The View from Here

by Rachel Howzell

  36

  By the time I reached the exam room at Leilani’s doctor’s office, it hurt to see, and I kept my eyes closed as I took off my shirt and bra as instructed, and pulled on the white paper gown. I climbed onto the exam table and studied torn posters taped to the wall as I waited.

  Have You Been Vaccinated?

  What is a Virus?

  Nutritional Facts Every Parent Should Know!

  Outside the room, doors opened and closed. Patients spoke to nurses in broken English. Laughter too loud for a medical center echoed down the hallways. I lay back on the table, eyes closed, and debated. Stay in the room? Or hop off the table and leave, never coming back?

  “Somebody’s not gettin’ no rest.”

  I opened my eyes—I had fallen asleep.

  A large black woman dressed in pink scrubs gathered sticks and swabs onto a steel tray. She smiled at me, showing the gap between her two bottom teeth. “What’s the problem today?”

  I whispered, “I can’t sleep even though it looks like I can. And I’m starting to have bad headaches.”

  The nurse rested her tongue in that gap. It resembled a moray eel. Pink and black, blotted like she had dipped it in ink.

  “Basically, I need something for pain and insomnia,” I said.

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” Not ‘Really? That’s awful,’ but ‘Really? I call bullshit.’

  “I haven’t had a full night’s rest since…” I stopped to think. “I don’t remember when I had a full night’s rest.”

  The nurse smirked, and headed for the door. “All right, then. Dr. Lucas will be here in a minute.”

  My headache took on audio. Sounded like an organ playing chords. Free. Free. Free. Over and over again. But as Dr. Lucas held open my eye with his cold, pink fingers, those blasts hushed into whispers. The pain was hiding from the brightness.

  He stepped away from me, and clicked off his penlight. “Well, Mrs. Baxter, I don’t see anything abnormal.” He was a handsome man with eyes the color of blue steel. He was tall and wide—a middle-aged football player’s body. More play-action pass and leaping over buildings in a single bound than performing rectal exams and poking around in people’s mouths.

  I rubbed swirling dots out of my eyes, and said, “My therapist prescribed Paxil for anxiety, and Valium to help me sleep. But one: I’m still anxious. And two: I’m not sleeping.”

  “Got it,” he said, then scribbled on a prescription pad. “I heard about Truman. I’m terribly sorry. Leilani adored her brother. I saw her the other day. She’s not handling it well, either.” He tore out the prescription. “Grief and depression: that’s probably why you’re getting the headaches. But the pain won’t go away until you get some sleep. Until you find some stability.”

  I offered a weak smile. “Stability? What’s that?”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Klonopin is a wonder drug. One pill, twice a day, and you’ll be a new person in no time. Or, you’ll be the old person you were before.”

  The old person I was before. That’s all I wanted.

  37

  Arnib saw me standing in the pharmacy’s line and pushed his stock cart towards me. He grinned and said, “Did that Tylenol work out for ya?”

  Were we homies now? And I didn’t remember if the Tylenol had worked or not, but I said, “It worked okay.”

  He nodded with enthusiasm. “Good, good. I’m glad. Anything to help.” He gasped, then whispered, “Did you read the article today about Mr. Huston? His client? That gang-banger who murdered the twelve-year old? Got shot yesterday. He’s on life support and may die. Serves him right.”

  “Next in line.” The Korean woman behind the pharmacy counter motioned for me to come forward.

  Arnib said, “Can you believe that? So now, the judge is trying to force Mr. Huston to spill everything the guy told him. But Mr. Huston still won’t talk—”

  “Next in line,” the pharmacist repeated.

  “Mr. Huston had to get his own lawyer, isn’t that crazy?” Arnib said. “I still can’t understand how someone so nice can represent gangs.” His eyes shifted to brown customers roaming the aisles. “I’ve seen a few of them around here. I think they’re visiting Mr. Huston at his house, getting his advice. One was in the store just a minute ago. We’re not supposed to do racial profiling, but this is a nice neighborhood, you know?”

  I caught the pharmacist’s eye, and told Arnib, “I should probably…”

  “Oh. Yeah,” he said. “Don’t mean to keep you. I just wanted to say ‘hi’. See if you’re doing better.” He blushed. “Catch ya later.” Then, he wheeled his cart down PAPER GOODS, and threw one last glance in my direction.

  I raced to the car from the village market, not caring about Jake, the Mexican Mafia or a judge’s orders. I dove behind the steering wheel, tore open the bag, pulled out the vial of Klonopin and popped the top. I shook a pill onto my palm, swallowed it, then took long pulls of Diet Coke. Once again, science had offered a promise—new person in no time. I sank into the seat and waited for my change to come.

  Two parking spaces away, a Latino kid wearing sagging jeans and a pristine white T-shirt leaned against a tricked-out Escalade. His forearms were covered in tattoos, and the diamond and gold watch on his wrist looked more expensive than all of the furniture in my house. He was staring at me, and nodded when I realized that he was standing there. He opened the truck’s door and climbed behind the steering wheel. He glanced at me again before placing a cell-phone against his ear.

  I started my car.

  He started his truck.

  Nervous, I backed out of the space, almost ramming an old man driving a scooter.

  The driver in the Escalade waited. He pulled out as I moved forward.

  I made a left, and decided I would not drive up my street if he was still following me.

  The man in the Escalade turned left.

  Crap.

  At the street before Rockcliff Drive, he turned left again and disappeared down the hill.

  The City had blocked off the bottom of my street—re-tarring and pothole work. I drove past my street and made a left at the next block. I rarely drove home from the east side of the canyon, and most of the houses on these winding streets hid behind high shrubs and gates. As I continued up and west, the neighborhood became familiar again. I slowed as I reached the blind curve before my Cuban neighbors’ place.

  Jake Huston was standing on my kitchen porch, one hand on the doorknob, the other hand clutching a stuffed trash bag. The door was ajar, and golden light from the kitchen gleamed from behind him.

  What the hell is he doing?

  I jammed on the brake, and clicked off the car’s headlamps to stare at him with disbelief.

  Jake threw a glance in the direction I usually took. Seeing no one, he retreated from the porch, bag in hand, and raced up the hill.

  Nauseous, I rounded the bend, and eased into my driveway. I climbed out of the car and gazed in the direction he had run.

  No Jake.

  A breeze passed through the canyon, bringing with it that stink of dead things. And, in that fleeting moment, I wondered: Did Jake and his clients dump that poor dead boy somewhere on the hillside?

  My kitchen door was unlocked, and the security alarm pinged once—I hadn’t armed it before leaving the house.

  Or maybe I had.

  I grabbed my cell-phone from my purse and punched in Jake’s number.

  No answer.

  I gripped the phone tighter as his voice-mail told me to leave a message. I wanted to say What the hell were you doing at my house? Don’t come here anymore. Instead, I ended the call without saying a word. I tossed the phone on the breakfast bar, and took several deep breaths to stop shaking.

  What did he want?

  Maybe he’s planting evidence somewhere in my house, a place cops wouldn’t think to look.

  What was in that trash bag?

  Maybe he’s hiding something that belonged to that dead boy… Like a shoe or t
he boy’s jacket…

  I shook my head, refusing to continue down Tinfoil Hat Alley.

  He must be hiding something.

  Because why had Jake been calling so much? And why wouldn’t he tell the judge where the dead boy was buried? And what the hell was in that trash bag?

  What did Jake Huston want?

  38

  Six hours.

  That’s how long it took for the Klonopin to kick in, aided by an early-morning episode of Wings. I lay on the couch, my mind twisting around my flight from the village market’s parking lot. Who was that guy in the Cadillac? Was he following me? Did he work for Jake? And what was Jake doing at my…?

  My eyelids drooped, and I heard myself snoring, drifting towards sleep…

  The phone rang.

  Startled awake, I grabbed the telephone from the floor and shouted, “What?”

  The den bloomed with sunshine. Designing Women had replaced Wings.

  “I know what will make you feel better.”

  I squinted at the clock: 7:17 a.m. Asleep for five hours. “Leilani, what the hell—”

  “Pack a bag. We’re going to Vegas!”

  Maybe leaving Los Angeles would do me good. Sleeping in a bed instead of sleeping on a couch. Watching people guzzle margaritas-by-the-mile as they pretended to be someone else. Losing myself in the neon distractions of slot machines and the click of roulette wheels. Spending time with Leilani. Spending time away from the house. Away from Truman.

  Outside, a car’s horn blew. I grabbed my overnight bag, and took one last look at the den and that couch as though I’d never return. Was I selfish leaving like this? What if Flex called? What if Truman called?

  I sighed, frustrated with having to play “What If?” before making every decision.

  The horn blew again, and I ran down the stairs to the kitchen. I grabbed my cell-phone from the counter and selected, FORWARD ALL CALLS. Any call from my home telephone would now hit my cell. A good compromise, I thought, as I stepped out into the warm sunlight.

  Leilani sat behind the steering wheel of a cherry-red convertible BMW.

  I stood on the porch, gaping at her.

  Dressed in tight white jeans and a tiny tank top, she smiled and said, “Like it?”

  “When did you buy this?”

  “Yesterday. After my fight with you, I needed something to cheer me up.”

  “Usually people buy shoes or an iPod or…”

  “I’ll pay for it with the money Truman left me,” she said with a shrug. “As soon as I get a job, of course. Think he’d like it?”

  “He’d think that you’re throwing your money away.”

  Leilani scowled, then slipped on her sunglasses. “You getting in or not?”

  I tossed my bag into the trunk, then climbed into the passenger seat.

  “It’s cute,” I told her.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  Not many cars were leaving Los Angeles, and so we jammed out of the city in less than an hour. The Beemer’s stereo blasted 50 Cent, but the thrum of the wheels against asphalt lulled me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Go, go, go, Shorty!

  My head rolled to the side and hit the BMW’s door. I opened my eyes.

  50 Cent was still shouting about someone partying like it was her birthday.

  A passing highway sign said LAS VEGAS - 75 MILES.

  Leilani, zooming east on Highway 15, held her cell-phone to her ear. “I did not,” she was saying. “He’s a total lie… I’d never blow a guy in a bathroom stall. Maybe in an elevator…” She laughed and the car picked up speed.

  I sat up and winced—the July sun had burned my neck and face.

  Leilani glanced at me, then told the caller, “My sister-in-law’s making faces. I’ll hit you back when we get there.” She pressed a button, then tossed the phone in her purse.

  I stretched, and asked, “Was that Monica?”

  “No. My girl Taj.”

  “She from school?”

  “No,” Leilani said. “You don’t know her.”

  We rode in silence for three miles.

  “You still with what’s-his-face?” I asked. “Food-4-Less Guy.”

  “Jon?” Leilani smirked. “We’re off and on. Off right now.”

  “I saw Keith over at FOX a few days ago. He mentioned something about you coming there to work.”

  “He was offering me some low level job,” Leilani said. “I can’t be thirty-seven years old, being somebody’s assistant.”

  But at thirty-seven, Leilani had never been anybody’s anything.

  “So what are you gonna do?” I asked. “Maybe you should—”

  “Damn, Nic,” she snapped. “I’ll figure something out, all right? I have to. It’s not like my darling brother left me much of a cushion.”

  “We’re riding in your cushion.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  “You’re in a mood.”

  “I’m entitled.”

  “Enjoy.”

  “I will.”

  We didn’t talk as we raced past dusty green Joshua trees and rocks the color of Mars.

  39

  I got 99 problems, but a bitch ain’t one.

  The Palms’ Rain nightclub was filled to capacity, and the crowd’s noise competed with Jay-Z blasting from the club’s speaker system. Revelers cast in fuchsia and yellow lighting shouted and rapped along to the song. Girls in tiny skirts and tinier shirts clambered into private cabanas and onto the laps of guys who’d be called “gross” in another town and at another time of day.

  Body shots up in the DJ booth.

  Unofficial go-go dancers writhing on raised platforms around the dance floor.

  Vodka, Goldschlager and Heineken everywhere.

  I sat at a small table near the entrance and sipped Pellegrino. I tugged at my black wrap dress and slipped off my heels. With the magic of makeup, I had pulled it off, and looked as hot as an insomniac widow could. All around me, people ten-plus years younger than me grooved on the dance floors and the bar tops. Leilani, dressed in a whisper of a dress, writhed in the middle of the madness and drank Cristal from the bottle.

  Truman and I had loved dancing together. At clubs, at weddings, at FSN’s Hollywood Holiday Party. Our sweaty clothes would stick to our skin as we grooved to old school LL Cool J and 2 Live Crew. We’d bump and grind to the beat as though we were teenagers again. We didn’t care if we didn’t know the latest steps. We’d ignored the burn in our knees, backs and in our throats as we shouted X-rated lyrics to the sky. We’d leave the dance floor spent, thankful that the D.J. had not played something stupid from the Spice Girls or Foo Fighters.

  Four guys seated at a table across the room ogled me. I ignored them and glanced at my cell-phone’s clock: 11:38.

  Back at the table, the shortest guy in the world quit his staring and strolled over to me. He wore a mustard three-piece suit and more jewelry than I owned. He pointed at me, and said, “King magazine, right?”

  I silently regarded the munchkin in his tiny yellow suit. Truman didn’t own a single piece of yellow clothing. And despite threats of piercing his ear, he never did. He wore his wedding band and a watch—either the titanium Tag Heur he bought for his thirtieth birthday, or the diving watch I gave him for Christmas.

  “February 2007,” the munchkin was saying. “Am I right? I know I’m right. Wanna know how I know? The legs.” He licked his lips as he peeked under the table at my legs. “Baby, I’d remember your legs—”

  “I really don’t feel like talking right now,” I said. “So if you don’t mind…”

  He glanced over his shoulder to his friends. He threw them a thumb’s up, then turned back to me with a scowl. “That magazine’s a piece of shit, and your legs ain’t shit, either. You have a good evening, miss.” Then, he toddled back to his table.

  Thanks to the power of grief combined with modern medicine, I couldn’t work up the interest to be offended. I sipped my water, saying nothing as Leilani fell into the chair
beside me.

  “Who the hell drinks water in Las Vegas?” she asked.

  “Me,” I said. “Cuz your doctor gave me pills that would make the Pope jump off a bridge. I’d start running through the casino naked if I drank a martini right now.”

  Leilani cocked an eyebrow. “Are the pills working?”

  “Oh yeah.” I nodded at the munchkin and his friends. “Ask the little guy over there. I’m a joy to be around.” I tilted my face to the sky as mist sprinkled from the scaffolding. “This place is crazy. I’ve never been to a club with special effects.”

  “Only in Vegas, baby,” Leilani shouted. “Wait until they make fire shoot across the ceiling. You dance yet?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. Just enjoying the view.”

  “I have something for you.” Leilani pulled a blue velvet box out of her clutch.

  “Are you about to propose?” I asked, smiling. “Because it’s yes! We’re in Vegas. Let’s be crazy kids and get married! Right now.”

  “Open the box, you nut.”

  I opened the box to find a red string and a business card.

  “The String protects you from the evil eye,” she said.

  I glanced at my friend. “Evil eye… Right.” I pulled out the business card and read: “Zephyr Tott, Spiritual Advisor. You want me to see a psychic?”

  “She’s an advisor,” Leilani corrected. “Zephyr’s totally helping me deal with Truman’s death. I see her two or three times a week. We talk, and I cry, and it’s working. I’m gonna help her expand her business. Get her up on MySpace. Help her redesign her website so she can do web-cam consultations or whatever.”

  I shook my head, and placed the card back in the box. “Kabbalah, Lei? Psychics?”

  “You went to a psychiatrist before everybody thought it was fashionable,” she said. “Back when you were a kid, seeing a shrink was taboo, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I’m telling you, Nic. Zee’s so wise. She can totally see other dimensions of existence.”

  “Other dimensions of existence? I don’t believe in that crap.”