Good-bye, my prince.
With a creak and click, it closes over him.
* * *
I awoke at dawn in the grip of a dream.
Alberto and I were sprawled on the sofa in our underwear, my head resting on his chest. Even though we knew he was going to die soon, we were joking about what I’d miss most.
Just say the phrase? I begged. Please?
He toyed with me, laughing with his signature hee-hee-hee.
Come on, I said. I need you to say it.
He sat up, looked mischievously at me, at the bed—then back to me.
I’ll be here, he said with the charm and voice of a child.
Wait—wait—I need to record you!
When I awake, I’m holding my cell phone toward the sky.
The dream hovers as I go through the motions of office brainstormings and a client lunch. It boards my evening flight to Savannah and follows me to the Mansion Hotel. But its grip, thankfully, is no match for the force of nature that is my West Coast girlfriend, Missy.
Come here, you! she shouts, flinging open the door to our suite. It’s been seven years since we saw each another, but like the high-school friends we are, it feels like a minute.
I love your hair! How’s New York?
It rocks—and so do your boots! How’s Arizona?
It blows! What are we drinking?
Over a late dinner, we dish about the California desert: who’s divorced, who had twins, who’s back in jail, and who got remarried after his wife died last year.
Yeah, she sighs. I heard about Yvette. Such an unhappy girl. But good for Hatfield—finding someone new.
The words hang there, waiting for one of us to steer the conversation elsewhere.
* * *
At a vintage shop, we assemble Missy’s costume—’60s dress, go-go boots, hoop earrings, and white eyeliner—à la Priscilla to my Elle-vis.
Between room service and vodka cocktails, we trade makeup tips and tease Missy’s hair into a beehive. We get ready without watching the clock because at thirty-something, we already know that the best part of Halloween is getting ready with a girlfriend.
* * *
The cobblestoned streets of downtown Savannah were costume-crowded last night. Missy and I carried drinks from bar to bar, making dozens of single-serving friends. Last night, her presence made Alberto’s absence seem less palpable, but this morning? At a table for one in a hotel restaurant?
The Alberto-shaped void rushes in.
While Missy sleeps upstairs, I fidget over coffee and the paper, trying to tune out the piped-in music of Sinatra and Mel Tormé. By the time she joins me, I’ve moved on to Bloody Marys and a table in Savannah’s afternoon sun.
* * *
The more cities I live in, Missy confesses, the more I think the Mojave Desert is a death magnet.
I nod my head, mouth full of sashimi.
It’s true, right? People in other places haven’t buried half as many people as we have. Not at this age. It’s not normal. If you think about everyone between Trish . . . and Yvette.
Thinking about the twenty-three dead friends Missy and I have between us makes me push my plate away.
Lift my glass of sake.
To all the lives, I say, meeting her eyes.
And all the love, she adds.
We kanpei and nod skyward.
* * *
Back in New York, the newsstands are splashed with post-season baseball headlines.
The Yankees could clinch the World Series?
And Alberto’s not here to see it?
Or rub it my Red Sox face?
Should I even watch tonight’s game?
* * *
I watched.
They lost.
Fell asleep, ambivalent.
* * *
I wish you were flying into Burbank, my mom sighs through the phone. It’s so much easier than LAX.
I’m sorry, but I have to come straight from work—and all the evening flights go to LAX.
Your father will pick you up, she says. And I ordered the sunflowers for Phil’s wreath today.
Right, I reply. I’ll bring my iPod with his music.
I do not tell her that I’m dreading this annual November trip or that grieving Alberto has added unexpected fuel to the anniversary of my brother’s death.
* * *
Last year on Election Day, I awoke around this time, giddy as Christmas morning. Alberto had voted via Florida absentee, but I walked to the nearby precinct, proudly wearing my YES WE CAN shirt.
An hour later, my civic duty performed, I picked up a latté for me and a dopio with two Splendas for him. He was dressing when I returned and we decided to meet for dinner before heading to an election party. Like most mornings, I walked him to the front door and waited there—you got your keys? your phone? your Zipcard?—until the lift arrived and we blew each other a kiss as the elevator doors closed.
Some mornings, this ritual hits me like an ice storm. Today is one of those mornings.
* * *
The Yankees win.
All I can think about is what I’ve lost.
Travel as Prozac
Gotta love California: the state where, at any given moment, you can “find yourself here”:
between seasons, temperatures, grief, and guests.
(November 12, 4:44pm via Twitter)
* * *
Two days in the desert has disoriented me.
I fall asleep knowing Alberto’s dead.
I wake, dreaming of him alive.
I shake myself into present tense via coffee, the Bible, a newspaper.
Somewhere between sunrise and sunset, I get the urge to text him.
When my dad says something funny.
When my mom breaks something.
When the neighbors play Paquito in the evening.
My hand reaches for my cell before it remembers that no one gives a damn if my parents are fighting (they are) or if the dishwasher is unloaded (it’s not) or if the Cuban neighbors are partying (they are).
This is the desert, where suspension of disbelief is the order of things.
* * *
My dad and I are in the outdoor living room, huddled over my laptop, when my mom opens the patio door.
Alberto’s—
For a half-second, I expect her sentence to end with on the phone or sent you flowers.
I look at her, waiting.
. . . his shoes—were they Reebok?
My face falls.
His shoes?
The ones he customized with the Revolución logo—were they Reebok?
I don’t understand the context of her question nor do I know which tense to reply in, so I just look away and shake my head.
* * *
Fifteen years ago today, a knock on my bedroom door woke me.
What time you gotta be at work, my brother asked.
Ten forty-five, I mumbled.
Better get up, he said.
I know, I said, sliding out of the covers and heading downstairs for coffee.
I showered, gathered my textbooks for an evening class, and rushed outside to find my vintage BMW idling in the driveway.
I halted, confused: how was my car running when I’d parked it in the garage last night?
Phil appeared from the side yard.
You pulled my car out? I said.
You were running late, he shrugged.
You rule, I said.
I’d thrown my stuff in the passenger seat and walked around to the driver’s side.
Have a good day, he said and gave me a hug.
An hour later, he’d driven his 300 ZX to our friend Jimmy’s house. Jimmy wasn’t home so he’d gone north on Sierra Hi
ghway, out to Hatfield’s house. While he was there, the sky had darkened and the roads slickened with the first rain of the season.
An hour later, he took Sierra Highway south and between Avenue C and D, he attempted to pass a sedan. Maybe the sedan sped up or maybe he miscalculated the passing distance. Either way, a pick-up truck was heading straight at him.
He slowed down, tried to pull back into his own lane.
He didn’t make it.
Struck by the truck on his passenger side.
According to the accident report, the cause of death was blunt trauma to the head.
Driver was not wearing his seat belt.
Time of death: 12:05pm.
Have a good day, he’d said and gave me a hug.
I wake this morning to another November 10th and slip out of the guestroom for coffee, passing the pictures of my brother’s eighteen years framed in the hall.
I’ve long since quit the job that he woke me for that morning. Sold the BMW he pulled out of the garage for me. But that hug is still as tangible as the red leaves falling in my parents’ backyard this morning.
* * *
At the site of the accident on Sierra Highway, an annual ritual has been defined and refined over the years. My dad is the designated driver and keeps the soundtrack of Phil’s favorite music playing for the hour or two we spend here. Mom shines Phil’s monument with metal polish. I pour beers into plastic cups and assemble a flower bouquet.
All of us write letters to Phil.
Today I sit cross-legged on the hard ground, staring at the blank white card I’ve brought. I try to summon handwriting, but all I’m thinking about is the fact that Alberto and Phil have finally met. (What are they saying to each other?) The violins of the Beastie Boys are pouring out of my dad’s SUV and I hear my mom say this is the song, isn’t it?
(The song that was playing as he crashed.)
The day after the accident, my dad went to the towing yard and pried a cassette from the tape deck of Phil’s car.
It was the Beasties’ “Ill Communication.”
A year and half later, I took mushrooms in Malibu with a boyfriend, slipped my own copy of “Ill Communication” into the CD player, and pressed “random,” asking God to show me the song that was playing when it happened.
When Track 12 launches, I check the title on the CD case and shake my head for a few long moments before telling the boyfriend that the song is called “Eugene’s Lament.” And that Phil’s middle name was Eugene.
On the third anniversary of his death, I tell my parents that I know which song was playing.
(I leave out the mushroom part.)
Yes, Mom, this is the song.
She nods, picks up her beer, and starts writing Phil.
* * *
It’s my last night and dinner in California with my parents.
Are you planning to visit Hilda over Christmas? Mom asks.
She’ll be in the Dominican Republic, I say. And actually, I’ve started planning a trip to Brazil. New Year’s in Copacabana is on the bucket list.
Would you go alone? Dad asks.
With cousin Brent. And his girlfriend, Quiana . . . you guys met her at the service.
I think I remember her, Dad says. Do you guys have friends down there?
Not yet, I say.
* * *
One of my many job perks is the seasonal cocktail-tasting my colleagues and I do for our vodka client. At the apartment of a renowned mixologist tonight, we spend a few hours trying spring cocktails and choose five that seem press-worthy. As we’re leaving his building afterward, a fleet of fire trucks and ambulances scream by and halt just south of us.
Firemen jump to the sidewalk and race inside a building, which is not burning.
Somewhere in the floors above us, a tragedy has happened.
A child choked on something.
A grandfather fell.
A husband went to sleep and never woke up.
As my co-workers talk and walk a few steps ahead, I repeat my siren prayer until we turn the corner and emergency vehicle lights are no longer bouncing off our faces and coats.
* * *
Landed in London this morning and tonight I reunite with Dimi, friend and brand ambassador for a top-shelf vodka. Dimi whispers something to the mixologist of the Connaught and when I lean in, I overhear the words bring it neat.
Why so secretive, Dimi?
I want to see, he explains, if you can discern the particular flavor of vodka in this drink.
His line has four flavors. How hard can this be?
The drink arrives and I take a noseful.
It smells like original, I admit.
Taste it, he urges.
I do.
A faint almond note, I offer.
I am, apparently, the second person to say this.
Try it again, he says, looking at the mixologist.
I close my eyes, suck air over the liquid, drawing the flavor into my nose.
Slight . . . chamomile hint?
Think less herbaceous, Dimi says. More gourmet French.
The flavor hits me.
Guys? Is this drink vegetarian?
Their eyes widen.
Which is answer enough.
Did you just serve me foie-fucking-gras vodka?
They are not laughing.
But I am.
Alberto would be laughing.
I’ve heard the laugh that goes with this scenario.
We’d gone to a seafood place in Miami that he loved as a kid. I declared the clam chowder to be the best I’d ever had and placed a second order before finishing the first.
When I reached the bottom of the bowl, I realized why it was so good.
Uh-oh, I say, setting down my spoon.
Que fuí? he asks. What happened?
I tilt the bowl toward him and show him the unmistakable pink of bacon pieces.
He throws his head back, slaps his knee, laughs loud and long. He keeps it up even after I’ve cancelled my second bowl and we’re heading back to the Shore Club.
Ha! Best clam chowder you’ve ever had! See? Bacon is good!
* * *
After dinner with Dimi, I returned to the hotel and found the bed in my room turned down.
For two.
Two sets of slippers.
Chocolates on each pillow.
Half-hysterical, I called my mom, who kept me on the phone until I sobered up and calmed the hell down.
On my way out today, I introduce myself to Carl the Concierge and tell him I have a sensitive request.
I’m here alone, I explain, but housekeeping turned the bed down for two and set out two of everything. It’s my first holiday season without my husband and it’s . . . a little rough. Can my room be made up for one during the remainder of my stay?
Of course, Miss Miller. I’ll inform the staff straightaway.
* * *
On a tour of the Globe, we learn that the original walls were made with plaster and cow hair. During a rebuild in the 1990s, the architects had trouble replicating the plaster due to “a lack of hairy English cows.” After a number of iterations, they decided to use Pashmina cashmere.
Cashmere walls sound like something Alberto would get behind. I adjust his cashmere scarf around my own neck and decide a drink is something I can get behind. Damp and cold, I duck into Horace Jones Vault under Tower Bridge and order a Hoegaarden with a Havana neat.
I place the glass of Cuban rum where Alberto should be and settle into my table as a jazz band is starting up. The opening notes of “Favorite Things” float over my shoulder. Despite the miles I’ve put between me and New York, this song transports me to the other side of the pond.
The band moves into “The Lady Is a Tramp.”
And then “Night and Day.”
I order another beer.
When “’Deed I Do” in the Diana Krall style starts up, I decide to escape this sea of standards.
I signal for the bill as the band launches into what happens to be their final song.
It’s “Smooth Operator,” which has nothing to do with Alberto and everything to do with Phil.
A decade after this song came out, I heard it blasting from his room and wondered how he—a DJ-Quik-Dr.-Dre-Bob-Marley–listening kid—got into Sadé? I assumed it was a girl, one of the older ones he ran around with, but I never got around to asking.
* * *
On the approach to Stonehenge, Tina the Tour Guide repeats what most of us have heard before: Celtic druids have tried to prove their ties to the monument, but there’s much speculation about why it was built.
When I step onto the site, the scale of the stones shocks me in the way that real-life encounters with things you’ve seen on so many screen savers and calendars do. Even though I know I can’t capture it any better than the postcards in the gift shop, I can’t stop shooting Stonehenge: every passing cloud and sunbeam affects the tone of the stones.
On the long trip back to the city, I do some online research and stumble across a Stonehenge theory that has nothing to do with druids. Archaeologists have found evidence supporting the hypothesis that it was built to honor the dead by the people who lived in the area.
The theory claims that on the winter solstice, ancient Southern Britons would bring the cremated remains of their dead to the River Avon to scatter on the water. The tribe would then make a two-and-a-half-kilometer pilgrimage to Stonehenge, where they performed a group ceremony to honor the dead and acknowledge the cycle of life. The parallel of my two thousand-mile journey this week to perform an ash-and-water ceremony does not escape me.
When I return to the hotel tonight, I stop to thank Carl the Concierge for arranging my excursion and the conversation expands to what I’m doing for Christmas.
Which cities in Brazil? he asks
Florianópolis for a few days, then over to Iguazu to helicopter over the waterfalls and hike in on Christmas. Then eight days in Río for New Year’s.
Alone, he asks?
For the first part, yes, but I’ll meet my cousin and his girlfriend in Río.
Good for you, he says. At this time in your life, you should go out and experience things like this. Make a fresh start.
Splitting the Difference Page 17