by Lauren Jayne
As I walked through the beautifully decorated hotel lobby, the man who had checked us in peered at me from over his glasses.
“Getting some air, Ms. Winkel?”
I just smiled and nodded my head. I walked down the massive stone staircase and headed to the street, which was lined with little shops with curtains behind their glass doors. The streets were alive; traffic was bustling by. People on the streets walked with purpose and the energy in the air was palpable.
I couldn’t help thinking, these people know pain, they know battle. How could I ever dare to feel sorry for myself again? So my parents hadn’t acknowledged my birthday since I was seven. Who cares? These people haven’t seen peace in their country ever. I went to sleep scared to death every night, but I was in a safe place. They go to sleep never knowing if they will wake up to gunfire. My suffering was nothing compared to theirs.
About a block from the hotel I saw a beautiful jewelry store. I walked in and immediately felt I was in danger. If I knew anything, it was to follow my instincts. Not everyone here was Jewish, and some people in this amazing land could hate me for being born who I was. I could instantly hear Milton’s crazy voice in my head, “You’ll be kidnapped and even I won’t be able to help you.”
The man behind the counter came out to greet me, his voice a little creepy, saying, “Hello beautiful lady, I have the perfect thing for you,” grabbing my wrist.
He just wanted to put a bracelet on me, but I ran out of there and down the block in the blazing heat, through the lobby of our hotel, straight up that massive staircase, and into our room. My heart was beating in my throat. “What have I done? Why did I leave? Am I crazy? If I get away with this without my grandparents finding out, I will never do anything stupid again!” I lay under my covers, my heart pounding, afraid that my breathing would wake them. But it only got louder.
Later that night at dinner we saw the guy who had tried to put the bracelet on my wrist being interviewed on the news. A car bomb had gone off in front of the store that I had been in that day. I could have died! If I was good at one thing, it was following God’s guidance. If I got a sign, I’d run like the wind. I lay in bed and thanked God again and again for saving me.
That night Milton did the cough for me to come into the bathroom, but this time, I could tell he wasn’t kidding. I was nervous.
“You were at that shop today. You could have been killed.”
I just looked at him. How did he know? The people at the hotel had followed me out as a service to Milton and informed him of my whereabouts.
“What did I tell you, kid? You are lucky. Don’t be stupid and never tell Booboo; she’ll kill you herself.”
Chapter 28
Do You Still Love Me?
After working the lunch shift at Cucina, I headed into the Hillel building on Frat Row at the University of Washington. As I walked up the concrete stairs to the cozy-looking house, I almost turned around, but just as I stood and paused, the door opened. A bald man wearing a yarmulke, with a long thin nose and kind eyes, looked up at me as I stood in the wind and rain.
“Come on in,” he said.
He took my wet coat and walked me into a small room, and we started chatting.
“I don’t go to the UW,” I said, not wanting to feel like I was pretending to be something I wasn’t.
“OK,” he said, laughing. “What brings you by?”
“I just got home from Israel with my grandparents. I am Jewish and everyone in my family on both sides, pretty much since the beginning of time, is Jewish too. But my parents, I guess they had too much religion and not enough time, so they took the hands-off approach with us kids. I’ve always loved religion, and I have my own relationship with God that is kind of separate from religion. I’ve gone to church camps with my friends, have friends that are Mormon, Muslim, Buddhist, and Catholic. I’ve always felt like if your relationship with a power greater than yourself makes you a better person, whatever you call that higher power, it’s pretty much the same in principle. But, in Israel, I felt a weird connectedness that I’ve never really felt before. I’m an adult now, so it doesn’t really matter that I didn’t go to Temple or Hebrew School; I’m a Jew, and I want to be one for real and have my own Jewish family someday. I belong to something by the blood in my body and after Israel, I realized that even without an hour of Jewish education, I am a Jew through every ounce of my body. But I really don’t know much about it, and now I want to.”
“Wow, we are just happy when the kids come here for a free meal. Well, you’re in the right spot. Hillel is home for all kids your age. It doesn’t matter where you go to school or if you go to school, for that matter. We are having a Shabbat dinner here tonight; why don’t you stay?”
Not wanting to ask what that was, I simply said, “OK.”
When Rabbi Dan walked me back and introduced me to the ladies, who were busy making dinner, one of them said, “Look at her little body. My grandson will die. You’re just a beautiful girl – and Jewish.”
For the next hour, I worked in the kitchen helping them slice the brisket and turn the golden potatoes in the oven. We wrapped two challahs under a cloth and finished setting the tables. By six o’clock the long table we’d set for about forty was filling up and I was wishing that I could stay in the kitchen with the older ladies.
“OK, honey, would you like me to walk you out and introduce you to some of the other kids?”
“Maybe I can help you guys back here,” I said.
“Go on out, honey,” Esther urged.
In my black work skirt, white t-shirt, black blazer, and pearls, I walked shyly out to the crowd of people who looked like they’d known each other since preschool. They stood around in groups, laughing at jokes I didn’t get, and referencing things I didn’t know about. I felt myself drifting off onto my island. I stood to the side, looking at the photos and the Jewish artifacts that sat in the glass cases on the wall, hoping I looked busy enough for people to leave me alone.
Rabbi Dan came out and said, “OK, everyone, let’s have a seat and welcome in this beautiful Shabbat.”
With one empty seat in the middle of the long table, one of the ladies came out and said, “Lauren, this is Aaron, and this is Mark. Across from you, that’s Jay and Jay,” and she pulled out the chair for me, patted my back, and walked back to the kitchen.
As everyone around me sang songs I’d never heard before, my face felt red, and I wondered if anyone noticed my lips weren’t moving. Since it was in Hebrew, I couldn’t even guess what was coming next. Sure to watch everyone’s moves so I wouldn’t be the fool who picked up the tiny glass of wine to my right before the Rabbi said the prayer, I waited and took a sip when they did. Not a fan of the taste, I grabbed a piece of challah and put it in my mouth. As I chewed, Rabbi Dan started the blessing over the bread, and after they all had recited it in unison everyone picked up the bread I was trying not to swallow, and ate.
Surrounded by a sea of Davids, Aarons and Jays, wondering why I was one of maybe four girls at this dinner, I started to feel at ease when the prayers stopped and the chatting started. If I needed water, the boys grabbed it and filled my cup. When I spilled my matzah ball soup, I had three napkins in my face in less than three seconds. The boys were all sweet and cute, but they were frat boys and I couldn’t relate to one word they said. They still listened to KUBE 93, and I couldn’t live without The End. We were worlds apart. I realized after that dinner that I’d never fit into that life, the social part of it at least. But I loved being with the ladies and learning from them and the Rabbi, and I would do everything in my power to learn about my religion. When I started to leave, Mark, the guy with the super short black hair and a loud laugh that owned a DJ company with one of the Jay’s, followed me out.
“Where’d you park?” he asked.
“I’m in the lot across the street,” I said, as I walked down the stairs.
“Me too; I’ll walk you over,” Mark said.
Getting to the parkin
g lot, Mark said, “My car’s gone.”
“What? Are you sure you parked it here?” I asked.
“Yep, but I have way too many parking tickets; they must have finally towed it. Would you mind driving me home? I just live down by Green Lake.”
I followed Mark’s directions down 50th and through all the back streets to his new-looking apartment building. I stopped my car and said good night.
“Do you want to come up?” he asked.
“Umm, no. And I really have to go; I’m late to meet my roommate.”
“Well, can I have your number?”
“Sure.” I found a gum wrapper in my console and wrote my number down for him.
When I got home, Carmen’s light was off downstairs; she’d told me earlier that she was off work and Jon was in LA for a few days and that we could catch a movie. I waited in her apartment, but when I woke up the next morning and she still wasn’t home, I felt a pit in my stomach filled with worry and guilt. Then I heard Mrs. Miller tap on the door.
“Honey, are you down here? I saw your car; everything OK?”
“Yea, I just fell asleep down here,” I said, not ever wanting to get Mrs. Miller involved with our stuff, out of respect.
“OK, honey. Carmen just called upstairs, but I told her to try down here.”
Just then the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Lor…” she was crying.
“What? Where are you?”
“I don’t know, Lor, I don’t know.”
“Carmen, where are you? Are you OK?”
“No, I’m fucked up. Can you come over?”
“Carmen, I don’t know where you are.”
She blurted out an address and hung up.
I scribbled it down as fast as I could on the box top from one of Jon’s goodie boxes, ripped it off, and headed to Seattle. Over the foggy lake, past the zigzag stadium, down the 65th Street exit where I’d taken Mark the night before, and through a few older-looking North Seattle neighborhoods where all of the houses looked cold, dark and stinky, I turned down the Dead End street. I checked the ripped off box flap, making sure I was at the right place and parked. The house appeared to look like the rest: a small rambler with fresh paint and an edged winter-yellow lawn. Walking up to the dark house, my heart was pounding in my chest. What have these people done to Carmen? Is she OK? Who are they? I walked up to the door; it was open a crack, so I pushed it in. People dotted the couch and floor in the dark room. A blanket was nailed over the curtains, making it as dark as a tomb, the blue light from the TV hitting their emotionless faces.
“Is Carmen here?”
A guy that looked like he’d been high for a week pointed back down the dark hallway. The house smelled like stale smoke, bong water, and bad breath. In the only room with a light on, I pushed the door back; Carmen was sitting on the tiny bathroom counter with her feet in the sink, arms wrapped around her legs, shaking.
“Oh my God, Carmen, you’re shaking,” I said.
“I have to get out of here. Get me out of here.” Her voice was soft and weak.
Throwing her arm over my shoulder, she dropped down, and I walked her to the door. The crew of zombies didn’t flinch as I gave them a dirty look for leaving my best friend in the bathroom alone crying. We walked in front of Mr. Ed and out the door.
Opening the passenger door with one hand and trying to hold Carmen with the other, I plopped her down on the seat, reclined it and closed the door. Carmen grabbed a cigarette from my glove box, rolled down her window, and started talking, as she looked straight out.
“I tried to call you last night, but you weren’t home. Then work called and reminded me that I had a check to pick up. I ran down, figuring we’d go to the movies when I got back. A few people at work wanted to have a drink – just a drink – so I said OK. Then Karen and her husband came in. They wanted me to go to a party up the street. I said no. Then they said that a bunch of Jon’s buddies were there from LA and they’d love to meet me, so I said OK. I went with them and had a few drinks, and then everything went crazy. There were beds up there just laying on the dusty hardwood floor, and Lauren, when I came out of my fog, I was having sex with Karen and her husband. She went down on me and he watched, and then I had sex with him. I don’t know, it was like I was watching, but it wasn’t me, but yet it was. I swear they drugged me. I got up feeling like I was going to barf and asked someone where the bathroom was; they pointed, and I ended up in the stairwell. I saw Jason from work - his wife had a baby this week. He put his arm around my shoulder – I thought he was going to help me find the bathroom – and then my skirt was up, and he was behind me, and we were having sex. Lauren, you’ve got to pull over, I’m going to barf.”
When Carmen was done, she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her overstretched sweater and lay back in the seat.
“Lauren, what have I done? You hate me now; you have to hate me. And if you do, I’ll die. Do you hate me, Lor? Lauren, do you still love me? I just have to know.”
I grabbed Carmen’s hand and said, “Never, ever. Why would I hate you? We’ll be OK, I promise.”
“Lauren, I swear they drugged me. I’d never do that. And Jon, oh my God, Jon. What have I done? They all know him. I love him so much. Lor, I’m sorry.” She went back and forth between hysterically sobbing and passing out on the window.
“God hates me. I’m a good girl and God, what have I done?”
I pulled over again on a side street by Blanchet, right before the freeway, grabbed her hands, and said, as her eyes were rolling around in her head, “Carmen, I need you to hear me. I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
She wiped her snot and tear-drenched face with her shaking hand and looked up at me. The whites of her eyes were so pink, the green almost glowed.
“God loves you. Period. This is a fact that I would bet my life on now. His love is here, always. Can you hear me? God is love, only love, and he loves you in this moment more than ever, I promise.”
Carmen did her best at a half smile, laid her head back on the window, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
Driving with Gas Works Park to my right, I thought, “What the fuck is she on?”
Chapter 29
One Call
All eyes were on the tiny TV in the break room. Speechless, we all stood and stared as some reporter in a red suit announced that he was dead like it was her lucky day to broadcast such an event. Feeling like the wind was knocked out of me, I told Noah I had to go home. Kurt Cobain had shot himself. Somehow, it felt like a friend of a friend had died.
Driving across the bridge on that crisp April day, I thought about him, sitting in his beautiful house not far from here, and still feeling alone. You can’t hide from yourself, and no matter how successful you are, when you close your eyes, you’re still just you. Tears fell down my cheeks as I thought of how alone he must have felt to have pulled that trigger.
*
On a steamy July morning, I rolled downstairs to help Carmen pack again, but this time, it wasn’t to meet up with Jon in LA or Vegas. This time, she wasn’t taking the PJ (our pet name for Jon’s private jet). This time, I was packing to drive her down under the steps to the Market, to a little house I’d never seen before, for a week’s stay at a halfway house. Still partying from the Fourth of July, she’d been moving her car down the street from El Gaucho to Jon’s garage, not even a mile away, when she got pulled over because of a broken taillight and got another DUI.
She called to tell me about it. “I would never drive drunk, Lor. It was two blocks or something, just a straight line. I would’ve been fine if my taillight wasn’t broken. I can’t believe the cop gave me a ticket. It was two blocks.”
The judge had told her she could do a week in a halfway house or a day at King County.
“I can’t go to jail, I just can’t, not for a minute,” she said when we finished packing her bag like she was going to sleep-away camp.
Driving across the bridge, our chatter turned to hush as Eddie�
��s voice filled my car, the buzz from the grated bridge deck under my tires. We both stopped singing to Even Flow as Nirvana’s In Bloom took over The End’s airwaves.
“His voice and every word he sings – I feel like I get him, or that he gets me. Like, maybe he’s the only person in the world that really gets me and what I feel inside,” I shared.
Carmen threw her cigarette out the window and grabbed my hand.
“Who, Eddie Vedder? I get you. I have since the second we met, forever ago. You look like this girl, but inside you’re poetic and deep and full of pain and hope, and you’d fight to the death for anyone that’s lucky enough to know your love. You’re everything good in the world, and I get you, I see your soul through your baby blue eyes. You’re my girl, and I’d die without you. When I get home from ‘camp’ I’m going to get my shit together, I promise. I won’t drag you to a different show every night after work. We’ll do normal stuff; we’ll do what normal girls do. What do they do?” Then we started laughing.
Jumping out of the car in my work skirt, pearls, and blouse, I gave her a hug and told her to catch up on some reading or something, and I’d pick her up in a week.
“Look outside; you’re right by the water. At least it’s pretty. Remember, pretend you’re going to camp,” I said. I tried to be breezy, to ease Carmen’s pain, but inside, my heart was broken. I prayed that somehow this would be the wake-up call she needed and that Carmen would quit choosing trouble and start doing all the things we’d always talked about, like going back to school.
When I arrived at work, my friend Mark, the bartender, made me an iced mocha. I walked across the shiny floor to join everyone who worked at Cucina for a monthly staff meeting. Thoma was in the front of the room where he belonged, telling people to bring as much of themselves to work as possible.
