“Will it help me sleep?”
He slipped the pen back into his smock pocket. “A fortunate side effect is drowsiness. You’ll be too sleepy to worry.”
I considered the prescription again. “What about the unfortunate side effects? Doesn’t Xanax…” I could only remember drowsiness, sleepiness and weight gain, two of those three I didn’t mind.
“You mean nervousness, diarrhea, blurred vision?”
Diarrhea? What the hell?
Dr. Lucas waved his hand. “Only a small number of patients experience that.” He squeezed my shoulder, then strode to the door. “Xanax is very powerful, and those side effects are real, but I don’t think you have to worry. Next week this time, you’ll be thanking me.”
Arnib had been assigned to work in the pharmacy, and he kept glancing at me as he processed my Xanax prescription. “I had your order handled as a special urgent rush,” he said. “Usually, it takes longer than fifteen minutes. You buying this Coke, too?” He held up the soda bottle.
I stood at the counter, a zombie with a crooked ponytail.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he said. “In the store all the time, I mean. Hard to believe, but I look different out of this smock.”
Is he talking to me? I blinked at him and shook my head. “Huh?”
The clerk smiled, and his clear braces glistened in the fluorescent light. “I said, ‘We have to stop meeting…’” He cleared his throat and tried another approach. “There’s this café? It’s called Luna? It’s down on Sunset. Good muffins, great coffee. Better than the coffee next door. And this guy? He plays Spanish guitar on Thursday nights. I was wondering if, you know, you’d like to, you know…”
I blinked at him again. Is he asking me out on a date?
He blushed, then rushed to close the deal. “I’d pay for you of course. But maybe it’s too soon. My sister waited six years to start dating after her husband died.”
I shook my head. “What are we talking about?”
“Café Luna. I don’t wanna pressure you, but…”
“How much?” I opened my purse and startled at the sight of my gun. When had I put it in there? Couldn’t remember. But then, I didn’t remember much. I touched the cold weapon, and thought of shooting Arnib and the shelves of medicine and the speakers now playing Al Jarreau. My cheeks flushed as panic found me at the pharmacy.
“You paying cash or credit?” Arnib asked.
I exhaled slowly, then reached for my wallet. “Cash.”
50
Before leaving the pharmacy, I cracked open the Coke and popped a Xanax. My stomach growled, warning me that it would not suffer through another night of tea and microwave popcorn. I wandered over to the market’s food bars, and my stomach flipped, jubilant from the aromas of fresh, hot food. After filling a container with angel-hair pasta and grilled vegetables, I paid the cashier and found an empty table near the windows.
As I finished half of my meal, I stopped gobbling noodles and stared into my container. The back of my neck tingled. Someone’s watching me. I wiped my mouth with a napkin and looked up, pretending to casually gaze with disinterest at the yuppies eating dinner, the moms feeding toddlers Cheerios, the friends chatting over salads.
Truman stood near the coffee bar.
I shrieked, and a mother with a towheaded boy she called Corbin glared at me.
Dressed in his wet clothes, Truman grinned and sea water dribbled from his mouth. He beckoned me with his bloated, bloody finger. When I didn’t move, he bared his teeth—sharp silver fangs that glistened with goopy spit.
My hands shook as I closed my dinner container as normally as I could, no longer hearing laughter, cell-phones, “Corbin, stop that and sit down.” I grabbed my box of pasta and beat it out of there, not looking in Truman’s direction again. Back in the Volvo, I sat in the driver’s seat, still shaking, unable to fit the key into the ignition, staring in the rearview mirror at the store’s entrance to make sure—
What? That he doesn’t walk through it? That thought—he’s a ghost and doesn’t need a door—made my hands relax. It was, in its way, reason at work.
Calmer now, I pulled my cell-phone from my pocket and called Leilani. “I’m seeing him again. Seeing Truman, I mean.”
“Where are you?” Leilani shouted over music, laughter and talking.
“The village market. In the parking lot.”
“I’m at Sony with Mo right now. She’s doing the premiere of that stupid Jessica Alba movie tonight, remember? But I’ll come get you if you need me to.”
I nibbled at my thumbnail, feeling childish for calling. “No. That’s okay. I just… You told me to call whenever, you know… I’m sorry.”
“You never have to apologize to me. You should come down tonight. They have baby lamb chops and those shrimp things you love.”
Tears filled my eyes as I remembered parties, martinis and those shrimp things I loved. Premieres and openings. Lifetimes ago. “Maybe I will. What time?”
“Get here for nine,” she said. “And put on something sexy. Something I would wear.”
“So… naked and wearing a pair of Manolo Blahniks.”
She laughed, and I promised to drink three martinis and eat a bucket of shrimp as soon as I drove past the studio gates.
I slipped the key into the ignition and started the car. Before backing out of my space, I glanced in the rearview mirror.
There he was again. Standing among the pots of orchids, gazing in my direction, baring those glistening fangs. He didn’t do anything else as he stood there. And as a family of six passed in front of him, he disappeared.
51
Don’t know why I drove to the San Pedro pier. Don’t know what I expected to see. I only knew that Truman—corporal Truman—remained lost in that piece of the Pacific.
Somewhere in the fog, ship horns blasted and harbor seals barked. The western slice of the sky glowed brilliant orange—the color of romantic walks along the beach and candle-lit dinners. To the east, the sky had darkened to a steely, dangerous blue. The blue of an endless universe and of Langoliers, creatures that gobbled up the present and left behind a void as sinister as this sky.
Tell me what to do.
I stood there as seagulls swooped overhead, as seals barked on faraway buoys, waiting for God to give me a sign. But He sent no column of smoke or no burning bush, and the ocean refused to surrender my husband.
It was easy for the world to move on. But I couldn’t. No one had loved me like Truman had, and I could never say that he was no longer alive until someone proved otherwise.
You don’t have to wait. You can join him, you know. If you jump off this pier, touch the ocean’s bottom, and just keep walking, you’ll find him…
If I jumped in feet first, I wouldn’t have to struggle to stand once I reached the ocean floor.
I gripped the wooden handrail, and splinters pricked my palms. I placed one foot on the bottom slat, and lifted myself from the pier.
A damp breeze from the Pacific washed over me, and I shivered.
What am I doing?
I peered at my feet, just inches off the wooden planks.
I don’t wanna die.
I stepped back, stumbling away from that vast, gray ocean, and raced towards the parking lot. I glanced back over my shoulder like Lot’s wife as the dark sky continued its approach.
I climbed back into the Volvo, and closed my eyes. My nerves cracked beneath my skin like eggs against tile.
Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep…
I imagined sinking to the bottom of the sea, wandering past coral beds and shipwrecks in search of my husband.
My eyes snapped open—I was still sitting in my car.
The sun had set and the emptying parking lot glowed beneath the streetlamps.
How long have I…?
Six spaces away, a group of cholos loitered around a tricked-out Monte Carlo. The one wearing a Dodgers sweatshirt was staring in my direction.
I touched t
he auto-lock button, and all the door locks clicked. Sounded so loud in the quiet that I prayed that the men hadn’t heard. The gun was still in my purse, but against the quartet near the Chevy, my .22 had the same power as cotton balls.
A Mustang pulled out of the space behind me, and the Volvo’s cabin filled with golden light from its headlamps. The four men lifted their middle fingers at the driver in the Ford, then threw beer bottles as it rumbled past them.
Crap.
Glass continued to crash behind me, and I glanced in the rearview mirror.
Truman sat in the backseat.
I sat there, breathless, convinced that if I didn’t appear frightened, he wouldn’t speak.
Another car’s headlamps shone into the Volvo, and Truman shimmered in its light.
I whispered, “What do you want?”
He smiled, and water trickled from his mouth down his chin.
“You show up now?” I asked him through gritted teeth. “Now, Truman? When you were alive, did you show up when you were supposed to, huh?” I clenched my jaw as my body vibrated with anger. “Did you show up for Valentine’s Day? No. Did you show up for Wicked? No. Cuz you were a ghost then, too. I’m not scared of you. Why don’t you go straight to—”
My neck tightened, and my body filled with ice…
Couldn’t breathe.
Truman hadn’t moved—he sat there, staring at me.
I coughed, struggled for air, kicked at the gas and brake pedals. I reached for the door handle and pulled. The door swung open, and I threw myself out of the car and on to my hands and knees, vomiting and coughing.
“You okay, miss?” Dude in the sweatshirt was kneeling beside me. He turned to his buddies, and said, “Maybe we should call 9-1-1.”
“Naw, man. Fuck the police.”
“Since when you give a fuck about niggas, homie?”
“This buey just shot up a bunch of niggas yesterday, and now he all Martin Luther the King and shit.”
Sweatshirt said, “But she’s having seizures.”
“She can suck my big fat bicho, ese. Matter of fact…” He lifted his shirt to show a tatted-up abdomen, then tugged at his belt.
Sweatshirt said, “That ain’t funny. Not her, holmes.”
Not caring about the very-real danger I faced, I croaked, “Someone’s in my car.”
One man turned to glance inside the Volvo. He sported a tattoo of a black hand on the back of his head. “Ain’t nobody in there.”
Sweatshirt helped me stand, then offered me a bunch of napkins. “Too much tequila, eh?”
“Something like that,” I whispered as I dabbed at my mouth. “Did Jake Huston tell you to follow me here?”
They stared at me with wide, blank eyes—each looking like the twenty-year olds they were.
As the group wandered back to their car, Sweatshirt said, “You sure you okay?”
I nodded, then clambered back into the driver’s seat. I glanced in the rearview mirror: no one sat there. I was alone. But as I crept out of the parking lot, I saw him again.
Truman, one hand held up, wishing me farewell.
52
Cory B., the curly-headed sales associate at Best Buy, thought I was just another weary-eyed customer who had had a long day at work. And my request—Sell me an in-home surveillance system—had sounded simple enough. “Oh yeah,” Cory said. “I can help you with that.” He smiled, then added, “And I’ll make sure someone comes out to set it up for you.”
“But the equipment needs to be powerful enough to pick up ghosts,” I said. “Because my husband is haunting me, and I need to capture him on tape.”
Cory B.’s eyes widened a bit. “Okay.”
I followed him through the store, watching his long curls bounce with each step. He tried several times (unsuccessfully) to pass me off to other salesmen (Ain’t my department, man, and You got that covered, bro) until we reached the Audio-Visual department.
He muttered, “Any of these are good.”
I studied him, and he fidgeted under my stare. “But which is best,” I asked. “I’m here with you, Cory B., cuz you know more than me. I could’ve grabbed any of these and paid for it, but I didn’t. I came to you cuz you’re the professional. Now which is best? Which system will do what I need?”
“To see ghosts.”
“Uh huh.”
Cory pointed to the most expensive system on the shelf. “This one’s pretty powerful. You got your small video receiver, your sensor that detects motion whenever something moves. You get four in-door cameras, four outdoor cameras, a 160GB hard drive and a 17-inch color LCD monitor. But if you have an alarm system already installed, I’m sure it may be cheaper just to ask your security company to—”
“Takes too long,” I said. “And I’m not trying to look at someone breaking in. He isn’t breaking in. And I need something now. And I don’t wanna take all day straightening out wires and hard drives.”
“So you don’t want a real surveillance system?” Cory said.
“I want cameras that record,” I said. “Strong enough to—”
“I know,” Cory grumbled. “See ghosts. Right.”
Minutes later, I headed to the exit with four boxes of high-definition video cameras.
The teen-aged greeter said, “Have a good night,” and I contemplated running her over with my car.
I hid one camera in the bookcase, between Troilus and Cressida and The Complete Works of John Milton. Slipped another camera into the bathroom cabinet, nestling it between stacks of towels. I placed another camera on top of the refrigerator, between a box of Special K cereal and a bag of stale barbecue potato chips. I returned to my bedroom with the last camera and placed it on top of the armoire.
I’ve finally done it. I’ve crossed the line. This can’t be real.
But real and imagined no longer existed as separate ideas, and had been compromised so much that I wondered: was there really much difference between the two? Or was it just a matter of perspective, or circumstances?
With aching shoulders, I hopped off the chair and lumbered to the bathroom. I wouldn’t make the Sony party. I had depleted the stores of adrenaline that had fueled my drive to the harbor, and then, to Best Buy. I popped another Xanax, realizing (too late) that I had already taken one.
Oh well.
I floated back to the bedroom, and changed into shorts and a tank top. I needed to sleep. But instead of sinking to the couch, I lumbered down to the kitchen. My limbs had gained weight, and now, I struggled to stand. I slid against the cabinets and sunk to the cold floor. I sat there, staring at the brown, curled twigs attached to the ends of my feet. Don’t know how long I stayed there, but the light changed all around me, and I could no longer see my toes.
My head rolled forward until it touched my bent knees. Heard myself snoring, and my head snapped up, awake again.
So warm in here.
Beads of cold sweat trickled down my spine, making my tank top stick to my skin like caramel.
I crawled over to the kitchen door, and pulled myself to my feet. I stepped out into the cold air. My bare arms prickled, and I hugged myself for warmth.
The dog up the hill was barking again.
I took a few steps to the driveway, the asphalt like hard, scratchy ice beneath my bare soles.
I staggered on to the strip of land between my house and the Cubans’. Could hear the theme song from True Blood coming from their second-story window. The moon was almost full on this night, and the canyon shone with silver, bright light. Magic.
“Lord of the rings,” I muttered. “Elf woods.”
I stepped forward and the canyon swung to the left, then returned to center. I swayed, then closed my eyes. Kept them shut as I wobbled forward, stopping once my toes met dirt.
Into the brush... Burrs and sharp twigs stuck my skin. Winced once, then numb. Didn’t hurt.
The land sloped and the wild brush rose higher than my hips. Something glowed in the deepest reaches of the canyon.
A key.
Like in “World of Warcraft.” I need that key. Keys open treasure chests. I want treasure. Or maybe it’ll open a door and Truman will be standing there and then it will open another door, and God will be there, seated on His throne, and the angels and Jesus and Moses will be there, too, clapping for me, smiling, because I’m home... And then…
I stumbled about in the tangle of chaparral, tripped and fell forward. My hands landed on something sharp. “Ow,” then numb. Didn’t hurt. I held my hands out before me. In that silvery light, beneath that silver moon, the blood on my palms glistened like magic elixir, full of life power.
The key kept blinking further down in the darkness and I crawled towards it, stumbling most of the way. Dry brush scraped my face, and dirt filled my mouth. I spat it out and sat up on my knees.
No twinkling key.
Another player had grabbed it.
I moaned, and a sob broke from my chest.
The canyon tilted again, and I closed my eyes. So tired. I lay back in the brush, not caring about rattlesnakes, fire ants or coyotes. Gazed up at the sky. Bright stars. Silver moon. Dark woods. So quiet…
53
“I found her!”
I opened my eyes to a clear turquoise sky.
“Down there,” a man shouted.
I sat up and blinked. Where…? I gawked at the brush around me, at my filthy shorts and tank top, at my bloody hands, my red, bite-ridden arms, my bare feet. My mouth tasted like dirt and squirrel.
The sheriff’s deputy working his way down the hill towards me was panting and sweating.
I tried to stand, but every muscle in my body screamed.
“You okay, miss?” the deputy shouted.
I swiped at tears tumbling down my cheek.
The deputy reached me and dried his sweaty forehead with his arm. “What are you doing down here?”
I stared at him, then said, “Don’t know.”
He helped me climb back up to the street. A sheriff’s patrol car sat in front of my house, its red and blue lights swirling, its police radio crackling. My Cuban neighbors and Jake huddled together near my driveway. Monica, her cheeks wet with tears, rushed to hug me.
The View from Here Page 18
