Seeing Me Naked

by Liza Palmer

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  I lean in to her trajectory and raise an eyebrow. She quickly looks away and grabs for her glass of water. Dad flicks his hand dismissively. Mom finally yields and sends Robert upstairs for my bag.

  As we say our goodbyes in the foyer, I look around at all that defines me. The rubric for success in my family has always been about legacy—what imprint will you make on this world. I have tried to live by these standards all my life. Measuring success and love by the teaspoon, always falling short, the goal constantly out of reach. My five-year plan has become an unending road to nowhere, both professionally and personally. I snap out of my reverie and take my bag from Robert. Mom kisses me on both cheeks. Dad kisses me on top of my head. Rascal waves to me as he walks out to the guest cottage with Avery trailing closely behind. Will stands with his arm around my waist. In that moment I’m met with a slide show of my own future: a future plagued with the reality of living life in a reactionary, almost passive, state. What would happen if I veered off course and asked Will point-blank to join me on my adventure? An adventure that would start with a conversation we should have had years ago about what it is we’re doing with each other. Is there an Emerald City at the end of this yellow brick road, or does it just keep spiraling to nowhere?

  Chapter Eight

  Back at Will’s house, I take a long soak in the tub and then settle in by the fire, swaddled in one of his bathrobes. He’s upstairs tweaking his piece for Esquire, so I’m left alone with my little epiphanies. Of course Will loves me, I think, he doesn’t have to be all junior-prom about it and show up at my door with a wrist corsage every time I need a hug. But would that be such a bad thing? Why am I afraid to ask? I’ve always defined love as something intangible that can’t be harnessed or quantified. I thought if I demanded that it be real, something I can count on, I’d be dumbing it down somehow. Making it ordinary.

  I fall asleep in the warmth and comfort of the large couch by the dwindling fire. When I wake the next morning, I’m wrapped in an elaborate arrangement of blankets and pillows, all smelling of Will. Someone’s in the kitchen. I sit up and straighten out my back, trying to work out the kinks caused by sleeping on a couch all night. I stand and cinch Will’s bathrobe closed. I walk into the kitchen, hoping for a cup of coffee and maybe a crack at The Conversation, ending in a rerun of yesterday’s kitchen antics before I go out for my morning run.

  “The height of efficiency, I see,” I coo as I walk into the large sun-filled kitchen. A tiny woman turns around quickly and clutches at her heart.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I thought you were Will—I thought you were William,” I stutter, starting to back out of the kitchen.

  “Mr. Houghton is still sleeping. Coffee?” The woman tentatively holds a steaming mug of coffee out to me. I cinch the robe tighter, making sure not to flash the poor woman. I take it and thank her.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the woman says, extending her hand to me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Elisabeth Page, an old friend of William’s.” I extend my free hand to the woman.

  “I’m Marcia,” she says. Anne Houghton goes through approximately thirty-seven thousand housekeepers per year. Marcia won’t see Christmas.

  “Nice to meet you, Marcia,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.

  She smiles. “Are you leaving this afternoon with Mr. Houghton?”

  “I’m sorry?” I grip the mug of coffee tightly.

  “He’s leaving this afternoon for Venezuela. I didn’t know if you worked with him or . . .” She slowly trails off, realizing she shouldn’t have volunteered anything. The look on my face is one of sheer horror. He’s leaving? To motherfucking Venezuela?

  “Oh, I . . . uh . . .” I put down the coffee mug and stand there for a minute. I don’t know what to think. Why didn’t he tell me?

  “Is everything okay?” the woman asks, approaching me warily. Like animal control might approach a rabid pit bull with one of those poles that has a metal lasso at the end of it.

  “You know what? Everything’s fine. Just fine,” I say. My eyes refocus, and I set my jaw. My voice is low and robotic. I feel ridiculous. Join me on the adventure? I doubt that analogy even works when one’s companion has the nasty habit of never fucking standing still for longer than a few seconds.

  I walk back out into the great room. I can’t wait to get out of here. No, I can’t wait to get Will’s robe off and get out of here. I strip off the robe and hurl it at the couch. Right then Marcia comes out of the kitchen, carrying the coffee mug I left on the counter. She gasps, rightfully so. I let out a long sigh and reach for the mug of coffee. Great.

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot that. You’re so kind.” I take the mug of coffee and try to act like I’m not completely naked. Marcia averts her eyes and stammers something about not wanting the coffee to get cold. I nod confidently and continue, “Delicious. Thank you, Marcia.” I walk as decorously as I can upstairs to get my luggage out of Will’s bedroom. I whip open his door. He’s lying in the middle of his huge bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, his yellow hair buried deeply in a mound of down pillows.

  “So, Venezuela?” I snap as I walk over to my suitcase, which is open on the large wooden bench at the foot of Will’s bed.

  “What?” Will stirs and turns his head so he can see me. He cranes his neck all the way around. “Are you naked? Why are you naked?” A smile curls on his sleepy face. He starts to sit up.

  “You know, we don’t lie to each other, Will. You could have just told me,” I say, finding a pair of panties and slipping them on. Will rubs his eyes and sits up in bed.

  “Omission is not lying,” Will says lazily, almost snickering to himself.

  “Why not tell me that you’re leaving again?” I say, fastening my bra in the back.

  “I knew you’d be mad,” Will says, attempting to soothe me.

  “You’re damn right I’m mad. How could you do this?” I ask. My voice gets louder with every question.

  “How could I do this? Let’s review, shall we? Who was it who moved to New York right after high school without consulting anyone?” Will says. His eyes are wide open, and his voice is no longer sleepy.

  “What?” I say, crossing my arms.

  Will whips off his covers and sits on the side of the bed.

  “Right. And then who was it who moved to fucking France for four years?” Will says, his voice cracking slightly.

  “Was this before or after you went to India for a year in search of a higher consciousness and instead found that fucking— What was her name? Soleil Moon McHippie No Job?” I scream.

  “At least she was better than that Jean-Claude I Have a Small Turd Under My Nose,” Will responds.

  “He, at least, was an amazing chef,” I offer, defending a man I dropped like a hot potato when Will called from the train station in Lyon.

  “You know, at least I’m trying here. I came to see you. I mean, what do you think is the shorter flight? London to Venezuela, or London to JFK to Los Angeles to Venezuela?” Will rests his arms on his knees in a move that appears casual, but his hands are in tight fists.

  “Well, I’m not British Airways, so . . .” I want to hurt him. I can’t believe we’re back here again.

  Will’s eyes flare, and a forced smile breaks over his face. “No, no, I’m sorry, you’re right. You’re not British Airways. I flew all the way back to L.A. to see you, even if it was only for a couple of days,” he says into his lap.

  “It’s always just a couple of days. I wanted . . . I don’t know . . . I wanted . . .” I trail off. What I want is too hard to put into words. I want to grab Will, hold him down, and make him stay.

  “You’ve never really wanted to be serious and commit, either. Your five-year plan doesn’t make any room for commitment. So climb down off your high horse,” Will says, his tone final, no longer intimate. He stands.

  “High horse? Some woman in your kitchen had to tell me you were leaving this af
ternoon. There’s no high horse here. I just . . . I thought you might stay a little longer this time,” I say, my voice breaking. Will stands right in front of me. My hand rests on his chest, physically holding him back from leaving. I’m going to risk asking for something. Risk letting him know that I need something from him, that maybe I’m a little stronger when he’s here, a little happier.

  “Elisabeth, I . . .” Will begins.

  “I want you to stay,” I whisper, looking him right in the eye. He knows me too well not to understand what I mean. He holds my gaze, his brain searching for an answer—something he can say so we don’t start fighting again. My vigilantly calculated life is spilling out of its measuring cup at an alarming rate.

  “Why? So I can come visit you at the restaurant?” he says, his voice defeated.

  I don’t have an answer. I don’t. I just want to make this work.

  “I want to try. I’m not saying it’ll be perfect. I want you to stay. Don’t go,” I say. How can I get such giantness across to him and still sound safely indifferent? Oh, that’s right.

  I can’t.

  “Please?” I whisper.

  Will breathes deeply, his eyes focusing on mine, pleading with me not to muddy our last hours together before he has to leave again.

  “You know I love you. I just never said I’d be good at it,” he says, taking my hand off his chest. He kisses me lightly on my palm as he walks past me and out into the hallway.

  Chapter Nine

  I spend the rest of the morning at my parents’, eating a large breakfast and enduring a barrage of questions about why Will isn’t with me. Work, I say. The only lull in the interrogation comes when Mom asks Rascal why Avery had to leave for Los Angeles so early. Work, he says. Dad has been in his study all morning. Work, he says. Always work.

  “I want to get home,” I say to Rascal as he walks me to my car after breakfast. I’ve already said goodbye to Mom and told her to pass along my farewells to Dad.

  “You can stay with me,” Rascal says.

  “I know. I . . . just want to get home,” I say, beeping my car unlocked.

  “You’ll call if you need anything,” Rascal says.

  “I will,” I say. My voice is still scarily monotone. Rascal leans close and brings me in for a tight big-brother hug. No one hugs me like Rascal. He doesn’t let me go, even past that polite moment when both huggers know the hug has reached its zenith. He holds tight. He knows to keep going. He knows there’s more hug needed. I melt in to him, and he holds tighter.

  “Aren’t we a pair?” I ask quietly in his ear.

  “That we are,” Rascal absently agrees.

  “We’re consistent,” I add.

  “Yeah, we’re both fucked up.” Rascal laughs, finally letting go.

  He opens the car door. The car still smells of smoke from the night before. I roll down all the windows, trying to clear any lingering cigarette odor. I climb in, and Rascal shuts the door behind me.

  “Be good,” he warns.

  “I will,” I assure him.

  “I think I’m going to take a long drive after I say my goodbyes,” Rascal says through the open window. He kisses me on the cheek and gives it a long squeeze. I wince.

  “House of Pies on Halloween, right?” I remind him.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says.

  As I pull down the long driveway, I watch Rascal in the rearview mirror, getting smaller and smaller. The last time he went on a “drive,” he was gone for six months. He got a job as a rigger at some oil field in Texas and took up with a waitress at the local watering hole à la Five Easy Pieces. He couldn’t just find a job at a coffeehouse somewhere—no, Rascal has to go and get as dirty as possible. The more oil on his face, the less he’s a Foster/Page.

  What is it we’re all trying to prove?

  The 101 is empty. My windows are open, and my mind is racing. Will. Dad. Mom. My BlackBerry rings from the passenger seat. I quickly snatch it up and check to see who it is. Part of me wants it be Will, calling before he gets on the plane. What if he doesn’t come back this time? What if my last words to him were some bullshit about high horses? But it’s Mom.

  “Hello?” I say, closing my window and turning down the music.

  “Hello, darling,” she says.

  “How are you?” I ask, trying to make conversation. I feel like a traitor. Does she know it’s still going on—and right in her kitchen?

  “About last night,” Mom begins. My stomach lurches.

  “Yes?”

  “Your father was out of line. He realizes he shouldn’t have used that kind of language in front of guests,” Mom says.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. The ocean whizzes by me. I’m not getting a chance to soak it in as much as I’d like.

  “When your father was talking about the film adaptation, darling. I’m sure he made everyone uncomfortable. You must apologize to William when you see him next. I’ve already asked Rascal to let Avery know that . . . your father didn’t mean to do what he did,” Mom says.

  “What are we talking about here, Mom?” God, she has to know.

  “Darling, don’t be coy. We all know how your father can be,” Mom says. I take a deep sigh.

  “I’ll pass the message on to Will,” I say, doubting the BlackBerry can convey the proper level of disappointment.

  “Now, remember, the Grace Center benefit is next Sunday night at the Ritz. I’m counting on you to be there for a silent-auction item. Your father and Rascal have both donated signed first editions.” Mom has her business voice on now, maintaining the status quo—fund-raisers, silent auctions, gala balls, refusing to admit that her husband was in some dark corner with a girl under half his age.

  “What?” I say. That’s it?

  “We’re having a benefit for the Grace Center this coming Sunday, Elisabeth. Don’t you remember? You said you could donate a private cooking series and a nice basket of goodies for the silent auction. I’ll e-mail you the details. Are you still available? Rascal probably won’t be able to make it. But he did say that he’d bid on all the silent-auction items to get the bidding started.”

  “That’s fine. The cooking series, and I’ll bring the basket of goodies with me,” I say.

  “Perfect. Now, drive safely, darling.” I listen closely for any sign that she knows what’s going on. Nothing. Just my own breathing and the muffled sound of the California coast zooming by outside my rolled-up window. We say goodbye, and I put the BlackBerry on the front seat.

  Then I pick it back up, dial quickly, and wait.

  “This is Will Houghton. You know what to do.” The mechanized voice rambles on about pressing one or paging this person and asking me to leave my message at the tone. Who doesn’t know this by now? Do we still have to be told to wait for the tone?

  “Hey, hi . . . it’s me. Please be safe and call me when you get back. Halloween is coming up. Maybe we can shoot for that.” I hesitate and swallow hard. “Okay . . . see you when you get back.” I beep the BlackBerry off, continue down the 101, and wonder why, after thirty years, I still can’t tell Will I love him.

  Maybe I’m not so good at this, either.

  Chapter Ten

  I was about nine years old when I realized Dad wasn’t like other fathers. I was starting fourth grade, and we were all going to the annual back-to-school night at my school. The whole family loaded up in the Mercedes wagon that Mom still drives today. It was my first back-to-school night that Dad had attended. Long months alone with his masterpieces, moody revisions, and book tours had always kept him from attending in the past.

  I stood proudly at my desk. I’d decorated it with an elaborately drawn nameplate and had displayed a construction paper book bound with green twine for my parents’ perusal. I grinned as Mom excitedly turned each page. She asked a ton of questions about my motivation, and pointed out specific lines in my fantastic poetry about pets I dreamed of having and school buses I didn’t ride, and told me they were all so thoughtful. She s
at at that tiny desk, her Chanel jacket bunching up around the metal cross bar, her long legs curled under the tiniest of chairs. But when I looked for my dad, he wasn’t there. He never even made it into the classroom. He’d been stopped at the door by my classmates’ parents, fans whom he most willingly obliged by reminiscing about his glory days, drawing a larger and larger crowd.

  I open the door to my apartment, drop my keys into the designated bowl, roll my suitcase into the bedroom, and collapse on the couch. I stare longingly at the silver espresso maker on the stovetop. Maybe if I try to use a bit of mind control, I can will it to make me an Americano. My stomach is still churning. It’s good to be home and even better to be away from my parents. But at the same time, I feel more alone now than ever.

  My short time with Will is still wet on the canvas—my head on his chest, listening to the gurglings of his stomach and his smoky voice resonating in my ears. I don’t know what’s worse—going without these things for so long that the memory fades or being reminded how glorious it feels to be held by him and have his touch linger on my body, only to give it up once more.

  Though it’s the last thing I want to do, I drag myself off the couch and hop in the shower. The Silver Lake farmers’ market is already in full swing. If I hurry, I can catch the tail end. It’s a bit of a drive from my apartment, but I’ll feel better if I get up, get out, and keep my mind busy. It doesn’t help to sit here alone and think. Maybe I can find something autumnal for tomorrow’s feature. As I drive through the streets of Los Angeles, I notice pumpkin patches sprouting up where only vacant lots once stood. The holiday season has officially begun. Those pumpkin patches will morph into Christmas-tree lots as the weeks pass. I realize that I’m going to have to endure yet another holiday season alone. I focus back on the road and toy with the idea of using a pumpkin in tomorrow’s feature.