by Katie George
Chapter Eighteen
MILLIONS OF PEOPLE live in the Los Angeles; sometimes, it feels like trillions. Yet out of all the souls—black, white, Arab, Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, atheist, blue-eyed, brown-eyed, liberal, conservative, beauty queen, quarterback, actress, actor, writer, artist, nurse practitioner, struggling lawyer, made-it-all lawyer, or even street preacher—two souls sat in a run-down coffee shop in a little shopping center between Glendora and Azusa. One was about the most selfish person ever (me) and the other was one of the gentlest spirits in the universe (Nina).
“So,” she said, her speech forlorn, unsure. “You look different. More mature, I’d say.”
“Nina, stop the small talk. It isn’t us.” It didn’t come out like a snap, but it slapped Nina.
She sat straighter, the fresh caramel streaks in her hair shining from the afternoon glow. “You’re right. I’ve missed you so much.” Her lips turned a bit, hinting at a smile, though her eyes were still sad.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to cry.” I leaned closer to her, not wanting to intrude into her personal space, but wondering what was up.
She shook her head. “No—nothing like that. I was just remembering things. You know, you, me, and…” She could not even say the name.
“You guys don’t have to pretend like it isn’t possible to get back together. You sure know you can. He still loves you…”
She shook her head again, a snappy movement, but not one made in pure certainty. “I’m with Christophe now. I’m happy with him, Emma. We’re good together, great, actually.”
“I understand,” I said. “Someone needed to move on first.” It wasn’t meant to be so snarky, but the hurt in her eyes was apparent. She tensed like she’d been slapped again—and I knew she wasn’t completely over Jamie. “Anyway, wedding plans. December 18th, right before the big Christmas rush—where at?”
“Right now, we’re trying to book a Methodist church in Santa Susana. We’ll see, though, it may be tough to reserve it.”
“No matter what church you’ll get, it is the Lord’s house.” I placed my hands up like it was a no-brainer, but of course I wasn’t the bride.
She laughed, high and feminine like a tinkling bell. “You’re right. That puts it in perspective a little more.” Moments later, a thick binder was splayed out, loose papers falling over the desk, each one containing a different subject: floral, bridal, bridesmaids, groomsmen, venue, food arrangements. She was chewing on her pinkie nail already.
“Whoa, whoa. First step: Organize. Then prioritize. Then we’ll killitize all this information, guys!” My voice came out chirpy, but as her laugh resounded again, we sat there, somewhat drunk on coffee, happy to be together again. Because some of the best friendships are ones that are cemented through some separation, whether inadvertent or not. When the silence came back, I took up the laminated paper that read FLORAL and said a quick recitation, “I’ve got you covered on this one.”
“Please help me. I cannot tell a rose from an orchid, it’s that bad. Meanwhile, my mom expects me to have hydrangeas or something weird sounding like that.”
“I will draft a list once I gather my evidence. I’ll send it to you. Just trust me, I know just how to do this for you, Nina. I’d like to help you as much as I can.”
“That is very kind of you, Em, but don’t feel…”
“Stop it. That is offensive, and you know it. I am Emma Richmond, at your service. Your dear friend.” I had ached to say it, and when it came out, a thousand memories blossomed in my skull, rapid fire burning my eye sockets.
She smiled, lifting up her coffee cup. “Let’s make a toast. Not to my wedding, but to you, Emma.” We linked our cups, and then the moment returned to reality, back to a time where there were still gaps between us, fissures slowly mending together like mendable heartstrings.
“So,” she said, “I was thinking this color for bridesmaids’ gowns… What do you think?”
JAMIE RETURNED FROM Memphis like a thief in the night. One day, he was gone; the next, he was back, of course while I was out at work. I scurried home as fast as I could, needy for my best friend; I know, this might sound weird, but I missed his quirky attitude, his flamboyant and helpful fashion advice, his dorky reading glasses that made him adorable. If we were two fish in a bowl, I think I would suffocate if he died.
I dug the key into the apartment door, excited because I held a pie fresh from the store—cherry, his favorite. He’d only been gone for a week, which made me scared for what would happen when he was gone for a few months. I choked back the fear and opened the door like it was the only obstacle in my way, and a loud yelp occurred as wood met flesh.
“Jamie? What in the world!”
He was on the floor, writhing in the fetal position. “You pretty much destroyed my noggin.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My eyebrow. It’s bleeding, Emma!”
Sure enough, as I pushed his meaty hand (he’d been working out for his new role) away, blood began to gush from a gash the size of three hairpins on the tip of his left eyebrow. His hand was covered in the stuff, and I hurried up to grab a rag and some ice. “James Allen Stewart, what were you thinking?”
“I…ouch, this hurts. Emma—I was simply trying to surprise you!”
“Behind a door? You are so dumb!” I hurried as fast as I could to him, pressing the rag to his head before adding the ice. “Come on, we’re off to the ER. You’ll need stitches.”
“What?” He cried out, this time sounding like a baby. Then real tears started to bounce down his face. “Stitches? Not happening!”
I dragged him from the floor, helping him to a standing position. A little wrapped silver box lay on the floor, a bit crumpled. “What is that?”
“A gift. Now save me. This is an actor’s worst dilemma.”
“It’s a flesh wound. An actor’s worst dilemma is if he or she were about to die,” I protested, grabbing the box and stuffing it into his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
We hurried to my car, where the tears subsided and he said, “You never saw the crying, got it?”
“Oh, give me a break, Jamie. I have way more gen on you that. Give me a break. Seriously, what were you even doing?”
He lifted a bloody finger and looked at it as if he were about to fall over in disgust. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Jamie. You’re not going to die.”
“I’m supposed to leave the country in a week and a half, and…”
Even with the pedal to the metal, it took twenty minutes to get to the hospital in the steady afternoon traffic. Palms passed by like friends, their fronds outstretched in pleasant waves. I backed the car into a space near the ER entrance, before dragging him to a nurse, a young woman named Raquel, who batted her eyes seductively at Jamie while he held the bloody napkin to his face.
“Cut his eyebrow. Needs stitches. You got your insurance information?”
He threw his wallet onto the counter; I was honestly surprised he even had the wherewithal to have his info.
“Wife?” she asked, like it was the most important question one could ask.
“I honestly feel like it, but no. Want him? I’ll let you take him.” He stepped on my foot with the pressure of a steer.
“Jamie, fine. You take care of this. I’m going to go sit over there. Bye.”
I hurried away, taking a seat by a woman holding a sleeping baby. Many faces were drowning in sadness or outright despair, so I tried to keep my feelings of entertained outrage at bay. When Jamie came to sit beside me, he handed me the little box.
“Open it. It’ll be a while.”
As I unraveled the paper, I stared at his hand. “Do you need me…”
“Open the darn box, Em. I’m okay.”
The little satin box landed in my hand. When I opened it, a beautiful ultramarine ring appeared in my palm, a real treasure. The blue seemed to melt into my hand like the LA heatwave had entered the ER.
I lifted it with care, afraid that this was a fortune, one I could possibly damage.
“I want you to have it,” Jamie said humbly, his voice somewhat different than I was used to. “Momma originally gave it to my sister, but she found out that Alicia left it in her cutlery drawer. She wanted someone who cares to have it, and she suggested I give it to you.”
“I simply cannot accept this. You know, Jamie. It is gorgeous…”
His fingers, magnetic, brushed my skin as he took the ring and slipped it on my finger. I was surprised that—as if I were Cinderella—it fit like a glove on my right ring finger. I’d heard the stories that the right ring finger was fatter than the left, and I believed. I lifted my hand, watching the gleam of a precious stone in the light, the sparkle that beamed from Jamie’s eyes—an even more optimistic treasure.
“Thank you, Jamie. This is the most wonderful present anyone has ever given me.”
“I was afraid we’d have to resize, but it is divine intervention.” Swetha’s words mimicked his own. I smiled, imagining a distant Studio City apartment where Jerry was moving in.
“Are you sure that I…’
He took my hand in his, inspecting the glint. “This color is so sharp, it’s like a giant paradise-inspired abyss. An abyss I call Emma—chaotic, magnetic, electric.” His usual, floppy grin formed on his face, and even with the ice dripping down his chin like rapid, tear-shaped rain droplets, I felt something flutter deep inside. Nina, I quietly breathed.
“What does that mean?” I nudged him. “Let me see it.” The red gash had finished bleeding for now, but it was still messy, and I guessed Jamie would need maybe two or three to fix the issue. The swelling was starting to grow like a large eyebrow pimple. “Will this affect the movie?”
“I don’t know. Unless we can rewrite it, because I don’t think makeup will be covering this like I wish it would. However, it may work, as the science fiction novel calls for a grizzled look. You know, when crablike mega-bugs are squashing the planet like it’s the bug.”
“Yes, it could give you a potentially lethal look. Just tell me—does your character die? Will I be crying in the theater because I’ll witness my very best friend die from an alien takeover?”
“I’m keeping it mum, and that’s that, Emma Richmond. You’ll just have to wait until we see it at the movies to know.”
“Won’t you be sick of it by then, with all the premieres and junk?”
“Do you think I’ll ever get tired of assessing my acting repertoire onscreen? Of course I will, but I won’t let you even think about going to see a movie like this without me.”
“Okay,” I said, rolling my eyes. He was the most dramatic person I’d ever met.
A nurse appeared then, calling out, “James Stewart!” He stood up like he was actually the old-school Hollywood legend. Then he locked arms with me and we hurried away, where I wondered if life would ever interfere between our friendship. I decided then that I probably should not see a movie in which he would die.
WITH JAMIE ASLEEP in his bed, the swelling increased and increasing, I threw on old pajamas and went back to the kitchen, where I sliced some ham onto a plate. As I gathered all the ingredients for a typical ham sandwich, there was a rap on the door. The sudden sense of Sam was like a cloud. When I opened the door, he stood before me, with a board game, a pack of microwaveable popcorn, and a bottle of Coke. “Hey,” he said, reaching over to kiss me on the cheek.
“Hi,” I said, excitement creeping into the back of my neck. We’d talked a few times on the phone since I left Big Sur, but mostly, it had been a nice separation again. One that brought us even closer together. “You won’t believe what happened to Jamie. He had to get two dissolvable stitches. We were at the ER for four hours this afternoon, and I’m feeling that was good luck.”
“What happened?” Little wrinkles of worry sprouted across his face.
“He was hiding behind a door, and I opened that door, hit him across his eyebrow. There was a piece of wood sticking out of this said door, just so that it perfectly scissored his eyebrow open. He’ll be okay, but there’s going to be swelling.”
“Is he stressed about the movie? I can pull a few strings for him. If his movie is all about guts and stuff, maybe this isn’t as bad as he might think.”
“He would really appreciate that. He’s asleep right now. He just got back from Tennessee, too.”
Sam took a seat on the couch like it was his own. From all the time spent at our place—away from the lights, cameras, and actions of his typical life—it was kind of his. He was slowly becoming a typical fixture there. He unleashed the Monopoly game with trepidation.
“You’ve never played?” I guessed.
He looked up. “How’d you know? This is a childhood staple, is it not?”
“Sam,” I said, covering his hand with my own, “I will teach you. No big deal. Lots of kids don’t play Monopoly. My dad, on the other hand, taught me—as I will teach you now.”
His eyes blinked a few times, a childish quality appearing between the specks. There was a hint of a bruise on the left side of his neck, yet it was barely big enough to notice. I finally picked up some of the pieces and set out to properly prepare the game.
“How was your week?”
“Good,” he began, “but not the best. There were some charity galas I attended, that kind of thing, then some days in the studio for prep work. I’m honestly ready for a long vacation—maybe the South Island of New Zealand, or the Orinoco River… I’m just ready to up and go.”
“The Orinoco River? Where the heck even is that? Sweetie, people like me are used to vacations in the mighty Guadalupe River.”
He clutched the dice in his hand, shaking hard. “Sounds nice. I’d go there, too.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, reciting the basics of the game, all the while trying not to get too focused on his lithe form near my own. It was hard to concentrate, but I’d gotten through harder things in my life, like burying my first mutt. Or my first kiss—that was just brutal.
As we began, his eyes danced like little fireflies in the dimmed lights of the apartment. “So, Miss Emma, if you could go one place in the entire world, where would it be?”
As I stroked the green North Carolina card in my palm, I pretended to think hard, though it wasn’t very tough. “Jerusalem, but only when no one is fighting—there’s only peace.”
“Jerusalem,” he said, surprised. “Wouldn’t have expected that one.”
“Why not? It’s the Holy Land—Israel in general is on my bucket list. You?”
“The Guadalupe River sounds nice.”
“Be serious,” I said as the dice rolled on the board with a loud thwack.
He shrugged as he purchased a railroad card. “I am. I can imagine you and your family, all together, life’s good and all.”
“Hmm. Nice try.” I scratched the top of my head, knowing where this conversation was headed. Immediately, my mouth felt dry, because the guilt of my desire to see Mom was so strong. It covered me like a blanket.
“What does that mean?”
“It was nice in the beginning. My mom’s brother lived in a nice river mansion estate, and we’d spend a lot of our summers down there. Then, when my mom skidaddled out, it did not feel the same. Eventually I gave up going all together.”
“Your mom left?” he asked carefully, his voice not trying to stir any unwanted drama. “That sucks.”
My little metal dog piece landed on chance; I lost a hundred dollars. “It does. It’s not what it sounds like. We keep minimal contact, which is better than other people. I love her, but it is hard to forgive.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his thumb against my own. Slowly, he breathed, “I remember when my parents got divorced. It wasn’t a surprise or anything, but it hurt so badly, like it was my fault. It never was, though. Just like her leaving never was yours.”
Just then, Jamie walked in, his eye swollen and his mouth wide open in a yawn. “Sam?” He walked
over and fell on his side, staring at us with sleepy eyes which seemed to close like a broken camera shutter. “I’m too late to play, am I not?” Then he was asleep again, his snore as loud as a cow’s. Somehow, I guessed he was playing the part of older, watchful brother.
