“Ever heard of fathers?”
“Ever heard of defaulting on student loans and getting behind in mortgage payments and being too embarrassed to tell your friends because they’ll get on your case and interrogate you about what you’ve done to ruin your credit and then have nowhere else to turn but them?”
“Ever considered making your daughter get her own apartment and maybe that thing called a job and not buying her luxury cars and the latest of everything?”
“She’s my daughter.”
“She’s also twenty-five.”
I down my mojito. “I don’t get it, Violet. You’re a fucking sports attorney!”
“Not anymore.”
“What!”
“I’m under investigation by the bar for purportedly violating two codes of professional conduct.”
“Are you serious?”
She nods but doesn’t look at me. She’s staring at the empty shells. “Yes.”
“For doing what?”
“It’s total bullshit.”
“Answer the question, Violet.”
“For purportedly accepting gifts from a client or two and for sexual misconduct, and I’m not getting into any details. I’m going to fight it.”
“Really? So you’re sitting here saying you didn’t do any of this shit?”
“Everybody does it but I’m just being singled out.”
“Oh, so the bar doesn’t like you, is that it?”
“I don’t need a lecture, Georgia. I’m just trying to figure out my next steps and how to do what you’re doing.”
“Which is what?”
“Reinventing yourself.”
“Who said I was trying to reinvent myself?”
“You’re a middle-aged woman attempting to sell your beautiful home for no legitimate reason except that you’re bored and trying to start a new career when the one you have is perfectly fine, and then to top it off you’re looking up all your old boyfriends hoping you can hook back up with one of them since you can’t seem to find one right here in the Bay Area.”
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Not enough.”
“So I’m not even going to address what you just said. But back to your request. I can’t afford to lend you ten thousand dollars right now, Violet, especially since my own financial future might be tenuous.”
She rolls her eyes at me.
“When do you think you might be able to pay me back?”
“How in the hell do I know?”
“I could do five.”
“That won’t cut it.”
“You’re really scaring me, Violet. You’ve just laid some heavy-duty shit on me, and a few minutes ago my partner did the exact same thing, which means I’m going to have to postpone my so-called reinvention, as if you care. What did you do with the ten grand you borrowed from Wanda?”
“I told her not to tell you!”
“Well, she told me. So what are you going to do about it? We love your stupid ass, and you can take my offer or leave it.”
“Wanda and her big fucking mouth. You know what? I’m done with both of you bitches.”
I stand up after this. “I’m not hungry. And I don’t think you should drive home in this rain,” I say.
“I drive a fucking Range Rover,” she says, standing up, and I plop back down.
“Look. I said I’d lend you five thousand.”
“I’m not going to beg for your help. And as of this moment, this friendship is officially over.”
And she storms out.
I’ve barely had a chance to process what Lily and Percy have told me, and now in the very same hour one of my oldest friends has just laid some hard-core shit on me by throwing a temper tantrum worthy of the twins. Violet’s got a lot of nerve. But she’s been pulling similar stunts like this for years. She thinks the world revolves around her and her needs. She never asks what anyone else might need. And she’s not drunk. She’s dramatic. But I’m about to put a few away until I simmer down. This is all too much to process at once.
I have one more mojito, call the Hyatt and a taxi, and send Frankie a text telling her what’s going on with the staging and why she should call Aunt Wanda. I also tell her I’m feeling a little under the weather and not sure if it’s contagious, so I’m going to spend the night at the Hyatt.
In the morning I don’t feel like going to work, so I call in sick. I also don’t want to go home. So I don’t. I call this a vacation, but I think it’s probably better known as a breakdown.
I tell Marina the truth. She says, “I’ve been there, too, Doc. Sometimes you just need to pause. And it’s not like your patients are sick. Just stock up on the Splenda for me.”
I put on the terry-cloth bathrobe and fall across the bed and look up at the ceiling. For some stupid reason, there are tears falling from my eyes, so I wipe them with the sash. But then here comes more of them, and I decide to just let them roll. I need to feel what I feel and stop pretending I don’t feel it.
A few months ago, I was hopeful. Excited. I was going on a train ride. I was selling my home. I was trying to decide when it would make sense to tell Lily I want to sell my partnership. I was thinking about when and how to consider starting a whole new career. I was even thinking about taking classes that might not add up to anything. I was going to start exercising. I was thinking of looking up old loves just to see how they were doing, to make amends, to let them know I hadn’t forgotten them. Maybe acknowledge what I might have learned.
And here I am holed up in a hotel room acting like my world is caving in on me or about to end when neither is true.
On day three I perk up. My pity party was fun, but it’s over.
I clean out the tub and soak for an hour in lavender bath crystals. I put on a clean robe. I throw my wig in the trash and wash my hair. I don’t wash out the conditioner. I put the Do Not Disturb tag on the door and realize I’m hungry. I stare at the bag of Lay’s potato chips staring back at me and reach for a big green apple instead. To my surprise, it’s tasty. I get a hundred-dollar bottle of sparkling water from the minibar and sit down at the desk and open my laptop and am astounded when I see I actually have four comments.
The first is from Saundra Lee Jones, a girl I went to middle and high school with in Bakersfield. She looks worse than I do. I didn’t like her because she was shady. She would smile in my face and then talk about me like a dog behind my back to someone else who also didn’t like her, but she didn’t know it, and they’d run back and tell me what she said. It was always about me acting like I was so smart. But I was smart. Or how nice my parents dressed me, but I couldn’t help it if we weren’t poor. And how many boys liked me, even some Mexican and white boys, which apparently made her feel like scratching her fingernails on that green chalkboard, something she actually did on quite a few occasions. My hair was thick and long, and hers was stringy and thin, which made her complain about why ponytails were overrated. I was also a good dancer, and Saundra had issues with rhythm, which is why she always stepped on her partners’ toes and preferred not to slow-dance unless it was unavoidable. Saundra also didn’t like being black.
Hi there, Georgia! I finally found you! Just wanted to say hello and wondered if you were planning on attending our 40th high school reunion coming up late August, since you’ve missed all the other ones except the tenth, if memory serves me correctly. From your picture, let’s hope we’ll both have lost a few pounds by then. It would be nice to catch up. I live in New Orleans. I never had children, but my most recent husband of five years passed on Christmas Day of 2008. We were late bloomers, but he was my sole mate. I see you’re an optometrist. I skipped college, but I do enjoy selling cars. I’d never figure you’d go the medical route, although it’s an honorable profession. You seemed suited for something more flamboyant. Hope to see you in Bakersfield! Be in touch, but I doubt if I’ll hear from you, because I know you didn’t like me forty years ago. Maybe you will now that we’re both old.
Onc
e a bitch. Always a bitch.
Since I’m not dead, I feel obligated to respond.
Good to hear from you, Saundra! Thanks for reaching out! Looking forward to seeing you at the reunion.
I scroll down to the next person I do recognize. It’s my daughter Frankie.
Mom, what up? Say something to the world! Let them know you exist! What are you thinking about? What bothers you? What do you find fascinating? What’s that itch you have yet to scratch? Who do you love?
Is she serious? Why in the world would I put any of this on Facebook for people I don’t know and who don’t know me to read? I hit the Reply button.
Because if I wanted to share my personal feelings about anything I certainly wouldn’t put it on social media to be scrutinized. And who cares what I care about and what I think? Anyway, I am in the process of giving that itch some thought. I love you. And whomever else I may or may not love is nobody’s damn business. Please don’t do this again. Next time just call or text me. Love, Mom.
Next is Mona Kwon. What on earth is she doing on Facebook?
Hello, Dr. Young! I can’t believe you finally got on Facebook! You will find it exciting and a wonderful way to interact with friends and strangers who can become friends. Or perhaps find your third husband!! I appreciate the good care and attention you give my eyes! And I totally dig all the cool frames you sell, especially my new Tom Fords! See you soon!
When did Mona buy a pair of Tom Fords? And when did she get hip? And how in the hell does she know how many husbands I’ve had? I know that Marina didn’t tell her. This is one more reason I don’t trust social media. And sometimes even Google. It’s like people can peek right through your windows even when the curtains are drawn.
I decide it’s best not to respond to Mona. Her comments and Frankie’s were posted months ago, and Mona hasn’t mentioned it. If she does, I’ll just play dumb.
Right below Mona is a picture of a well-preserved man whose name is Warren Flowers. I have no idea who this guy is. Maybe he thinks I’m a different Georgia Young.
It’s been centuries, Georgia, and from your photo I see you’re faring well. Not sure if you remember me, but to remind you, I was one of the pharmacists at the hospital where you interned back in the day. I always said hello when you got your car out of the parking structure. At any rate, I see you still live in the Bay Area, as do I. I’m now at Walgreens in Walnut Creek.
I do not recall ever meeting Warren, not even after staring at his picture and trying to remove the creases in his face and the gray hair. I delete his comment, because if I don’t remember him, why should I try to?
—
We hire a new tech. We’ve never had a black one before. Don’t know why. He’s over six feet tall and weighs about the same as me. He wears suspenders on top of shirts that will be a different color on the color wheel almost daily; Urkel plaid or pin-striped pants with white socks and expensive loafers; add to all of this some shiny manicured dreadlocks that look like a container of extra-large black french fries from McDonald’s and white-framed Prada glasses, making him look very British. The first thing he says to me is weird: “I like girls.” I just say, “Suit yourself.” His name is Mercury Jones. Yes, he tells me, it’s his real name. Marina loves him. He’s also a part-time student at the Academy of Art. Major: digital illustration.
During our five-minute interview, I asked him why he wanted to work here. “Because I need a job,” he said, and smiled. He then went on to tell me he took a year to get certified as an optometric technician mostly because he wanted to get a respectable and somewhat interesting job that allowed him to deal with the public and in an environment that was aesthetically pleasing and, in this case, one that was within walking distance from the academy, where he’ll get his degree in two years, which is how long he hoped he’d be able to work here.
I already like Mercury. Mostly for his honesty, but I also dig the way he dresses. And being a tech is really 50 percent public relations, 25 percent salesmanship, and 25 percent anything else that needs to be done. There are not a lot of technical skills needed to be a technician, but I’m relieved we’re now all one big happy optometric family.
Loss of Use
Frankie and Hunter move into Wanda and Nelson’s guesthouse two days before Percy starts doing his thing. I decide to just stay at the Hyatt, because they’ve given me a corporate rate. I go home and pack enough things to hold me for a week or so, including my chocolate penis. I take one last glance around just to remember what my home looked like before it gets de-Georgia-ed. Violet cashed my check without so much as a thank-you. Wanda hasn’t heard a peep out of her either. I’m pissed at her, but I hope she’s okay.
After a week I’m already tired of living in a hotel. I call Wanda.
“You wanna meet me in the city for dinner?”
“Why and where?”
“Toulouse Petit. Because I haven’t seen you since your dinner party.”
“That’s not the real reason. Should I invite Nelson?”
“No.”
“Something’s going on, then. What is it?”
“I’m not saying.”
“Come on, Georgia, just tell me, what’s the occasion?”
“Didn’t you say you remembered Eric?”
“Of course I do. He’s one of the Talented Five. And of the bunch, he’s the one who got away. Why?”
“He owns Toulouse Petit.”
“Get the hell outta here! How’d you find that out?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Facebook. He sure has good taste. Get it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“So are you going to corner him or what, girl?”
“Get serious. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I don’t remember ever seeing him when we’ve eaten there.”
“Maybe he was back in the kitchen. Anyway, I’ll make the reservation so we keep it on the down low. Seven work for you?”
“Yes, it does. But there’s also the possibility of potentially good news. And don’t ask. I’ll see you there.”
I do not know what has possessed me to do this, but I’m not going to back out or get cold feet. I hadn’t really thought about the likelihood or even the possibility of seeing any of these men face-to-face. I decide to write Eric a note, because there’s no way I’d put anything this personal on Facebook. I use a soft font. Ironically, it’s called Georgia.
Hello, Eric! I just learned that you’re the owner of the amazing restaurant I’ve been patronizing since its opening! I’ve never seen you there, and I’m heading over for dinner this evening. In case you’re not there, I just wanted to let you know how proud I am of you, and I’m thrilled that you’ve done so well for yourself. I also want you to know that I’ve never forgotten you, our short but amazing time together, but mostly the joy we shared when we were younger even though you kicked me to the curb so you could attend that chef school in Paris and of course I had this thing called a job, but it appears you made the right decision! I looked you up on Facebook, but you don’t offer much personal information. You still look good. Healthy. And I hope this means you’re happy. Would love to see you! I’ve aged! Estelle is almost thirty, and my younger daughter is twenty-two. I’m twice divorced. So that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it! I’m enclosing my card. My office is minutes away, so maybe we could have coffee or I could get a free meal out of you! If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll understand that you probably have a good reason. At any rate, just wanted to tell you how happy I am for you, knowing that your dreams did come true. Here’s a bear hug for old times’ sake. Warmly, Georgia Young.
P.S. BTW: No one has ever called me baby the way you did!
Okay. So it’s not a note, it’s a letter, but if he’s there and available, I’ll give him the abbreviated version to his face. If he’s not there, I’ll simply leave it with the maître d’. I put it in a sealed white envelope and write his name: Eric Francois.
I do my best to look as good as I po
ssibly can. I wear light blue. Black pumps. My hair is now kinky-curly and short. Of course Wanda beats me here. She waves to me like she hasn’t seen me in years.
The restaurant is dramatic. Wood and rattan and floor lamps and floor-to-ceiling tinted windows. Red velvet drapes hang in front of some tables, giving them privacy. We sit out in the open.
“He’s not here,” she says.
“Who’d you ask?”
“That gorgeous hostess over there with the short blond Afro.”
I turn to look. She is striking.
“Maybe I should go blond!” I say.
Wanda sucks her teeth.
“Will he be here sometime this evening?”
“Nope. Apparently he’s a marathoner and is in some country being Forrest Gump.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “BTW, I’m not drinking tonight.”
“Me either,” she says.
We order.
Wanda: A yellow beet salad. Cauliflower, asparagus, and white truffle soup with Dungeness crab.
Me: Heirloom tomato salad. Barbecued shrimp with hominy grits. We share a roasted duck.
“So aren’t you excited that your house is finally going on the market?”
“Yes and no.”
“I know it screws up your train ride, but this is the reason God invented vacations, Georgia! You can still catch that midnight train to whenever and wherever the hell you’re planning to go. Choo-choo!”
“Vancouver. And all across Canada to Toronto.”
“Why in the world do you want to go to Canada?”
“Because I want to. We’ve already had this conversation, so please stop asking me.”
“Well, you could probably get the same results after five days on the beach in Cabo. Just sayin’.”
I roll my eyes at her. Our non-drinks come.
“I’m skipping the subject. So now that your house is going on the market what would you do if somebody offered to buy it, like, immediately?”
“I’d have to move out.”
I Almost Forgot About You Page 19