The View from Here

by Rachel Howzell

  Phillip worked on my hair as well as a middle-aged lady’s weave, a chubby teen’s purple cellophane, and a grumpy senior citizen’s wet set. As he worked, I flipped through magazines, and caught up on Britney Spears’ antics, Jennifer Aniston’s love life, and Janet Jackson’s weight battle.

  “You can put People down now,” Phillip said as he swiveled my chair to face the mirror.

  There I was—the one with the short, boy-hair. The one with sharp cheekbones and big brown eyes. I hadn’t had a drastic cut since college, when derring-do pumped through my body like oxygen. “I can’t believe I did this,” I whispered, wide-eyed.

  “Me, neither,” Phillip said as he sprayed oil sheen over my shorn hair.

  “Truman’s gonna hate this,” I said, still unable to take my eyes off the woman in the mirror. “He’s such a hair freak, and…Oh. Yeah. Forgot for a moment.” Truman would not hate this or anything else now.

  “Do you like it?” Phillip asked. “Not that I can do anything about it if you don’t. Unless you wanna spend another six hours in this chair, getting tracks sewn onto your scalp.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, raking my fingers through my hair. “I love it.”

  61

  MO Parties was located on Hollywood Boulevard—high visibility, higher rent. I had tried to persuade Monica to perch at a cheaper locale, like in the Crenshaw District or in Koreatown. Monica had snorted at my suggestion, and now paid over $7,000 a month just to exist. Before the economy started its Death March, she could afford that. Her firm organized Major Events: post-Oscars parties, movie premieres, and high-end coming-of-age soirees. Back then, people had money for chocolate fountains, ice sculptures the size of VW Bugs, and thirty buffet stations. Now that the economy had zombied off the cliffs, companies had abandoned fancy fountains and filet mignon puff pastries for fake flowers and rubber chicken.

  Jewish children still turned thirteen, though, and those mitzvah events were now Monica’s steady gig.

  Clear-headed again, I couldn’t understand Leilani’s fear—Monica stealing from me to save her business. Then again, I was sober today, and the thought of needing a conservator was as crazy as the thought of me pointing a gun at Jake or snoozing half-naked in the canyon.

  Monica sat at her desk, her fingers flying across the computer keyboard, listening to one of her clients in her headphone. Blown-up photographs of studio lots and movie premieres hung between calendars and white boards. The carpet hid beneath gift boxes, metallic wrapping paper and jewel-colored goody-bags—shrapnel of manufactured Joy. Monica finally looked away from the computer, and saw me posing in the doorway. “Oh. My… I need to call you back, Mrs. Schwarz... Of course… Yes. 50 Cent loves to perform at bar mitzvahs… Absolutely… Bye now.”

  I smiled, and said, “Guess what I did?” I sashayed into her office, then twirled. “Tell me you love it.”

  Monica playfully shoved me. “Let a few days go by without seeing you, and you get all Posh Spice on me.”

  I giggled. I hadn’t giggled in weeks.

  62

  The tables at the Ivy were crowded with Ladies who Lunched gossiping over Caesar salads and iced-tea; agents and lawyers striking deals over burgers and Scotch; and C-list actresses nibbling on club sandwiches and waiting to be noticed. Monica and I ordered salads, then talked about the Schwarzes, and plans for Labor Day.

  “You really look different today,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Beyond the hair cut. What’s up with you? And why’d you leave the house on Monday without telling me first?”

  My cheeks warmed as I remembered the phone call from the rehab center. “I’m trying to pull it all together. My old life with the new. Guess I’m doing it wrong. And don’t worry: you aren’t the only friend I’ve offended. Lei isn’t talking to me right now. I guess I should probably call her.”

  “And apologize like you always do?”

  “I do not.” I scrunched my nose. “I do?”

  Monica nodded. “She told me something about you wanting to have a baby?”

  “Adopting a baby. I’m not buying cribs and diapers or anything. It was just a thought.”

  Monica grunted. “Sorry. Sounds crazy.”

  “Why? It’s not like I can’t afford it. And it’s not like I’d be the first woman on the planet to be a single mother. Your mom didn’t have any help.”

  Monica popped a crouton in her mouth and crunched. “Yeah, and you see how my four brothers turned out.”

  “Why are you calling rehabilitation centers?” I blurted.

  Monica paused, then said, “Huh?”

  I sat on the edge of my chair, with my hands gripping my plate. “Rayo del Whatever, up in Santa Barbara.”

  Monica slowly shook her head, and said, “I have no idea what you’re saying to me. Words are coming out of your mouth, but…”

  I stared at her, and tried to determine if she was lying.

  Monica grimaced. “Can you explain to me what you’re talking about instead of looking at me like I stole something?”

  I bit my lip, then said, “The day I left your place, this woman from some psychiatric facility up the Coast called.” I waited—no reaction from Monica. “She said that you were looking for a place to put your sister.”

  “I don’t have a sister.”

  “You have me.”

  Monica peered at me, then her eyes brightened. “You think I wanna commit you?” She laughed.

  I sat back and crossed my arms. “I don’t think any of this is funny.”

  Monica’s laughter ebbed, and between chuckles, she said, “I admit. I have thought about kidnapping you and flying to Borneo until all of this drama passes. Get you away from the crap that’s killing you on the inside.” She shrugged and stared at the remains of her salad. “I worry about you, Nic, so don’t be surprised if you do wake up in Borneo. I’ll do what I need to do to protect you from yourself.”

  “You didn’t call Rayo del Whatever?”

  “I clicked on a bunch of websites the night you came to stay with me. Maybe one was Rayo Whatever. But I swear I didn’t call them. Again: me worried, you cuckoo.”

  “It’s just strange...” I paused, then added, “And business is doing okay?”

  Monica laughed again. “Business sucks, but that’s another lunch at the Ivy.”

  I futzed with my straw. “I have something to tell you. You’re gonna be pissed, though.”

  Monica sensed my apprehension, and said, “Spill it.”

  “Last week, Lei referred me to this spiritual advisor—”

  “You’re seeing a psychic?” Monica screeched.

  Other diners glanced in our direction.

  I shushed my friend, and whispered, “Not anymore. And she’s a spiritual advisor.”

  Monica shook her head. “Semantics make it legitimate? How did this even…? What the hell?”

  “And what did I expect from you?” I said. “Support?” I told Monica about my conversation with Leilani at Rain in Las Vegas, about my desperation for an answer, any answer, and about my two sessions with Zephyr Tott. “I didn’t even say anything that first visit, but she knew I was in mourning, and she knew Truman’s name without me telling her. How did she know all that?”

  “Cuz you probably looked like a complete mess,” Monica said with a shake of her head. “And you don’t suspect she’s tricking you?”

  I sipped my iced tea. “I don’t see the world that way.”

  “Since when does an Adventist-raised science writer adopt unorganized religion as a path to understanding?”

  I glared at her, and said, “That Nicole died when her husband didn’t leave the ocean, and when her dead husband started popping up all over the city. This Nicole now knows that life is all about disorder and dealing with the unexpected and… Okay, I’m not totally comfortable with it. Seeing someone like her. And it’s kind of a hokey idea.”

  “It’s a dangerous idea,” Monica interjected. “And it will lead you straight to Hell.”

&nbs
p; “Stop freaking out. I’m not throwing séances.”

  “You say that now,” Monica said. “Next week you’ll be throwing séances, writing self-help books and buying crystals. A total cheerleader for this crap. How much is all this costing you?”

  “She hasn’t asked me for anything other than the consultation fee. She doesn’t even know my real name.”

  “But you said Leilani referred you.”

  “She’d know me as ‘Nicole Baxter’, not ‘Emma’. That’s the name I’m using. And I paid cash.”

  “But you said she called Truman by his name.”

  “She did.” I chuckled, then said, “Will you stop?”

  Monica cocked an eyebrow. “Again: How much are you paying, what’s her name? Zephyr?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, slipping three twenties inside the billfold. “I won’t see her again. And I feel good, and I’m moving forward. That’s more important to me than money.”

  “But you’re supposed to mourn,” Monica said. “Shock. Denial. Guilt. You’re supposed to go through all those steps, aren’t you? You’ve lost someone you loved, Nicole. Hurting is normal.”

  “Seeing your dead husband in bed and in the hallway? Not normal. As far from normal as you can get.”

  “Ghost husband.” Monica sat back with a smirk. “And that, my dear, is simply guilt. You’re seeing Truman because you didn’t tell him the truth before he died.”

  My heart thudded so hard in my chest, I coughed. I caught my breath, and managed to say, “What truth?”

  Monica leaned forward and cocked her head. “Trying to get pregnant without him knowing. Oh. And your thing with Jake Huston.”

  My mouth opened. Words fluttered around my brain, but refused to fall into a coherent sequence.

  “You slept with him,” she whispered. “I know you did cuz I’ve known you for almost twenty years now and you’d never let anyone that extraordinarily gorgeous and that attentive and that accessible pass you by. Especially when your husband’s being a jerk and isn’t home and possibly having an affair with every attractive woman who isn’t you.”

  I grabbed my purse and popped up from the table. Speechless, I stormed through the restaurant with my stomach twisting, with the rush of blood in my ears drowning out all sound.

  63

  Monica and I didn’t talk as we waited for the parking attendant to bring around the Volvo. Ten minutes passed in this silence until Monica flipped down the vanity mirror and slid lipstick across her bottom lip. “I haven’t said anything to Lei,” she said, “so don’t worry: I won’t tell her. But I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and now, I need to say it.

  “You’re making Truman haunt you. This way, you get to torture yourself about Jake and never experience happiness again because in your mind, you don’t deserve it.”

  I glanced nervously at my friend, then whispered, “It was just one time. With Jake, I mean. I didn’t want a relationship with him or anything. Or maybe I did, I don’t know. I had a weak moment and… I loved Truman, Mo.”

  Monica nodded. “I know.”

  “And I was gonna confess to him the night after the dive, but…” I took several deep breaths, then slumped in the driver’s seat. “I hate myself for all of that.” My eyes filled with tears, and the road before me shifted. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, and said, “I can’t forgive myself. I don’t think I ever will.”

  Monica squeezed my arm. “You will, but I think you need to talk to someone. And not some Hollywood psychic. You have to move past this so you can be healthy. The State won’t let you adopt that Laotian baby if you’re not.”

  I nodded, and slowly exhaled, loosening my grip on the wheel.

  “Have you seen Jake again?” Monica asked. “Socially, I mean.”

  “We had coffee on Wednesday,” I said. “Nothing romantic. Please know that, okay? I’m trying to move forward and it was a good day and I saw him and he asked me and I said ‘yes’ and it was just coffee—”

  “Nicole, I believe you.”

  “It was nice being out. Talking.” I turned to her and whispered, “Do you think Truman slept with Penelope? Or Elene? Honest opinion.”

  Monica thought for a moment, then shook her head. “He knew you were crazy and insecure. He knew if he did and you found out, you’d short-circuit and chop his head off with that machete.”

  We tried to laugh.

  “Seriously?” Monica said. “Even when he was being an ass, it was still obvious to the rest of the world that he loved you. I could tell by the way he hugged you. By the way you guys were always laughing… You were best friends, and that’s why you felt betrayed when he started hanging out with Penelope. You weren’t used to it, like the rest of us are. We’re used to mediocrity and being ignored. Not living life together.” She grinned, then added, “I envied you for landing him after graduation. But then, I thought, ‘That’s the kind of relationship I want.’ I’m sad to say that me and Gary aren’t as tight as you and Truman were.”

  “Gary’s nice,” I said. “A Honda of a man. Much better than the Yugos you used to date.”

  She smiled.

  “Do you think Truman suspected anything?” I asked.

  “He probably knew you were attracted to Jake,” Monica said. “And I think you knew that he knew, and so you’re making him into this ghost.”

  “Say that you’re right. Say that I am manifesting these visions of Truman. Explain the snoring. Explain the whiskers and the cologne. The thing in the bed. All of it.”

  “Phantom pain,” Monica said. “The same sensation veterans with amputated legs feel. Some of them say that sometimes, their legs ache, but that’s impossible coz they don’t have legs anymore. Maybe you’re seeing Truman or smelling his cologne anytime you think of his favorite dessert or about your honeymoon or something.”

  “And the hairs? I actually see the hairs in the sink. And the words on the refrigerator. And the mandala and mola on the walls. And the wet footprints…”

  Monica shrugged. “Sometimes I find sand in my shoes three months after going to the beach. And maybe you are sleepwalking and composing those messages and hanging pictures. I don’t know. I’ll admit: the fridge and text messages are throwing me, too. Maybe he is a ghost.” She paused, then added, “But it would be first time I’ve heard of a ghost texting.”

  64

  Phantom pain.

  Maybe Monica had pinpointed my problem.

  I sat at the computer and typed “physical manifestation guilt” into Google’s search bar. Over two-million results. I clicked on a Baylor University article titled “Grief” and scanned the page.

  Grief after death is felt not just for a person and love; but for love unexpressed, anger unresolved, or a relationship unfulfilled.

  I read that sentence six times before moving on.

  Disturbing thoughts/experiences: hallucinations… strong sense of the presence of the deceased… bereaved person losing her mind…

  Physical manifestations of grief commonly include fatigue, insomnia, anorexia, feelings of choking, shortness of breath, tightness in the chest, menstrual irregularities, and gastrointestinal disturbances…

  I muttered, “Wow,” as I sat back in the chair. It was as though the author of the article had lived on my shoulder since June 26.

  Anger unresolved. Truman and I had both been pissed at each other. He blew his anger off on his adventures. I blew my anger off with the neighbor.

  I picked at the dry skin on my lips and stared at the computer screen.

  If Monica knew about Jake, who else did? The guy at the market knew, and if that was possible, could Leilani have suspected something and just hadn’t said anything?

  But I knew Leilani well. She had never held her tongue before, so why would she now? What if Monica—in all of her righteous Baptist-ness—had a burden placed on her heart, and the Lord instructed her late one night to tell Leilani about my transgression? Leilani would flip—her best friend had cheated on he
r big brother—and our friendship would end.

  The Internet offered no immediate solution to that problem. Talk to a professional.

  Yeah. Been there, done that.

  65

  Sharp peals of thunder rumbled and echoed across the canyon. Drawn from sleep, I opened my eyes and glanced at the den’s window. No sunshine. More thunder. I shivered from the chill in the gray den. Twelve years ago on this date, Truman and I had married.

  To his parents’ dismay, we had held our ceremony at Descanso Gardens in Pasadena. You’re not getting married at a church, they kept asking. Because we prefer a church. I preferred Descanso’s fragrant gardens of lilacs and roses. I preferred standing beneath those grand magnolias, a vision in white silk and satin, cutting my wedding cake as the sun set behind the camellia forest. I preferred dancing with Truman beneath the stars.

  “If that’s what you want,” Truman had told me, “that’s what you’ll get. It will be a perfect day.”

  Truman had cut his cheek shaving that afternoon. Wesley, his best man, forgot the marriage license, making it to the gardens twenty minutes before the ceremony. Ninety degrees that day, but by evening, the temperatures dropped to a perfect seventy-six. The photographer arrived on time; our florists brought the right lilies, and the minister didn’t ramble.

  Monica and Leilani, maids of honor in champagne-colored Grecian gowns, had walked last down the long, blossom-bedecked aisle. I followed them, unescorted, to meet my husband-to-be. July 21. My anniversary forever. Just as I had dreamed, Truman and I danced beneath the stars. During “You are the Sunshine of My Life,” he kissed my neck, then boogied away. I laughed at his awkward flailing and off-key singing.

  You must’ve known that I was lonely…

  Because you came to my rescue…

  During our honeymoon to the Virgin Islands, Truman and I had talked about future trips to Paris, Venice and Fiji. Having a houseful of kids. Retiring early and traveling around Europe. Growing old together. Wearing matching Medic-Alert bracelets.

  But now, twelve years later…