Catalina

by Liska Jacobs

  And then Robby is there, holding a bottle of something and a bag of potato chips.

  “It’s all they had,” he says sheepishly.

  I’m almost in tears. “Thanks. I’m really tired.”

  He takes my purse and helps me away from the crowd. When we pass Marisol and her yachtie I press my face into Robby’s warm chest. I can hear his heartbeat.

  We stop at a bench halfway between the Casino and the villas. He hands me the bottle of sparkling water. It’s a relief. And the potato chips taste amazing. They’re greasy and salty and the crunch is violent.

  “Oh my God,” I say with my mouth full. “These chips are fucking amazing.”

  His face is very serious. “How is this going to end?”

  I wipe my fingers on my dress. “I’m going to pass out.”

  “No,” he says, sighing. “I mean this.” He points to me.

  “Can’t I just enjoy these chips?”

  “I know you, Elsa, you’re on a bender. What happened in New York? You can tell me.” He moves so there’s less room between us.

  “I’m fine, I told you—”

  “A vacation, I know.” He drops his head back, lets out a sigh. It would be wonderful to just curl up on his lap and go to sleep.

  “Does it have anything to do with that guy? Did he follow you here from New York or something?”

  I rub my face. “God. Robby, I’m tired.”

  “Elsa, tell me, please.” He watches me and when I don’t say anything he slumps and pats his lap for me to lie down. “Come here.”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I can make it to the villa.”

  The waves are gentle, they don’t even crash against the rocks below, they sort of rub up against them. Every once in a while there’s a good splash, sending sea spray up at us. From this side the Casino looks like a lit-up birthday cake, the Moorish windows casting domed yellow light across the water.

  “I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t talk to me.”

  “Did you know the Casino has enough food and water to house the entire year-round population? I mean if there was a disaster on the island they’d get to live in that building. It’s nicer than any house on the island.”

  “Elsa,” he says.

  I ignore him. “I went by the museum today. I didn’t go in—too many tourists.”

  “We’re tourists.”

  “You know what I mean. But I heard one of the tour guides talking about it.”

  “Did he mention it’s enough food and water for only two weeks? It’s not that much time.”

  “It’s long enough,” I say stubbornly. And then we’re quiet.

  An older couple walk by, arm in arm. They must be returning from the Casino. They look nice, both in suits—hers a little more feminine—and she has an ascot tied around her neck. They’re deep in conversation. Whatever he says has her chortling, her head flying back.

  Robby’s sadness is palpable.

  “I’m going back to the villa,” I say, standing up.

  He stands too. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No,” I say more forcefully than I mean. But he’s standing there and he smells the same. The same Camel Lights, the same Banana Boat sunscreen. His hand on my upper arm—the way he used to hold me, as if I might fly away if he let go. I try to remember what it was like to kiss him, the taste of him. How it was comforting, how quickly comfortable became boring. He likes you on top—ah, there’s the memory. Washing over like those waves on the rocks below. His arms, his beautiful arms, flexed and urgent, holding you up.

  “Good night, Robby.” And I make my way up to the villa alone.

  27

  Back at the villa, I try to pass out, to sink into that darkness. But my brain is buzzing, as if separated from my body. I go over things. I do it obsessively. I replay memories—the ones that have deepened and have needs of their own. You need to stoke them, like kindling. If you don’t, they go out. So I tend to them. I play over the night, parts of it so crisp and others already changing. I remember Rafa’s yacht being dark, when really it was lit up like a quaint corner café with tiny lights and those candles making everything smell like a camping trip. I’ll try to remind myself of this fact, but it won’t matter. It’ll be his gold fillings I see, the smell of a warm salty ocean—jazz music not very far off—and the feeling of that calloused hand. I think back to Robby, how water beaded on his skin—those memories of beach days and swim meets. How during the summer his tan made his eyes spark, the blue like the bottom of the Miramar pool.

  There are many. If you let one go it’s impossible to find it again. So I think of Eric’s hands polishing that stone while standing on the beach, and Rex—Rex looking me full in the face, that blemish just above his lip. I think of Charly and her sister surrounded by snakes, my brothers in their well-pressed Boy Scout uniforms. I think of Mother blow-drying hair at the salon, pulling a round brush through a client’s hair as if it were a reflex. I think of my father in that New Mexico hospital—which is a bad thing to do. Alone in the villa, with the sound of the kitchen clock and the dull noise from the Casino, I am right back there, in that hospital corridor lined with colored-pencil prints of birds of paradise. The silent dripping of an IV, the beep-beeping of an EKG, watching his pulse—such a delicate flutter we boil down to.

  But back, back, you must go back. To when you first found out, when you were with Eric. You’d gone to Brooklyn to see an artist about an upcoming show. Later to a hotel room, at the Wythe, just one of the many you’ll explore with him. These are still early days. You will have two years to get to know these little boutique hotels intimately—which side of the hotel you prefer (east), which floor (fourth), which restaurant (rooftop), which drink (gin martini, because it makes you feel older). You will even learn to recognize which staff will smile at you and which will not. This kind of illicit knowledge will thrill you.

  The meeting with the artist is a success and you’re celebrating with a late lunch on the rooftop. The view is incredible. Across the river, silver in the late afternoon, the Empire State Building stands out against the rest of the Manhattan city skyline. On either side of the hotel, Brooklyn stretches out in lovely industrial rows. It is exactly the city you thought it would be, metallic and blushing in the setting sun. Somewhere sirens cry out, far enough away to sound muffled, there are car horns below, and music from the hotel bar floats out onto the patio. You are in it.

  The salsa was better the last time we were here, Eric says, but you are distracted by the city.

  Just look at that view.

  And then your phone vibrates. You think it’s his at first. But he shakes his head and then you recognize the New Mexico area code. You don’t answer. But when it rings again, you pick up. It’s your father’s girlfriend, Nance, a tiny Asian woman he met at yoga.

  I’ll order for us—if you trust me, that is. God, that grin.

  You’re stepping away and Nance is saying something about stomachs. You think maybe she’s dialed you by mistake. But then she says clear as the skyline across the river: They’ve removed almost his whole stomach but they didn’t get it all. They want me to call the hospice.

  Does time stop then? If it was fair it would. But it doesn’t. You watch the waitress put your margaritas on the table. They look delicious, the salt dotting the rim like confetti.

  Then you’re flying to New Mexico. The flight attendants solemn as undertakers. One gives you a ginger ale you don’t drink, another hands you a tiny bag of crackers you won’t eat.

  Nance is at the airport waiting for you. She’s already crying, so you drive. Memories from the hospital are like those of the women at Mother’s salon—they all conflate into one. Then there’s Dad in the hospital bed. Everywhere that sterile cleaning fluid smell. He tries to hug you but his IV gets stuck and pulls, little drops of blood forming around the needle. You’re looking at his hands now, they’re big but thin, you can see the veins and bone and how they tremble when they reach out to you.

&
nbsp; You take him home a few days later, after a visit from your brothers and their wives. Your oldest brother weeping in the hallway, saying, I can’t see him like this, I can’t see him like this. Messages from Mother, telling you to give him her love. Tell him I forgive him for everything, she writes. Tell him it’s all right.

  The hospice takes care of his diapers, feeds him through a tube until his body rejects it. Then they tell you to stop the feedings. They tell you there wouldn’t be any use. His body is pale and thin, except for his abdomen, which is bloated from the tumor. Dim eyes, sunken now, but still asking when he can get another feeding, and you telling him, Just wait, just wait.

  28

  Jane says the next morning, “I thought we’d do the zip line today.” Her voice is bright and grating, and her face is just as obnoxiously cheerful.

  All of us are in the open kitchen, the deck doors thrown wide so the fresh breeze can fill the room. Out in the harbor there are already paragliders flying above the water.

  “Fuck, yeah,” Jared answers. He’s making smoothies in the blender.

  Charly slices bananas beside him, strawberries too. “I thought we were taking the golf cart out to explore,” she says to him. “You said we would today.”

  Jared scoops more banana handfuls and pulses the blender.

  “I’ll rent a golf cart with you, Charly,” I say from the couch. I slept poorly, woke just before sunrise with restless legs. I had gone out on the deck, everything so quiet I could almost make out the waves hitting the beach. Hardly a breeze until the sun rose and then it started to gust, blowing through the palms and sending leaf litter scampering across the deck. I sweated through my nightgown in the night, and I shivered as the patches of wet skin and fabric dried in the sudden wind. Now every part of my face hurts—my gums, the back of my throat, the cartilage in my nose. Doing the zip line with an enthusiastic Jane would make my pain double everywhere.

  “I want to see the west side of the island anyway,” I tell Charly.

  Tom smirks. “There’s no way to drive there.”

  Charly is frowning. “Jared, I don’t want to do the zip line.” She’s a bit more animated this morning, waking up early and deciding we should all have smoothies. Something healthy, she said, to counteract all that booze. But there’s still an edge to her appearance, the brightness in her eyes looks a bit frayed.

  Jared adds ice and the noise is unbearable.

  “You go up to forty-five miles per hour! And drop five hundred feet!” Jane is telling us over the roar. She’s already putting her fanny pack together. “Tom, how long is it again? A mile?”

  “Almost a mile; it’s considered one of the best zip lines in the country.” Tom has his sunglasses on inside. He’s scrolling through his phone.

  “You missed a good concert last night,” he says to me. “But I’m sure you had fun too.” I can’t see his eyes—the sunglasses are too dark—but there’s no concealing that smile.

  Charly puts the knife in the sink with the food scraps. “Jared, I don’t want to go on the zip line—let’s rent a golf cart like we talked about.”

  Jane is checking the weight of her fanny pack and looking at Robby, who’s still in his pajamas. “We should get there quick as we can, there’ll probably be a line.”

  “I’m ready,” Jared says.

  “Babe,” Robby says, running his hand through his hair. “You know I’m not one for heights.”

  “Jared,” Charly says, hands clenched.

  “You should’ve seen Robby on the rocks at Joshua Tree,” Jared says to the rest of us as he mimes throwing his arms out as if the ground might give way, yelling for someone to help him.

  “Jared!” Charly shouts. Her face is pink now. “I don’t want to go on the fucking zip line!”

  “Jesus, Charlotte. Elsa said she’d rent a golf cart with you, don’t make a scene.”

  He takes her by the wrist, but she pulls away and slaps him. It’s a light slap, laughable, really. It could have been a caress if you ignored the look on her face. Her face says, I want blood.

  She runs into their bedroom, her sob, almost guttural, barely stifled by the slam of the door.

  Jared stares after her for a moment, his back to us, arms at his sides. I picture his mouth agape, his face flushed, but when he turns his eyes are bright and he claps his hands together. I can see his throat working.

  “Well, I need a drink. Jane? How about we stop at a bar on our way to the zip line.” He pours us the smoothies and adds the little strawberry garnishes Charly sliced up.

  “Jared,” Robby says, as he gestures to where Charly’s sobbing can be heard.

  “Elsa will stay with her. Won’t you? I think this trip has been hard on her. We probably shouldn’t have come.” For some reason he apologizes to Tom, who shakes his head and looks back at his phone.

  Jared turns to me. “You remember that crack-up she had after she didn’t get that part? A Crest commercial, wasn’t it? She’s a strong old girl—she’ll be fine.”

  “It was a sitcom,” I say quietly.

  He adjusts himself, feet shuffling. He blushes a little. “Right, well, you remember how that was. Just needs a stiff drink and a nap. You’ll take care of her, won’t you?”

  His hands are in his pockets now; he’s a boy who’s been naughty, trying to charm me.

  “Sure, why not?” My headache pounds now. I think something must be trying to escape from behind my right eye, burst right on through.

  “Maybe we should skip it,” Jane says. “Robby, you wanted to go golfing anyway, right? And there’s the final show tonight at the Casino.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not till seven, and you’ve been talking about the zip line all week. You should go.” He kisses her on the forehead.

  “That was before I knew you didn’t like heights. You never said.” Her stare is steady. “What will you do instead?”

  His gaze slips toward me, and her cheeks redden. “Fine, stay here. It’s probably for the best anyway. Tom and I will do the zip line.” She’s furious; her nostrils quiver. “Tom, would you call the front desk, please? Get someone to pick us up.”

  “I’ll come too,” Jared says to them. “Elsa and Robby can handle things here.”

  “I bet they can,” Jane says, and clips her fanny pack around her waist. She looks like an advertisement in an outdoor magazine: chino skort, pink muscle tee, fanny pack, hiking boots.

  “Should we meet back here and go to the Casino together?” I ask.

  “Nah, we’ll meet you guys there,” Tom says, painting his nose with zinc.

  “Will Charly be up for it?” Jane asks.

  “She’ll be fine,” Jared insists. “Won’t she, Elsa? You’ll get her right again, won’t you?” His gaze is strained, searching.

  “Elsa the nurse—that’s rich,” Tom scoffs.

  Jared gives a forced laugh.

  I ignore Tom. “When should we meet you?”

  Jane answers me, looking me full in the face. “Eight. In front of will-call.”

  “Won’t you want to come back and get ready?”

  She holds up a small backpack and heads right out the door without looking back, Jared and Tom following after her.

  “What should we do?” Robby asks once their golf cart is out of sight.

  “I’m checking on Charly, you can do whatever you like.”

  I go right through their bedroom, where Charly is curled up facing the wall. In their bathroom there are still traces of beige powder on the sink. I try to wipe it up but it smears and turns thick and sticky. For some reason this turns the throbbing behind my eyes into stabbing. I dig around in my beauty bag for my pills, what I hope are the Percocet and Vicodin. The pain is so bad, I take three pills and drink a bottle of water. “I want to be pain-free,” I say to myself in the mirror. The redhead who looks back wants this too. Her eyes are large, deeply set, the pupils big and startlingly black. You could fall right into them.

  “Then let’s make margaritas,” Charly s
ays from the bedroom. When I step into the room she rolls onto her side, her eyes shining. “We should make margaritas.”

  “I thought you were asleep,” I lie.

  “I’m not. Let’s make margaritas, it’ll be fun.”

  “You’re in no condition to drink.”

  She sits up. “Did I ruin everything? Is everyone mad at me?”

  “You didn’t ruin anything,” I tell her. “They went to the zip line and will have a marvelous time. We’ll meet up later and dance the night away. It’ll be great. Really, everything’s fine.”

  She chews on her cuticles. “And Tom? Jared will hate it if I’ve embarrassed him.”

  “Please,” I say, waving dismissively. “Do not worry about Tom. I think it takes a lot more to make him uncomfortable.”

  “Can we please make margaritas? I want to have fun.”

  “You should take a nap—here, I’ll take one with you.” I lie down beside her.

  Charly rubs her face hard. “I can’t sleep. As soon as I start to fall asleep I see a baby crying and I can’t comfort it because it isn’t mine. And I want to—you know? I really want to but I can’t.”

  She chokes back a sob. Hush, I tell her. Hush.

  “You don’t understand,” she says. “You don’t want children. You probably think I’m such a cliché. I am! Sometimes I look at myself and I could die of shame. I just— I just want to be a mother. That’s what I want. I want a family of my own—without a child I’m just a failed actress married to a frat boy.”

  “There’s other things in life,” I say.

  “Like what? Don’t you dare say a career or I’ll scream.”

  “You and Jared could travel.”

  Her nose is red and snot runs over her lip. She laughs, a big swinging laugh. “I want a family, Elsa. I’m not like you. I don’t want to be alone.”

  It hits me then how Charly must see me: frigid, uncaring, selfish. She sees my life in New York as self-centered. Not aspiring, or independent, but hardened and cold and careless. Never loving, never having loved.

  Nothing ever touches you.

  This startles me. I think over our friendship. Back in the beginning, in those dusty orchard days, I’d swear we were on the same page. Maybe it was later, on that field trip in New York, when one of the Jenner boys kissed me in a dark corner of a museum. Maybe that’s when we started to grow apart. Or maybe it was when I divorced Robby. Maybe she felt abandoned too. I had, in a sense, divorced them all.