I tried to be extra nice and it seemed to be working, but then a guy showed up—the boyfriend of the skeletally thin blonde. He couldn’t keep his eyes off me and said I looked like a great prospect. I saw the look the two girls exchanged at that remark and figured it was all over. It was.
• $575 room with liberal-minded couple.
This one looked promising as it was in one of those grand old Victorian houses in the Haight-Ashbury district. From the street the colorfully painted house looked charming, with flowering vines growing up one side of the building.
Once inside, I felt like I had stumbled through a time warp and landed in 1965. The place reeked of incense, and some sort of weird snake-charmer music was playing. I expected to see a Buddhist monk or the Dalai Lama walk out of the kitchen. The two liberal-minded people turned out to be a fortyish couple who said they would need to prepare my astrological chart and do a tarot reading. Barrel-chested Carl gravely asked me if I was a Gemini, because Geminis tend to be duplicitous. When I said I was a Scorpio, Carl’s eyes lit up.
“Scorpios are very sensual and adventurous.” He beamed with satisfaction.
Rhonda, who had a wild mass of wiry brown hair, informed me that they were trained in tantric sex and were looking for a roommate open to exploration and growth.
I put down the tarot cards and fled.
• $680 room in 3-bedroom amazing flat with view.
This room was located in an apartment out in the avenues in the heart of the city’s fog zone. But there was a splendid view of the Pacific Ocean, even if only from a tiny kitchen window.
The two girls who lived in this apartment looked normal, and the place was neatly furnished in a blend of IKEA meets Pottery Barn. Both girls said they worked in the financial district and asked me where I worked.
I had to admit that I hadn’t found a job yet and I had only just graduated from high school. “I’m getting one right away,” I said. “As soon as I find a place to live.”
The short-haired brunette frowned and said, “I’m sorry, but we can’t take a chance. We need someone who has a job and credit references.”
I tried to assure her that I would be dependable, but it was no use.
“We just can’t take the chance,” repeated auburn-haired Annie. “Our last roommate said the same thing. She moved out while we were at work and still owes us money for rent plus a gigantic phone bill.”
After that, I was pretty discouraged, but I reasoned that maybe I was doing things in the wrong order. I decided I should get a job first and then a place to live.
Meanwhile, I busied myself deciding what I was going to keep and what I was going to sell at Saturday’s garage sale. I was determined to hang on to a few antiques that my mother had treasured most—especially the china, crystal, and silver that had belonged to my Italian grandmother. I would sell all of the everyday dishes, pans, and other kitchen paraphernalia. I didn’t know how to cook anyway.
I rolled up our beautiful Oriental rugs for storage. I also wanted to keep my mother’s four-poster bed and its matching dresser, plus the rocking chair from my bedroom—the one my mother had used when I was a baby. All the rest of the furniture had to go. Naturally, I kept the computer and printer—both for my job hunt and for college when I finally made it there. As for the stereo, I had to keep it—you can’t live without music, can you? I also kept a couple of boxes with my dolls and other girlie stuff, plus three boxes of my favorite books.
The last thing I packed was a box of our family pictures. I got sidetracked thumbing through them, remembering the days when I was little and my mother had been my whole world. There weren’t many photos of Jimmy, but there were lots of snapshots of my mother hugging me, smiling at me, or holding my hand at various ages. My heart ached remembering the days when she would cuddle with me and read to me from my favorite book, Where the Wild Things Are. At the part where the wild things begin to dance, together we would scream out the line, “I’ll eat you up, I love you so.” Now I would give anything to have her hug me and call me her wild thing again.
One picture in particular caught my attention. It showed the two of us on a sandy beach. I couldn’t have been more than two, and my mother must have been twenty-five or so. The two of us were standing together in the shallow waves, and I was stark naked except for a lacy white hat, fastened on my head with a chin strap. My mother was holding my hand and smiling down at me with shining eyes and a look of pure love and happiness. She looked so young and pretty at that moment, with her skirt swirling around her legs and her long dark hair ruffled by the wind.
“I’ll eat you up, I love you so,” I whispered, and I tucked that snapshot into my wallet.
• • •
Once everything was boxed, I e-mailed Brain and asked for help. Thursday night, he showed up with Mike, a boy named Moe, and a pickup. The three of them hauled my stuff over to Gloria’s, and somehow we pushed it all into the back of her garage. To reward them for their heroic deed, Nicole and I grilled burgers and served them with potato chips and chocolate chip cookies. Brain provided some beer, and they hung out until midnight, listening to music and talking about their plans for fall. Everyone was leaving for somewhere.
When everyone finally went home, Stella and I were alone in the half-empty house. That was when it all sunk in. With everyone gone, I couldn’t keep busy anymore and pretend that everything was normal. I felt disoriented as I walked through the rooms, remembering happier times. All the familiar objects and talismans of my life were disappearing, and I had an eerie feeling that at any moment, I might vanish too.
Stella was no better. She stalked through the vacant rooms, her tail held high in an affronted manner.
“I’m not too happy about this myself,” I told her.
To tell the truth, I felt like bawling again. Where was my mother? Was she punishing me? Did she hate me? This was all so totally out of character for her. I had begun to imagine the worst sort of scenario—my mother murdered by a serial killer. Maybe she was chained up in some dank basement, hoping that someone would come to rescue her. Maybe she had amnesia and couldn’t remember who she was and where she came from.
Disappearing like this just wasn’t the kind of thing my mother would do, even if she had become involved in some nasty embezzlement scheme. This was real life, not some stupid screenplay where the heroine never suspected that her cupcake-frosting mother was a vampire. There had to be a perfectly logical explanation, but I didn’t know what it was, and the not knowing was making me crazy.
My brain whirled around and around like a hamster on an exercise wheel, but I never came any closer to finding an answer. I didn’t even know where to begin looking for one.
In my heart, there was always an ache now along with the still unanswered plea: Oh, Momma, please come home.
Chapter Eleven
Nicole slept over so we could spend the evening pricing everything for the sale. Then we stupidly stayed up late, watching a video. We didn’t realize that a tribe of garage-sale fanatics would pound on the door at 6:30 in the morning. Eyes half-closed, I staggered to the front door and told them to come back at nine. One old prune with yellow teeth was so rude that I slammed the door in her face.
While a few bargain-hunters hovered on the sidewalk, we pulled, pushed, and dragged stuff onto the driveway and lawn. To set the right businesslike tone, I wore a pair of baggy painter’s jeans with lots of big pockets, a blue T-shirt that said Fashionista, and running shoes.
We were busy from the minute I signaled that the sale was open. I was glad, because it kept me from noticing who took what and how quickly my possessions were disappearing.
What surprised me most was the number of tightwads who tried to bargain with us. This is California, after all, not Tijuana.
I had anticipated that some of my nosy neighbors would stop by, and they did. So I wasn’t surprised when Cindy showed up, although I thought it was in poor taste. Nicole handled her mother for me. I didn’t want to know which of
our things ended up in Cindy’s clutches.
Around noon, Officer Strobel stopped by to survey the scene and give everything his badass cop stare. He paused long enough to tell me that a woman fitting my mother’s description had been arrested in New Mexico as an accessory to some con scheme.
Hope flared up in me for a moment, only to disappear as I realized how ridiculous his statement was.
“What do you mean by ‘fitting my mother’s description’?” I jeered. “White, brunette, and over forty? You’re going to be very busy if you investigate everyone fitting that description. Diane isn’t some con artist or an accessory to some criminal gang.”
“We have to follow up every lead,” he said defensively.
“If you’re looking for leads, why don’t you find her car? Did it ever occur to you that she may be the victim of a crime? Maybe my mother’s been kidnapped.”
“We’re looking for her and her car. But we have no reason to think she’s the victim of a crime. Do you?”
I walked away without answering. The police weren’t interested in what I thought. They had already made up their minds that my mother was guilty.
• • •
For most of the day we were busy. By three o’clock there were only a handful of shoppers still pawing through my stuff, and my pockets were bulging with cash. Exhausted, I flopped down onto an unsold chair while Nicole went to the kitchen in search of a snack and bottled water. That’s when I noticed a silver Porsche Boxster pulling up to the curb on the other side of the street.
A handsome, tanned older man stepped out of the Porsche and crossed the street toward my house. From the tips of his tasseled Italian loafers to his expensively styled silver-tipped hair, this man exuded confidence and money. In fact, he looked more like someone who would have a personal shopper than someone who frequented garage sales.
He walked past everything for sale and stopped in front of my chair.
“Hello, Ashley.”
“Do I know you?” I raised my eyebrows.
“No,” he said, giving me a brilliant smile. “Your mother kept a photo of you on her desk. You’re as pretty as your picture.”
I stared at him. “You worked with my mother?”
“I’m Curtis Davidson. I’m sure she’s mentioned me. We need to talk.”
I groaned. “Listen, Curtis Davidson. I don’t have the money, and I don’t know where it is. We don’t have anything to talk about. You’re wasting your time trying to bully me.”
“I don’t want to bully you, and I don’t want to talk about the money. I’ve been eager to have a conversation with you for some time. There are some things we need to discuss.”
Our eyes locked. “What?” I said. “What things?”
Before he could answer, a hefty woman with a sleeping baby strapped to her chest stopped next to him and waved an espresso maker in my face.
“How much do you want for this?” she asked.
“The price is marked,” I snarled, moving it out of my face and pointing to the sticker on the bottom. Then I flashed Davidson a challenging look. “Maybe this gentleman needs an espresso maker.”
“Well!” she huffed, jerking it back indignantly. Her baby woke up and started to cry.
Ignoring her, Davidson pulled a business card out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand. I studied it. In elegant, embossed letters it said, Curtis Davidson III, Partner, Warren Simmons & Co.
“Give me a call, Ashley. We really need to talk. I’ve written my private cell phone number on the back.”
He walked away down the drive as I stared after him.
• • •
Sunday was less busy than Saturday, but several people returned to buy what they had passed up the day before. By the time we called it quits on Sunday, I had managed to earn a total of $3,500. Of course, it was a pittance compared to the original cost ofwhat we sold. Still, knowing I had more than $3,000 in my purse was the only thing that eased the pain of seeing our beautiful furniture being hauled away to other people’s homes. Late Sunday I watched as an ecstatic couple with a young daughter heaved my white wicker bedroom furniture into the bed of their pickup. Again, I had to fight back tears. It used to take a lot to make me cry, but circumstances had changed me into a river oftears. As I watched our belongings disappear, my whole body felt tired and my arms and legs were so heavy that I could barely lift them. In my stomach was an uncomfortable feeling close to panic. What was I going to do now?
• • •
After the garage sale was over, Nicole and I collapsed atop some pillows on the living room floor. As I began telling her about the mystery man from my mother’s office, the unlocked front door opened and Tattie walked in.
“Hey!” I said, too tired to get up. “You missed my really big sale.” Though we had talked on the phone, I had seen Tattie only once since she had been released.
“I don’t exactly have the money to buy stuff anyway,” Tattie said. “I hope you got rich.” She plopped down next to us and pulled out a joint. “Anyone got a match?”
I pointed toward the matches on the mantel.
“Uh, should you be doing that?” Nicole asked. “Aren’t you out on bail or something?”
“Yeah, so what?” Tattie said challengingly. “Are there cops hiding in the bushes?”
I thought it better not to mention that there might be. Instead I asked, “How are you getting around these days without your car?”
“I have to beg for rides,” she admitted, making a face. “Anyway, I don’t have a license now, so getting my car back wouldn’t help me right now. She dropped me off.”
Tattie always referred to her mother as She, short for She-Devil. Not for the first time, I considered the irony of our three mothers. I wanted desperately to see mine, Nicole wanted to get away from hers, and Tattie hoped her mother would fall down a mine shaft.
“No driver’s license! What are you going to do?” Nicole asked. Being without transportation was like slow death in the suburbs.
“It’s just one of my many problems at the moment,” she said coolly.
“What about the rest—the pills and all that?” I asked.
“I still have to appear before the judge, but I’ll probably get probation—first-time offender and so on. I only had enough for personal consumption, not sale. My lawyer says I need to fix my appearance, you know, take out the nose ring and stuff, and appear contrite when I’m in court. You’ll have to teach me how to fake being sweet, Nicole.”
Nicole squirmed uncomfortably.
“Hey,” I said, in a warning fashion. “She doesn’t have to fake it. She is.”
“Sorry,” Tattie retorted, not sounding very sorry at all.
“That’s okay, I understand,” Nic murmured.
Changing the subject, I asked, “Got any bright ideas for me, Tattie? I have to find a job, pronto.”
“A job! From the look of things around here, you should be worrying more about where you’re going to live. I’d offer to let you bunk in with me, but She isn’t too happy with me right now.”
“No problem, I’ll figure something out,” I said hastily. No way did I want to live in her dirty house or deal with her mother.
“I wish you were still going to Boston with me.” Nicole sounded worried. “Are you sure you can’t get a student loan or something?”
“It’s too late. I checked online. Right now, they’re taking financial aid applications for next fall, a year from now.” I shook my head in dismay. “The only thing I can do is find a job and an apartment here.”
“But you should be going to college,” Nicole argued. “You’re really, really smart. You had a four-point-oh. And look at the way you read all the time.”
“I’ll get there. I just need to get things under control first. Hopefully, my mom will show up. Maybe I’ll be able to join you at BU for spring semester.”
Tattie snorted, no doubt at the absurdity of anyone wanting to go to school, and took a long drag off her joint.
/> “What are you going to do this fall, Miss Tatiana?” I said.
“As little as possible.” She rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. “My lawyer and my mother are pressuring me to go to rehab. That sounds really dreary. What I’d like to do is take off and go to Europe. I hear you can get really good shit in Amsterdam.”
“That’s not a very long-term goal. Don’t you ever think about the future?” Nicole asked with genuine curiosity.
“Nope,” said Tattie. “Life is short, so live it up while you can. It’s all shit anyway.”
We both were silent at that, Nicole because she didn’t believe that, and me because I hoped it wasn’t true.
• • •
I foolishly allowed Nic to persuade me to spend that night at her house. Nicole’s brothers were sprawled on the living room floor in front of the TV, but there was no sign of Cindy.
Upstairs, Nicole flopped down on her bed and gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m so tired, I don’t even feel like undressing.”
I grabbed one of her pillows, tossed it on the carpet, and parked my butt on top of it, elevating my legs on the edge of a chair. “Ah, this feels good,” I said, inhaling and exhaling a few times to release the tension in my body.
I looked over at Nicole as she lay stretched out on the bed, her eyes closed. For the first time in a long time, I really looked at her.
“How do you do it?” I asked. “How do you manage to never have any mean or evil thoughts about anyone?”
Her eyes popped open. “Who says I never have any evil thoughts? I have plenty—especially when my mother is nagging me. I’m such a big disappointment to her. I can’t be the Miss Popular center of attention she wants me to be. She wants me to be like you, and I can’t do it. Sometimes when she’s going on and on at me, I tune out what she’s saying and stare at a particular part of her body, like her neck. I concentrate, willing her to feel pain there, a pinch or twinge, anything. But it never works. So much for the power of the mind. The only way I’ll ever be able to have my own life is by getting away from here.” She reached up and began nervously twirling and tugging on a lock of hair.
My Lost and Found Life Page 8
