I let the bossy navigation lady with the clipped British accent lead me out of the city onto the Great Highway, which snakes alongside the Pacific Ocean. Before long the Great Highway turns into Highway One and I see an opportunity to pull over onto a scenic overlook where I see white caps chopping through turquoise water, a mesmerizing view.
Huge waves crash against large black rocks, sweeping dark colored driftwood and green tentacled seaweed up onto the beach, covering the sand with white, frothy sea foam. Colorful orange and yellow flowers with bright green leaves fan the edges of the beach in front of the expansive, crashing ocean, the whole scene looking so much like a painter’s masterpiece that it fills my heart so full I’m sure it can never ache with emptiness again. I linger here, soaking in the view and smelling the salty sea air until my head feels full with a promise, a beautiful new life.
I drive on, but don’t get very far when hunger pangs and growls in my stomach beg me to me to stop for food. I follow signs into Pillar Point Harbor in Half Moon Bay. Suddenly, I remember a song, something about going to San Jose wearing flowers in my hair. Maybe I should go to San Jose next, I think, minus the flowers in my hair. I order clam chowder in a bread bowl from the corner snack bar and take it to an outdoor picnic table to eat while watching the fishing boats bounce up and down, the water rhythmically sloshing and splashing against their sides, while sea gulls flit and caw, occasionally diving for fish. One comes and begs for my bread, so I break off a corner to share, the gull my only friend in the world. I open up my map and circle San Jose as my next stop. I’m tired and I want to settle in to rest for a while at the next decent city I come to, which looks to be San Jose, and not too far from here. I’m tired and I want to make a home, a new place, where to rest my weary but increasingly hopeful head.
Chapter Three
Rather than using artificial insemination, I think about strong arms that long to hold me. It doesn’t have to mean love. Wouldn’t casual sex be better than going to a cold, calculated clinic? It came to me in a dream, not an erotic dream, or an angry dream, or anything like that. Maybe it was a dream inspired by angels because it was my first peaceful dream since coming to San Jose. I’m staying at a Best Western on Steven’s Creek Boulevard, though I’m apartment hunting and looking for a job. It’s Saturday and my heart oddly feels almost free of pain.
Thank God for Google and cell phones and coffee shops with Internet. I’m hooked up at a Starbucks not far from my motel, sipping black coffee and nibbling on an oatmeal cookie, surrounded by my animated peers. They all seem to be engaged in long, loud cell phone conversations, while the whirring froth machines provide background noise, all of it mixing together with the familiar coffee shop scents that permeate the air. Caffeine hits my brain and it amuses me that I find the incessant chatter both comforting and irritating at the same time, making me think about my sister and our recent communications. I’ve emailed her to let her know I’m okay and living in California now. I’ve talked to her on the phone once or twice, but the calls always seem the same.
“Are you nuts?” she screams. “What are you thinking? Alex is beside himself with grief. He insists there is nothing going on between him and Sandy. You need to come home! He’ll give you another chance.” She just doesn’t get it. I saw them. So, for now it’s email, and thank God for caller ID.
I fill out three online job applications for local hospitals, but my heart isn’t into working just yet. If my heart was in it, I’d be making appointments to meet nurse recruiters at the personnel offices in the hospital basements, planning to wear nice clothes rather than faded blue jeans and a wrinkled tee shirt, my uniform of the day. I’d visualize myself smiling and handing over my crisp, pristine resume -- minus references from Dr. Alex Masterson and co-worker Sandy Williams, of course. Online feelers are good enough for now. Besides, I remind myself, it’s Saturday and I have to find an apartment first. I have some appointments set up for later today, but I still have an hour to kill. So, on a whim, I explore an Internet dating site.
“Hmm, not bad.” I register my handle and punch in my credit card number, and then I get another cup of coffee and settle in to browse through the eligible bachelors and think about writing my profile, the things I want to reveal about myself. I know better than to say, “Desperate Woman Seeks Sperm Donor for Last Chance Baby.”
I take so long looking for arms that long to hold me that I’m almost late for my first appointment. Fortunately, it’s not far from Starbucks and I arrive at the gated lobby only five minutes late, which by California standards isn’t really late at all. I follow the instructions I’d written down from my phone conversation with the manager. I punch in the codes and walk through the entrance, then through the wrought iron gates, and then outside past three huge swimming pools, tennis courts, and tromp over fresh mown green grass still wet from sprinklers until I arrive at the building in the back where the manager is waiting for me.
I love the apartment he shows me, but it’s way too expensive. I go on to apartment number two, which costs less, but is too frumpy for me. I get lucky at apartment complex number three. For one thousand, eight hundred dollars a month, I rent a one-bedroom corner unit with windows overlooking a small courtyard. It has a balcony that makes it seem larger than it is, and it has a gym and laundry room onsite.
I find California living to be much more expensive than I expected, but already, I love the weather here, absent of dreadful humidity and biting mosquitoes. The manager tells me where to go for some rental furniture, on Stevens Creek Boulevard, which seems to be the happening place to find almost anything. When I get there, not only do I find a place that has everything I need, but they’ll also deliver tomorrow, on Sunday, as well.
And so it works out. By Sunday at noon, the furniture has come. I’ve rented a small table with chairs, a bed, dresser, and couch to start me out for now. Since I really don’t own much anymore, it doesn’t take long to unload my boxes and suitcases from the car. I tuck sheets onto the bed and then I stare at the bare white walls until I can’t stand it any longer. I decide to drive around seeing what I can find to do. First, though, I brush on facial powder, lipstick, and add a dash of color to my cheeks, the first time I care about how I look since leaving New Haven. I shake out a skimpy, multi-colored, wrinkle resistant sundress, and match it with colorful red and yellow sandals.
I point my car in a direction, and before long I stumble into an Art and Wine Festival in Sunnyvale, a city just north of San Jose, where a myriad of vendors have set up booths to display and sell their arts and crafts. I mix into the crowd of colorful people and hear accents from many different countries. I hear Farsi, Mandarin, Spanish, and Indian dialects that I recognize along with others I wonder about. A beautiful chatter of diversity and peace mingles with wind chimes from a nearby booth. I buy a tote bag from one vendor, a flowery sunhat from another, and some shiny silver earrings from yet another. I indulge in a glass of white wine and pull up a chair in front the free band in the center of town and listen to The Lover’s Gone Band sing songs about love and loss.
Between the wine and the lyrics I find my cheeks wet with tears. Against my will, Dr. Alex Masterson lives as an ache in my heart and my lost babies nag from memories about a pretty little house on a tree lined street that will never be my home. I feel alone and unwanted, a stranger in a foreign land. Then he comes and sits beside me with a cold beer in his hand, a stranger who talks to me. “They’re that good, aren’t they?” He motions to the band. “Brings tears to my eyes, too. I’m Jared,” he says, nodding and whisking his hand in my direction, lightly brushing my arm, but nothing that could be called a touch.
“Connie,” I say by way of introduction. “Sorry, they touched a soft spot.” He hands me his napkin and I wipe away my tears. We sit in silence through several more songs.
“Are you hungry? Would you like to get a bite? There’s Italian here.” He points to a nearby restaurant with outdoor seating and tables with red and white-checkered tablecloths
. “Or, I know a place in San Jose that’ll have dancing all night, if you’re interested. Sunday night happy hour starts early. Oh, and the food’s good, too.”
What have I got to lose? I am hungry, it’s almost dinnertime, and I have no food at the apartment yet. He looks to be about my age, maybe a little older. He’s tall and broad shouldered, with green eyes and brown hair. He wears faded jeans and a just do it tee shirt. Looks like he works out, with arms that long to hold me, I think. I nod and agree to follow him in my car to downtown San Jose for some nightlife and clubbing. “By San Jose State University,” he says, and I wonder if he is younger than he looks.
Then, the next thing I remember, it’s morning.
When I wake up, Jared is in my rental bed, snoring. Boxers or briefs? I don’t know because he’s in his naked glory from the waist up, curly dark hairs carpeting his chest, and a skimpy sheet covering the rest. Honestly, I can’t remember much. But he’s not at all like Alex, and I’m off the pill, and I don’t remember a condom, but maybe there was one. My head aches. It’s been a long time since I’ve overindulged in alcohol. My mouth feels like cotton. I’ve never once been promiscuous in my life. Then, before I can even think, Jared stirs.
“Morning, sunshine.” He drawls the words out slowly, squints his eyes, stretches, and smiles at me. “Let’s go get some breakfast. Then I’ll take you on a tour of Stanford University, to the Rodin sculptures there. Remember, we talked about it last night.”
Did we? I wonder. “Sure, sounds good,” is what I say. I make us some coffee, which is pretty much all I have in the kitchen. Then we take his car, a late model Lexus, candy apple red like my Accord, and retrieve my car from where I’d parked it last night. We bring the Accord back to my carport, and then head out in the Lexus to get some breakfast at a corner café.
Really, I don’t even remember coming home last night. Seems it should feel strange to me, but all of life has felt surreal since the day I caught Alex kissing Sandy, so I simply shrug the absence of feeling off. In the back of mind is the tiny niggling thought that this really isn’t right.
“So, I suppose I should ask you your last name,” I say tentatively over breakfast. I don’t know why I feel like I’m asking him a too personal question. After all, he’s already spent the night. Maybe we’ve even made a baby together. Coming to my senses, I suddenly feel nauseous. The reality of where I am and what I’ve done hits me hard in the stomach, so hard that I rush to the restroom and heave into the toilet there, tasting the bittersweet margaritas from the night before.
I’m so embarrassed and ashamed of myself. Fortunately, the cafe restroom is a one- person deal and I’m alone with my shame, my reflection in the mirror above the sink the only face to judge me. I suddenly miss Alex more than I can bear. I miss Sandy and our intimate talks. I miss having someone to share my shame with, someone who loves me and knows me enough not to judge my actions, or unconditionally enough to love me anyway. But Alex did not love me, not really. And Sandy stole Alex away from me, right in front of my eyes. She is not, was not, someone to trust.
A knock comes at the door. “Anyone there? I really need to go.” I quickly rinse my mouth with water from the sink and pop in an Altoid mint, as if that will do any good. I smile at the woman who passes me at the door. “All yours,” I say, pretending there is nothing crazy about me at all.
Back at the table, I find that Jared has ordered breakfast for me, a cheese omelet with avocado and bacon, rye toast and a latte sweetened with sugar. I never eat eggs and especially not with cheese because of the cholesterol. I don’t know what an avocado tastes like, having never had one before. Bacon is a sin in my religion of nutrition, and sugar is to be used sparingly, and not in coffee where it enhances the effects of caffeine. Sandy, my best friend and Registered Dietitian, has taught me well. Eating Kentucky Fried Chicken in Ohio doesn’t count. I was sick then and not myself. Oh yes, I meant to say Sandy, my former best friend. I almost forgot how much I hate her now.
I look across the table at this strange man who is shoveling food into his mouth as if starving. He’s probably a Republican, I think, although I don’t really get much into politics. Alex always says that politics rules our lives and I should care, but I only vote because of women’s suffrage, to support that hard fought battle. Funny, I should think of that right now.
I’d rather Jared had ordered me oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins, which is what Alex would have done. But, of course, Jared doesn’t know me, doesn’t know what I like or don’t like. I take a forkful of omelet rather than offending him, pretending to be someone I’m not. Then the blended flavor of bacon, cheese, and avocado rush my taste buds, creamy and crunchy, tasting surprisingly good. “Thank you,” I say, really meaning it.
“Now, let’s see. You want to know my last name and stuff like. It’s Wise, Jared Wise. What’s yours?”
“Harrison, Connie Harrison,” I say, thinking of all the times I practiced saying Connie Masterson. “I almost got married,” I blurt.
“I know,” he says kindly. “You told me all about it last night. To that jerk Alex Masterson who doesn’t deserve you.”
“I told you!” Oh, my gosh! I must have been really, really drunk, I think. “What else did I tell you?”
“Well, after about the fifth margarita it was hard to be sure what you were saying. That’s when I took you home. Don’t worry, we didn’t have sex if you’re wondering.”
“But you were in my bed! What do you mean we didn’t have sex?” I’m aghast at this revelation, relieved, but not sure if I should believe him or not.
“Oh, you wanted it. You begged,” he teases with a twinkle in his eye. “But, me? I’m a gentleman. Can’t take advantage of a vulnerable, broken hearted woman. Now, if you beg again when you’re sober and not slobbering on and on about some other guy…”
“Stop!” I demand, though laughter sneaks around my protest. “I don’t want to know!” I slink down into the booth and bury my red-shamed face between my fingers, but truth be told, relief floods through me. I guess I won’t be pregnant from last night. As much as I want my dream babies to be real, I know that I owe them so much more than a drunken romp on a rental bed. I am so angry with Alex for putting me through this. This is all his fault.
“Now, today is Monday. I’ve taken the day off so I can show you around. Are you still up for it?”
I nod, wanting to know more about this intriguing man, this honorable man. Curiosity replaces my shame. “What kind of work do you do?” What kind of job allows a guy to just take a day off on a whim? Doctors can’t do that. Alex never could.
“I’m a computer entrepreneur,” he says cryptically. “I work for myself. I work from my house and can work any time of day or night. I’ll probably get caught up tonight.”
“So, what does a computer entrepreneur actually do?” Suddenly I really want to know. He tries to explain his work to me, but it’s way over my head. I realize that he’s a nerd, a kind, generous, and very noble nerd. It’s okay that I don’t understand. It’s enough that he tried to explain it to me.
We leave the café and head over towards Stanford University to see the Rodin sculptures there. He talks about art museums in San Francisco he’d like to take me to. Jared seems to be a very cultured man despite his casual dress and light-hearted personality, and it sounds like he has a very strong work ethic, too. I keep finding myself more and more impressed by the things he says and the way he says them. He’s really quite articulate.
I’m reflecting on Jared’s good-natured personality and his easy style when out of the corner of my eye I see the shiny silvery handlebars of a bicycle. Suddenly, the car careens to the left, thrusting me towards Jared, my seat belt cutting into me, airbags popping.
Crash! Screech!
“Oh my God!”
Chapter Four
My sleeping eyes flutter. Familiar bleeps ring in my ears. I try to open my eyes all the way, but I can’t. I try to remember, but nothing comes. I don’t know where I a
m. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to make sense of anything.
“I think she’s trying to wake up,” a woman’s voice. I try to speak, to ask her where I am, but no words come forth, not a single utterance. Then I feel someone lift my closed eyelids. A bright light shines first in one eye and then the other. Someone sticks a needle into my foot. I try to jerk it away but it’s heavy and I can’t move it very far.
“Look, she’s reactive,” says the woman. “That’s a good sign. Connie. Connie, can you hear me? You’re in the hospital. You were in a car accident. If you can hear me, open your eyes.”
I try so hard, but my eyes are so heavy, impossible to lift. I don’t remember an accident. The voice doesn’t sound familiar to me. I know most of the nurses at New Haven General Hospital, but I don’t recognize this voice. Then vaguely, I know I’m not in Connecticut, not at New Haven General. I ran away from home. Why? I struggle to remember.
Slowly, ever so slowly, my brain begins to engage. I feel energy begin to crawl through my body at a snail’s pace, then faster. I feel anger and hate and it makes me want to fight. I hate Alex Masterson! I hate Sandy Williams! I hate them both with all my heart. I hear myself moan, crying from inside. I hurt so much. I never knew that hate could hurt so physically.
When You're Expecting Something Else Page 2
