The View from Here

by Rachel Howzell

  Waves of heat shimmered above the car tops, and cindery dust scattered across windshields. Napkins, wrappers and receipts raced across the asphalt. A dirt devil pulled all of the trash into its belly, then sent the mess circling towards the cloudy sky.

  “You ever wish you could disappear sometimes?” he asked. “I don’t mean dying. I mean leaving behind all your responsibilities, and finding a place where no one knows you, or expects anything from you.”

  I said, “Sometimes.”

  “You wake up, have breakfast, and just sit and stare at the ocean. You don’t read the paper. You don’t check your BlackBerry. You just…”

  “Chill?” I asked. “I do. A lot.”

  He nodded, then dropped his head.

  “You wanna talk about it?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing really to—” He rubbed his face, and said through his hands, “I’m just tired of trying and failing, that’s all. Tired of disappointing people. Tired of being disappointed. Tired of being lied to. Tired of the drama. Maybe because I’m forty now and I just don’t have the patience anymore.” He dropped his hands and chuckled. “You’re the only person I can say that to without feeling stupid. Without feeling weak. And I feel better just saying that.”

  I clutched his arm and squeezed. “What’s going on?”

  “You have to get back to work.”

  I smirked. “What are they gonna do? Fire me?”

  “In this economy? Yes.”

  “Then who would write about the SIRT1 gene and its role in the genesis of cancer? Huh? Who?”

  He tried to smile. “It’s just…” He shook his head and shrugged. “Nothing new. Dealing with the Black Tax at work. That’s one thing.”

  The Black Tax: having to work and perform twice as well as your white peers.

  “You think I’d be used to it by now, but…” He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “I came up with the Everest program, right? It’s beyond great. One of our most-watched shows of all time. But we didn’t get an Emmy for it even though we were nominated. Our ratings are up ten percent, and I’m expanding our programming in China, but my bosses are saying, Awesome, but what about Australia? And why are you working sixty hours a week and not seventy?

  “And I feel like saying, ‘Kiss my ass, take your job and go to Hell,’ but I won’t because then they’d say that they were right, that I was too young and too colored to be Executive Vice-President of a major network.”

  I nodded, wondered what to say.

  “Everything I do nowadays just isn’t good enough,” he said, staring past me. “And I find myself wondering: when will it ever be? When will I be able to just… live and not have to prove myself every damned day?”

  I touched his cheek. “We can sell the house. Retire early. Move to the Maldives. Eat off the land. Coconut crème pie every day, just like on Gilligan’s Island.”

  He kissed my hand and chuckled. “You’re allergic to coconut.”

  “I’ll bring a crate of Benadryl, then. And I’ll buy a red wig so I can pretend to be Ginger.”

  “You’re more of a platinum blonde.”

  I playfully shoved him. “You’d be free, though, and that’s the point.”

  He held up three fingers. “That’s how long I have left on my contract. And I want to make sure that we’ll be okay when we retire in twenty years.”

  I sighed, shrugged.

  “I know,” he said. “Shut up, then, and deal, right?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said. “If you want to quit, do it. I’ll support your decision. You matter to me, and I don’t want you stressed out and unhappy because of a stupid job. We’ll be fine. We both grew up without cable T.V. and cell-phones and ten-dollar cheese.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.” Truman took my hand and kissed it. “We haven’t talked in two days, but here we are, quitting jobs and living on a deserted island together.”

  I smiled. “We know that we only have each other.”

  “I hate it when we argue.”

  “I do, too.” I closed my eyes as he kissed my forehead.

  “Let’s go hiking and fishing like we used to,” he said. “Safe stuff that you like doing. Except I already booked a hot air balloon ride for our anniversary next month. Wine, sunset, a diamond maybe.” He kissed my cheek. “I should get going.”

  I glanced inside his BMW. A wet suit, two oxygen tanks and a scuba mask sat in the car’s front seat. Seeing all that made my heart ache. Tell him. Tell him now. I closed my eyes. “Truman, I need to—”

  He pulled me into his arms. “Remember last Christmas when you told me you wanted to have a baby?”

  I nodded. “You said after everything settled.”

  He smiled. “After the dive today, I would’ve gone on half the adventures on my list. And I hear being a dad’s the greatest adventure of all. I want us to have a family.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “Are you sure?”

  Truman hugged me, and said, “Positive.”

  I held him tight and inhaled his scent. Sunscreen and citrus.

  “You have no idea how much I love you, Nicole Porter Baxter,” he said. “Even if you get tired of me and kick me out of the house, I’ll still sneak back home and climb up on the roof just to watch you read.”

  I swiped at my wet eyes and tried to smile. “A stalker now?”

  He laughed, kissed my nose, forehead and lips. “Best friends forever, babe.”

  I glanced at the flat and cranky clouds above us. Maybe it would rain, and the dive would be cancelled. I could pray for a storm, but with my recent behavior, that would be the one prayer to go unanswered. “The weather’s right for this?” I asked. “It’s hot, humid. I’m thinking thunderstorms.”

  “The skies are clearer over on Catalina,” he said. “I checked the weather before leaving the house this morning.” He pulled me close again. “Leave work early and come down to San Pedro for dinner. We should be back at the dock by five.”

  “You sure you’re ready for the open ocean?” I asked, not ready to talk about dinner plans as those clouds hunkered over us. “I’ve read how nitrogen bubbles can fill blood vessels—”

  “The bends. Don’t worry. I’m in good hands. Flex is the best dive instructor in Southern California, and I’ve logged in more than enough training hours.”

  I shook my head, not accepting Truman’s or Flex’s bona fides. “It’s life threatening. Heart attacks, stroke—”

  “I won’t be a hot shot in a hundred feet of water,” he said. “Almost drowned last week. Don’t plan on doing it again.”

  “Where, exactly, near Catalina?”

  “The backside. Farnsworth Banks.”

  A warm wind blew through the parking lot and brought goose pimples to my skin. “Is there somewhere shallower you can dive?”

  “Like the bathtub?”

  I smirked. “You’ve only splashed in swimming pools, Mr. Baxter. Variables live in the open ocean. Sea lions, jellyfish—”

  “Jaws, mermaids and Nessie.” He pulled me into his arms. “I miss hugging you. You must get tired of me touching you all the time.”

  “I don’t.” His eyes looked too red. Could he see clearly? Were his allergies acting up? Had he taken an antihistamine? And if he had, how would that affect his diving? I took a deep breath, pushed those thoughts out of my mind and forced a smile to my face. “Dinner sounds good. I’ll probably get out of here by noon—I’m not feeling the writing thing today. I’ll get to San Pedro for six.”

  Truman climbed behind the BMW’s steering wheel. “We’ll go to Barbados,” he was saying. “I can dive, you can worry. Then, we’ll get drunk and make a baby. How does that sound?”

  I laughed. “Terrifying.”

  “Are you stopping at the store before going home?”

  The simple joys of marriage. Lingering small talk. Requests for Oreos and grape juice, razor blades and potato chips. “I can. What do you need?”

  “Ice cream.” He started the car, then turned t
o me. “I love you, Nicole. I mean that.”

  “I love you, too,” I said. “And I mean that. Be careful, okay? Do you hear me? Don’t be Jacques Cousteau.”

  He shifted the car into reverse. “Yes, dear.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Relax, babe.”

  “And don’t drive too fast.”

  “Fifty-five to stay alive.” He slowly backed out of the space, then honked the horn twice as he pulled out of CelluTech’s parking lot.

  Part III

  Living with the Dead

  Now

  22

  I pulled open the church’s heavy double doors. The vestibule bustled with children and old people, with women kissing cheeks, and men slapping backs. Organ music—“How Great Thou Art”—played over the P.A. system. As I weaved through the crowd, the smells from my childhood washed over me: Emeraude perfume and Old Spice cologne, potluck veggie meat and spearmint gum, lemon-scented furniture polish and fresh-cut flowers.

  Not the Four Season vacation I had envisioned just a week ago. A three-day getaway I had cancelled two hours before dressing for church. The hotel’s customer service rep had asked, “Do you wish to reschedule?” I had said, “Maybe later,” then ended the call without saying good-bye.

  Sister Cornelia Claypool and Sister Helen Easter gasped when they saw me navigating through the crowds. Other women joined them and waited their turn to pull me into long, tight hugs.

  Don’t you look pretty in yellow!

  Child, we’re so happy to see you.

  I was just thinking about your aunt Beryl the other day.

  Where’s that fine husband of yours?

  I sighed, and said, “Well…” And then, I told them.

  On the day after the accident, Flex had called his friends at an ocean survey firm in San Diego. Engineers at Bayside Technologies, Inc. had used sonar and an underwater robot to scour and search the ocean floor near Catalina Island. They looked for three days, and despite all the software and hardware at their grasp, as well as the teams of oceanographers and divers on payroll, Bayside Technologies could not find my husband.

  The sisters’ smiles vanished as they listened to my story. Then, they offered encouragement.

  God is in control.

  The Lord has a plan.

  He will make a way out of no way.

  After more hugs and kisses, an usher in a smart black suit led me to a center pew. A church elder welcomed guests, and then we all sang the opening hymn.

  Fairest Lord Jesus,

  Ruler of all nature…

  Offering came, and I slipped a check into the velvet bag. Not as a bribe… Yeah, as a bribe, but I had to do something even though you can’t influence the Lord with a $250 kickback.

  As I slipped my checkbook back into my purse, I noticed a crumpled sheet of paper had fought its way to the surface. Incident Report. Victim: Truman S. Baxter. Incident Type: Drowning… That day at the pier, I had stuffed the document into my purse and had forgotten about it until now. Now, I studied it until tears smeared my vision, then I crammed it back into my purse’s basement.

  After a musical selection from the choir, another elder stood in the pulpit. “And He said, ‘Come unto me all ye that labor and I will give you rest.’ Let us come before the Lord in prayer.”

  I glanced at my watch: 12:37. In my former life, I was supposed to be light-headed from sipping too many mimosas and Bloody Marys. I was supposed to be wrapped in a towel, sprawled across a padded table as a Four Seasons masseuse worked the kinks from my shoulders…

  As the congregation clambered onto their knees, the organist played the first bar of “Have Thine Own Way, Lord.” A bevy of older ladies surrounded me and soon began muttering, “Yes, Lord,” and “Please, Father.” The elder thanked God for another blessed day, for putting food on the table, for giving us shelter and sanity. And after listing each thing we should all be thankful for, he asked the Lord to heal the wounded and brokenhearted, to protect the youth from gangs and drugs, to comfort the widows...

  As he pled with God to return to this sinful Earth and deliver us all, I hid my face in my hands, and whispered my own prayer:

  Please find him, Lord. Let him be alive. He has so much to do. I know I’ve haven’t been the best wife, and forgive me of those sins, of those secrets. Nothing lasts forever, but I love him, Lord, and I ask that you give us one more chance to spend our lives together. Please.

  The women did not leave my side after the elder said, “Amen.” Sister Claypool sat on my right and held my hand. Sister Easter sat on my left and whispered that I must remain strong and faithful. Another woman (she owned the largest Bible I’ve ever seen) passed me a freshly-starched handkerchief while others offered me sweets. I ate more peppermint candies on that Sabbath than I had my entire life.

  Services ended a little past one o’clock, and I drove home, stronger than how I had come. At that moment, I was stronger, ready to handle the upcoming week. God would answer my prayer. As the sun dropped behind my house, and as the Sabbath ended, that strength vanished. My realization that God could say “no” sharpened in the darkness.

  As a child, people told me all the time that I would move past my parents’ death. That if I prayed hard enough, the pain would ease and would eventually go away. “You didn’t even know them,” Aunt Beryl had said in my most melancholy moments. “You were only three. You can’t remember them enough to miss them. Life is hard, Nicole. You gotta be tougher than this.”

  It was easy to be strong being surrounded by beautifully-sung hymns and prayer warriors in fancy hats and pristine gloves, when gazing upon stained-glass Jesus at Gethsemane above the altar reminding me that He had been crucified so that I may live. It was easy to have faith and believe that it was gonna be all right, that He’d never give me more than I could handle, that all things were possible—even surviving a scuba-diving accident and leaving the ocean without brain and heart damage. At home, though, another reality punched me in the face. Truman was gone and I’d never see him again. And I cried that night, and didn’t eat dinner, and wished that it were me instead of him.

  Was that being “all right”? Was that “handling” anything?

  23

  I sat with my supervisor Jennifer in the V.P. of Marketing’s bright corner office. Stared out the office window and watched as other CelluTech employees bustled across the campus. They were laughing as they walked, enjoying the sunshine and the cornflower blue sky—two Los Angeles whores on a day like today. Why couldn’t the weather reflect my mood? A sky the color of puke and blizzards, and humidity that pushed against eyeballs until they burst like smashed grapes.

  Jennifer was scribbling on the legal pad she had bought with her, waiting for the conversation to continue. Jennifer, with her perfect blonde bob, perfect breasts and wrinkle-free Banana Republic skirt sets of every color… She wore enough perfume for all of CelluTech. At the end of the day, every one of us had smelled of Ysatis. Truman probably thought I had been having an affair with another woman.

  I gazed at the artwork on Tharren O’Shea’s walls—blown-up images of T-cells and lymphoma cells wrestling for control, test tubes holding fluorescent, life-saving drug therapies.

  Tharren twisted in his chair, and stared at me. His wide, green eyes showed no signs of understanding my decision to take a leave of absence six days after my husband’s accident.

  What couldn’t he understand? What was so hard to grasp?

  Why would I want to be in the office from nine to five, consumed with lesser things—who used my coffee creamer without asking?—when my husband was in the g.d. Pacific Ocean? So I wouldn’t get compensated after my vacation and sick time ran out. Didn’t care. And poverty didn’t scare me. Aunt Beryl had worked in a languishing health food store, and in the rough times, had often bought our groceries with food stamps.

  If there was a time not to work, losing your husband to the sea was one of them.

  Truman and I had done everything together. Going
to the movies and taking trips to Best Buy and Big 5, to Vegas and Santa Barbara. He’d call me at work every day at noon to ask about my morning, and I’d call him from home every evening to ask what he wanted to eat. He’d always say, “You,” and I’d always laugh and blush and give him what he wanted: enchiladas and me.

  He had been the Auntie Mame in my world. Life is a banquet. Do some good here and there, but stay for the awesome entertainment. And he had married me, an anxious and reluctant woman with storm-cloud tendencies; who had been left in a compromised mental state long before he and I met.

  Losing someone is like burning your hand on a hot stove. At first, your skin is numb because the brain is acting as a protector, telling the body that all is well. But all isn’t well. There’s nerve damage, painful blisters, swelling... As that icy numbness wears off, your injuries are laid bare to the world, prone to infection, and the searing pain that comes with recovery seems unbearable…

  Tharren’s mouth moved, but I only heard my heart thumpthumpthump. What was he saying to me? Nicole, it’s not that bad? Truman will come back? What about that endocrinology report?

  Didn’t care. I twisted the rings on my fingers and remembered: Truman’s clothes were in the laundry hamper. What was I was supposed to do with them? Wash them? Let them stay there until he returned? And what about the shirts that needed dry-cleaning? Should I take them or…?

  Jennifer’s face hid in shadow, framed by the copper morning sun. Her bright pink lips floated in mid-air as she said, “Nicole,” then waggled my knee. “Hey. Nic.”

  I snapped out of my fugue, and said, “The timing of this isn’t the best, especially with the annual report coming up. And I haven’t even started writing the intro for that yet.” I swiped at my cheek—my fingers were wet with tears. I did that a lot. Crying without knowing.

  Jennifer touched my knee again. “Don’t worry about that.”

  I gazed down at my blouse—I had missed a button. And I wore a navy blue suit jacket with black trousers. At least I’m wearing matching… I glanced at my feet: a brown left loafer and a black right loafer.