by Liska Jacobs
Jared, still with his head tilted back, says, “Seems like forever ago.”
“Remember that highway patrolman?” I say to Charly, who laughs.
“I thought we were done for!” she says.
Robby has his face in his hands now, but he’s smiling. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have been driving.”
“What happened?” Jane asks politely. She’s scooping salsa with a chip and watching Robby.
“I think that cop gave me a free pass. He saw that shit-heap I was driving—”
“Hey!” Jared interjects. “That was my baby!”
“It was a crap car. The seat belts didn’t even work in the back.”
“But it was roomy,” Jared says, and he nudges Charly, who smiles at the napkin in her lap.
We’re quiet for a moment, the past kicked up like pleasant dust.
The bartenders with their perfectly groomed beards are doing tricks with tequila bottles, throwing them back and forth between each other. It’s like an Old West show. When they finish, one pretends to fire a pistol, blowing his index finger as if it were smoking.
Jared still has his arm around me. “What does New York have that we don’t?”
“Money, jobs, art, culture,” Jane says, counting on her fingers. I can tell she’s relieved to finally join in.
“Hey, Los Angeles has culture,” Jared interjects.
Jane sits up straight. “I’m not saying we don’t have culture, but look at our publishing industry. The Los Angeles Times is a joke compared with The New York Times, and LA doesn’t have anything equivalent to The New Yorker.”
“Who reads The New Yorker anymore?” Tom says. He has a drawl I can’t place. “Even Harper’s sounds old-fashioned. I’ve been thinking of going into the magazine business—print is dead and all, but I think it just needs the right kind of digital experience. You wait and see. After my next trip.”
“Where are you going next?” Charly asks him. She’s perked up a bit since Jared teased her about the backseat.
Tom makes a show of thinking about it. He stretches back against the crusty leather booth. I can feel his leg push into mine, but I refuse to move.
“Don’t tell me,” I say. “You haven’t decided.”
He arches his eyebrows in my direction.
“Maybe you can help me,” he says in his lazy drawl. His eyes are a peculiar blue almost-gray, and they catch the restaurant light, flashing with amusement.
The waiter comes over then, spreads a bounty of guacamole, fish tacos, grilled yucca, and a pitcher of margaritas.
Instead of eating, I check my email. Still nothing from Eric. Only a couple of spam emails for Viagra, a monthly email from a power yoga studio in Greenwich Village, and an email from the Democratic Party urging me to contribute.
The group is talking about sailing to Hawaii versus Mexico as I rummage through my purse and find two pills. They’ve been crushed a bit; I have to wet my finger to get all the pieces.
Robby catches me taking them. I pantomime a toast to him with my water.
“How many cabins are on your boat?” I ask Tom.
“Three, but sleeping on deck is half the fun.”
“Should we bring sleeping bags?” Jane asks. She’s practically climbing up Robby’s shoulder in excitement.
“The boat’s got everything you need. If you forget your swimsuits, I have extras on board.”
“Bikinis too?” I say.
I sense the wink before it actually happens. “They get left behind.”
Charly makes a face. “Do you clean them?”
“We’ll bring our own suits,” Robby says.
Jared leans his head on my shoulder. “I’m going to sleep here, if that’s okay.”
“Okay!” Robby says, patting Jane so he can get out of the booth. “Jared’s done. We better get him home before he pukes. How many margaritas did he have?”
“I don’t know. Maybe three?” I say. “Can he still not handle tequila?”
“No,” Charly says with a sigh.
Tom and Robby help Jared outside, with Jane guiding.
“Everything okay with you guys?” I ask when it’s just the two of us.
Charly nods, handing her keys to the valet. “He doesn’t like the backsplash tile I put in the kitchen.” She turns and looks at me. Her eyes are very dark brown, and under the pier lights they shine. In junior high she outlined them in black eyeliner, giving them a bruised look. It was her signature style; I remembered it long after she left for Southern California when her mom divorced her dad. I doubt she’s even wearing mascara now.
“I’m really glad you’re coming to stay with us,” she says, and I realize those dark eyes are shining from tears. But then the valet is back, handing her the keys to a Prius wagon.
“Whose car is this?” I ask.
“Ours,” Charly says, and she climbs behind the wheel. “The gas mileage is great.”
I can see a baby seat perfectly for a second, bright yellow with white trim, eerie in its emptiness. Then Jared is shoved in front of it.
Charly leans out the window and yells, “See you tomorrow, Elsa!” And they drive off, the Prius falling into traffic on Ocean Avenue.
I look to Robby and Jane, to see if they saw the baby seat too, but Robby is shaking Tom’s hand. They’re making a joke I don’t hear. I laugh anyway. Then Robby hugs me with one arm, climbs into a sports coupe. Jane smiles from the driver’s seat and gives Tom and me a wave.
I’d shiver if it weren’t such a peaceful night. It’s warm enough to be in a dress, drunk and feeling the breeze. I can smell fried food and the Ferris wheel is lit up, a bright spot against the black sky.
“Can I walk you back to your hotel?” Tom asks from somewhere in the darkness.
“You didn’t drive?”
He moves farther from the streetlight, and I can’t make out his face at all. “No, my boat’s in the marina,” he says. “I took a cab here.” That drawl really is something else—like syrup, thick and marinating everything.
“Well,” I say, reaching into the dark to find his arm. “What’s the name of your boat?”
10
Morning is thick in my mouth. I slept in my dress; it smells like cigarettes and Tom Cooper’s cologne. I roll onto my back. My jaw hurts from his kissing.
At the hotel bar he ordered White Russians. Insisted I drink one, saying, You need a proper cocktail.
Then it’s up to my room, Let me escort you, Elsa. Stopping in the hallway, an arm on one side, his free hand clasping my head, turning it this way and that as if to examine it. Such a pretty pout, he said. Are you very high, very drunk, or both? And that smug, grating smile, those perfectly bleached teeth. He’s the pain-builds-character type. Every kiss practically suffocating, hands digging into my waist. I was working hard to keep him out of my room when suddenly Rex was there, all cleft chin and puppy paws, saying something about management needing to speak to me about property destruction. That got Tom leaving real fast.
I remember Rex helping me into my room, unlocking the door with my weight against him, and me asking Is management really mad at me?
No, he’s saying, they aren’t, it’s okay.
Rex watches from the doorway while I rinse until the travel-size mouthwash is empty. I want to ask if he’ll hold me, but don’t. Instead I ask if he’ll check my email. Everything’s a bit fuzzy, the room spinning. No new messages. I feel sick and want to wrap myself in something—in anyone. I touch Rex’s face, somewhere near his lips—or maybe it is his lips. Can I pretend Rex is him? If I blur my eyes, let that liquid wave of pills and booze wash completely over me. Eric, Eric. But it’s no use. They don’t smell the same, they aren’t the same height. I tell him he should leave, but first—but first, help me from this dress. No, wait, don’t. It’s better if you don’t. Good night, good night, good night.
This morning is too bright, each part of the room clean and perfectly arranged: the polished writing table by the window, the mid-century chairs
and couch in the small living room, glass tabletops with glossy magazines stacked in tiny spires, a dresser cabinet where the TV is on but muted. The air conditioner clicks on, rattling the sliding glass door. Too clean, too empty.
I try to remember how I got here, lying here in this room, surrounded by things I won’t even be able to afford in a month—two months if I max out my credit cards. There is someone in the hotel room next to me; I can hear their shower turn on and off, the sound of their television. I shut my eyes and imagine moving through the building, down to the street below, out to the city in the distance, beyond, to New York and Eric.
I imagine this other Elsa who’s still with him. She’d be at work already, by his side. They’d find ways to get close during the day. For a moment I can’t recall his voice and I panic. So I drum up his voice from that day but pretend things were different—Don’t go, he says. I’m sorry HR is here, watching us. If she wasn’t, I’d hold you, I wouldn’t let you leave.
I check my messages. There’s an email from Eric: Had coffee with the new interns this morning, they all look terribly young and incompetent. Take care of yourself, Eric
I imagine him writing this at his desk, his office door closed, the cursor blinking. What could we really say to each other? I want to cry. Instead I take a little pink pill and two oblong ones and call down to room service.
It isn’t Rex today but a woman my age who brings a bottle of champagne and a carafe of orange juice. I tip her more than I should because I’m horrified this might be my future.
My phone rings while I’m packing. It’s Robby.
“Hey, crazy night last night, huh? It’s funny Jared still can’t handle tequila,” I say, packing my toiletries. I combine some of the pills, tossing out the prescription bottles with Mother’s name worn off.
“Yeah, about that, what were you taking?”
“I’m proud of you, Robby, just coming out and asking like that.” I rinse the Altoids tin Austin left behind, drying it with a towel. “Those were pain pills. I’m also taking Xanax again and possibly Klonopin or maybe they’re Percocets. I’m not sure—there’s pink pills, tiny white ones, and blue too.” The champagne has hit me hard.
“Jesus, Elsa, is everything okay?”
“Don’t worry about me, darling,” I say, shooting for fabulous, but even I can hear the edge in my voice. I try again. “I’m on vacation. Just blowing off steam.” The pills I like to dissolve under my tongue I put in the tin, hoping they’ll taste minty now. I slip the tin into my purse.
“Maybe Catalina isn’t a good idea.”
Rather than folding my clothes, I wrestle them in and zip the case. I sit on top of it drinking my mimosa, the scarf wrapped around me like a shawl. I think about our wedding in the desert, that convertible Mustang—black and tan—how the wind changed once we hit Joshua Tree, all sun-baked earth and desert flowers. Mrs. Robby Bishop. Were those happy days? What a blur that year turned into. Some three hundred days drilled down to one sentence: They divorced in 2010.
“Don’t be like that. I wouldn’t have told you—and please God, keep it to yourself. I’m fine. Like I said, just unwinding a bit—you don’t know what New York’s like. Very high stress. Now, be a good boy and push some pixels around. That’s what you’re doing these days, right?”
“I do UX design.”
“Great, buy Jane something nice. I’ll see you tomorrow at the marina. Okay?”
“Elsa, I’m worried about you.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Wonderful, honey, you and me both. We were always such a good team. I have to go, someone’s here. Goodbye, Robby, see you tomorrow.”
I hang up before he can say anything else.
It’s Rex. I hardly recognize him without his hotel uniform. He’s wearing a hoodie and shorts and the same black Converse as when he’s working. Seeing his bare legs is shocking: they look too exposed, pale and hairy, with pink knobby knees.
“Here’s my number.” He thrusts his hand out. His face is very red. He’s taken one of the hotel cloth napkins he brings with breakfast and written his number in marker across the bottom.
“It’s just in case you don’t want to go home yet. I live with a couple guys on campus, but you can stay with us for as long as you want. You can even have my room. I’ll sleep on the couch. If you don’t mind parties and dude stuff everywhere, it’s not too bad.” He smiles. He must have recently gotten his braces off; it’s an uneasy smile, his lips creeping back over his teeth, which are perfectly straight, perfectly white. Gleaming.
“You’re very sweet, Rex. Thank you,” I manage.
But he’s already cleared the tray of champagne and walked out the door.
11
Charly and Jared’s house is in Ocean Park, a part of West Los Angeles that sits on top of a hill, beneath the Santa Monica Airport. It’s a modern house, slate blue with huge skylights and a slanted tin roof that makes the place look like a space-age barn.
The last time I saw it was at their housewarming party soon after Charly and Jared returned from their honeymoon—when Robby managed to hold it together long enough for me to feel okay about leaving. The party was set in their backyard, Aperol and Campari spritzes under newly planted California sycamores and trained bougainvillea, tiny white lights along paths of white stone. I remember watching them, the newlyweds, play host and hostess. Charly comfortable and relaxed, arm in arm with her husband. And I remember Robby, now my ex-husband, how he sat and looked at me from across the patio, all sad, sappy eyes. I thought I’d crumble and give in again if he cried, but he didn’t that time. We even danced and toasted Charly and Jared. We were very grown-up. I left for New York soon after.
The house looks the same. Except for the Prius wagon parked in the driveway with that baby seat in the back. It looks well used too, as if Jared and Charly had a baby and it grew up and moved away and someone had forgotten to take the car seat out.
Charly answers the door barefoot and dressed in a flannel shirt and cuffed jeans. “Sorry I’m a mess. I just got home from my therapist.” She hugs me and takes one of my bags. “I don’t know why you didn’t stay with us from the beginning. The Miramar must have cost a peach.” Her face looks a little pale, even with the smattering of freckles across her nose. “I’m sure you can afford it, I’m not saying that. We have a Jacuzzi in the back! I’ve turned it on. Jared had to go into work. It’s so nice to have company. Usually it’s just Sibley and me.” She pauses. “Sibley’s our cat.”
I don’t ask about the baby seat in the back of the Prius. The house is too spotless for a baby to be living here. Too cold, with its shining stainless-steel appliances.
I think of her Internet posts, all the cat photos. Here’s Sibley on the bed; here’s Sibley looking bored; Sibley and me at Christmas; Sibley looking out the window. There are no babies in those pictures.
“Just Charly the cat lady,” I mumble, forgetting I’ve already had a bottle of champagne at the hotel. Thankfully she hasn’t heard me.
“Here’s the guest room. Do you recognize the curtains? You gave them to us as a wedding present.”
“Your house is really beautiful, Charly.”
She grins, turns on her heels. “You haven’t even seen the remodel!”
I follow her through the house. They’ve redone the kitchen, added a modest library, and extended the master bedroom to include a deck.
“It’s weird to plan where your reading chair will be in forty years—but that’s what we did. I’ll be here and Jared will be there.”
I can see them suddenly in their seventies, in their respective reading chairs, Jared complaining just so Charly will fuss over him, which of course she will. A hot water bottle if he’s too cold, a damp cloth if he’s warm. What should she make for dinner? What should they do tomorrow in the garden? Fuss, fuss, fuss.
She slips on a pair of bright yellow Crocs. When I stare, she says, “My gardening shoes. They’re hideous, I know. But super comfy.”
&nb
sp; The backyard is lovely, with jasmine and honeysuckle and a tall sycamore hanging low enough to climb. They’ve added a birdbath and a family of gnomes. A jet takes off overhead, rattling the windows.
“We’re trying to get the airport shut down, there’s been such gruesome crashes,” she tells me. “Just last month one went nose-first right into the golf course. That’s a mile away from my elementary school—a mile. Can you imagine?”
Champagne is lovely but it’s quick to give you a headache. I ask for water.
“Of course. Sit here, you can watch the black phoebes hop around in the sycamore tree. They’re my favorite. Jared prefers the blue jays—did you know they aren’t really blue jays at all?” She presses her hands together, a nervous tick that I recognize. She goes on chattering. “Jared got me a bird guide last Christmas. What we call blue jays out here are actually scrub jays. Not as good a name, I know.” She stands for a moment, exhales. “I’ll throw something together for lunch.”
We sit on the backyard deck, eating pasta with basil pesto and cherry tomatoes, watching black phoebes dart and flick their tails. They’re rather dashing birds, with their sooty black bodies and crisp white bellies. We laugh when one scares a squirrel from the bird feeder.
“Jared and I grew the basil and tomatoes ourselves,” she tells me. Sibley, a fat British shorthair, is on her lap.
“You guys are doing really well,” I say, but it comes out sounding flat and insincere. I try again. “I love how the landscaping has grown in, and the Jacuzzi is a nice touch too.” We look at it, the steam working up, bubbles swirling.
Charly shrugs, pleased with herself. “It’s no MoMA, I’m sure.”
Even the wine is good. She brings it out in a bucket of ice but pours only one glass.
“You’re not drinking?” I say.
She shrugs and sips her iced tea. “I’m nervous about wearing a bikini. I feel so bloated.”
“We’ll end up skinny-dipping drunk anyway, so what’s the point?”
This makes her laugh and she tells me again that she’s missed me. We finish with lunch and move into the living room, where she’s pulled out photo albums. “Remember this?” Charly asks shyly, flipping one open to a page that shows us much younger, standing in front of the Metropolitan Museum in New York.