I open a few condolence cards but they’re all the same, the same underlying message – that I should have been home for her funeral. People don’t get it. They don’t understand that the easiest things are not always the right ones – it’s accepting the difficult tasks that make things right.
I open Natalie’s letter last. Her letters will always be my last, my insurance.
December 30, 2002
My dearest friend,
Dr. Claire Dumas Parker died peacefully in her home at the age of sixty-three- years old plus or minus one. She was the epitome of feminine strength and courage and her accomplishments will forever be remembered. She is survived by her tennis-playing husband, Raymond Parker of Greenwich, Connecticut and her handsome, evil-genius son, Zacharie Dumas Parker of Kabul, Afghanistan. (Obviously, this is my interpretation.)
Zach, you are so amazing. So selfless, so loving, so ... bad at lying.
It took me a few minutes to actually put my finger on it, but when I saw the large photo of you and Claire with identical crooked smiles, it all became very clear.
From the room full of pink flowers and “Ma Vie en Rose” playing in the background, there was absolutely no way in hell Raymond Parker arranged that funeral service.
That’s when I decided to ask Jack.
Your trusted attorney sold you out! Granted, I can be extremely charming, so it was rather easy to get all the details.
This is what I know:
Sometime in the month of September – for fun, let’s pretend it was the day we met on the train – Jack paid a visit to your house. During this visit, funeral arrangements were made as well as the inception of the most creative coup in the history of “what the fucks?” Did I mention how brilliant you are?
So on this day, prior to our fantastical meeting, Claire signed a document giving you 60% ownership of Parker and Parker ... and then you sold it. You’ll be glad to know that as of 10:00 p.m. last night, Parker and Parker has officially changed to Parker and some drug research company in Jersey City. Raymond is going to be PISSED!
Representatives from the 9/11 Memorial Fund and the Pediatric Cancer Unit of Mt. Sinai Hospital sent lovely bouquets and representatives to honor their most generous donor, Dr. Claire Parker.
Well played, my friend, well played.
After the funeral, Aunt Patty hosted a gathering of close family and friends at your house. Oh shit, some of the stories I heard nearly made me pee my pants. Did you know Claire was a model during med school? Like a nude model? Like she hung out at Studio 54, NUDE? Wow! We spent the night passing around photo albums, drinking wine and sharing charming stories of the great Claire Dumas. And maybe I was plastered, but I just knew she was somewhere laughing with us.
All and all, you would have been very pleased. Never apologize for not being there, Zach Parker – you were everywhere.
I love you.
No regrets,
Nat
PS- Chloe has this thing with records. And if there is some sort of investigation to its whereabouts, Chloe is the one that shanked it.
I can’t believe Jack spilled all the info, but Nat is extremely tenacious and almost always gets her way. I take the square package and flip it over in my hands. My finger traces over the return address, thinking about the events of the past few months.
I rip open the package and pull out the record I know so well. The cover is worn and faded and there is a large rip near the opening – but it tells a story. I find a large Post-it note stuck to the backside with Nat’s horrible handwriting and a pencil drawing of boobs.
From the sardonic wisdom of Edith Piaf:
“After it’s all over, we’ll go out and have a drink together.”
XO
Nat
I look up at the dark sky filled with giant, laughing stars and immediately know what I have to do.
I flip over the Post-it and scribble down the date, but then I quickly scratch through it. This isn’t a dated love letter, I’ll write that later – this Post-it is my last letter . . . my safety net. I tap my pen against the Edith Piaf record, thinking of how to express future sentiments when my journey comes to an end. Either in the arms of the girl I love, or buried in a box of memories, this note will be the last.
Ma femme,
Je ne regrette rien, because I found everything.
I love you.
the album
side B
Chloe
July 3, 2003
“CHLOE! GREAT NEWS – HUGE!” Natalie leaps across our tiny kitchen, clumsily knocking my bowl of cereal into the sink. “Oh, sorry.”
“What’s up, Nat? I gotta leave for work in five minutes,” I respond lazily.
Nat is an assistant event planner in a trendy SoHo office and our schedules never seem to mesh. I’m usually on my way out the door to the bar when she comes bouncing in from her day job. But who cares? We’re living in New York City in an amazing TriBeCa apartment with anything we want in a one-block radius. (No really, an illegal ferret dealer and Cuban cigars are within one-block from our front door.)
“Tomorrow is your birthday and we’re doing it up New York-style. The Fourth of July is like a big deal around here and you’ll have to get used to sharing your day with America.” Natalie fishes for a Snapple from the refrigerator and continues excitedly. “You know Molly, my boss? Well, she graciously gave me the keys to her bungalow on Fire Island! We leave in the morning and won’t be back until Sunday!” Natalie grabs my hands and jumps up and down, forcing me to jump along with her.
“That’s awesome, Nat! Is it like the Hamptons?” I ask, still confused with the layout of New York. It’s taken me three months to realize Houston Street is pronounced House-ton.
“No way! The Hamptons are sophisticated and snobby, but Fire Island is a hedonistic orgy of booze and bad decisions. It will be so much fun!” Natalie walks to the hall closet to grab our travel bags while I devise a plan to get out of work early tonight.
“I really have to go, Nat. I’ll try to be back by eight. Thank you, it sounds perfect!”
Natalie drops the bags in the hallway and runs toward me. “Chloe, you will love it, but – well, how do I say this in the nicest way possible? Um, how’s your lady garden?”
“Meaning?” I ask. I know my garden hasn’t been plowed or trimmed in several months, but it’s not like I’m an undiscovered rainforest.
“Meaning – I’m making you an appointment with Sue Ling. She’s on Eighth, next to the Au Bon Pain with the rats. Promise me you’ll get there by nine?”
“Fine. Can you pack my bag?”
“I will, just for my favorite cousin with the amazing body, gorgeous green eyes and a voice that can melt a hockey rink.” Natalie smiles and flutters her eyelashes.
“Ha ha. I get what you’re doing, and I promise I won’t embarrass you. I clean up real nice, gee golly gee.” I kiss her cheek and head out the door to work.
“Fire Fucking Island!” She chants through the door.
I moved in with Nat back in April after a year-long, uneventful tour with an unknown band (think Canadian Toadies.) I’d made a deal with Dad that if I finished my degree in business, he would support my career in music. So basically, my poor dad supported me while I spent twelve months in the backwoods of Canada playing taverns and hippie festivals. I made approximately six hundred dollars and slept with every member of the band. I was traveling and performing . . . but mostly, I was waiting – for something. After a year living as a slutty bohemian and the constant nagging from Natalie to move to Manhattan, I finally made the practical decision to get my ass in gear and try to be an adult. Dad supports this decision 100%.
Manhattan. It’s . . . well, I – I distinctly remember my teenage-self lounging in front of the television drinking tiny bottles of Evian and inventing my future-self. I imagined I would be this mature and refined pop star, sipping wine with celebrities in my sexy black cocktail dress. Discussing politics and fine art while being photographed for the Sty
le Watch section of People Magazine. Hordes of rich men would line up and beg to whisk me away to London for the weekend. Of course, I wouldn’t accompany them because of my weekly performances at Carnegie Hall and the movie deal that would contractually forbid me from dating non-celebrities. My apartment in Washington Square would be an upscale, modern space, but I would never be too good to slum it with my friends, Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Joey and Chandler. Like, it totally made sense years ago. I even prepared a speech for my GrammyEmmyOscarTony.
Reality bites. Being twenty-four in New York City goes more like this . . .
Last night I wore overall shorts I found for three dollars at a vintage clothing store, and by vintage, I mean the Salvation Army on the corner of 6th and 7th. I wear crappy clothes while waitressing at the bar because of all the vile shit that splatters on me throughout the night, but it also seems to give me the apathetic edge of I don’t give a fuck. I had a black tank underneath my dated denim and I thought I was rocking the Demi Moore-pottery-scene, but Natalie overtly pointed out that I looked like a Village hobo. (The Village is actually rather chic, so I took that as a compliment.) She is notorious for speaking her mind at the most inopportune moments, but I love her and she did manage to snag a pretty awesome apartment in TriBeCa.
If I told Nat I was actually three months overdue for a wax, she would disown me. I found a rusty razor in the shower this morning, but it only managed to slightly scrape my legs. There was no way I was risking armpit hemorrhaging, so my appointment with Sue Ling will be more of a medical precaution rather than a luxury. My hair looks okay, if summer sweat can be considered the latest fad in glossy hair serum. The sun is normally good to me, leaving me with golden skin, but I still have the remnants of a farmer’s tan on my arms from wearing a Blue Jays t-shirt to a Yankees game – karma. Oh, and I don’t discuss my guitar-picking nails. Aesthetically, I’m a slob, but I look like the rest of the twenty-somethings roaming the streets.
My current place of employment is an understated bar located in TriBeCa. I can walk there, which is awesome, and the owner has a small crush on me, which makes it easy to get the best shifts. It’s near the Holland Tunnel, but ironically named The Bridge, provoking my need to hum Under the Bridge by the Chili Peppers every single time I go to work.
The bar has a steady stream of customers and the happy hour is very popular, mainly because it’s a nice place to hang before going to a real bar. My Tuesday through Saturday shift allows me to mingle with an eclectic crowd: underage NYU students, dating couples (or cheating couples) and a shitload of Uptown too scared to go all the way Downtown. That’s what she said. Rarely are there hordes of handsome men, and not once have I been asked to run away to Europe. And oddly, record moguls aren’t breaking down the bar door to sign a sarcastic, Canadian slacker wearing thrift-store jeans and concert t-shirts.
Honestly, it fucking sucks. I was raised as an only child and educated by television and aversion – aversion to anything realistic and uncomfortable. It’s embarrassing to admit that I feel like I’m owed something in this world; by just going to college I would eventually own my own applesauce empire. And simply traveling around in a van pouring out my emotions on a rickety stage would reward me with a record deal. Or by just being me, creative, pretty and unique, I would score a hot guy and live in Beverly Hills with awesome clothes and the Peach Pit.
But with each day struggling as an adult, the enchanting visions of my future start to implode. The world is faced with new problems now, bigger problems and relevant people with realistic ideas. The new millennium of plastic, technology and fear has distorted and mocked my teenaged fantasies, forcing me to hide in a bubble of the whatevers. But I’m not alone, oh no, there’s a whole fucking generation of exceptional, over-educated, turgid pricks like me, waiting for the future to fall in our laps. I’m not lazy or depressed, I’m a byproduct of false idealism and Saturday morning cartoons. I get that now, on the eve of my 25th birthday – and it’s all about to change.
July 4, 2003
“MOLLY’S HOUSE IS THREE BLOCKS east past the bait shop. Good thing I brought the rolling bags!” Natalie exclaims.
We step off the ferry and onto the rustic dock to take in our weekend paradise. The smell of the salty ocean is overwhelmingly fresh compared to the subway steam and curry that penetrates our neighborhood. Ocean Beach is gorgeous in its natural environment, and the gentle swaying of the sea oats is like a mystical trance of tranquility. Breathe in, breathe out . . . holy shit this is amazing!
We spent the entire train ride chatting with a group of college kids from the Upper East Side. They mentioned to us at least a million times that they’re renting a house in the Hamptons and consequently, I have a massive headache from rolling my eyes. They turned their snobby noses up at the mention of Fire Island, even though Natalie boasted about our mansion that was once owned by Elizabeth Taylor. By the time the train stopped in Bayshore, those stupid kids thought we were two rich socialites that were simply partying for the weekend. Idiots.
I follow Natalie on the walkway, taking the time to read the large signs she seems to be ignoring. Oh shit.
No swimming beyond floats.
No food or drinks.
No disrobing.
No radios without earphones.
No ball playing, kites or Frisbees.
No sexual abstinence.
Okay, so the last one is just my interpretation from the article I read in Time Out New York about the Land of NO! Apparently, people come to this island for two things: gay-friendly shenanigans and freaky, no limitations, sex. (As long as you don’t fly a kite or drink a beer.)
“Hey Nat, did you bring a Frisbee?” I joke.
Natalie stops abruptly and spins to face me. “Why in the hell would I bring a Frisbee? I swear Chloe, if you don’t get laid this weekend, I’m shipping you back to T.O.” She continues walking toward a green picket fence surrounding a gray shingled cottage. The front door is the color of butter, and tiny seashells dangle from the door frame. “Yes, there it is. How adorable is that house? Chloe, this is going to be so much fun!” Natalie picks up her pace as I trail behind her with a giddy smile.
“Did Molly tell you where to meet people?” I ask.
“Of course she did! We’ll have lunch and hang by the beach. She said parties are always popping up, and tonight there’s a huge fireworks show.”
We roll our bags into the little cottage and tour the space. There are two small bedrooms, one large bathroom and a kitchen tinier than the one in our apartment. The living room is actually in the back, overlooking the sand dunes and the foamy waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Molly’s home is cozy, comfortable and at least a million dollars.
Natalie and I plop down on a white linen sofa and stretch out our legs. Our relaxation is interrupted by a shadow moving outside the large window and I nervously grab Nat’s hand. We quietly get up and move toward the figure, my heart racing and her hand squeezing the circulation out of mine . . . but it’s just a deer! Oh wait, there are two cute little deer, staring at us with their big brown eyes! It’s cool that the wildlife can flourish even though their habitat is disrupted by ferries full of visitors and drag queens. I could watch their innocent faces nuzzle against each other all afternoon, not a care in the world, not worried about a job or a music career or finding someone to love, these deer inspire me.
And . . . the bigger one just mounted the female. He’s humping the shit out of her and his eyes are rolling to the back of his fuzzy head. The female on the other hand, appears frightened. Her doe eyes are now the size of saucers and she’s making a weird sheep noise. They don’t seem to mind the audience and yet I can’t look away.
“Everything gets laid,” I joke.
“On Fire Island,” Nat retorts.
7:45 p.m.
We met a few of Molly’s neighbors on the beach earlier and they graciously invited us over for cocktails on their patio. Now, math is my worst subject, but I can manage simple calculations to determ
ine that one husband, one wife and one girlfriend equals a threesome. And two gays plus two LeGrange girls equals no sex for Chloe. I would never judge someone’s lifestyle or sexual preference, but Nat and I might be in a sexual conundrum.
The owner of the house, Mr. Hughes, has one hand on the ass of his girlfriend Susan, and the other hand tightly around my waist. His gorgeous wife, Mrs. Hughes, is busy drunk-flirting with Natalie, and I’m pretty sure her left boob is about to pop out of her super slutty top. Natalie is so sarcastic and crazy, that she charmingly plays along with the flirtation, even commenting on Mrs. Hughes’ lovely top. Benjamin and Travis are the hottest gays ever, and I have a very, very dirty visual going on in my head right now that includes me, the gays and a steamy shower – but, I didn’t spend two hours getting everything waxed for lousy bourbon and an awkward swing party.
“So hey, Nat, we should get to those dinner reservations,” I say casually.
“Reservations? No, you have to come with us to Frankie’s by the docks! It’s the spot to watch the fireworks.” Travis pulls me away from Mr. Hughes and spins me slowly. He’s making one of those mmm hmm faces and motions for Benjamin to join him. “Chloe, you have amazing curves! Benji – Rita Hayworth, am I right?”
“Oh yes, the real Rita Hayworth, not that poor queen dragging at The Pines!” Benjamin quips and they both laugh at some sort of inside joke. But whatever, Rita Hayworth was smoking hot – and real men appreciate curves.
“Chloe, I love you in that dress!” Natalie squeezes between Benjamin and Travis and winks at me. “In fact, I’d say whoever packed that dress is a goddamn genius.”
It’s true. Natalie is an evil genius. I feel amazing in this knee-length vintage purple dress – an actual vintage piece of clothing from a shop in SoHo that sells Broadway costumes (in my mind, it belonged to Raquel Welch.)
The Album: Book One Page 12
