Before long Chris and Mike were deep in conversation, and Robin and I were sharing a bottle of Chardonnay and swapping stories. Hers belied her cheery demeanor.
“We have six kids,” she said, holding up that many fingers.
“Seven!” her husband corrected, pausing from his chat with Mike.
Robin giggled. “Oh yeah, that’s right.”
“And no, we are not Mormon,” Chris added. “Catholic.”
Robin and Chris had been living a very comfortable life in Tucson, Arizona—five children, a house with plenty of room to spare, good jobs, nice cars—when all of a sudden tragedy struck. Robin’s brother was poisoned and stabbed to death by his own wife, the mother of their two young kids. Robin and Chris spent every dime they had in court fighting a brutal custody battle over their niece and nephew. They sold their home, the cars, everything they could to keep the kids away from the murderer’s family. Now they were nearly broke, and all nine of them were squished under one tiny roof, but they were together. And Robin was celebrating.
When it came time for me to tell my tale I felt a little embarrassed. My problems seemed almost trivial in light of what she had been through. Robin reacted to my reluctance by taking my hand in hers. “You have a smile on your face, but sadness in your eyes.”
So I began to talk. And I talked, and talked, and talked some more. By the time I had filled in Robin on the highlights and the lowlights of my life, the bar had almost emptied.
“You, I must say, have quite a story,” she said when I had finished, raising her glass in a little toast.
“I have a story? Well, I do. But you, I have no idea how you’ve gotten through all you have.”
“I have my faith,” Robin said as she grabbed the pendant around her neck and gave it a kiss. “It’s the only way. Whenever I feel hopeless or weak I take my santo and hold it as tight as I can, and I am reminded that there is something much bigger than myself watching over me.” Robin hopped off her stool and clasped both my hands in hers. “You need a santo.”
“A santo?”
“A saint,” she explained.
“But I’m not Catholic,” I protested. “I’m somewhat spiritual, but not very religious.” I surprised myself a little by saying that out loud, but it was the truth. As a kid, the Pentecostals had taught me to believe in heaven and hell, salvation, divine healing, the laying on of hands, speaking in tongues—but saints just weren’t anything special, as far as I knew. But what did I know? By this point in my life I had been exposed to an entire medley of religious beliefs and traditions, and I took pride in my ability to see beauty in all of them. But I had witnessed too much hypocrisy to commit to any one thing. I saw it in my own town, my own church, my own home. In Afghanistan it was the same. In his attempt to have me convert to Islam, Sam had given me an English copy of the Koran. It was full of wonderful wisdom for daily life. But, just like at home, in the wrong hands its messages could be intentionally misinterpreted, conveniently paraphrased, and used to manipulate instead of inspire.
Robin persisted. “It doesn’t matter. God doesn’t care if you’re a Catholic or not. Trust me, it’s just what you need. You’ll touch it, hold it, and it will remind you of your good life, but will also point you forward to where you are going.”
“Where do you get a saint? I’ve never shopped for one of those before.”
Robin laughed, her sandy curls jiggling around her face. “They’re everywhere in Mexico. Tomorrow we’ll leave the boys to their own devices, and you and I will go saint shopping in Cabo.”
“But how will I know which saint to pick?”
“You don’t have to worry. The saint will pick you.”
The warm breeze whispered past my ears as Robin and I wound our way around the dockside shops. I started to feel, for the first time in months, as though I could truly breathe again. My muscles seemed to melt right into my bones, and I even caught myself humming a little Jimmy Buffett while we walked.
Robin stopped in front of a display window crammed with souvenirs—T-shirts, refrigerator magnets, masks, shot glasses, ceramic donkeys dressed in serapes and sombreros. It was hard for me to imagine I was going to find my salvation here. She gently pushed me through the door and pointed down the aisle toward the religious paraphernalia. All the saints looked the same to me. I searched to find one that wasn’t too flashy, a saint that would just blend into the rest of my jewelry, and as I stood there staring at the dozens of shiny silver disks on display, all but one began to fade. I placed three hundred pesos on the counter and put it around my neck.
Robin was waiting for me outside. I held out the pendant. “Which one is this?”
She nodded with satisfaction. “It’s the saint that you need. It’s the Virgin of Guadalupe. You know, there’s nothing like the mother to take your worries to her son.”
I was definitely one to leave myself open to all possibilities when it came to a higher being, and I soon found myself seeking comfort from the little santo hanging from my neck, and from the thought of a woman who had lost so much, yet had it all.
The rest of the cruise was pleasant enough. In Puerto Vallarta, we all took a cab ride into the old part of town for shopping and dinner. In Mazatlán, we had been told that the port wasn’t that attractive, and there didn’t seem to be enough time to really explore the rest of the city as much as I would have wanted to. So I opted for their world-class marlin fishing instead. But back on board that evening, as I listened to some of the passengers describe the cliff divers and the museums and the art galleries, and their trek down a charming street called Carnaval, which led straight to the shopping at Plazuela Machado, I regretted my decision. Especially because I didn’t catch one fish. But Carnaval Street? A place with a name like that was a place I had to see. I vowed to do some research when I got home.
My year of sitting had come to an end. I didn’t really feel all that different, although I did notice that I wasn’t crying quite as much, at least no longer every day. I continued to constantly get lost, but it didn’t mean I had to pull over to the side of the road in a state of panic each time. But inside, the pain and confusion were churning around together in a nasty dance, flinging out doubts that were multiplying like rabbits, each one a reminder of how much of a failure I was. I had failed at relationships and marriages, and somehow, even though I had been forced to leave Kabul, I felt like I had failed big-time at the one thing I was most proud of—the beauty school. And now I was failing at the slightest attempt at a normal life. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. Somewhere between Kabul and California, I had lost my way.
The thing was, life on the mountain with Mike was safe and secure. For the first time in my adult life, I was being taken care of. And for a free-spirited woman heading toward fifty, who hadn’t done a lick of planning for her future, that was huge. Plenty of women would have killed for what I had. So why was it so hard for me? Half of me, racked with guilt over not appreciating what I had, still yearned for the ability to adjust to life on the mountain. The other half just wanted to run away.
About a month after Mike and I returned to Napa, I found a little house in Mexico. It seemed to just happen, sort of. The truth was that, as was my habit whenever I traveled anywhere, I had turned every stop on the cruise into a game of “could I live here?” You name it, I’ve fantasized it. Iceland? Too much fish. Japan? I felt too big. India? Made me crave a Whopper. On this trip, the first two ports of call, Cabo San Lucas and Puerto Vallarta, were immediately crossed off the list, both being a bit too touristy for my taste. But I just couldn’t seem to get Mexico out of my head. I wanted to own a house. And once I started looking into the possibility of Mazatlán, I couldn’t stop. It seemed to tick all my boxes. Proximity to the ocean? Check. Plenty of English speakers? Check. Culture and history? Check. Sam’s Club and Walmart? Check. I booked a flight to return for four days, to see for myself what this town was all ab
out, and within twenty-four hours, I was hooked.
The ride in from the airport was a major disappointment—dry, barren, dirty, and covered in graffiti. At first Mazatlán felt like a huge prank that had been played on me. I began to seriously doubt my instincts, and started to seriously regret spending the money on the flight. But when the taxi turned down into Olas Altas, and deeper into the Centro Histórico, I almost gasped. It was France and Germany and Spain and New Orleans all rolled into one, with a beach!
Roger the Realtor had four houses on his list for the next morning. And guess where the first one, and the best one, was? On Carnaval Street.
In retrospect I can see the natural progression of things, from my garage closet to my backyard shipping container to my tiny bungalow in Mazatlán. I’d always kept an escape hatch, a place to call my own, even if it was just a closet. Having a house had always been important to me. I was just twenty-one when I rescued an old house slated for a tear-down, moved it onto some property my dad gave me, and never looked back. The real estate bug must have been in my genes, as it followed me throughout my life—I always managed to own my own home, even when I was earning the lowest of low salaries. The last house I owned, before I went to Afghanistan, now belonged to one of my exes. I got nine thousand dollars in that divorce, and he got everything else. I would have paid him to get out of that marriage. Wait, I guess I did.
But in California, with the cost of living so high and my job prospects so low, I just hadn’t been able to see how to make buying a home work. After sinking money into starting the coffeehouse in Kabul, putting my son Zach through college, and purchasing my car, I only had so much to work with. And, to top it off, I had no credit. Not that I had debt, but being out of the country for so long meant no viable credit history. Purchasing a home in California was out of the question. My little nest egg would have rapidly disappeared, with nothing to show for it. And then what?
The house in Mexico somehow felt like the right thing to do. After all, it would cost me less than most of the cars I saw whizzing around the roads in Napa, not that I was planning on buying one of those, either; I’m just saying. So I scooped up what remained of my book earnings and rationalized it as a good investment, and the perfect getaway place. I would go, or Mike and I would go, for a few months out of the year and vacation on the beach. I realize now that there had been another, stronger force driving my decision.
Mike had heard me talk about my desire to have a little place somewhere, but he never took me seriously. Buying an old Moroccan riad in the Sahara was an idea I bounced around for a while. When I overheard him telling the rest of his family to “just pretend you believe her—it’s a phase, it will pass” as if I were a two-year-old, I was furious. So when I actually put my money where my mouth was, Mike was speechless.
“It will be fun,” I assured him over breakfast one morning. He rolled his eyes. “Seriously, you’ll see.” It crossed my mind that he was keeping his mouth shut just to keep me happy.
So imagine my surprise when Mike dumped me. Or rather, when his mother dumped me on his behalf. One Tuesday morning I woke to the sound of someone sobbing from our hallway.
“Shirley?” I asked. “Are you okay?” I opened the door to the sight of Mike’s mother in her velvet tracksuit, bent over in misery. I reached out to keep her from falling over. “Oh my God! What happened?” I had never seen her so emotional, let alone shed a tear. My immediate thought was that Mike had been in an accident.
“Oh, Debbie!” She heaved. “I’m so sorry . . . You and Mike . . .” Her voice trailed off into another sob.
I was confused. No one was dead? “What about me and Mike?” I asked.
Her swollen red eyes looked into mine and I could see that she probably had been crying for hours. “That you two broke up! I’m so sorry, Debbie . . .” She held me tight. “I’m going to miss you.” I was dumbfounded. I have been dumped via e-mail, phone, text, and the old-fashioned Dear John letter, but this was a first. I had just been dumped by my boyfriend’s mom.
Then, as if the universe had forgotten the art of subtlety, two days later I sat in a courtroom in front of a judge, tearfully fighting for an annulment from my Afghan husband. Fortunately, after a few grueling hours, it was granted. I was now officially not married, again, at least outside of Afghanistan. But the stress of all that had gone on in the past few days left me completely deflated. I couldn’t imagine feeling any worse.
So, finally, I did what I should have done much, much earlier. I gave myself permission to leave. I hadn’t been planning on making Mexico my new home, but the little house on the sea seemed to be all I had left. The day after the annulment, I crammed everything I owned into my red Mini Cooper, and Polly the cat and I headed south for Mexico.
This should have been the scene in my life movie where I’m tooling down the coast, hair flying in the breeze, belting out a song of girly liberation, pumping my fist out the rolled-down window. If only. The stretch from Napa to Palm Springs, California, is, for the most part, hot, boring, and long. And I was a mess. The car was littered with crumpled tissues, empty soda cans, and sticky candy wrappers. The air was stale with Marlboro Menthols, and the only sounds to be heard were Polly’s mews and my own curses at anyone who dared to pass a little too quickly, swerve a little too close, or even just look at me sideways.
All I wanted was to be in my house, and it was all I could do to stay focused on that goal. You’ll be fine, I tried to tell myself over and over. Just trust the GPS lady, do what she says, and you’ll be fine. You can figure everything else out after you get there. It will be fine. “We’ll be fine, right, Pol?”
Riiiiggghhhttt, answered Inner Debbie, my worst critic, her nasally voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I wasn’t talking to you! And who invited you, anyway?” I answered out loud.
What, you thought I wasn’t coming along?
Apparently I had expected too much when I hoped to leave my doubts behind, back in Napa. Instead those doubts seem to have multiplied, weighing me down with even more baggage than I had arrived there with.
You’ve got more baggage than Paris Hilton on a three-week luxury cruise.
I couldn’t argue. My life sometimes seemed like a series of one-act plays starring the same character, a gutsy heroine who over and over seems destined to triumph, yet somehow never quite does. Oh, I was great at survival. That skill set kicked in long ago, after my first husband, whom I had met in college, fathered not one but two children with women who were not me, including one who was (until then) my best friend. I am not kidding. I was only twenty-five, with two little boys, when things finally fell apart. We were married too young, and our union had already been a rocky one, with both of us to blame. And to complicate things even further, my soon-to-be-ex-husband was working alongside me at my mom’s salon, and had built up a clientele bigger than my own, which wasn’t hard considering my double duty as a mother. So when, in the heat of the moment, I presented Mom with a “he goes or I go” ultimatum, and she chose her cheating son-in-law over her own daughter, I had to force myself to bottle up that triple betrayal deep down inside somewhere, put on a smile, and figure out a Plan B. But not before slashing his tires in a fit of rage.
Wow. You go, girl! But what about that Plan B? Did you actually believe that escaping your mom’s salon to work in a prison was a wise career choice? What kind of woman thinks that conducting mess hall pat-downs on a bunch of thieves and murderers would be better than doing perms?
Inner Debbie knew way too much about me. But she wasn’t telling the whole story. Yes, I did move on to work, briefly, as a prison guard. But when I took that job, I was a single mom who needed to feed her kids, and a steady salary, health insurance, and a 401(k) were luxuries I had never before enjoyed. You do what you have to do. Unfortunately, they stuck me on the second shift, which meant I never, ever got to see my boys, and I was likely facing a sentence of ni
ne more years on that same schedule. What kind of a life was that? No amount of money or security could make that okay. I think I knew it was time to leave when Zachary told his first-grade teacher that Mommy couldn’t make it to the parent-teacher conference because she was in jail.
The day I quit, after a year on the job, I had been working the yard. My long blond hair extensions were gathered up into an I Dream of Jeannie ponytail on top of my head, the only practical solution to guard against the brutal wind whipping off Lake Michigan. The captain called me into his office.
“Anything wrong, sir?” I asked, knowing there wasn’t. I was doing a good job. Nobody had escaped, and no one had been killed on my watch. I had already complied with the captain’s request that I trade in what he called my “disco pants,” which were actually quite nice and baggy, for the regulation skintight, black standard-issue ones that elicited catcalls and whistles from the sex-starved inmates. He motioned for me to sit.
“Your hair.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s your hair. You can’t wear it like that.”
I had to laugh. “It’s just a ponytail, you know, because of the wind?”
“Just take it down from on top of your head.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, just pull it down an inch, so it looks more normal.”
“I can’t. You see, this part . . .” I held out my extensions for him to take a look. “This part isn’t mine. And when I pull on it too much, it gives me a headache. I can’t work with a headache, can I? And anyway, what exactly does ‘more normal’ mean?”
I could see by the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot that he was losing patience with me. “Just move the damn thing down an inch. Nobody is going to take you seriously with hair like that.”
“Well, nobody is going to take you seriously with those three measly twelve-inch-long strands combed over your bald head. Who do you think you’re kidding?”
The House on Carnaval Street Page 5
