele’s expectations prevented him from delving into these other dishes. He’d heard that in California you could have all of it under one roof if you felt like it, so he packed up and set up a tiny four-table restaurant on a nondescript corner of Pico Boulevard, which meant it could well have been on any of its hundreds of corners, as the entire street was by definition unremarkable. The full length of it was sprinkled with dry cleaners, pet-supply stores, repair shops, jewelers, mini-malls, nail salons, kosher meat markets, and small restaurants just like Hiroshi’s, offering different kinds of cuisines from every other country on the planet. Here were the Mexican restaurants with delicacies from Oaxaca, Puebla, Mexico City, Tijuana, or any number of states and cities south of the border. Over there were the Ethiopian joints, the Italian, French, Salvadoran, Korean, Guatemalan, Greek, Chinese, Argentinean, Peruvian, Brazilian, or Indian, depending on the neighborhood the street happened to be crossing through.
L.A. Weather Page 28
