I’d always spoken to my mother often, usually two to three times a week typically. Now she called me every day, multiple times. As early as 7 a.m. and once as late as eleven thirty, when I just had to turn on Jimmy Fallon to see an outfit that Drew Barrymore was wearing and wouldn’t it make for a pretty bridesmaid dress? Mimi was unrelenting as well. In her typical bulldog sensibilities, she’d brought every single bridal magazine that was currently in print to my office Monday afternoon, along with her back issues of Martha Stewart Weddings, starting around 2002. Took her two hand trucks and three rides in the elevator to bring them all up, but by god she did it.
I was beginning work on a redesign for an existing client of mine over in Dolores Heights, and the time I was supposed to be working on her kitchen remodel I found myself running interference on a Skype call between my mother and Mimi debating the hotly contested topic of full or partial veils and why a forehead such as mine was able to pull off a more ornate lace fall. I didn’t have a clue what any of these things meant, but it was exciting and fun and overwhelming and wonderful all that the same time.
By Friday night I was exhausted, and over take-out Thai food eaten on our living room couch, I told Simon that I absolutely refused to let the planning of our wedding overtake the actual moment that we were celebrating. Our marriage. With a curry-scented kiss on my forehead, Simon shook his head at my naïveté and simply smiled.
Famous last curry.
chapter five
Months later . . .
“Mom, you can’t put the Royers by the Boccis, they hate each other. Ever since Mr. Bocci ran over Mrs. Royer’s cat. How can you not remember this? Golden Graham got smushed under the front wheel of the Royers’ new Mercedes. It was all Mrs. Bocci talked about all summer long, it’s why we stopped inviting them to pool parties, because all she wanted to do was talk about her dead cat . . . Yes . . . Yes, summer before I went to college . . . Yes, it’s gone on that long . . . Yep, you got it. Put them by the Schaefers, everyone likes them . . . Okay . . . talk to you tomorrow . . . Bye . . . Bye . . . Bye . . .”
I hung up the phone, rubbing my ear. It was hot. It should be. I’d been fielding calls from my mother for the last thirty minutes, after spending the last thirty hours with her in our home.
Our home, which had turned into Wedding Central. My mother had come in for a weekend blitz of wedding details, the likes of which I’d not been the least bit prepared for. My mother, Simon, Mimi, and I, along with Jillian and Sophia for certain portions, had been shuttling across the bay and back again for two days of cake sampling, menu tastings, flower designing, dress fittings, and big band listening. The listening had been my favorite part, actually. The rest? For. The. Birds.
How do people get married without losing their minds? Without losing their wallets? Without being convicted for assault by petticoat? I’d now been front and center for two weddings that I’d been directly involved with, first Jillian and then Mimi. And I’d thought from the outside, even as involved as I’d been, I’d be prepared for the onslaught of decisions and complications and the sheer terror of putting a foot wrong on our important day.
I’d been blissfully ignorant. Not this time. I was full metal jacket in the middle of this tulle and lace torture extravaganza and it was going to drive me to the nuthouse. When my mother finally left to drive back home, leaving me in a house stacked with early wedding gifts, seating charts, and maps of the immediate areas surrounding both the church and the reception to help Mimi predict the traffic patterns on our important day, I’d closed the front door with a cheery wave and collapsed right there in the entryway. Simon found me there several minutes later when he handed me a cell phone.
“Your mother,” he mouthed.
“I turned my phone off!” I mouthed back.
“That explains why she’s calling my phone, then, doesn’t it?”
“Shit!” I whispered, then took the phone from him. “Hi, Mom, what’s up?” I said as he picked up my left ankle and dragged me into the living room. Luckily we’d just had the floor waxed and polished.
Once I hung up the phone, I looked up at him from where he’d left me, just next to the couch where he sat, looking exhausted and more than a little confused.
“She didn’t even make it onto the freeway before she thought of more seating chart issues,” I explained, handing him back his phone.
“I got that. How can it be so hard to put all these people in the same room? Hi. You’re our loved ones. We’d like you to be here with us while we make things official and all that. You’re our favorite people in the entire world. We’re going to feed you roasted beef tenderloin with new baby potatoes dotted with a mushroom sauce made from mushrooms foraged in the hills above San Francisco. And you can’t forget about a dead cat long enough to enjoy the Atlantic prawns served over a bed of sautéed arugula accented with a garlic foam?”
“We had to eighty-six the prawns, babe. Too many people have a shellfish allergy.”
“But I loved the garlic foam!”
“I know, babe.”
“This is getting out of hand.” He sighed, covering his face. I crawled from the floor up onto his lap and pried his hands back.
“I hear that. Want to elope?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, looking at me to see if I was serious. When I shook my head, he sighed again. “It’s fine. It’ll be good. Then I get you all to myself on a beach in Spain for three weeks.”
“You’re right about that. I’m so glad you were able to get that same house in Nerja. It’s the perfect place for a honeymoon. And it’s only a month away.”
“A month. Only a month. Only a month,” he repeated like a mantra. “I thought I’d get some time to pack this weekend for my trip, but taste testing cakes took precedence.”
“They were really good cakes; don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that part of it.”
“They were good, but nothing’s as good as what you make for me. If I had my way, we’d be having your apple pie instead of wedding cake,” he said, his hands resting on my hips.
“That’s sweet, babe. But the triple coconut with raspberry cream was pretty damn good.”
“Agreed. Want to come help me pack?”
I said yes, and then hung off the back of the couch until he picked me up and carried me upstairs piggyback. He had his last trip before the wedding, a two-week shoot in Vietnam. I hated that I couldn’t come along. National Geographic was sending him to do a study on the newly developed cave system in Son Doong, just opened for tours in the last two years or so, and the hottest ticket in Vietnamese tourism right now. There were entire sections that hadn’t been photographed yet, underground rain forests and rivers that hadn’t been seen by hardly anyone. Rappelling down rocky slippery cliffs, wading through dark rushing water, dodging bats and bugs the size of dinner plates—it was exactly the kind of thing Simon loved. And he’d capture it on film in his unique way, taking viewers along with him to the deepest, darkest recesses under the earth.
“I still can’t believe you can’t put this trip off until after the wedding.” I sighed, still perched on his back as he navigated the upstairs hallway.
“I think it’s more that you can’t believe you aren’t coming with me,” he replied.
“True, but mostly I just wish you were here to help me finish up this last little bit of planning.”
“Babe, you’ve got Frick and Frack the planning twins competing to alphabetize your favors. I think you’ll be okay,” he said, grabbing his duffel bag from his closet and dropping it onto the bed. He dropped me onto the bed a moment later.
It was true, my mother and Mimi were running things pretty well at this point. And as busy as I’d stayed at work, I was glad for the help. But still, there were last-minute things still to do and he was getting to skip out on some of them.
“Remember when we said this wedding would be about us, and what we wanted?” I asked, watching as T-shirts and shorts went into the bag.
“I think we waved
bye-bye to that a few months ago, babe, when we had three separate discussions about Jordan almonds and what color netting they needed to be wrapped in.”
“I know, I know. I don’t even like almonds. But it’s . . . I mean . . . it’s still us, right?”
“Yes, it’s still us. Us, and three hundred of our closest friends.”
“Ugh. Three hundred. It sounds insane when I say it, but when I go through the list, I don’t know who we’d cut out at this point,” I cried, laying back against the pillows. The guest list had ballooned up and up until it was beyond ridiculous. Most of Simon’s old school pals and their wives were coming west for the wedding, which was wonderful to see. His childhood neighbors, the Whites, were coming as well. He was very happy when he saw their RSVP.
“How many Jillian Design clients are on the list? How many of your parents’ friends made the cut? There’s tons of people on there that we don’t know. Don’t know well, let’s say.”
“Let’s not have this discussion again, okay?” The guest list, the menu, the parking attendants, everything was just getting bigger and bigger. And the bigger it became, the more I could tell Simon was putting on his game face, making it seem like he was okay with everything. But when it was just the two of us, and the planning committee had retired for the night, he admitted it was a bit overwhelming. But he was in for a penny, in for a pound, and insisted we keep everything as it was. But that didn’t mean he didn’t get a little disgruntled from time to time. We’d had several tense conversations over the last few months, mostly over the guest list. He didn’t understand, not coming from a large family that all lived within an hour of where we now lived, why it was necessary to invite so many people.
Mostly, though, I think seeing how many guests were in his column, and how many were in my column was difficult to see. It was like a black-and-white reminder of who he’d lost. And who wouldn’t be there. He was a trooper. He was my trooper.
And it was all happening in a month. And then we could begin to live our lives again, just for us. And our little kitty family. I changed the subject, asking him questions about his trip and getting the details on what he’d be doing. And as we talked, the tension eased. As his bag filled up and the cats began to circle, knowing that this was what happened before Daddy went on a trip, we talked only of cameras and caves, and no more tulle and lace.
And when we went to bed that night, and he kissed me long and deep and told me he loved me and he’d miss my sweet ass while I was gone, I giggled and let him love on me as long as he could. Which was awhile, because this was my Wallbanger we were talking about here.
Early the next morning, I drove him to the airport, kissed him good-bye, told him I wasn’t wearing any panties, and then kissed him once more while he tried to push me back into the car to see if I was bluffing. I was not. Kissing him a final time, I told him I loved him and I’d see him in two weeks.
No one ever tells you to remember these moments. To photograph them in your mind, develop them into memories, to have them easily accessible and on instant recall when you’d need them later. To try and replay and re-create the last time you see someone.
It was 2 a.m. I was asleep on the couch under a cover of furry bodies. Food Network was on the television. I unstuck my face from the pillow . . . nice. Drool. Wait, why was I on the couch? And what was ringing? The phone. Oh, the phone! I scrambled to pick it up, seeing it was Simon.
“Babe? You make it there?”
“Just landed in Hanoi,” he said, yawning, but his voice had the sense of urgency he always has when he’s on a trip. He loved his work. He loved the travel. There was a time when we first started living together that he wasn’t traveling as much, and I thought he might be thinking about giving up this globe-trotting life. He still traveled, just not as much. But he loved it too much to ever give it up. And I loved him too much to ever ask him to. Besides, we were used to being apart. It’s how we met, it’s how we got together, it’s how we fell in love. We made it work, because it was all we knew.
“How was the flight?”
“Last leg was brutal, but it’s good to be here. Sun’s shining, it’s a thousand degrees, and there’s a bowl of pho waiting for me as soon as I get off this phone.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you,” I teased. “Thanks for checking in. When are you heading to the first location?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m spending the day in the city, acclimating and working with the guys here who are taking me out with the tour. Then hopping on the night train tomorrow. Or tonight. I have no idea what time it is.”
“Okay, babe, call me when you can.” I knew he’d check in, but when Simon was working he tended to lose all track of time. He certainly was the same way when he was working me . . .
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you too. Ella says she misses you.”
“Aw, tell my pretty girl I miss her too.”
“She only sleeps with me when you’re out of town.”
“She knows who’s in charge.”
“Hanging up on you, Wallbanger.”
“Hanging up on you first, Nightie—”
Hee-hee. I got there first. Dislodging four cats took some doing, but eventually I was on my feet and stretching before heading up to bed. My phone beeped, and I looked down at the screen. He’d sent me a picture of his noodles. Ass.
I worked hard that week, trying to stack up some work ahead of time before the big day. Monica had transitioned from assistant to junior designer since coming on board last year, and she’d been instrumental in helping me, and the entire team, move seamlessly into the new arrangement we had with Jillian’s new schedule. Monica still worked closely with me on most of my accounts, but she was beginning to take on some small projects on her own, usually with me looking on in an advisory role. She’d been handling my clients while I was on wedding lockdown. Knowing she’d be keeping things up in the air and moving while I was gone was a huge help, but I still wanted to make sure I could get as much done as I could before our important day.
By the end of the week I was exhausted, but feeling like I’d gotten a little bit ahead. I had a meeting at four thirty with Jillian that I had a feeling would end in drinks afterward. I had that feeling because it was how we ended almost every single week when she was in town, so I felt pretty sure about that feeling. The fact that I was carrying a bottle of wine was also a tip-off. I was headed down to her office, arms full of binders and my always-present colored pencils, along with the wine, when I heard her raising her voice to someone on the phone.
“Oh my God, are you sure? What does that mean? Jesus, what am I supposed to tell her?”
I poked my head around the corner, not wanting to interrupt her but not wanting her to think I was eavesdropping either. “Should I come back?” I whispered. She looked at me, and when my eyes met hers the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Her eyes were wide, and panicked, and filling with tears. The room narrowed, my field of vision now only including her face and that phone. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice trembling. Because I knew, you see.
“Caroline, sweetie, it’s Benjamin,” she started, and my blood turned to an icy burn. It was only later that I realized I’d dropped everything I was carrying. Including the wine, which dropped squarely on my big toe. I had a bruise under the nail for months.
“What’s going on?” I heard someone say, and the someone was me.
“I don’t know, he just called and—”
“Give me the phone, Jillian,” I said, crossing to her in an instant and grabbing the phone out of her hand. “Where is he? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know anything yet, Caroline. I—”
“If you didn’t know anything you wouldn’t be calling Jillian, and she wouldn’t be gray right now. What’s happened to Simon?” I asked, my voice now rising higher and higher. I sounded shrill, I sounded desperate. I sounded scared to death.
“I don’t know much, one of the guys he was with called me.
I’m listed as his emergency contact still with National Geographic I guess. There was an accident in one of the caves today. It’s so hard to understand what happened; the guy doesn’t exactly speak fluent English and the reception was so spotty and—”
“Goddammit, Benjamin, what happened?” I yelled, slamming my hand down on Jillian’s desk.
“He fell. He was on some kind of bamboo scaffolding, and the wire he was attached to wasn’t secure, and he fell. I don’t know how far. Enough to maybe break some bones.”
“Broken bones. Okay, maybe broken bones.” I exhaled, clutching the desk now as my knees wobbled. “Okay, okay,” I repeated.
“Not just that, Caroline, he was knocked out by the fall. There’s been some kind of damage to his skull. They airlifted him to a hospital, but as far as I can tell he’s still unconscious. I don’t know much more than that. I’ve been trying to reach one of the doctors treating him but—”
“Monica!” I yelled down the hall. “Get in here right now!”
“Caroline, what are you doing?” Jillian asked, and I held up a finger.
“Benjamin, I need to know where he is. What city, what hospital. I need a doctor’s name. I need his fixer’s name and his contact information,” I said to Benjamin, just as Monica was running into the office.
“Caroline, good lord woman, a simple Monica come on in here would have been—”
“Do you still have my passport information from when you helped me book our trip to Spain?” I asked, telling Benjamin to hold on.
“Yeah, yeah I should,” she said, looking from me to Jillian. “What’s going on?”
“I need you to book me on the first flight to Hanoi. Just give me an hour to get home and grab my passport. Text me the information when you have it.”
“Wait, Hanoi? When? How much am I allowed to spend? Where do you want to connect through? How—”
“As soon as possible. I don’t care. I don’t care. Please do this now,” I replied, now calm. “Benjamin, I’m leaving the office to go home and get my passport and then I’m heading for the airport. Jillian’s going to drive me so I can make some calls on the way. Find out what you can and call me as soon as you know more, okay?”
Last Call (Cocktail #5) Page 7
