dots

  “I’ll see. Chloe, what are you up to now?” It’s great to hear that tone. I’ve missed it.

  I give her the briefest rundown of my project.

  “What’s it for?”

  “It’s my own way of saying thank you.” That’s all I can tell her, unless I want her roaming the F#ck It List website. I shudder at the thought.

  “You know who might be willing to listen, maybe even help out? What about that news reporter who interviewed him? She didn’t have a bad thing to say about him. What was her name, Mila? Mia?”

  “Mom, you’re a genius. I knew there was a reason why I called you! Love you so much! Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  I wait till she kisses the phone receiver before I hang up.

  I work on my project, but no matter how many times I move stuff around, it still looks like a high school science project. Well-designed but slightly sophomoric. Lola and her advertising skills could really make this thing soar. She’d really be able to make him shine. I notice the time and wrap it up. It’s time for me to shine. I’m meeting Gram and Mason today.

  By the time Mason gets shocked by my very unsafe doorbell, I’m just putting the finishing touches on my mascara. I stick my head into my tiny hallway and yell, “If it’s Mason, and not a serial killer, come on in!”

  I hear the door open. Either I’ll be getting hammered with Mason, or just a plain hammer to the head if it’s not who I’m expecting.

  “Jeez, Chloe, open a window.” It’s him! Butterflies try to take flight from the pit of my stomach. Is that? Nerves. I feel…nervous. Then I think, it’s only Mason. Then, yeah, it’s Mason. It will crush me if he doesn’t even see me, the real me, through all the cancer. What if I walk out there and he thinks he’s my caregiver like the beret lady had? Oh my gosh. What if he has a walker! I can’t even help it; I’m starting to hyperventilate.

  Mason appears in the doorway, really huffing, trying to match my frenzied breathing. In between breaths, he whispers, “What are we doing?” and keeps breathing like he’s popping out a kid.

  I grin, then laugh along with him. “Glad you weren’t peeing, since I know how much you like to do that in front of an audience,” he says as he walks back out to the living room.

  “But seriously, Chloe, I’m getting high just being in the same building as you. Please promise you’ll let some from fresh air in.

  I grin. I’ve been getting high since…a year ago. I hadn’t touched the stuff till Dr. Fitzmann offered me a pot card ‘to help with the pain.’ My apartment’s never smelled the same since. It really does need an air out. “Can’t. They’re painted shut.”

  I hear the scream of the windows being pried open and run out. “Mason, be careful.”

  He doesn’t know about Queen Sheba. “I’ve got a—” He turns, holding my minx in one arm. “Cat?” he asks and one-arms the next window open without taking his eyes off of me. “I’m only opening the ones with screens.” He looks me up and down. “Wow, Chloe. With all that paint and spackle, you’re mighty hot.”

  I bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’m a master at camouflage. Hey, don’t get too attached. Remember I have a return date!”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Are you ready? Uber’s outside.”

  “No chauffeur?” I tease Mr. Moneybags on the way down the front stairs.

  “Yeah. Uber. What do you think he is?” He cocks a thumb at our driver and opens the door.

  I introduce myself as I slide across the backseat. Felipe’s our driver for the night. I reach down to make sure I brought my pot pen and realize. “Shit! I forgot my art bag! Can you grab it, Mase? It’s open.”

  He looks at me like my hair’s on fire. “What? Your apartment? Are you crazy, Chloe? This is LA, for God’s sake.” He leans in the front window and tosses—I have to get in between the seats so I can see—a hundred-dollar bill? And I’m the crazy one? Why not just walk around with a sign that says, rob me, I’m rich?

  I pipe up. “They don’t take tips, Mason.”

  Felipe raises his hand. “I do,” he declares and makes the money disappear.

  Mason watches Felipe watching me. Is he…jealous? “Hey, that tip means no touching. Eyes front, got it?”

  The driver nods, gives me one last leer and turns back to the front. What was that look?

  He’s too much. “Mason.”

  To me, he says, “Do you have keys if I lock it up?”

  Trying not to sound too vague, I say, “Somewhere…”

  Mason runs up to the apartment, drops a hand on Queen Sheba as she’s now become a flight risk. She’s more spry then I’ve ever seen her. She really just tried to escape right now. The cat that falls asleep in the litter box? Maybe she’s been oxygen deprived, breathing secondhand pot this whole time and not just a lazy ass like I thought. Will wonders never cease?

  Mason

  I give the driver the look. The one that says back the fuck off. It’s what her brother would do if he were here. I keep looking at him till he turns away from her. Good. I walk right through her front door—no key—and grab her oversized bag. Yep, it’s a Coach luggage bag, just as I thought. Thrown on the ground by the door, same place it’s been since I started talking to her. The thought maybe she’ll draw today squashes my fighting mood. I get to be a part of it.

  The bag’s not zipped. I look in, feeling like the cop with the pen and poke around a little. It’s amazing. As messy as she is, in theory, the inside of the bag is pristine. There are sewn-in pockets holding a neat array of artist’s tools. She’s got everything from charcoal to paint. Everything sharpened, capped, single file. All of her art supplies, orderly, clean. Nothing like the rest of this place. I can’t help myself. I look out the open front door, but Chloe’s occupied. Talking to the Uber driver who I didn’t even know spoke English when he picked me up. Or rather, he’s talking to her. I move to the doorway to hear her answer. “Yes, of course I like to go to raves…”

  I knew it. That guy wants into Chloe’s…world. I sigh.

  I put the bag down, open the zipper the rest of the way, and steal a quick peek at her sketchbook. It’s amazing. She’s drawn the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier. She’s captured the very essence of a summer night, at dusk, sitting on the top of the ride. All of the people—adults, kids, carnival barkers, even the two men fishing off the side of the pier—all have one thing in common. Red clown noses. It looks, “Silly peaceful.”

  “Hey, when I thought you were up here doing pervy things, I expected to find you rifling through my panty drawer, not my sketchbook.” She’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed.

  My cheeks flame. “Sorry, I was curious,” I mumble.

  I’m surprised when I hear anxiety instead of anger in her tone. “It’s called The Brass Ring. Do you think it’s stupid? Childish? I wanted to draw my favorite place, but it made me sad. I’m not sure why.

  “So I added clown noses to everyone. Including me. See me there?” She points to the head with the billowing red curls. Yes, that’s her. Next to her, Ronny in his uniform and a blond head tilted back. Everyone wearing clown noses. I can’t stop admiring it. And then it hits me. The noses. “You can’t be sad when you’re wearing a clown nose.”

  “That’s exactly right, Mason.” She taps the end of her nose and shakes a set of keys hanging from a rainbow lanyard.

  We head out a locked door and she leans in. She smells like a sugar cookie. “And you were right, by the way. Felipe just got all America’s Most Wanted on me. Wanted to take off and leave you. Something about a roofie.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “See?”

  “Si. Ronny would be proud.”

  On the way to Grams, I extoll the merits of safety. No talking to strangers at the top of my list, neck and neck with always lock your door.

  But she’s not listening. Just looking out the window. “Earth to Chloe. Come in, Chloe.”

  “Mars to Earth. I’m here,” she says and turns, giving me a megawatt smile.

  “Guess you�
�re not mad I looked through your stuff,” I say.

  “No, never. I’m just thinking, you know, the usual, scheming and plotting.” A hurt look crosses her face. “You didn’t even notice my dress. It’s Vera…as in Wang.” She smooths the pleats down on what looks like a flower-covered sack. I don’t know what a Wang is, but I do know women. Sometimes I don’t see the trees with the forest in the way. “I did. I said, ‘Wow!’ when I saw you.” I can’t help but grin back and let her know. “Chloe, you are scrambled eggs.”

  Her face twists up. “Thanks, I think.”

  I laugh. “In a world of hard-boileds, you’re the scrambled. My favorite.”

  She reaches over and pulls me into a headlock, “Aww, Mason, you silver-tongued devil, you,” she says and grinds a knuckle into the top of my head.

  Playfully, I reach up and stop the finger digging into my skull. “Is this how you all hug over on Seventh? ’Cause up on the hill, we call this assault.”

  She laughs. “Just don’t call the police. I don’t know if I’ve got another get outta jail free card in me.”

  “Anyway,” I say as she smooths my hair, which is standing straight up, I’m sure. “I would have brought up your beauty—it surpasses the moon—but I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

  Her eyes are as round as doughnuts. “Me?” she asks.

  “Yes, you. Clearly you are a stalker, and I have to watch what I say to you or you’ll be out buying the ring!”

  She giggles at her own words.

  I turn and realize we’re close when I spot the convertible…and the blonde. Darby’s here. To Chloe’s admirer, I say. “Pull around to the back.”

  Chloe

  I don’t miss the Ferrari or the blonde draped over it.

  We pass near the building, and I see him. Grayer around the edges, but it’s him coming out of the building. Mason’s dad.

  I duck, trying to peer out the window while managing not to be seen.

  Mason laughs at my hijinks. “Don’t worry, he’s only got eyes for that one.” He tilts his chin out my side of the window. There’s hurt in his eyes as he adds. “The flavor of the week.”

  I look back over my shoulder. The embrace turns into something more. I look at Mason. “Must be bubble gum, because she looks younger than me.”

  He nods but doesn’t speak.

  We turn the corner, and I forget about the Ferrari. “Is that?”

  “Welcome to Gram’s house.”

  A door opens and Gram appears, complete with a blue checked apron. I clap my hands. “This is gonna be fabulous!”

  Mason looks truly happy. As we walk into the waiting arms of Gram, he mutters, “Oh, and Gram has a way of making everything sound like it just came out of the oven.”

  Okay. Whatever that means.

  “She’s beautiful, Mason.” I see what he means. Her voice wraps me in warm velvet. If she’s shouted a day in her life, I’d be surprised.

  She stands smiling at me. Next she’ll be checking my teeth. Measuring how many hands high I am.

  “I’m dying.” I say, not to put her off, but to let her know.

  She leans forward. “Me too.” She hands me a shot. “To banjo-playing angels!” And I love her already.

  By the time we finish our first bottle of whiskey, Gram knows all about me, from my cancer to my artwork, she’s seen and heard everything. Mason, passed out on the coach, can’t hold his liquor. His Gram starts to giggle, and I join in.

  Feeling the need to explain, I say, “It’s all the late nights he’s been putting in with me.”

  “Lightweight.”

  To him, I say in my church voice, “Do you want a blanket to go with that nap, Mason?”

  Which makes Gram—and seriously, that’s what she asked me to call her—only giggle harder.

  “Hey, ladies. I’m trying to hover here.” That’s it, we’re both in fits at this point.

  He sits, abandoning the nap. “I need some water,” he says and gets up, walking with one shoe on to the kitchen. I look around the cozy place. Every available flat surface is covered with pictures of Mason under Daisy magnets. Yes, he’s loved.

  “Did you know that Mason’s a juggler?” Gram asks, loud enough that he can hear in the kitchen. I hear the fridge door shut, but no steps.

  “Really?” I say for my buddy in the kitchen.

  “Yes, went to a class to learn and everything.” She thinks back.

  “Mason,” she calls, but still manages to sound like melted chocolate coats her words. She’s very sweet.

  He leans in the doorway, downing a gallon of water. What is it with him and milk containers? “How old were you when your dad taught you to juggle?”

  I don’t know if he knows it or not, but at the mention of his dad, his body stiffens slightly. “Don’t remember. Maybe eight or nine,” he says, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Well, I was just telling Chloe that you’re quite the juggler.” He nods, but says nothing.

  I feel him pulling away. As his Gram begins talking about all things little Mason and gets up to grab a photo album, I see him trying to exit unnoticed.

  And that’s not going to happen. “Hey, Mase. Fun fact: if you abandon me to look at pictures of your childhood alone, I’ll murder you.”

  He turns with a start and joins me on the couch. “I would never do that to you, Chlo-roform.” He grabs his shoe and puts it on.

  I hope she realizes that terminal means I’m not girlfriend material as I smile and nod and examine every picture she points out in her photo album.

  Mason

  I wish she wouldn’t do that. Once the picture books come out, Gram’s had a little too much to drink. Her eyes get misty as she looks at photo after photo of my mom. “Bless her heart, but I miss her.”

  I turn the page she’s been staring at for the last five minutes.

  But she turns it back with a dark look. “There, look.”

  And I do. It’s Mom, when she still remembered us. I look closer.

  Chloe, out of the loop, joins in, trying to see what we see.

  “She’s beautiful! Mason, you look just like her.”

  “That was the last time she was home from the hospital. But she knew even then that time was short. That picture was taken a week before she passed away.” I stand, needing some air.

  “I’m going to let the dogs in,” I say, but the ladies are staring at the picture.

  Yep, she knew. Had asked me to move back home from the dorm. So she could spend some time with me.

  Barely an adult, I mistakenly believed that, sure, there’d be time. Maybe my mom would need more naps, better care. I never thought of time as a thieving bastard until my mom got really sick.

  The dogs are napping in the ‘common room.’ Too old to bark, they just give a halfhearted wag of their tails as I enter. “Come,” I say, imitating Gram.

  One by one, they get up and follow me to the enclosed outer area.

  Gram’s horse whinnies at the company. She’s got the poor thing wearing a straw hat!

  There’s a fence separating the two areas, so I reach over and stroke the horse. I don’t know what she ended up naming it. I know she didn’t like the name that he came with: Glue.

  While the dogs finish their business, I keep looking at the silly hat. It reminds me of Chloe’s beautiful picture. She captured the essence of the pier and added her own little pizzazz. You can’t cry with a clown nose on, I think and head in, dogs in tow, with a better attitude.

  Chloe

  Mason comes in and hugs his grandma first, then me. “Sorry, ladies. I’ll do better.”

  Gram pats his shoulder before handing him the picture in question. “Your momma’s smile shouldn’t be hidden away in a book on some old lady’s shelf. Take this home. I think I might even have a frame you can have.”

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He grins. “Never better. Just, memories. It’s hard to see her like that. Happy, full of life. Like there was no tomorrow, no next week,
just that moment. Plus, it feels foreign to my brain, which keeps trying to overlap that happy face with the memory of the last time I saw her.”

  I think about that. “It’s like teaching yourself a new language. It feels wrong until you master it. Right?”

  “Okay,” he says, clearly not getting it.

  “You just need practice. Gram!” I yell. “Mason’s gonna tell us a story. About the last good day.”

  Gram comes in with a box of Entenmann’s, plates, and a coffee pot. She pretends not to see the panic in his eyes, and she starts doling out pastries. “Chloe, there’s cream and sugar in the kitchen.”

  “On it,” I say. As I grab the stuff, I continue talking. “Mason tells me wonderful stories. I don’t know if you know this or not, but he’s making me feel...hopeful,” I say as I come back in.

  He looks down at the pit bull he’s petting, but I catch the smile. “I’m still not going to marry you, Chloe.”

  His Gram is shocked. “Mason Marcus Dixon! You apologize this instant.”

  I put a hand on Gram’s arm, reassuring her. with a glint in my eye I say, “And I wasn’t asking.”

  When everyone’s situated, with a plate and a dog, he clears his throat.

  “Just a minute.”

  He runs out of the room. I shrug at Gram, who looks worried. Like we’ll hear the car starting any minute.

  Then he’s back with four tennis balls. The dogs’ ears perk up as they watch him move chairs out of the way.

  “The last good day.” Gram smiles encouragingly. “This is exciting!” She squeezes my hand and mouths the words, “Thank you.”

  He clears his throat. “I wanted to hear my mom laugh one more time.” He swallows and his throat clicks. When he starts again, he sounds pained. The same look he wore when he was being bullied on The Spin Show. Gram leans forward, like she needs to protect him, but I hold her back with a look. He needs this.