We walked down that perfect little street, where workers were busy polishing the lampposts and the railway track for the one-block-long trolley. It wasn’t lost on me that I’d gone to Josh’s book signing a little more than a week ago at the Barnes & Noble right here. Perhaps our love affair of this last week was as manufactured as the faux-real American Girl dolls in the appealing, brightly colored storefront near the bookstore. We had built our own pretend reality—as if making love in that duplex for a week could replace the real lives we had at home. It couldn’t, but the problem was, I’d gone too far. The dream had tipped the real life into oblivion. There was no going forward, and no going backward. I clutched Josh’s hand so tightly that he winced.
The Grove ended at the Farmer’s Market, a true slice of old Los Angeles. Turning left into the partially covered Farmer’s Market, we wove our way through a warren of small eateries and shops. Ice cream and donuts mingled with Mexican food and fruit sellers. Kitschy mugs and postcards in the souvenir shops gave way to not one, but two gourmet fruit-and-nut purveyors. Senior citizens lounged in green folding chairs around round tables; so did kids cutting school, halfway familiar-looking TV personalities from the nearby CBS lot, and exhausted-looking young mothers rocking strollers with their feet while sipping coffee. Everyone here was comfortable, in a city where it was so hard to feel truly at home. I always felt like I belonged, here in this unpretentious place, sometimes more so than at my apartment. At the far end was Du-Par’s, and Josh requested an inside booth. No declaring our love to the world, after all. It was probably just as well.
When the white-aproned waitress filled our mugs with coffee, we clinked them together. I wasn’t sure what we should toast to. “Cheers,” said Josh, meaninglessly.
“Cheers,” I returned. “So, how did you spend your weekend?”
“I visited my sis in Van Nuys. We didn’t do much, but it was nice, just being with them. Her boy, David—he’s ten—he’s a mean Scrabble player. I’ve barely got a chance with him. My sister is a great cook. I ended up staying through dinnertime; I didn’t mean to, I was going to visit my high-school buddy Jack. But Lissa made this amazing dinner—it was totally worth hanging out there, even though I hate the Valley. Strip malls everywhere, just driving to her house gave me the creeps. But her brisket, you wouldn’t believe it; it’s just like I remember my mom making when I was a kid . . . You know, I wonder if Lissa made Mom give her the recipe. Mom guards it with her life; it’s got some secret ingredient you can only buy at Western Kosher market on Fairfax. But she’s gotta pass those recipes on to the next generation eventually.”
He talked about his family with such frank affection suffusing his face. He’d looked at me with passion, desire, and intensity—but never with such uncomplicated happiness. I might as well be in love with that New Kids on the Block poster I had on my wall as a preteen. I’d smooch those paper cheeks every night before I went to bed. I’d imagined love reflecting back from Donnie Wahlberg’s face, too, smiling sweetly back at me.
The pancakes were delicious. I savored every bite. We didn’t talk much. There wasn’t much to say. Near noon, Josh said, “I guess you have to pick up Lucy soon.”
We walked back the way we came, reversing from the crowded, crazy-quilt market back through the broad, thoughtfully laid out thoroughfare of the Grove. Back through Nordstrom, back past the park, the same chill breeze blowing up from its huge interior bowl-shaped depression.
Left onto Vista Street to my car, parked in front of the duplex. Wet tracks swerved around my car and a ticket waved on the windshield; I’d forgotten it was street-cleaning day. I had maybe two minutes before I needed to get in, make a U-turn, and drive to Happy Hands preschool.
I hugged him. “Thanks,” I said quietly, pressing my cheek against his.
“I’ll call you next week,” he promised.
We kissed, gently and briefly. I was the first to pull away, because I knew Josh had already left.
Chapter 17
I knew he wouldn’t tell Caroline. I knew he wouldn’t call me and say, “Come to Santa Fe and be with me.” But still I hoped. After all I knew, and guessed, about him, I was always a fool when it came to Josh.
At 9 am the following Monday, his number flashed on my cell phone.
“Josh?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“So, did you tell Caroline?”
Silence. Then, “I didn’t tell her.”
That’s the way our story went: love, taking place in the spaces between actual events, for such a small time that it can easily be counted on the fingers. Each day dropping one little marble in an echoing well of time.
“Listen,” he told me urgently. “It was all so intense because we were looking for transformation. Don’t you get it? You go to another country, halfway around the world, to step outside your own skin for a while. So you can live a different life, so you can be a different person. And we found each other. That doesn’t mean that it’s meant to be, anywhere else in the world, or any time besides that one month. And maybe last week.” Did Astrid coach him on this, or something?
“Is that what you really believe?” I was almost surprised, which was silly—I’d already guessed what he’d say. “Or is it something you’re just saying?”
“I don’t know! Listen, it’s what I have to believe, okay? Because I have a family. And so do you. And the last thing I want to do is hurt them. Family comes first, you hear?”
Ironic—just what George had said last week.
“And I’m not family,” I clarified.
“No, you’re not. Much as I wish you could be, you aren’t.”
“Didn’t this last week mean anything to you?” I choked. “You said you loved me!” I was sounding like a child; I didn’t care.
“I do love you,” he protested. “You’re the one person I’ve ever really loved, with all of myself. And this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done—to say goodbye to you again.”
“So, then why can’t we . . .” My fingers were starting to tingle with electricity. With anger. I clutched the phone, too tightly. It wasn’t the hardest thing he’s ever done, at all. It was the easiest thing. It’s always easier to walk away.
“Sometimes we meet someone who is so right. And if anyone’s the right person, it’s you. But it’s just never the right time, to be together. It can’t happen, Vivian. I wish it could, but it can’t.”
“That’s a lie!” I shouted. “You’re just selfish. You won’t give up a thing; you’re too scared to. You’d rather walk away from me than tell your family you love someone they won’t accept. You’ll never make the hard choice, will you? So it’s not really love. I guess this week was just one long thank-you fuck for the writing jump-start I somehow gave you in London.”
“You’re turning something beautiful into something hateful. Don’t do it,” he warned.
“You love the Vivian I was. Or the Vivian you thought I was,” I scoffed. “You don’t love the person I am now. You just want to remember the way things were, and the way I made you feel once upon a time. You don’t even need to be with me, anyway. You already got what you wanted from me.”
He didn’t say anything, and in his silence I heard the truth.
“So it’s goodbye again, then.” My voice sounded so harsh, strident. Not the way I wanted to say goodbye at all.
“Goodbye,” he said softly.
“I love you,” I mouthed, silent, to the dial tone.
The final marble dropped. Slipped through my fingers, clattering down that endless chasm.
Oh, god. Josh—never to see him again, his words like drops of cold water against my skin on a hot day, his slowly curving smile, his hands caressing my hair, pulling me close.
My mind flashed back to that magical day in Hampstead. I could be there forever, in that moment. Lying on the ground, fallen twigs digging into my back, staring up into Josh’s eyes, the dazzling sunlight piercing the branches, washing everything with the golden light of memory, of fan
tasy.
In a daze, I drove to Ralphs to do the week’s shopping. The more little errands I ran, the faster the lonely, endless morning might go by. The whole time, I thought of Josh, a constant pain in my chest like I’d been stabbed. He didn’t want me, but that didn’t stop me from wanting him again, desperately, aching to be back living those perfect summer days once more.
Time pleated back on itself, repeating endlessly: the same moments, the same decisions. Here I was in stop motion, wandering helplessly down road after road, no signposts pointing the way. Feeling my way as if blind, hoping each path was the right one. Always wishing to be someplace I wasn’t.
I tossed things I didn’t need into the cart, not remembering what we had at home, buying a couple of everything, just in case. What was I forgetting? I was forgetting I was late, that’s what. By a week. But it didn’t matter, now. He didn’t want me, he just wanted the idea, the ideal of me. Funny—just like George.
Josh was gone for good, and my stupid trick wouldn’t make him wish to stay with me any more than he wanted to in the first place. Another person, to add to my family. One more for the small tribe of me and Lucy. And maybe Mom and Dad again. I could add Marty to the little tribe. I could add Alex too. No matter where we were, we could be together, thin strings binding us, skinny as the dental floss I’d tossed in my cart, but it would have to be enough.
I walked down the “Feminine Products” aisle, my fingers lingering near the pregnancy tests. I pulled my hand away. Let that wait, just for a while. Let it be a mystery answered another day.
Standing in the Ralphs checkout line, I was still stuck in that unresolved moment under that tree in Hampstead, the start and end of everything. At last, wheeling my cart down the outdoor moving ramp, I pursed my lips and blew, letting the memories scatter before me like dandelion silk. They caught on a breeze, blew crazily in all directions, but far away from me. I let him go, as he let me go. There was room, now, for the real family to blossom.
I knew what I had to do.
The only path that was clear, and that made any sense, was the one I walked along with Lucy. Holding her hand, buttressing her against the harsh winds that blew from either end. Together, until the day came when I could release her, let her roam free in the world, following her own road.
After everything, I almost wished George could still be walking with us, so that he could protect us in that hard, cold world. He had been so good at keeping me safe. But now that I knew what kind of love I deserved, I couldn’t squeeze myself back into the box George put me in. The hard part was gathering the courage I needed to see it through.
George had been sleeping on the couch all week. Ever the gentleman, after all I’d done, he let me have the bed. And yet, traitorously, that night I reverted to an old comforting fantasy. An easy way out. A phone call in the early evening. A somber policeman on the line. “Ma’am, I have some bad news.” George, in a disastrous freeway pileup. Dead, instantly. I imagined myself sobbing, twisting the phone cord around my finger, while inside, I was ecstatic. It was an accident. It was no one’s fault. And I was free, finally free.
~ ~ ~
I spent the week closing things down. Withdrawing Lucy from preschool. Saying goodbye to Astrid. Returning all the books to the library, and not taking out any new ones. I carefully unraveled the few threads that held me to Los Angeles, until I could think of nothing more tying me there. The only things I still needed, I’d be bringing with me. And so the following Sunday, I reminded George that the next morning, Lucy and I would be leaving for San Jose. He turned, busying himself with straightening an orchid’s leaves, and said, “Call me when you arrive, okay? I want to make sure that Lucy got there safe and sound.” He rubbed his eyes.
“Of course I will. Will you come visit, maybe, next weekend? I know Lucy will miss you tons, even though Mom will be busy spoiling her all week.”
“Yes. I’ll see what I can find on Southwest. And I’ll bid on a room on Priceline.”
“See you then.”
“Do you think—” he started.
“No,” I said firmly. “No, I don’t think so. I need to go. You know,” I added, “I’ve finally got a plan. And I feel pretty good about it. It’s the plan I should have made, a long time ago.”
“Everyone needs a plan,” said George. “Do you want to tell me what it is?”
“Incineration,” I said. “For once, I’m going to finish something I started.”
Monday morning, George made waffles. “But it’s not Tuesday,” I exclaimed, surprised. “Just this once,” said George, ruffling Lucy’s hair. “Are you excited to see Grandma and Grandpa?” he asked her. I looked down at my waffle, steaming and brown. Would he really let us go, that easily? Waffles on Monday—there was always a price to pay, for change.
“Gamma says she has two presents for me! And that one of them’s pink!” said Lucy.
“Well, that’s great. You’ll have a lot of fun,” said George; then, “I’ll see you next weekend, okay? That’s seven days. Can you count to seven?”
Lucy wiggled her fingers doubtfully.
“I tell you something even better. I’ll call you every night, sweetie. So all you have to do is count to one. For one night.” He held up one finger. “Every night. A phone call just for you, you lucky girl.” Lucy nodded and held up one finger, so she would remember.
Meanwhile, I ate two waffles, thinking hard, tilting them so the syrup distributed itself equally among the holes.
I cleaned up the dishes while George read Lucy five of her favorite books in succession, then squeezed her in a big hug. He kissed my cheek, and I pulled back to stroke his face gently, remembering its angular contours. I’d never painted George, but I could see how I could do it, with rich browns. Yellow ochre for an undertone, mixed with some transparent red oxide to brighten it up, and then the siennas: burnt sienna, raw sienna over the cheekbones and the sides of the nose. Burnt umber for the shadow on his upper lip. The colors fading back to his light, light hair and then blurring at the edges, George in motion, waiting for his next plan to take shape.
“Good-bye,” I said, and he rushed out the door, late, clutching his briefcase. I breathed in deeply, wondering how long it would take him to form that next plan, the one in which he would sweep in and take Lucy away from me. Demand sole custody. Wonder why he had let us go, and go so far away.
Shivering, I sent Alex an email:
Leaving for home. I’ll be at Mom and Dad’s for a while, with Lucy. Kind of indefinitely, actually. It would be nice to see you, if you’re traveling near the Bay area. If you have time. But you know: I understand. And we can always email and IM if you can’t come.
I parked Lucy in front of the television and rummaged through suitcases piled precariously in the hall closet. That battered olive green duffel peeked out from behind the sturdy Hartman luggage Madame gave us as a wedding gift.
I began to pack, realizing that, no matter the uncertainties to come, for the moment, I was free. And I suddenly felt so deliriously happy I was almost verging on hysteria, tossing in clothes, helter-skelter—some underwear for me, ruffled dresses and DVDs for Lucy, and her favorite stuffed monkey. Oh—I almost forgot!—never travel without anti-perspirant and pajamas. Silly me. I upturned drawers, whirling madly, hurling in more unnecessary items than the duffel was capable of holding. I couldn’t stop smiling.
Did I have everything? No—wait. Of course. A sketch pad, and three pencils: 2H, HB, and 2B. Those are the only pencils you need to create the perfect degrees of shading, the angle of sunlight striking a face, a body in repose.
Then I positioned the tackle box containing all my paints and brushes next to the duffel, by the front door.
Imagining him silent in that empty apartment, pondering statistical probability. Tending his orchids. Dinner every Sunday night with Madame, hers alone, again.
And me—alone too, at last. Finally ready to begin.
I gazed around the apartment one last time. Letting the memor
ies flap uselessly against the walls. In the bedroom doorway, ghostly twin shadows, Josh and George, futile grasping hands reaching toward me.
I strode past that door decisively, and checked my email once more before turning off the computer. There was one new message, from Alex.
I’ll be there.
I made one last tour of the apartment, stopping at that framed map above the fireplace. I reached out and lightly touched the glass with my fingers, tracing my route northwards.
“Ready, Lucy?” I called.
“Let’s go.”
Chapter 18
We drive north on Interstate 5, which cuts a straight, brutal swathe through the Central Valley, bookended by treacherous, winding hills on either end of the drive. Lucy is already restless before we even get over the Tejon Pass that carries us out of Southern California. I toss toys and coloring books in the back seat to amuse her; I have her favorite “Songs from the Farm” CD on endless repeat. But “When are we getting there?” becomes her constant, irritating refrain as she flings each offering contemptuously to the side, never satisfied. Finally she falls asleep, and I gun the engine, straining to 90 miles an hour so we can get there faster, not sure why I’m in such a hurry. Meanwhile, hordes of suicidal gnats hurl themselves at my windshield, splattering it in gore. I remember too late to press the inside-air-circulation button around Coalinga, and the horrible stench of the stockyards fills the car. I try my hardest not to look to my right, at the jam-packed, desperate cattle stretching east as far as the eye can see.
Parts Unknown Page 24
