The woman on the other end said, “Address?”
I recited my address, then grit my teeth.
“The name on the account is Truman Baxter,” she said.
“Yes.”
“This account’s delinquent. May I please speak with Truman Baxter?”
“He’s not here right now.”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, his name is on the—”
Trembling, I held the phone out to Monica. “She wants to speak to Truman.”
Monica paused, then took the phone.
I lay on the couch, blanket-less, and listened as Monica explained to the customer service rep about the overdue bill and the lights.
May I please speak to Truman Baxter?
No. You can’t.
33
I sat at the breakfast bar staring at fire-colored fruit flies that buzzed over corpse-like bananas. I lifted my coffee cup, but didn’t drink, hypnotized by the magnetic hovering of insects over old fruit. Any other time, I would’ve gleefully smashed those annoying buggers between my palms. Now, though, I needed all living creatures—flies, roaches, and possums—to exist and to be okay because maybe then Truman would be okay.
Monica had stayed with me overnight. She had wrapped my bloody foot in gauze, and had mopped the floors. By the time sunlight cracked across the canyon, the power to my house had been restored.
Leilani had only gawked at the den’s damage before storming out of the room. And now, dressed in a micro-mini that showed her thong, she rummaged in the refrigerator.
Monica, buttering slices of toast, noticed Leilani’s wardrobe malfunction, and raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You’re wearing underwear.”
“Yep,” Leilani said. “I have an interview today.”
“With who?” Monica asked.
“These people,” Leilani said. “I don’t know who. My girl Taj hooked me up.”
“Here you go.” Monica slipped a plate of toast near my hands. “You need to eat.” She returned to the sink, and squirted dishwashing liquid over the dirty cups and plates.
“She’ll eat when she’s ready,” Leilani said. “When she’s not burning shit up.”
“It was an accident, Lei,” I said, then nibbled the toast. “The candle fell over.”
Monica watched me over her shoulder and nodded as I swallowed the bread and sipped from my coffee cup.
But the toast was making me nauseous. I dropped it back to the plate and hid my face with my hands. “I can’t eat. I’m so tired.”
“And I’m tired of you being tired,” Leilani mumbled.
I glanced at her and saw no emotion in her expression. No softness. No glee. No sass. She had meant what she had just said. “Am I inconveniencing you somehow?” I snapped. “Keeping you from doing something productive, like finding a job?”
Monica said, “Nic, calm down.”
“Want me to throw a Mardi Gras parade?” I asked my sister-in-law. “Or maybe I should drive us all down to Hooters for hot wings and beer? What am I supposed to be feeling right now, Leilani? You’re smart. You’re a rabbi or whatever now. Tell me how to stop plotzing.”
“I don’t expect you to throw parties now that my brother’s gone,” Leilani said, “but your attitude is getting old. And now it’s getting dangerous and you need to snap out of it.”
“It’s been two weeks,” I said. “I’m doing the best I can.”
Leilani rolled her eyes. “You’re not doing anything. Everybody’s doing everything—”
“Excuse me? Everybody? Have I asked you to do one damn thing for me?” I shouted. “Have you offered to deal with Flex or the Coast Guard or his co-workers or any of that? No, you haven’t. You’re only interested in going shopping and eating lunch and a bunch of other bullshit that I could care less about right now.”
“You wanna know why?” Leilani asked, hands on her hips. “Because I’m dealing with the truth: Truman’s dead. Case closed.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“That’s the State of California’s opinion,” Leilani retorted, tears in her eyes. “He’s not coming back no matter how much I want him to. And you need to stop living in denial and move on as best as you can.”
I grabbed my mug and limped to the coffee maker. “You obviously don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand?” Leilani screeched, her eyes bugged in disbelief. “You think this has been easy for me? Truman taught me how to walk, damn it. I couldn’t sleep in my bed at night without him until I was seven—”
“Stop, okay?” I said, closing my eyes. “I’m not interested in comparing my grief to yours—”
“I’ve accepted it,” Leilani continued, her face red now, that vein (like Truman’s) in her forehead hard against her skin. “But you’re telling me that you can’t? Your future doesn’t include him, Nicole. He will never get into bed with you again no matter how many times you imagine him there. He will never sit at that computer in the den. He will never say one word to you again, and you wanna know why? Cuz he was acting stupid and he didn’t listen and he drowned and no one was down there to save his ass.”
I glared at her, offended and disgusted. “How can you say that? Are you high?”
Defiant, Leilani folded her arms. “Fine. Get mad at me since you can’t scream at God or at Truman. I understand that you want to but you can’t. And I know that right now, you’re too screwed up to accept—”
“I’m screwed up? What about—?” I turned to the refrigerator and froze.
Light crackles blue when I dream of you…
You light my sky with languid magic.
I turned back to my sister-in-law. Opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t. The words on the refrigerator—my last message to Truman—had taken my breath away.
34
At ten o’clock in the morning, only retirees and stay-at-home moms with sticky-handed toddlers roamed the aisles of the village market. Without the crush of the rush-hour crowd, they could nibble grapes, and chat in the middle of Toiletries at their leisure. Monica pushed the grocery cart through the Bread aisle and, like one of those toddlers, I followed behind her.
On the drive down, Monica and I hadn’t talked about Leilani or our argument. She had only asked, “You saw Truman?” And I had nodded as response.
I wanted to say so much to her—thank you and I love you for doing this—but if I talked, I’d start crying, burdening her even more. Didn’t want that.
Being my mother-sister-friend as well as a business owner-girlfriend had exhausted Monica, and that fatigue showed in her face, in her gait, in each sigh. Immediately after Truman’s accident, she had remained the manicured Bar Mitzvah Queen in Dolce & Gabbana pantsuits; but two weeks later, the woman now selecting a loaf of sourdough had pimples on her forehead and chin and dark circles beneath her eyes. Her acrylic fingernails needed filling and polishing. Her dry lips needed moisturizer and lip gloss. She was starting to resemble me.
Leilani was right—my anger at God frightened me. Wasn’t being angry at Him sinful and fundamentally wrong? And being mad at Truman—wouldn’t that be blaming the victim? If you, Truman, hadn’t done x, y and z, then… Was it my parents’ fault for driving in the rain that morning? Was it Aunt Beryl’s fault that a gene had mutated in her body and cancerous cells took over her pancreas? I hadn’t blamed them for dying.
But the circumstances surrounding Truman’s accident differed from those of my kin. He had played an active role by going diving one Tuesday afternoon and never coming home.
Monica pushed the basket towards the floral shop. “Some fresh irises will cheer us up.”
I wandered to Frozen Foods, and stood in front of the ice cream case. The linoleum was dry and polished. Of course, the store’s janitor had mopped up after my accident. I gazed at the shelves of Ben & Jerry’s. Cherry Garcia. Truman’s favorite. My shoulders hunched as memories of that day returned. I closed my eyes and forced back the urge to scr
eam, to break the case’s glass and throw cartons of ice cream at the walls.
Breathe… Breathe…
The aromas of sunscreen and oranges, seaweed and ocean wafted down the aisle.
Truman’s reflection gleamed in the freezer. He stood over me as he stared at the tubs of ice cream.
I didn’t move. The air around me had chilled, and I closed my eyes again.
“Nic? You okay?”
Jake’s reflection had replaced Truman’s.
“I stopped by the other day,” he said. “You didn’t answer.”
I took a step away from him.
He tilted his head, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Why are you ignoring me?”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I just want to talk to you,” he said. “I’m worried about you.”
I shook my head and said, “Not right now.”
“Why are you acting this way?”
I gawked at him. “Are you really asking me that, after all that’s happened?”
He frowned. “I’m just asking you to pick up the phone when I call or open the door—”
I took another step away from him. “I can’t do that right now. I know you care, but I can’t…”
“Just give me five minutes,” he said, reaching for my arm.
I twisted away from him, then darted down the aisle. I didn’t look back as I escaped to Ethnic Foods to catch my breath.
35
Nothing much had changed in the waiting room of Orleigh Tremaine Newman – A Whole Person Corporation. There were less stacks of paper on the credenzas; and Thai food aromas had replaced the smells of onions and French fries. Another group of patients sat in those seats—Wednesday morning regulars, I suppose, including a tight-lipped pale woman dressed in a pink velour sweat suit; a black woman with long, gray French braids; and a willowy blonde staring into her BlackBerry.
Piper told me that I owed for two missed appointments. “You never called to cancel,” she said.
I scowled at her as she processed my debit card.
Dr. Tremaine’s eyes widened as I walked into her office. “Hello, there, stranger. I saw that you had changed your appointment time today, but I still didn’t know if you’d show.”
I shrugged. “Here I am.”
She slid my folder before her and said, “Now, on our last visit—”
“On our last visit, my husband was alive,” I blurted. “And now he’s not.” I paused. “Or he is. Or… I don’t know.”
Dr. Tremaine peered at me over the tops of her glasses.
“I guess I should start at the beginning.”
She nodded, then sat back in her chair.
I told her about Truman’s accident, about the search, about the probate judge, the wine and the fire. Then, I added, “I think he’s haunting me.”
Dr. Tremaine chuckled and shook her head. “Don’t be silly, Nicole. What you’re experiencing—”
“Silly?” I screeched. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
She held out her hands, and said, “Oh, sweetie. I didn’t mean—”
“I come here for help because I’m seeing and experiencing things that are freakin’ terrifying and you tell me not to be silly? What the hell?”
“I didn’t mean…” She sighed, then touched her temples. “I was careless to use that word, and I apologize. What I mean to say is this: you’re mourning. It’s easy to accept that and do nothing, but you’ve taken the opposite route. You’ve come here which must have been difficult for you.
“First things first: anger and grief are attached. You should never force yourself to only think so-called ‘good’ thoughts. Never. You are entitled to scream, to throw dishes, to feel. To see strange things that you can’t explain. It’s honest, it’s healthy, and it’s human. Shakespeare wrote, Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o’er fraught heart and bids it break.
“Hallucinations,” she continued, “and that’s what I think you’re having—are very normal after the death of a loved one.”
I twisted my fingers, then whispered, “Maybe I’ll stop having them if I sell the house, move somewhere else.”
“But that won’t lessen your pain,” she said. “And you shouldn’t do something as major as selling property right now. You’ve had enough of a life-change and you don’t need another one. If, in a few months, you feel the same, then go for it. But let some time pass first.”
“I miss him,” I said. “It’s hard living there without him. Life’s changed.”
“Change can be painful, but it’s not a bad thing. It’s the only constant in this world.” She leaned forward in her chair and smiled. “Life has a beginning and an ending. Everything in between those points shapes us, shapes our relationships. His death will help you figure out your own life’s purpose. It will move you to live more meaningfully, allow you to reflect upon what matters most to you. I know this has all been stressful and overwhelming, but I’ll help you through it.”
I tugged at the ragged seam on my jeans. “When his parents died back in 2000, he didn’t know what to do. I’d find him sitting in a dark room, wanting to cry but unable to. He didn’t want to see a therapist or talk to a minister or...” I closed my eyes and remembered sitting beside Truman him on our bed. “I told him that I knew how it felt not to have parents. Told him that the pain was normal.
“He told me that I was lucky. That I never know if my father was a mean bastard like his. His father never saw value in him, and didn’t consider him a real man because Truman didn’t play football. Because Truman called the plumber sometimes instead of fixing it himself. A tiny part of him was glad that Douglas Baxter had died.”
“He didn’t go to a therapist because he had you,” Dr. Tremaine whispered. “You helped him cope.”
I hugged myself, and tried to smother that ache in my heart. “That night, I knew without a doubt that we were supposed to be together. That we were supposed to help each other survive.”
“But he’s gone now.”
I nodded, tears burning in my eyes.
“What do you miss about him?”
Everything. “Sitting beside him on the couch with a game controller in my hand... Swatting his hand as he picks at my plate of French fries... Watching him walk across the mall, across the street or anywhere. Driving up to Santa Barbara, hanging out in Vegas…” I chuckled then added, “I miss his snoring. How he’d grind his teeth sometimes while he slept.”
Dr. Tremaine placed her chin in her hand, then said, “What don’t you miss?”
I frowned, startled out of that blissful place of shared French fries and road trips.
She nodded as encouragement. “It’s okay.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Many of the qualities that I had liked about him had pushed us apart. “He was a flirt... He could be too ambitious... He always wanted excitement, and he got bored quickly.” A tear slipped down my cheek.
This time, Dr. Tremaine offered me tissue from the box on her desk. She pulled the folder back in front of her and made a note as I dried my eyes.
“Do you know why you’re crying?” she asked.
“It just doesn’t seem fair. He was a good person. And I know that rain falls on the just and unjust, but… There was so much more he wanted to do in life. He wanted to buy a motorcycle. He wanted to learn Japanese. He wanted to take me on a hot air balloon, and he wanted to re-tile the bathroom. He hated that tile in our bathroom.”
“I know you may not see this now,” Dr. Tremaine said, “but one day you’ll look back on your relationship, warts and all, and you’ll say to yourself, ‘what a wonderful life we had together.’ And you won’t be sad for what you lost. Instead, you’ll be happy for what you had. So many people in this world miss out by not enjoying the here and now, wishing that the world could give them more than it can.”
I nodded, twisted the tissue and ignored the tears slipping down my cheeks. “So what do you do with the bad times? Do y
ou just overlook those?”
She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“We had problems. I lied to him about some things.”
“Like?”
I rocked back and forth in my seat as my mind continued offering “things” that I hadn’t planned to utter aloud. “I got pregnant without him knowing. I never told him, even after I miscarried.”
“So sorry to hear that.”
“And I feel guilty for…”
“Go on.”
I swallowed, then forced myself to say, “I had an affair with our neighbor.”
Dr. Tremaine didn’t blink or show any hint of surprise. “Did you tell him?”
I shook my head. “I had planned to, but I didn’t get the chance. I didn’t want him distracted during the dive. Not that it mattered in the end. But that’s driving me crazy the most: knowing that I didn’t get to tell him, but being relieved that I didn’t have to say such awful things to him.” I glanced at her. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s normal,” she said. “And you’re being honest. That’s what our time together is about. I don’t judge you for your actions. I’m here to help you understand yourself and your relationships with others, including your relationship with Terry.”
My mouth opened, then closed. Who?
”Do you think Terry would’ve asked for a divorce had you confessed?”
Speechless, I could only stare at her. I had said my husband’s name at least five times since I had sat down, and somehow, to this woman, “Truman” had become “Terry.”
And there we were again. Just like our first visit. I didn’t want to talk anymore, especially since I had said too much anyway. God knew my thoughts, yes, but voicing them scared me. My words were now fully-realized demons that taunted me and teased. You’ll never be good. YHWH will never forgive you for being so evil. For doing evil.
The clock chimed. My half-hour was up.
“I think we covered a lot of ground,” Dr. Tremaine said, pulling her prescription pad from the desk drawer. “Valium and Paxil, right?”
I left the psychiatrist’s office with a stone in my belly and two prescriptions for drugs that no longer worked.
The View from Here Page 13
