“And what about Honey’s birthday party this Sunday?”
I looked at Bree, who nodded. “Of course,” I said.
* * *
Sky’s birthday parties had been train-themed since he was two, with the train growing in size, along with him, each year. At the first party he spent the whole time squatting on the floor over his wooden train set with his friend Honey. To get to the other side of the track he’d remain in a squat and hop like a frog. By the time the birthday cake, shaped like a train, of course, was served, he had fallen asleep, and I took a photograph of him lying on his back with his arms flung out, the cake on the bed beside him. When he was three, we hired a guy in a conductor’s uniform to bring a kid-size track and train in which Skylar and Honey rode around and around, wearing blue-and-white-striped conductor’s hats, with placid expressions on their faces, until he fell asleep again. His fourth and fifth birthdays included more children and took place at the outdoor train museum in Griffith Park. This time the train ride was big enough to hold the grown-ups, too, and after we’d ridden on that, we explored the real trains in the yard. They seemed mildly, hollowly haunted, metal walls echoing with the laughter of children. Sky did not fall asleep on either of these occasions. On his sixth birthday Bree and I took Skylar and Honey on the metro downtown to Olvera Street. After that Skylar outgrew his obsession with trains, which was a good thing, since I didn’t know if there was any place where we could easily find a bigger one.
I was taking Sky to Honey’s eleventh birthday in Griffith Park but no trains were involved; her mom, Joy, was having a picnic on a hillside. On our way up the hill bikers on their way to a Harley convention zoomed past my car—guys with women on the back, flesh exposed where their shirts rode up, their arms around the dudes, many of whom were built like Dash. There was something so intimate about riding on a motorcycle, holding on with that humming between your legs.
I turned my attention back to Skylar. “When’s the last time you saw Honey?”
“My birthday last year,” he said. “But we’re still on Instagram.”
At one point a few months earlier I’d seen Skylar smiling shyly at his iPod Touch and I’d asked what he was doing.
“Messaging Honey.”
“What’s that smile about?”
He blushed. “We’re sort of boyfriend-girlfriend.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s complicated.”
I’d been concerned until I learned that “it’s complicated” meant she had informed him of this new status via Instagram on his iPod—he hadn’t actually had much to do with the decision—and that being “sort of boyfriend-girlfriend” consisted of saying you were “going out” and messaging each other all day and at least once before bed.
A few weeks later I asked if she was still his girlfriend and he said, “No. She dumped me.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m too young for a relationship anyway.” He had that peaceful Buddha baby look on his face and I found myself wishing I could be more like that about Dash leaving.
After Honey had blocked Skylar for one day on Instagram, they were back to following each other and “still friends.”
The Sunday of Honey’s eleventh birthday I was feeling relieved to be with Sky, finally, for a whole day, but I didn’t look forward to having to answer the adults’ questions about me. As Sky ran off to join the kids, Honey’s mom, Joy, danced up to me, wearing a long Indian gauze skirt and lots of bangles, her hair wafting around her, her baby, Boston, in a sling. Of course she had to ask about Dash. I just shook my head.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Joy said. “I thought I heard something about that.”
I took a plate of crudités and macaroni salad and sat in the shade. A young woman came over to nurse her baby. Great. She pulled out her large, pale breast and smiled dreamily at me while the child suckled. Its eyelids reminded me of a baby bird’s.
“How old?” I asked to be polite.
“Six months. His dad is finally able to look at something besides us for three seconds.” She nodded beamily over at the dad, who was heaping his plate with food.
Shit. I recognized him. It was Jimmy.
* * *
Right before he left us, my dad introduced me to his friend’s son, a tall, skinny guitar player. Jimmy came over to the house for dinner, and when he looked at me with his green eyes under twitchy, thick, black brows, as if he saw a pretty young woman and not a fat girl, I knew I’d lose my virginity to him. At the time I didn’t question the fact that that my father had introduced us, maybe with this same thought at least vaguely in mind, and that I was sixteen and Jimmy was twenty-one.
For months we went out on hikes in the Hollywood Hills and ate picnics he packed for us. Between the exercise and the turkey sandwiches I lost a bit of weight, but I still felt self-conscious about my size. Jimmy never took me to a restaurant or one of his gigs, the latter, he said, because I was too young to get in. I never questioned the former but hoped it had to do with his being short on funds, a starving artist, rather than that he was ashamed of me. He did give me CDs of his band, a keyboard-heavy goth deal that I thought was pretty sexy sounding. I was into goth myself at the time, which I thought was why my dad had introduced me to Jimmy, although later I realized it all had much more to do with my father’s planning his exit from my life. I used to tell myself it was at least an expression of his concern, afraid I would be alone in the world without any male protection.
Once when we were watching a news report about Jeffrey Dahmer, I told my dad that I was scared someone would break in when he wasn’t home. We were sitting on the couch and I’d been observing his strong profile, his thick, black hair; I resembled him but had always wanted to look more like my Swedish mother.
Without glancing away from the TV he’d said, “That’s why boyfriends are a good idea.”
And I wondered why I had grown up to be dependent on men?
Jimmy and I would make out during our hikes or in his Mustang (he still lived with his parents so he couldn’t take me home), but he never pressured me to have sex with him and hadn’t even seen me completely naked, which I was grateful for. He often referred to my virginity in a romanticized way, and I thought he really liked the idea of waiting until I was eighteen, in spite of any frustration it might cause him. He told me that the longing was feeding his songwriting, and he played me acoustic versions of songs about insecure, voluptuous young girls in chastity belts. I thought this meant he was in love.
Once on the way back from a hike he told me he wanted to stop at this party. I was in jeans and hiking boots, covered with dust, and feeling especially heavy, but he said, “I want you to be part of my life,” so I agreed to go.
The party was just under the HOLLYWOOD sign, where we had been hiking that day. Where the armless body of Mandy Merrill was found. A ficus tree guarded a brick house full of musicians and groupies. Jimmy introduced me as his friend and wandered off to talk to people, leaving me standing alone in my hiking boots, holding a chilled beer that was warmer than my hands. I remember the seams of my jeans digging into my flesh. Finally I asked Jimmy if we could leave. He gave me a hit of the joint he was holding, put me in the car, and told me he had to go “take a leak.” After a long time I went back in and found him exchanging phone numbers with a skinny, blond girl in a slip and stilettos.
“This is my friend Catherine,” he told her.
I smiled frozenly and followed him back to the car. There was a full and mocking moon above the ficus tree and the joint was starting to kick in.
“Friend?” I said finally.
“Do you want to be more than friends?” He pulled a condom and a glass vial from the glove compartment. Mutely, I let him fuck me in the Mustang. Jimmy sniffed the popper and bellowed when he came, but to me the sex felt like nothing—I guess I had left my body—and we broke up the next day. As if without my virginity there was no other bond between us. By then my dad was already long, long gone.
* *
*
“Catherine? Hi.” Jimmy looked as if he was going to kiss my cheek, but then thought better of it. He’d gained some weight and cut his hair. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look good. Have you met my wife, Sara, and our baby, Eli?”
“Yes, hi.” Her handshake was weak, but then again she was nursing, so maybe that was taking all her energy. “I actually go by Catt now.”
“How do you know Joy and Jake?”
“Honey’s best friends with my godson, Skylar.”
“And Eli’s best friends with Boston,” Sara said. I wondered how infants could be best friends but she answered for me. “They get together for nursing dates and bring me and Joy along to provide the refreshments.”
Clever girl. The day was too hot, I was sweating, and maybe the macaroni salad had been out too long. Or maybe it was the conversation that was making me queasy. Refreshments?
Jimmy was teaching music lessons and still playing in local bands. He couldn’t be happier to be a dad. Being a dad was not an easy thing. It was the hardest and best thing he’d ever done. Sara was amazing. She’d taught him so much. She was an old soul, even though she was in her early twenties. They’d met when she signed up for guitar lessons. How was I? He’d heard I’d gotten married. A musician? Did we have any kids?
That’s when I managed to end the conversation and get away. Skylar and Honey were playing catch, wearing their Dodger regalia. Her arm was almost as good as his. Still wore her fine, straight hair the way her mother had styled it when she was a baby, tied with a ponytail holder so it stuck straight up on her head. I wondered if Honey and Skylar would be friends always, if they might even fall in love, get married, and have children.
I thought of Sara and Joy nursing Eli and Boston, sitting together in a park somewhere, under a jacaranda tree. Later they might take a Mommy and Me yoga class (although the me part wasn’t accurate—it was really Mommy does yoga while “me” sits in a baby seat watching), maybe stop at the farmers market, buy fresh strawberries, zucchini, tomatoes, and basil. Joy would pick Honey up from school. They would talk about Honey’s day on the way home, Joy a little tired and distracted from all those hours with the baby. Softball practice, then homework would be done. In their separate houses Joy and Sara would make dinner for their families and nurse their babies to sleep. Joy would tell Honey to get off her iPod Touch and take a bath and get in bed with a book. In their separate houses, Joy and Sara would make tender love to their husbands.
My stomach churned like it was full of macaroni salad that had sat out too long in the sun.
* * *
The next Saturday while Bree held down the Head Hunter fort and Baby Daddy did whatever he did to avoid seeing his son, I drove Skylar to the baseball field for tryouts. I always felt a mixture of pride and anxiety when I watched him play ball. I didn’t care how well he did, but he’d get really upset if he didn’t perform as well as he thought he should. So whenever he went to bat, I’d hold my breath and use up a prayer that he’d score a run or at least get walked. Sometimes if he’d miss, he’d run off biting his lip, fighting back tears. I wanted to force my way into the dugout and hug him, but I sat on the bleachers planning where I’d take him for ice cream afterward instead.
I’d never been into sports no matter how much the men in my life, even my darling Scott, tried to convince me otherwise, but now I appreciated baseball—the green of the diamond, the smack of the bat, the skid in the dirt clouding to dust. I told Bree her son was the only “man” who had ever gotten me to love the game.
That day was Little League tryouts. Skylar wasn’t one of the very best players, but he was strong in the field and cared more than any kid I’d ever known. He was a little small for his age, but even as a baby he’d been built like a ballplayer. Now I watched him up at bat, feet planted, eyes alert, jaw set.
“Go, Skylar!” I shouted. Go, baby.
I held up my iPhone, hoping a picture wouldn’t jinx the at bat. The pitcher released the ball, Skylar swung. Strike one. I bit hard on my lip and put the camera down. Another pitch. Strike two. I saw Skylar’s shoulders creep up. Some crazy-handsome dad yelled, “You gotta swing if it’s good now.”
Where the hell was Baby Daddy? Gone like Dash. Don’t think about Dash. Don’t think about his baby, the one you will never have. Be here. With Skylar.
The pitcher was Skylar’s age but twice his size. Skylar swung. Crack. Best sound in the world. He tossed the bat and ran like the wildfire that had charred these hills over the years. I never worried about him when he was running. Once he’d slid home so hard on his chin he’d skinned it raw and got up beaming.
I stood, clapping and shouting. With this hit and his fielding skills, he’d get on a good team, for sure. That was all he really wanted. I envied that goal, although when you were ten it probably felt as overwhelming as the things I dreamed of. But that purity—that was one reason I wanted a child so much. It would keep me out of my own head, focused only on my baby’s perfect, simple needs.
When tryouts were over, Skylar and I headed back down the hill. His forehead was damp when I took off his cap to rumple his hair.
“You did great, Sky.”
He smiled up at me, eyes greener against his flushed skin.
“Should we go get ice cream?”
“Yes, please.”
“Two scoops?”
“With sprinkles. And gummy bears.”
“For reals? What about the hydrogenated oils?”
“Don’t tell Mom.”
As we were getting in my yellow VW Bug, the dad who’d cheered Skylar on at bat was parked next to us. A miniature, bear-cub version of himself was waiting to climb into the truck.
“Good job,” the guy said to Skylar. His voice was deep and easy.
“Thanks.”
“And your mom has some nice shoes there.” I was wearing my black-and-silver Nike Air Jordan high-tops with black jeans and a tank top. He flashed a smile at me, his teeth small and roundish and his lips so plush-looking you could take a nap on them.
“Thanks, but I’m his godmother. His mom’s working.”
“Sorry, godmama. You play basketball?”
I laughed. “No. These shoes are just for show. You know, my height gives me too much of an advantage so I have to avoid the court.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty much nearing eight feet—am I right?”
“Eight feet one actually, but let’s keep that between us. I don’t want to intimidate the other players.” I heard my voice deepen. It was hard to swallow. Why was my body behaving this way? It should have been shutting down with grief. Instead it was refusing to give up.
“Of course.” His irises were round and brown like a child’s, filling up the white space around them. They were perhaps the biggest, brownest eyes I had ever seen. “I’m Jarell,” he said. “This is Darius.”
The bear cub was pouting, sticking out his belly and staring up at Skylar.
“Nice to meet you, Darius.” I knelt and held up my palm to high-five him. “I’m Catt.”
He reluctantly offered his hand.
“As in kitty cat?” Jarell asked, but his eyes implied another, more suggestive name.
“Some people say that.” There was a tightening in my groin when he helped me up, enfolding my fingers in his.
I gripped my thigh muscles to relieve the sudden ache. It felt like my body was betraying me, cheating on my sorrow. “And this is Skylar.”
“Believe me, I know this one’s name.” He fist-bumped Sky. “I’m trying to get you on my team. You know, I was in the minor leagues till I sustained an injury, and it’s all about focus and commitment. I could see that potential in you out there.”
When Skylar heard the words minor leagues, his eyes brightened. This wasn’t just some wannabe baseball dad.
“Can I take his picture with you?” I asked Jarell. “Is that okay with you, Sky?”
Skylar did that thing he does where he tries not to smile but it almost busts out anyway.
I took that as a yes. Jarell put his arm around him with the confidence of a celebrity humoring a (really cute) fan, and I snapped the picture and showed it to them.
Jarell patted Skylar’s Dodgers cap. “Why so serious, young man?” This brought the full smile out. “That’s better. Too bad we didn’t get that in the picture. Remember, baseball is serious business, but it’s okay to have fun, too, you hear me?”
Sky nodded.
“I can’t hear you, though.” Jarell bent down, put his ear near Skylar’s mouth. “What did you say?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. That’s better. We’ll have to work on that. I’ll see you around.” Jarell winked at me, then strapped mini-him into his car seat and walked around to the front of the truck with the stride of an athlete and someone whose body had always been his ally. I wish I had that. It was why I went to Body Farm so often, but that confidence always seemed to elude me. What would it be like to sleep with a man like that? Would his strength rub off on me? Shoot inside?
“So he’s one of the coaches? What do you think of him?” I asked Skylar as we drove down the hill toward ice cream with sprinkles and gummy bears.
I could see his face in the rearview mirror, the dreamy look. “Cool,” he said, my man of few words and expressive eyes.
After ice cream, I ordered Sky pizza, we watched Harry Potter and he took a bath. Then he got into bed in the futon in my office, the room I had always imagined would be my baby’s nursery. I had spent one whole weekend painting it a pale blue with white moldings and a mural of clouds on the ceiling. Dash had come in to find me on a ladder in my old, white painter’s jumpsuit and frowned. “Isn’t that kind of twee?”
“What do you mean? It’s for a baby.”
At least he hadn’t said, “There’s no baby, Catt.” Instead: “But you know, if someone else comes to stay. It’s not exactly versatile.”
“It’s a blue sky and clouds, Dash. Everyone likes sky.”
Even though Sky read to himself most nights, that night he wanted me to read a Percy Jackson book aloud to him. It was later than he usually went to bed and his eyes shut after a few pages. I drew the covers over him and kissed his cheek. His skin, like his Hawaiian dad’s, was smooth and glowing, as if the sun had fallen in love with him, and his eyelashes spiked shadows across the planes of his cheekbones, his breath lifting and lowering his chest where his perfect, ever-vigilant heart slept.
Beyond the Pale Motel Page 3
