All You Get Is Me

by Yvonne Prinz

  I suppose that the reason I like taking photos of these girls is that I’m drawn to the idea of transformation, the idea of changing who you are. The appealing thing about putting on makeup and fancy clothes is that you get to be someone else for a while. I learned that from my mom. She was always transforming herself into someone else. Her ultimate transformation was becoming someone who wasn’t a mother anymore. At least not mine.

  Chapter 13

  I sit in the back of Forest’s dad’s rental car, inhaling new-car smell, while the unchanging landscape whizzes past my window. We’ve been driving for forty-five minutes because Forest’s dad, the renowned Los Angeles psychiatrist Dr. Joshua Freidman, happened to ask a complete stranger on the street:

  “Hey, where can a guy get some good Chinese food around here?”

  We’ve already crossed one county line and we’re about to cross another.

  Forest was quick to tell me that Jews will cross a desert if they hear that there’s good moo goo gai pan on the other side. I didn’t know Forest was Jewish. Not that it matters. Actually he’s half-Jewish. Driving in the car with these two makes me think of a line in a Paul Simon song that my mom used to love that goes:

  One and one half wandering Jews,

  free to wander wherever they choose,

  Physically, Dr. Freidman is Forest in about twenty-five years. His hair is peppered with gray streaks and he wears glasses but he has the same sea-glass eyes. He’s lean and much tanner than Forest. He seems very L.A. to me: He only goes one speed and all roads seem to lead to him.

  Forest is very uncomfortable with me all the way in the backseat. I can tell because he keeps looking back apologetically. His dad is oblivious. It’s obvious that he really loves Forest and he considers this time together precious. Dr. Freidman and Forest spent the afternoon at the hospital with Forest’s mom. She’ll be released tomorrow. Apparently, they make attempted suicides stay a couple of days for “observation.” I’m guessing that it might not cheer her up much when she’s served with a big fat lawsuit that says she’s being sued for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I really hope Forest’s theory is right.

  I lean back and close my eyes, listening to Forest’s conversation with his dad. They speak frankly and quietly and they don’t hold anything back. Dr. Freidman’s voice is even and measured, a psychiatrist’s voice. The car radio is tuned to a classical music station, which plays so softly that I wonder if anyone but me can hear it.

  “So is that putz still schtupping his receptionist?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She kind of blew the whistle on him.”

  “Your mom deserves better. I hope she figures that out one day soon.”

  It’s quiet for a few seconds.

  “And don’t look at me like that. It was different with us.”

  “How?”

  “Well, for one thing I was honest with her.”

  “Yeah. That was really big of you.”

  “We were drifting apart. She knew it and I knew it. And, by the way, who got on a plane the next day when she was in trouble? You think that’s easy for me?”

  “No.”

  “You’re damn right it’s not. Your mother is a good person. She just happens to have a very low opinion of herself, and that particular personality trait attracts schmucks like bees to honey. I could kill that putz.”

  “Be careful. He’s got a gun; I’ve seen it.”

  “He’s got a gun? What in the hell does he need that for?”

  “I dunno. Nothing, I guess. I’ve never even seen him take it out of its case.”

  “Then how do you know it’s in there?”

  “I checked. It’s in there.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “I don’t know. You think I know how to tell if a gun is loaded?”

  “I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. Maybe you should just come back to L.A. with me tomorrow.”

  My eyes fly open.

  “Oh, sure, Dad. Becky would be thrilled.”

  Who’s Becky?

  “Becky adores you. I wish you could see that.”

  “Yeah. She adores me when I’m seven hundred miles away.”

  “Not true.”

  “Anyway. I want to be here for Mom. She needs me.”

  “What she needs is a good lawyer and a U-Haul to get the hell out of this god-forsaken place.”

  Forest looks back at me apologetically again and shrugs.

  “Where the hell is this town?” says Dr. Freidman, as quietly as a person can say something like that. “Did we pass it? Have we gone nine miles on this road yet? God, I’m starving.”

  We finally come upon a sign for Lakeview and Dr. Freidman steers the car toward the off-ramp. We pull into the little town. It seems like an unlikely place for a Chinese restaurant but there it is, at the end of Main Street, a beacon in red neon letters that spells “Jade Palace.” There will be no viewing of the lake in Lakeview today, if there even is one. Dr. Freidman is hungry and Chinese food is the only thing on his agenda. Judging by the number of cars parked out front, I’d say that we’re onto something. Inside, the restaurant looks like every other Chinese restaurant I’ve ever been in. I think that when someone decides to open a Chinese restaurant, they order the “Chinese Restaurant in a Box,” and a few days later, a large box arrives filled with black lacquer chairs, dusty-rose polyester tablecloths and matching napkins, an aquarium filled with tropical fish, Chinese prints for the walls, and a few Chinese lanterns. You just pull everything out of the box and hang up the “Open” sign.

  Dr. Freidman is undaunted by the way the place looks. He acts as though we’ve discovered the Holy Grail. He seems energized by the fact that a lot of the tables are filled with happy diners. He greets the hostess as though she were a long-lost friend, showing more emotion than he did on the entire car ride. He follows her to a table. Forest and I trail behind. I try to smooth the wrinkles out of my linen skirt but it’s hopeless.

  Forest rolls his eyes at me. “The Jews and Chinese restaurants have an affiliation based on the fact that the Chinese restaurants are always open when the Jews are hungry, particularly on Christian holidays, like Christmas.”

  “This place is pretty popular,” says Dr. Freidman as his new best friend hands him a menu.

  Before I even get a chance to spread my dusty-rose napkin onto my lap, he starts firing questions at the waiter, who’s just arrived at our table.

  “Are the clams fresh?”

  “Yes, very fresh.” He nods.

  “What about the lobster? Is it Maine or Pacific?”

  “Maine. We have local Dungeness crab too. Very good, wok charred with ginger and scallion sauce.”

  “Can we get some tea?”

  “Right away.”

  The waiter disappears and Dr. Freidman finally addresses me.

  “Roar, what do you like to eat?”

  “Well, I eat fish, but no meat or shellfish for me.”

  He looks annoyed. He was thinking he had a recruit for his all-star eating team and I’ve been exposed as a tofu-eater. “Okay, so she eats nothing,” he says quietly, perusing the menu some more.

  “Dad, she eats great. A lot better than you and me.”

  He’s not interested.

  The waiter returns and Dr. Freidman turns ordering Chinese food into an art form. I sit back and watch in awe. He’s deconstructed the menu and come up with a combination of food that even the chef will be awestruck by, and if seventeen people were joining us it would actually make sense.

  “Dad, that’s too much food,” Forest says as the waiter disappears.

  “No, it’s not. I’m very hungry and we can take it home.”

  “You’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

  “I might get hungry later. I’ll take it to the hotel.”

  “Where are you staying?” I ask.

  “Some sort of B and B in a farmhouse, Peggy’s or Penny’s or something like that.”

  “Polly’s?�
� I offer.

  “That’s it, Polly’s.”

  The tea arrives and he sips from his tiny cup.

  “Do you like it?”

  “The tea?”

  “No, Polly’s.”

  “Yeah, sure, it’s okay. Noisy, though. I had to sleep with earplugs. They get up at five a.m. and start banging things around and then the rooster starts crowing and the dogs start barking. It’s not exactly restful, you know?”

  Apparently, the charm of a farmhouse bed-and-breakfast is lost on Dr. Freidman.

  Although he’s polite to me, I quickly discover that this time together is exclusively for him and his son, and the only time I’m invited into the conversation is when Forest negotiates it. I imagine that Dr. Freidman isn’t especially keen on the idea of his son falling in love with a farm girl. Someone who, at first glance, looks like she could convince him to forsake his dream of becoming a writer and settle down on a dirt farm and raise freckled, snotty-nosed kids, while living near the poverty line. To him, I am an interloper, a bump in the road that should probably be steered clear of. He doesn’t know who I really am, but I think he might find out soon, and I cringe when I imagine what he’ll think of me then. He does turn to me at one point and ask me why I walk around with a camera around my neck. I tell him it’s because I like to take pictures. He seems satisfied with that answer and doesn’t pursue it any further.

  Our food starts to arrive on great glistening platters. A whole fish that looks like it’s still swimming in the ocean is placed directly in front of me. It watches me accusingly. I shift the platter away from me. Dr. Freidman digs in with gusto. Forest passes me the food that he knows I’ll eat and it is quite good. Back when I lived in the city, we ate at a tiny Chinese place in our neighborhood called Yuet Lee. It had fluorescent green walls. That place was better, but this isn’t bad for the middle of nowhere. When we’re finished eating, there’s enough food left over to end world hunger. It’s boxed up for us and placed on our table. We look like we’re catering a wedding later. The fortune cookies arrive and Dr. Freidman pulls his apart and reads the contents aloud.

  “ ‘You will find your correct path soon.’ ” He laughs. “Well, I found this place okay.”

  Mine says, “Beware of trouble ahead,” and Forest’s says, “Take time to enjoy the small things.” I never eat a fortune cookie without trying to imagine the person who sits there all day writing these pearls of wisdom. Is this person even Chinese, or do the cookie makers just buy fortunes by the bagful from a salesman named Bernie who sells restaurant supplies? I remember when I was a little girl I took my fortunes very seriously, thinking that they were a direct line to some sort of eastern mysticism. I would carry them around with me for months until they disintegrated or went through the wash and disappeared.

  On the drive home, I sit in the backseat again and watch the sun disappear out of the sky. The odor of congealing Chinese food seeps into the car from the trunk. Dr. Freidman and Forest continue their conversation and it occurs to me that they may not get a lot of alone time back in L.A., with Becky hanging around. Judging by the number of times she called him on his cell phone in the last three hours, I would say that she’s pretty high maintenance. Dr. Freidman’s tone with her on the phone is patient and consoling. He speaks to her the way you would speak to a distraught nine-year-old. Forest told me that she’s almost half his dad’s age.

  I let my eyes close.

  Dr. Freidman drops us in the hospital parking lot, where Forest’s car is parked. Forest picked me up at the tar pits earlier and his dad stayed at the hospital. There is much affectionate hugging as Dr. Freidman says good-bye to his son. Back in Forest’s car, sitting next to him, I feel as though we’ve suddenly morphed from children into grown-ups.

  “Well, that was an unmitigated disaster,” says Forest, taking my hand as he navigates the country road.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. It was actually kind of fun.”

  “Fun? Don’t humor me.”

  I squeeze his hand.

  “Man, I sure wish I didn’t have to go home tonight. I wish I could stay with you.”

  I look out the window at the darkness. The moon is almost full. “It’s early. My dad thinks I’m out with Storm. We could take a walk if you like.”

  “Okay. Where to?”

  “There’s a road I know of that goes through the cornfields. It’s really cool at night when the moon is full. You don’t even need a flashlight. Keep going up to the stop sign and take a right.”

  We park the car in a ditch and I find the road easily. It’s wide enough for farm machinery to pass so there’s no chance of getting lost. We walk along in the moonlight, holding hands. I get the feeling that Forest wants to tell me something.

  “You look really beautiful tonight. I’ve never seen you in a skirt before.”

  “I didn’t want to look like a farm girl but I don’t think your dad noticed.”

  “Oh, he noticed, all right.”

  The road is enclosed on both sides with endless identical six-foot cornstalks. It’s the kind of thing you see in bad horror films where a crazy person who’s supposed to be dead jumps out of the darkness with a bloody ax, and the girl in short shorts, carrying an unreliable flashlight, shrieks and tries to run away, but somehow the slow-moving murderer always catches her.

  We walk without speaking till I can’t stand it anymore.

  “You’re not going to leave early, are you?” I ask tentatively.

  “No way. I’m staying.”

  “Where will you go after you finish high school in L.A.?”

  “I’m applying to NYU. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “No.” I feel foolish for thinking he would hide that from me.

  “I want to get into the writing program.”

  “That’s great.”

  He sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

  “Why the heavy sigh?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Is it crazy to think that we’ll still be together when I go to school?”

  “No. It’s not crazy.”

  “Because when I think of myself in New York, I think about you there with me. I think about us together.”

  “That’s really nice.” Really nice? It’s incredible!

  Forest smiles at me with a little uncertainty in his eyes.

  “And when you visualize us in New York together, what are we wearing?”

  “Scarves and heavy sweaters and we’re walking through Central Park. You have your camera and I’m carrying a stack of books.”

  “That does sound nice.”

  “Yeah. Woody Allen directed it.”

  We walk along quietly again for a minute and then I see a light through the cornstalks. Forest notices it too. It looks like a small campfire. The breeze suddenly smells like roasted meat. We hear voices speaking Spanish. We continue on, and through the corn we see a small encampment tucked into a circle that’s been cleared of cornstalks. Three Hispanic farmworkers sit around the fire talking. They haven’t seen us. Latin salsa music plays on a small radio leaning against a rock. A small lean-to is set up behind them. I motion to Forest that we should turn around before they see us. We walk back the way we came.

  “What was that?” asks Forest, when we’re far enough down the road.

  “An encampment. They’re everywhere. Workers who can’t afford accommodation camp out wherever they can find a spot.”

  “So that’s where they live?”

  “No, that’s where they sleep. They live in Mexico. All their money gets sent home to their families and they don’t want to spend any more than they have to on a place to live.”

  “Wow, Tomás and Miguel are lucky.”

  I look at him.

  “God, I can’t believe I said that. I am such an idiot.”

  “Never mind. I know what you meant.”

  We’re not ready to go home so we lay on the hood of Forest’s car, looking up at the sky. It’s a clear night and the inky sky is spattered with stars. I mak
e a wish on the first star I see. I feel incredibly lucky tonight. Forest and I sing every song we can think of with the word “star” in it, starting with “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and moving on to David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” and “The Prettiest Star” and Madonna’s “Lucky Star.” There’s really no turning back once you’ve sung the lyrics to a Madonna song badly on the hood of a car that’s parked in a ditch and lit by the moon.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, after I let the unappreciative chickens out of their coop and collect their eggs, I wander down to the road to get the coffee-can money from the farm stand and pick up yesterday’s mail. The late July heat has arrived in full force and sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I pull up my heavy hair and let the hot breeze tickle my damp skin.

  I shake the coffee can and pull off the plastic lid. There’s twenty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents in it. I stuff the money into my pocket. The garlic is all gone and we need more bunches of onions and baskets of potatoes. I make a mental note. As I put the lid back on the can I see a white piece of paper stuck to the bottom of the can. I pull it out and unfold it. In what looks like a child’s handwriting it says: DROP THE LAWSUIT NOW, OR THERE WILL BE TROUBLE. I read it again, trying to make sense of it. I look up and down the empty road. My scalp gets all prickly.

  My dad is working at the kitchen table when I deliver the coffee-can threat to him. He has a fan set up on the kitchen counter and it oscillates back and forth, blowing his papers whenever it comes around. He’s using large tomatoes for paperweights.

  “It’s probably the farmworkers,” he says, holding the folded slip of paper in front of him. “They’re afraid that this lawsuit will bring unwanted attention to them.”

  “C’mon, Dad. Look at it again. Not one mistake. That note was written by someone who speaks English.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Lots of the workers speak fluent English.”