April 17, 2019
SCHOLARSHIP HONORING DECEASED COLOR THEORY COACH TO BENEFIT “DREAMERS”
The death of well-known local fitness coach Zacarias Robert Doheny has been deemed a suicide.
Questions surrounding the circumstances of Doheny’s death on March 24 at his place of employment, the Santa Monica location of the Color Theory circuit training franchise, rippled through the tight-knit Westside fitness community.
“It’s unfathomable,” said Santa Monica business owner Regina Wolfe, who estimated she’d attended more than two hundred workouts led by Doheny. “I had just taken one of [Doheny’s] classes at a charity event and marveled over his optimism. It was contagious. It’s almost impossible to believe he was actually in a dark place. It breaks my heart to think of him suffering alone with his secrets.”
In addition to acting and coaching, Doheny, who was of partial Mexican descent, was an advocate for the rights of Mexican immigrants living the United States.
“He was private about his politics at work,” said Jensen Davis, founder and owner of the Color Theory franchise. “But we knew where he stood. That’s why I’ve established a scholarship fund in [Doheny’s] name for Mexican children whose futures in the USA are precarious. Zack was a wonderful guy, inside and out, and his goodness deserves a legacy. He will be missed.”
Donations to the Doheny Dreamers Project can be made at www.dohenydreamers.com.
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Correction: an earlier version of this article linked Zacarias Doheny to the Doheny family who helped establish Los Angeles. Zacarias Robert Doheny is no relation.
Monday, July 1, 2019
40
Regina
REGINA CONSIDERED JULY TO BE THE TRUE BEGINNING OF SUMMER IN Santa Monica, since most of June was usually cloudy and overcast. When she’d first moved here from Chicago, fifteen years ago, she’d been incredulous at how the Santa Monicans whined about “June Gloom,” as if the lack of sunshine for one measly month deprived them of something critical to their lifeblood, something to which they were deeply entitled at all times.
When, she wondered, as she sipped coffee and nibbled a croissant (after decades of denying herself, she’d begun eating carbs again) in the bright morning light of her backyard, had she become one of them? The on-cue emergence of the sun today, on the first of July, made her feel life had been restored to normal, that all was well with the world. Yeah, except for global warming and that hateful sociopath in the White House, she heard Mel say. Even though she was no longer friends with Mel, Regina thought of her—and, okay, missed her—often.
Of course, it was not the warm July sun that had restored normalcy to Regina’s life. The real reasons were much more complicated. The past year had felt like one long, secret war. She’d fought so many battles—with Mel, with Zack, with Gordon, and most of all, with herself—that to be sitting here, relaxed amid the tranquil beauty of her backyard, the jacaranda trees flaring violet overhead, the tomatoes in her garden (planted by her gardener, Fernando, but whatever) growing fat and heavy on the vines, felt like a gift.
This year, spring was not her time of renewal, but now, the height of summer.
Sometimes, when she woke very early in the morning to take a class at her new gym in Venice, she forgot Zack was gone. Sometimes, in the first flickers of her consciousness, she heard his smooth Florida drawl: Mornin’, sunshine. Let’s do this!
But then she’d blink awake and he’d be gone.
The loss of him gut-punched her out of nowhere, especially if she happened to be anywhere near Main Street (which she avoided at all costs), or when one of the trainers at her new gym, RippedLA, called on her to demonstrate something.
Or when she heard someone use that ridiculous phrase he was so fond of: hashtag blessed.
Yes, she missed him. But her sadness dwarfed in comparison to her gratitude for having her family back. In the end, she thought to herself, crossing her lush lawn (Mel: This is the fucking desert! In the middle of a drought! We should be ashamed of green grass.) to spray her tomatoes with the hose, family was all that mattered.
More than friends. More than money—though, now that she and Gordon had it again, life was much better. Certainly, family meant more than success, or a perfect body.
Regina pinched the new flesh at her abdomen. She’d gained some weight. Not a lot, but enough for Gordon to notice, with appreciation. (God, I love your little curves, he’d breathed in bed last night.) Now that she wasn’t monitoring every single thing she ate with obsessive precision, she found she had more time for other things. She still worked out, but only three days a week, instead of the seven, or eight, or nine times she’d once held sacred.
There was, it turned out, more to life than exercise. Much more.
Like rebuilding Big Rad Wolfe, which currently had a client roster of six and was billing steady retainers each month. Like spending time with Kaden and Mia—lately, they’d been swimming together at the Annenberg House in the afternoons, Regina feeling grateful for the gorgeous public pools Santa Monica offered instead of resentful for not having her own. Currently, the girls were finishing a week of sleepaway camp, due back this evening, and Regina could hardly wait to meet them at the bus.
She was restoring her relationship with her husband. This part had been the slowest-going. Gordon was reluctant to trust her again, but gradually, he was coming around. They were going to couples’ therapy every week with an angel of a psychotherapist named Janet—Regina had remembered Mel raving about the woman, and had impulsively booked the first appointment.
Now, with Janet’s help, slowly but surely she and Gordon were moving through healing mode, as Janet called it, back toward communion mode, which, Janet had explained with a meaningful look at Regina, required authentic transparency.
Translation: No more hiding. No more lies. Regina wondered whether authentic transparency was retroactive; could she and Gordon still have communion even though she would never, ever, come clean about the debt they’d carried just four short months ago—and certainly not about the measures she’d taken to hide it—nor about the true nature of her friendship with Zack?
She decided it was okay to let those secrets die. Like Zack, they were gone now. Dead and buried. To unearth them would only bring Gordon more pain than she’d already caused them.
Next week, the Wolfe family would leave on a one-week cruise to the Mexican Riviera, the trip Gordon had booked for his birthday, which was supposed to have happened back in March.
But March had been chaos: their marriage high on the rocks. And then Zack had killed himself, although it was still difficult for Regina to accept that Zack, so full of faith and big dreams, had chosen to end it all so abruptly.
So they’d postponed the cruise. For a better time. Which was now, Regina thought gratefully.
“Morning, hon.”
Regina looked up from her watering to see Gordon standing on the back patio, coffee in hand, wearing slim black jeans and a T-shirt that showed off his newly trim torso. Since selling Eighteen Twelve, he’d been eating healthier, jogging on the beach, even accompanying Regina to classes at Ripped.
“Morning, sweetie,” Regina called, shutting off the hose and crossing the yard to kiss him. “You off to the room?” To Gordon’s delight, instead of a feature film, Eighteen Twelve was being developed into a miniseries for HBO, and he’d been hired to adapt the pilot from his original screenplay. He was currently logging fourteen-hour days in the writers’ room and happier with his career than Regina had ever known him to be.
“You smell nice,” he said, kissing her again. “And yes, I’m off. But it’ll be a short day. I’ll be home in time to meet the girls at the bus with you.”
“Awesome,” Regina said. “I’ve got a pitch in Playa del Rey at ten. Then I’ll be at the office. I think I’ll bike over. It’s such a beautiful day. Want to pick me up at five thirty and we can go get the girls?”
“Absolutely,” said Gordon. “Can’t wait. Love yo
u.”
“Love you.” Regina watched him retreat into the house and down the hall to the front door. As it closed behind him, she picked a lemon from the tree beside the patio and tilted her face to the morning sunshine, bringing the fruit to her nose to breathe in its clean scent.
She could not remember the last time she’d felt so at peace. So calm and contented. She gathered up her coffee mug and empty plate and went inside the house to shower and dress for her pitch.
She was halfway up the staircase when the doorbell rang. She turned and descended toward the front door, trying to remember whether she was expecting a package. Or perhaps Gordon had forgotten his keys again, and rang the doorbell so she’d hear him from the backyard.
Regina peered through the peephole to see a stout, middle-aged Latina woman she didn’t recognize standing on her doorstep. She opened the door.
“Yes?”
“Good morning.” The woman carried a canvas briefcase and wore the stern expression of a post office employee. “I’m looking for Regina Prager Wolfe.”
“That’s me. And you are . . . ?”
The woman reached into her briefcase and extracted a manila envelope, which she extended to Regina. “I’m Camila Rodriguez, process server for Los Angeles County. These are official court documents prepared for you.”
“Court documents? For what?” Her heart sped up. Could Gordon be springing a divorce on her? Had he somehow decided, after these months of progress, that she was not to be trusted after all?
“If you do not wish to accept the papers,” Camila continued briskly, “they can be left on the ground, but will still be considered valid. Tampering with or destroying the documents also does not affect their validity.”
“Please get off my property,” said Regina. She scanned the street—were any of her neighbors out to witness? Nosy Susan Bellwether across the street would have a field day recounting Regina’s humiliation at the next Alta Avenue Neighborhood Association meeting.
Camila shrugged and set the envelope at the bottom of the steps. “Have a nice day, ma’am.” She turned and strode down the Wolfes’ flower-lined walkway toward the street. Stunned, Regina watched her climb into a Honda Civic and drive away.
Then she sat down on her front steps, picked up the envelope, and opened it.
This Official Summons orders REGINA PRAGER WOLFE to appear in the Los Angeles County Superior Courts, Santa Monica branch, at the time and date set forth below, to testify at a hearing pertaining to charges of EMBEZZLEMENT qualifying as GRAND THEFT, as defined by California Penal Code Section 503 . . .
Regina stopped reading. She ripped the summons in half, then quarters, until she’d reduced it to ribbons. Then she stuffed the shredded paper back into the envelope and crushed it between her palms.
She sat perfectly still on the step, listening to her own breath.
The summer sun had climbed higher in the sky; her cheeks began to burn.
She passed the balled envelope from one hand to the other.
She would not panic. She would stay calm.
She would find a way to fix this.
She always did.
41
Mel
“BYE, MOM!” SLOANE CALLED UP TO THE SECOND FLOOR FROM THE FRONT yard as Adam’s sleek black Tesla glided up to the curb. “Bye, Lettie!”
“Bye!” Mel and Lettie called back in unison from side-by-side deck chairs on the balcony outside Mel’s bedroom.
“Back seat, please!” Mel shouted as she watched Sloane head for the front passenger door of the Tesla. From her vantage point on the second floor, Mel couldn’t make out the eye rolls she was sure Sloane was exchanging with Adam right then. Adam let Sloane ride beside him in his beloved electric car, never mind that she was a good twenty pounds below the front seat weight requirement.
But their eye rolls did not upset Mel anymore. Not since she’d made the decision to leave Adam, despite his willingness to start over, work it out, forgive her for the thing with Zack, which Adam claimed Zack (poor Zack) had confessed to, forcing Mel to confess as well—though she’d dialed the details of their affair way back. Once they’d separated, soon after the Burn for Malibu! event, the insular coziness of Adam’s relationship with Sloane ceased to make Mel feel threatened. No longer did she feel like the lesser, sloppy, unfocused, ungiving parent: all the things Adam had—unintentionally, but still—made her feel.
Adam was a good man. Mel still believed this. But he was not the man for her. How had it taken her so long to see this? Why had she required so much disaster—his imagined affair, her actual one—in order to realize she’d been wanting to leave Adam for a long time? Only after she’d finally confessed her affair with Zack to Janet, then sobbed for forty straight minutes on the couch, cat hairs sticking to her cheek, did Janet suggest, ever so gently, that perhaps Mel had wanted to believe Adam was having an affair? Perhaps she’d been desperate for a reason to make the terrifying decision to end the marriage? Adam, Mel now saw, was a good man in many ways, but he was terrible at helping her love herself. Because at some point, painful as it was for Mel to admit, Adam had stopped loving her for who she was, right now. Instead, he’d become far more interested in the person—Mel 2.0—he hoped she’d become.
Zack, though he hadn’t known it, had helped Mel see this. Sometimes, she felt he was not actually gone; that he was still hopping around at the front of a packed class at Color Theory, blasting his country rock, joking over the mic in his easy southern drawl.
Other times, she missed him so much her chest ached. Like when she thought of that day at the soccer game, his eyes shiny with tears as he delivered to her the solution to all her problems—not that she’d been ready to accept it then. Mel, I love the you—the you that you already are.
Once, she’d wept so uncontrollably, Lettie—who, bless her, was now sharing Mel’s home—had heard her and come upstairs. Had sat on the bed beside her and stroked Mel’s back and hair.
She would always be grateful to Zack Doheny. Without him, would Mel have ever found the courage to change her life?
As Adam’s Tesla glided away into the summer morning, Mel felt the usual shaky disbelief spread through her body. An almost sickening longing for her daughter, even though Sloane would be back in just forty-eight hours.
Was this really Mel’s life now? Sending her daughter off for two nights with “her father”? Just speaking that phrase, which she’d heard so often from the (many) divorced moms of John Wayne Elementary, made her feel ill.
“You okay, Mel?” Lettie laid a warm hand on Mel’s forearm.
Mel sighed. “Yes. I’m okay. It’s just hard. But I’m getting used to it.”
“I know it is hard. But you are so much better now. I see it all over your pretty face.”
“Really, Lettie? Because sometimes I still freak out. Adam’s a good guy. I mean, he let me have all this.” She opened her arms wide. “Do I really deserve to be living in this ridiculous house? When I’m the one who left him?”
“He still has a plenty nice house,” Lettie said. “With a whole room for his fighting exercises.”
Mel gave a small laugh. “Ah, right. He didn’t have a jiu-jitsu studio here.”
And, she reminded herself, Adam had been the one to insist she remain in the house on Georgina Avenue. I’m never home, he said. And living here would just depress me anyway.
Mel had agreed to stay. She’d also convinced Lettie and Andres to stay. They’d already moved into the downstairs guest bedroom—temporarily, anyway, back when Lettie was sure she was getting deported. And when, by some miracle that Mel could only explain as a karmic fuck-you to the Big Cheeto, Lettie was granted sudden clemency after a victorious court date, Mel had insisted they move out of their apartment in West LA completely and live with her on Georgina Avenue.
And they had.
“I am picking Andres up now,” Lettie said, standing from her chair and stepping toward the sliding door to the bedroom. “His therapy is finished at ten. The
therapist says he is doing much better!”
“Oh, Lettie, that’s wonderful,” said Mel. “I’m going for a run soon, then heading to the paper store.” Since she and Adam had split, she’d revived Dogwood Designs West, in an edgier, artsier new location in Venice, and had already landed a few small projects—printing a program for the Shakespeare Festival in Topanga, creating the menus for Sukie Reinhardt’s niece’s wedding. Baby steps, but it felt good to be working again. “Can I take you and Andres to lunch later?”
“Sure.” Lettie pulled open the door and stepped inside. Then she turned back to Mel and wagged her finger, smiling. “You are getting too skinny, you know. I will make you eat a real lunch. No kale.”
“Never.” Mel giggled. “Bye, Lettie.”
Somehow, Mel had actually learned to love running. And in the process, she’d shed the twenty pounds she’d regained after quitting Color Theory. And then some.
Alone on the balcony, she pressed her hands against the railing and leaned over the yard. The beauty of it still astonished her—the trees, the flowers, the air tinged with the perfume of gardenias and salt wafting off the dreamy blue Pacific, which she could just glimpse in the distance—but she’d grown accustomed to it, too. Brooklyn was in the past along with Adam, along with Zack. Along with all—okay, some—of the reasons she’d once found to hate herself.
Mel knew she was not yet as good as a woman could be. Far from it. But she was on her way. Zack would be proud.
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