by Ward, Susan
I slip off the arm of the couch onto the seat. It’s 9p.m. Jack should be on stage by ten. A ninety minute set. The backstage thing. An after party. I won’t see him for five, maybe six hours.
I feel anxious and uncomfortable with only my own company. A lot went wrong tonight. It started out wonderfully, but boy did we end in an awkward place. I fight the replay of the prior hours in my head, but the flashing moments are unrelenting. I’ve strayed so far with Jack from the type of relationship I’ve always known with men that it’s little wonder I can’t figure out what’s going wrong with us and why.
I reach for the phone. For some reason, calling my mother sounds like a really good thing to do right now. I can’t call Jeanette. My best friend doesn’t approve of my affair with Jack. She thinks I’m letting myself be used, setting myself up for another heartache, and that I’m delusional to think it could end any other way.
I punch my mom’s number into the phone and wait. Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Hello.”
“Hi Mom. Sorry to call so late, but I wanted to check on you.”
Doris laughs. “I just saw you for dinner last night, dear. It’s Friday night. I would have thought you had big plans or something.”
“Nope. Just me all alone tonight.”
Silence through the receiver for a moment. Then, “What’s wrong, Linda? Something has got to be wrong for you to be alone on a Friday night and calling me.”
Oh crap, how does she always know? It’s unnerving that a woman who understands so little about human relationships—her affair with my father and her continued idolization of him is proof of that—can read me accurately without effort.
“Nothing is wrong, Mom. Taking it easy tonight. I’ve had a long week. Lots of interviews. I’ve got to get a job soon or I’m going to have to move home. The last of my scholarship living stipend is almost gone.”
Doris laughs. “Oh poor Linda, it would be a fate worse than death to have to move back in with your mother,” she teases, and I know she is just teasing, but for some reason I’m suddenly, internally, very emotional.
“That would be OK, Mom,” I say.
“Hey, something is wrong. What’s going on, Linda?”
“I just need to get my act together. You know. It’s not that easy. Graduating from college doesn’t fix anything. I’m still broke and I’m still short on possibilities. I’ve gotten accepted to the graduate program that I want, and even though I notified the school I intend to enroll, I can’t go. It’s only a tuition scholarship. Nothing else. No way to cover living expenses. I can’t even afford airfare to England. I just thought after graduation some things in my life would get easier. But my degree doesn’t mean anything. It means I’ve got a piece of paper and I better start fixing things real fast, real soon.”
“Exactly what are we talking about here?”
“Relationship. Job. Home. Everything is so up in the air since graduation.”
“Honey, you will always have a home as long as I’m around. The job will come.” I smile. Doris can be so steady at times. “And if I had the money I’d send you to that graduate program in England, but I don’t, sweetie. I just don’t.”
“I know, Mom.”
“As for the relationship, I don’t know what to say about that because I didn’t know you were involved with someone.”
I cringe. Why did I toss on the table tonight the subject of Jack? “It’s complicated,” I say evasively.
“It always is with you, dear.”
I take in a big breath. She had to get one in, now didn’t she. I debate with myself and then I say anyway, “Can I ask you something, Mom?”
“Sure. Anything. You can always ask me anything. I won’t promise I’ll answer, but you can ask me anything.”
I laugh. Always a wisecrack, Doris. That thought makes me think of Jack, and I’m anxious again.
“It’s just…Can you love someone too much? So much that you ruin a relationship? So much that you drive them away?”
“Why do you ask?” My mother’s light mood is suddenly gone. She’s all seriousness now.
“Just answer me. OK?”
“No. There is no such thing as loving too much. Love never ruins a relationship. It’s the other baggage we carry through life that does that.”
A ragged breath shudders out of me. “I’ve been seeing someone. We’ve been together for about eight months.”
“Eight months! Why didn’t you tell me, Linda.”
“I didn’t want to jinx it. I really care about this guy. More than I ever expected to about anyone. And I’m making such a mess out of everything right now and I don’t know why, Mom.”
“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think? You’ve always been a worrier, Linda.”
I think of the way Jack looked at me before he left. It was awful not seeing the smile in his eyes. “Maybe.”
“Hey, I’ve got some phone messages for you.” Her voice changes with the change of topic. More light again. “You’re really going to have to start giving out your own number. I’m not an answering service.”
I will when the phone company turns my phone back on. I don’t say it, but I make a face. “Sorry, Mom.”
I can hear through the receiver her rummaging around for whatever forgotten scrap of paper she jotted the messages down on.
“OK, Linda. I’ve got them. Your dad called again.”
I make another face at the phone. Really? She had to find the message to remember that? “What else, Mom?”
“Someone by the name of Sandy Harris. Sounded like quite a cutie on the phone. Wants you to call him first thing tomorrow morning.”
My heart jumps and then begins to race. I’ve actually got a call back from one of my interviews this week. And from Sandy Harris, one of the biggest music promoters based in LA. I hadn’t expected that. Not by a long shot.
“Did he leave a number, Mom?”
“Sure. 213…”
“Wait. I need to find something to write it down with.”
I drop the receiver on the sofa and go to the desk for the little leather binder with the complimentary stationary and a pen. I jerk out a sheet and pick up the phone again, balancing it between my shoulder and ear.
“OK, shoot.” I jot down the number. “Thanks, Mom. Things are starting to look up, finally.”
“What’s this about, Linda? Is that your mystery boyfriend you’ve been keeping from your mom?”
“God, every call from a guy isn’t someone I’m dating. Hopefully it means I have a job. I’ll let you know, Mom.”
“I’m glad, dear. Everything is going to be OK. You’ve always been such a worrier. You need to worry less. Things will take care of themselves if you let them.”
I laugh. That sounds like something Jack would say.
“I’ll try, Mom. I’ll try to worry less.”
“You do that, dear. And call your dad. He really wants to talk to you, Linda. Learn to give people second chances.”
I feel a flash of irritation over her quick defense of my dad. But then, Doris wasn’t there in San Francisco the day I finally met Brian Cray. And as much as I wanted to set my mom straight on a few hard truths about my dad, I just couldn’t do it. If she wants to carry a delusional torch for the man, why burst her bubble? Doris deserves some happiness, even if it is fictional.
“Love you, Mom. Bye,” I say and quickly hang up.
I’m suddenly feeling really good. I look at the clock. That call ate up all of ten minutes. What am I going to do for the rest of the six hours until Jack returns?
There is an inescapable pathos being stuck in a hotel room waiting for a man. It’s not the first room I’ve waited for Jack in. It won’t be the last…I feel my anxiety sharpen… hopefully it won’t be the last, though a sane girl would probably want it to be.
I go to the window and stare down at the street. Sunset Boulevard. My old stomping ground. I’m within walking distance of The Whisky, The Roxy, and The House of Blues. I can go into any rocker hau
nt in LA and run into someone I know. Find a party without even trying.
My face scrunches up…that’s part of the problem, Linda. One of the things about you you’ve got to fix if you hope ever to have the kind of life you want.
I chase away my thoughts and focus on how pretty the city looks at night with the lights and the cars. It’s only 9:30 p.m. Things haven’t even started to heat up on the strip.
The drapes fall from my hands and I step back. I go to the pretty, polished bar, find it not stocked, though that’s not a surprise. Jack doesn’t drink. I debated going to the roof top pool. There’ll be people there on a Friday night with a major concert going on at The Forum. It would be nice to sit beneath the stars and have a glass of wine. I’m so fucking restless and tense these days.
What’s the matter with me? Is it just the stress of having an on-and-off kind of relationship? There are times we hang up the phone and the wait between calls is so miserable—that icky, anxious, unreasonably suspicious, excessive-worry, kind of miserable—that I almost can’t take it until Jack calls again. Sometimes it makes me physically sick, and I get angry at him, though it’s not his fault and isn’t fair for me to be angry with him. When Jack’s on tour it’s difficult for us to connect by phone between his schedule and, what was, my schedule at school. It wasn’t like this before he was on the road. I could drive to Santa Barbara to be with him. He could drive to LA to be with me. We talked every morning and every night. It wasn’t like this before.
I shake my head. It used to be so good between us.
Maybe my strange mood isn’t about us at all. Maybe it is knowing that now that I’ve finished USC that I need to start making some decisions, and that the decisions I make will matter. I’ve been scrambling like a madwoman since graduation trying to find a job and striking out everywhere. Or is it just the stress of always being fucking broke?
That thought sends me to the bedroom to make sure nothing happen to Jeanette’s dress when Jack took it off me. I could never afford to replace it and Jeanette will have such a tizzy if it’s not perfect when I return it. I find it a messy ball in the corner of the room and hold it up in front of me, doing a fast inspection. A little wrinkled, but that’s all. Good. I go to the closet, grab a hanger, then go into the bathroom. A touch of steam is all it needs to be perfect again. I hang it on the hook outside the shower and then crank up the water to the hottest I can make it.
Back in the bedroom, I busy myself straightening out the bed. Just do things, Linda. The same kind of things you’d do at home if you were spending a night in, alone. Anything to keep yourself from your thoughts and worries.
Bed done, I stretch out across it and stare up at the ceiling. Jeez, it’s been one long day. One emotional firestorm after another. I lift up Jack’s pillow, holding it to my face and breathing in deeply. I smile. I love the way this man smells. No, Linda, you love everything about Jack. The problems is you’ve have fallen for someone who is totally out of your league.
Why is he so wonderful? It would be so much easier to make the smart play, to let go and focus on my own life, if he wasn’t so damn wonderful.
I curl onto my side, hugging his pillow. What have you done to yourself, Linda? You are now one of those girl who spends her nights alone thinking of a man. I wonder if Jack is thinking of me.
~~~
My eyes open. My flesh is a damp, icky warm and the room is unbearable. Damn, I must have fallen asleep and I left the shower on. I run into the bathroom and shut off the water. Crap, I’ve made the bathroom and bedroom a hot, steamy mess.
My eyes touch on the clock when I step back into the bedroom. Whoa, it’s 3 a.m. and Jack is still not back. That surprises me, even though getting caught up in the scene after a performance isn’t something I don’t understand—and this is LA so the backstage party will be more frenzied and wild, packed with beautiful people, famous and not—and he did say he had an after thing, translation probably a VIP private party at a club. But Jack doesn’t do the scene and he did say he’d cut out early. So what has changed? Or did I change it by being such a bitch tonight?
Oh yeah, you were awful to him tonight, Linda. It’s time to hit the rewind button and start this encounter again.
The sleep was a good thing. I feel more rested. Less anxious. More able to manage clear thought and emotion. So how do I start this over? And where the hell is he?
My eyes round. I notice the red light blinking on the hotel phone. Messages? Well that’s a first, and I’m a little surprised even as tired as I was that I slept through the phone ringing, and more surprised that there would be messages.
I debate phoning the desk to retrieve them, the messages might not even be for me, but I do it anyway. I lift the receiver and hit the button to ring the clerk.
“Front desk.”
“Yes, I’d like my messages please.”
“Of course, Mrs. Parker. Hold on.”
Simultaneously, the cells in my body tense and cringe. Mrs. Parker? The was just a touch of smirk in the jerk’s voice when he called me that, and of course there would be because you’d have to live in a cave in Hollywood not to know Jack’s personal story. Maybe in Idaho they don’t know he doesn’t have a wife, but they sure as hell know that here.
“Mr. Parker called twice. Do you want me to read the messages or do you want to pick them up at the desk?”
I frown. Jack called twice? That’s not like him. “Go ahead and read them,” I say, since clearly the jerk already knows what they say. No privacy here.
“The first message was at 9:45 p.m. ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s it. Entire message.”
Everything inside me turns to liquid. Damn, that sweet wonderful man. I take my lower lip between my teeth. “And the second?”
“Second message was at 2:45 a.m. ‘On my way back. Damn, you’re asleep. Love you.’”
I start to laugh, though I really shouldn’t. “Thank you.” I click down the phone. 2:45. It’s now 3:05. Jack should be back any minute depending on where the after party is located.
I stand up and stare at the room. So the man doesn’t want me asleep when he returns, huh. Make-up sex mixed with after performance unspent adrenalin. Double fantastic. A contrite man full of restless energy is a marvelous thing. Maybe everything will fall back into place comfortably again between us.
I quickly go to the bag I forgot to unload after I arrived. Technically, I didn’t forget. I was a little distracted. I start to smile and I dig to the bottom for the cooling container. I should have put all this in the fridge. I open the insulated bag to find the ice melted, but the food still good.
Perfect! I pull out the things I need for the private party I’ve decided to have and grab my makeup bag, hairbrush and spray. I run into the bathroom to see how awful I look. I don’t have that kind of hair you can get wet, let dry naturally, and just roll with it. Great. Part frizz and part curl.
I quickly brush my teeth and wash off my earlier makeup. I jerk out a tissue from the container and remove the last smudge of mascara. Opening the case, I decide on only a touch of mascara, nothing more. Jack loves the natural look. I do a quick perk up of my eyelashes, run some water on my hands, and do a fast scrunch of my curls trying to mold the disobedient sections into the ringlets. OK, not bad. I do a light spray, and go back into the bedroom.
At my suitcase, I debate whether to put on the sexy little black negligee or the sarong. Decision made. I pull on a low cut, spaghetti strap t-shit, the sarong and nothing underneath. After fixing the tie on my hip and making sure the slit of the sarong is in just the right spot over my thigh, I go to the hotel closet. There’s got to be an extra blanket, there has got to be.
Fudge, top shelf. Grrr, Mr. Hyatt, there are women under five-foot-eight in Southern California. Lots of women that are five-foot-three and brunette just like me.
I struggle and finally get the blanket. I look at the room. Where to have my picnic? I go into the living room and push back the coffee table until it’s beneath the window.
I spread out the blanket.
I gather the things I brought from home—containers of cut cheese and fruit, olives, salami, fancy crackers, a baguette, some pretty plates, an abalone shell, and a box of those short, one inch scented candles.
I sink on the blanket and start to set out food. It’s one of the quirks I have. I can artfully arrange anything and make it look good, even a strange collection of this and that, brought from home for a picnic. The abalone shell, what do I put in the shell? I fill it with strawberries and put a candle in the center. I light the candle. Nicely done, if I do say so myself.
From the sofa I take the throw cushions and carefully toss them down on the blanket. Strategically, I place the box of candles around the room. After they are lit, I turn off the lights.
I smile. Jack will like this. I’ve never met anyone who likes simple things more than Jack. Now, where is that man?
CHAPTER FIVE
I hear voices in the hotel hallway and I sit up on the blanket. Pushing my curls from face, I arrange my body in a posture I hope conveys I’m done with fighting. I just want to love you.
The door opens and Jack steps in. His eyes take in the room and then fix on me. He hangs back, staring at me. Now that he’s here, I’m feeling a little nervous about this. God, what if he thinks I’m being lame? What if this looks desperate and pathetic? Too late now, Linda. He’s here and this is the move you’ve made.
He doesn’t speak for a very long time. Then, “Hi, beautiful,” he says. He doesn’t move.
The tension leaves my body. Two words. His tones says it all. I’ve surprised him. He’s thrilled at being surprised, and just a hint relieved. We are in the same place physically and emotionally again.
I smile. “I thought an apology picnic was in order. I know you’re probably tired from being on stage and small talk and full of crappy, catered, fancy-smancy food, but some apologies can’t wait.”
He laughs, and his magnificent blue eyes are warm and filled with light. He sinks on his knees in front of me. He takes my face in his hands. “I’m the one who should apologize, Linda.”
