I had cleaned all the closets. Organized the kitchen cabinets. Cleaned the wet goop from the refrigerator trays. I had scrubbed all the grout and tile in the house, sorted the mail into manageable piles, and had caught up on back issues of Vanity Fair and the New Yorker.
I was keeping my promise to Monica. I was back on the road to Ordinary.
As I fried an egg, “Tim” from Great Escape called. “Just confirming your hot air adventure for four o’clock today.”
I paused, then said, “My what?”
“We have you and Mr. Baxter scheduled for your anniversary flight package. Oh. Was I supposed to say that? Did I ruin the surprise?”
Hot air balloon. Wine. Sunset. A diamond maybe.
I told Tim that Mr. Baxter and I would not be joining them today, and apologized for not cancelling sooner.
Tim made sad noises, then said, “That’s too bad. Next time, then?”
“Next time,” I whispered.
“I hope you have a wonderful anniversary,” he said, then hung up.
After breakfast, I settled at the desk in the den. Wiggled the mouse to yank the computer. I logged onto my e-mail account.
Bigger Penis in 30 Days!
Lose 50lbsin a wk!
Sexy Girls Want 2 Meet U
Waiting - E-Card from Blue Mountain Greeting Co.
An e-card? I clicked on the link.
The screen filled with a wiggling cartoon heart. Minnie Riperton sang, Loving you is easy cuz you’re beautiful…
The cartoon heart bubumped-bubumped, and grew larger… larger… until POP! It exploded, and heart fragments settled into a message.
LOVING YOU. MISSING YOU.
A cartoon janitor pushed a broom across the screen. As he swept away the shredded words, he left behind another message.
I LOVE YOU, NICOLE. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. TRUMAN.
My stomach dropped, and I pushed away from the desk. And just like that, Ordinary hovered over a needle, and threatened to burst like that animated heart.
The doorbell rang.
I hopped up from the chair, grateful for the distraction. Before leaving the den, though, I peeked back at the message on the screen.
Happy Anniversary. Truman.
A delivery guy dressed in blue stood on the porch. He held a clipboard in one hand, and an elaborate arrangement of Casablanca lilies in the other. “You Nicole Baxter?”
I nodded.
He handed me the vase, and said, “These are for you.”
I carried the bouquet to the living room and sat the vase on the coffee table. I plucked the small card from its plastic holder, and read:
I LOVE YOU, BABE. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. TRUMAN
66
I paced the living room with the telephone to my ear and my eyes glued to those lilies. “Explain it, then,” I demanded. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
Twenty miles away, Monica was stuffing goody bags with green tea lip balms, Amy Winehouse CDs and tickets to the Laugh Factory. “Truman probably planned this back in June,” she said. “Just like he’d already planned the hot air balloon thing. His assistant probably had a calendar of important events and a standing order at a florist. That way, if he forgot about your anniversary, it wouldn’t look like he forgot.”
I stopped in my step. “I’ll accept that answer.”
“Makes more sense than him calling FTD from the Pacific. Not to be glib or anything.”
“He was in Nepal when he sent me the tennis bracelet for my birthday. And those lilies were waiting for me on the day of the accident.”
“See?” Monica chirped. “Mystery solved. Let’s have dinner tonight to celebrate what would’ve been twelve. I’ll see if Lei’s around, and we’ll stay the night so we can drink Pinot Noir-in-a-box and braid each other’s hair.”
We chatted a few minutes more, and I volunteered to help at her next big event. “Maybe I’ll see a movie today,” I said, climbing the stairs. “Roam the Beverly Center. Buy a mandolin from Williams-Sonoma.”
“And Truman would want you to have exquisitely- sliced zucchini.”
“I’m glad I called. You’re always so clear-headed. So wise. You’re my Yoda.”
“Comes from growing up dodging bullets and Crips, young Jedi. Promise me that you won’t freak out anymore today? Unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Only in a dire emergency,” I said, wandering down the hallway. “For now, I’m cool. I’m chill. It’s all good and a host of other urban state-of-mind clichés.”
“Dy-no-mite,” Monica said. “I’ll see you around seven, sweetie.”
I entered my bedroom, and froze in my step.
A large box wrapped in green and silver paper sat on the bed.
That wasn’t there last night.
You sure?
Last night, I had scooped dirty clothes from the floor, and had stuffed them in the washing machine. I came back to the room, and grabbed No Country for Old Men from the nightstand. Before leaving for the den, I had passed the bed—the empty bed—a final time to pop a Xanax from the medicine cabinet.
No gift-wrapped box.
So how did it get there?
I crept closer to the bed, and poked the package. Hard. Slick. Real. I tore away the paper to find a brown box with tan letters printed across its top. LOUIS VUITTON. A small card was taped in the middle of the box top.
ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE THINGS. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. LOVE, TRUMAN.
67
The black Lockit MM Vuitton purse sat among take-out cartons on the breakfast bar. Monica chomped on tempura carrots, but I couldn’t eat—the $3,000 bag from my dead husband had hijacked my appetite. My heart beat so hard and fast that my pulse was pounding in my toes.
Burn down the house, I thought. For real this time. Burn it down and salt the earth.
“I stick by what I said earlier,” Monica said. “He’s bought you handbags for Christmas and Valentine’s Day before, and he probably saw this one and said, ‘Nic would like that,’ and arranged for you to get it today.” She paused, then added, “And you’ve seen those guards at Louis Vuitton. I don’t think a ghost could sneak past those goons.”
“But how did it reach my bed?” I screeched. “How?”
Monica stopped eating and considered me. “What do you want me to say? That Truman’s not dead? That he’s hiding somewhere and torturing you for the hell of it?” She grabbed a shrimp from the carton, and said, “Did you ask your spiritual advisor? Doesn’t she know all and see all?”
“Don’t do that. Not right now.”
“Six hundred dollars later, and you’re as paranoid as you were before.”
I shoved the bag in Monica’s direction, then wiped my hands on a napkin. “You take it. I don’t want it. It’s evil.”
Monica gawked. “You’re giving me a haunted handbag?”
“Louis Vuitton bags just don’t buy themselves, first of all. And then they don’t walk themselves up to somebody’s room and plop down on the bed like they’re on vacation. I’m either losing my mind, or…” Or… No, that’s it. Losing my mind.
I retreated up the stairs to the bathroom, only hearing my frantic heartbeat and labored breathing. I dumped a Xanax onto my palm, then forced my hand to my lips. The pill melted on my tongue and bitterness filled my mouth. I balled my hands into fists and willed the drug to work faster, to make my nerves as soft as cotton. Soon, my hands relaxed and my shoulders drooped. Then, my lips tingled, my nose, my cheeks, and then… Cold… Numb... Nothing…
Happy anniversary.
I trudged back to my room and stared at the empty bed.
Crimson comforter as red as blood. Sheets with fuzzy stripes undulating like caterpillars. Pillows shaped like jumbo marshmallows.
I slipped beneath the covers. I had bought four pillows at Target. Two for me. Two for him. He always tossed his on the ground and took mine, and…
The mattress dipped, and I opened my eyes. The lamps on the nightstands still burned bright. I tried to swallow, but
I had no spit because of all the cotton stuffed into my mouth. The comforter rustled, and I muttered, “Mo?” I rolled over.
Truman lay in bed next to me. He was shirtless, but wore blue-striped boxers.
I hid my face in a pillow, and whispered, “It’s not real. It’s a manifestation of guilt. It’s all in my head.”
“Babe,” he said, ”what are you talking about?”
“If I just wait,” I said, face hidden, eyes squeezed shut, “it’ll stop. It’ll stop and it’ll go away.” I took a deep breath, then peeked out.
Truman lay there, studying his dive watch. “In two minutes, our anniversary will be over.” His arm fell up over his head. “This watch you got me last year? Still works. You always gave the best gifts. Like these boxers.”
Wide-eyed, I whispered, “No.”
“Whenever you bought gifts, it was obvious that you thought about the person,” he said. “Who they were. What they liked. You didn’t want me to climb Everest, but you still gave me that parka and sleeping bag. You still supported me, and I love you for—”
I clamped my hands over my ears. “I’m not seeing him. I’m not hearing him. He’s not here. He’s not here.”
“I am here,” he said. “I got home early just so we could talk. You always complain that I’m never here. I am now.” He paused, then said, “Why are you so far away?” He reached for me.
An icy blade stabbed through my shoulder and I cried out in surprise. I scrambled out of bed, and clutched my injured arm.
Frowning, Truman sat up in bed. ”Aren’t you gonna speak? Aren’t you gonna say ‘I love you, Truman’ or ‘I’m sorry, Truman’?”
I shook my head, my mind tangled like fishing line.
He reached for me again, but I kicked at him.
His frown softened. “Just tell me the truth, Nic. You’ll feel better.”
“Go away,” I said, eyes still closed. “Please.”
“I can’t go away,” he said, easing off the bed. “I told you I’d love you forever. I said that on the day I died.”
I hugged my knees to my chest, and covered my head with my arms. “Go away,” I repeated. “Please. Please. Please…”
Monica found me on the bedroom floor, muttering to myself. She dropped beside me, and pulled me into her arms. Held me tight as the clock struck midnight.
68
I bolted upright in bed. My sweaty T-shirt stuck to my skin. Sunlight reflected off the shiny wood floor and I squinted at the digital clock: 1:08. My mouth tasted coppery, as though I had sucked pennies all night. I rubbed my eyes—my sinuses, my temples, my head, every muscle in my body ached.
Across the room on the dresser, I spotted a white lily tucked into a bud vase. A slip of paper was taped to the mirror.
I forced myself to my feet. Woozy. Nauseous. I took several deep breaths, then lurched to the dresser.
The flower smelled pure and wonderful, sweet and heavy.
I yanked the note from the mirror, and prepared to read something impossible and unexpected.
Darling Nikki. You wouldn’t be the only woman in this city to go bonkers. Smooches, Mo
A harmless message from Monica, a living human being.
I scrubbed and lathered in the shower. The knots in my arms and legs loosened from the hot water and memories of my anniversary melted into the past.
One day, you won’t be frightened. You won’t flip out. You’ll just expect to see Truman roaming the hallways, and then, his presence won’t frighten you. And the two of you will live happily together. Just like the Ghost and Mrs. Muir.
Before stepping out onto the tile, I peeked from behind the shower curtain.
Steam covered the mirror, but no message had been written on the glass.
I pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, then I trudged down the stairs. I froze as I reached the last step—smelled grilled beef and garlic. My stomach growled, excited by the prospect of food.
A dinner plate sat on the breakfast bar. A rib-eye steak, fingerling potatoes and sautéed asparagus. I poked a potato: still warm. A gift-wrapped box, this one the size of a pencil case, sat near the fork.
I slipped onto a stool, and stuffed a potato into my mouth. Cut a chunk of steak, and shoved that in with the potatoes. After crunching on asparagus stalks, I tore off the box’s wrapping paper: a platinum bracelet from Tiffany.
I searched through the wrapping paper for a gift card from Monica.
Nothing.
I grabbed the telephone from the counter, and punched Monica’s number.
“What’s up?” she asked. “You get my note?”
“I did,” I said with a full mouth. “And thanks for lunch.”
Monica paused, then said, “What are you talking about?”
“The steak and potatoes,” I said. “And the joo-ree is beautiful.” I rose from the stool to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
The magnetic words on the fridge’s door had found order again.
“I didn’t cook anything,” Monica was saying. “I left before nine this morning for a meeting at the Beverly Hilton. And I forgot to give you my gift after you gave me the Louis Vuitton. Who cooked—?”
“Okay,” I said, absently, my gaze still on those words.
Never wish me away again.
You & I together
The last word hadn’t come with the poetry journal. Someone—Truman?—had cut other words to make it.
DEAD.
Breathless, I reached for DEAD and plucked away ‘d’, and each letter that formed the word. Then, I snatched off another word—rocket—and then, another—princess—and tossed them both into the trash. I grabbed glint and roar, and shoved them in with night and tender. Soon, no words remained.
69
Flex D’Onofrio was cleaning scuba gear aboard S.S. Deep-Cee, and preparing to go out on the Pacific. He smiled and held out his arms for a hug. “I was just thinking about—”
“Take me where you left him,” I demanded as I stormed on deck.
He narrowed his eyes. “Nicole, honey. It’s not that simple.”
“I know the robot and all that fancy equipment searched for him, but you need to convince me, Flex, that he can’t be alive. Take me there.”
“With the current and drift, Truman wouldn’t be where we—”
“I don’t care. I need to see.”
Like most Sunday afternoons, the harbor was busy. Multicolored sails snapped in the wind, and kayakers paddled out in groups of twos and fours. Sea lions sunbathed on buoys, only looking up to watch a passing boat.
Catalina Island loomed somewhere behind early afternoon haze. Truman and I had taken several day trips over to the island. Seafood dinners. Cheesy tours. Games of miniature golf. On the nighttime boat ride back to the mainland, we’d sit on the stern and make out like teenagers. Back in the parking lot, we’d climb into the car’s backseat and make love. Those trips had stopped once he started climbing and diving—Catalina “bored” him.
“I don’t understand,” I said to Flex. “Why did you go out that day? There was a storm—”
Flex shook his head. “Truman’s accident wasn’t weather related.”
“Was it her fault that he…?” Her. I refused to say her name.
He paused before saying, “I don’t wanna say fault.” The gray hair on his face and on his head now outnumbered the blond.
“Can we search again?” I asked. “The weather’s still right for it. Things may have changed down there.”
He said, “He may be twenty-five miles away from here. What’s left of him.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, what’s left?”
Flex shifted his gaze to the ocean. “With the fish, and the waves, and rocks…”
“Oh.” Dread rushed up my calves, and I shivered. “Can’t we hire those engineers again? I know it costs, but I have the money.”
Flex turned to me with a pained smile. “Sweetheart, it’s not a matter of money. The ocean’s huge—”
“We
can chart it. Make grids or…”
“Nicole, I know you miss him—”
“Cuz what if he’s alive?”
“He can’t be.”
“I’ve had dreams. I’ve seen him when I’m awake.”
“You’re grieving.”
“How do you know?” I asked, wild-eyed. “You have no proof.”
“What you’re experiencing is similar to what wives in the whaling days—”
“I don’t care about any of that,” I shouted. “I need to see him. As he really is. What can I do?”
Flex stared at me with his smog-colored eyes, then slowly shook his head.
70
Trish didn’t notice that I stood at the reception desk. She was focusing on the computer monitor—sliding seven of hearts beneath eight of spades. “Winning?” I asked, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt.
The receptionist startled, and glanced at me over her shoulder. “Hey.” She closed the game, and said, “Did you have an appointment today?” She started to flip through the scheduling book.
“No,” I said, sliding $150 across the counter. “This is an emergency visit. This weekend was pretty painful.”
“I hate hearing that,” she said with crumpled eyebrows. “Well, you came to the right place. I’ll tell her that you’re—”
“Emma?” Zephyr, dressed in a green and gold caftan, stood at the entrance to the hallway.
“Would you mind seeing me last minute?” I asked, and tried to ignore that prickly feeling on the back of my neck. “It won’t take long.”
She hesitated before she nodded. “I’m glad you caught me. I was on my way out. But I always have time for you.”
“How many clients do you see?” I asked as I followed her down the hallway.
“Oh. A few a day,” she said. “It takes a toll on me, psychologically, so I limit my schedule. Many times, I visit people in their homes.” She glanced back at me and added, “You know, your skin’s changed since we’ve been seeing each other. It glows with the promise of life. From the inside. It’s because you’ve been internalizing all that we’ve talked about. I see that you even got a new haircut. Imagine how far you’ll get if you come to see me twice a—”
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