by Maria Semple
On the hospital worker’s desk was a clownish ceramic bowl with pinched edges. In it were fifty cards the size of shirt labels. David grabbed a bunch and fanned through them, reading the single word calligraphed on each.
Gratitude
Healing
Compassion
Play
Tenderness
“I see you found my angel cards,” sang the woman.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Every morning you’re supposed to pick one and use it for inspiration.”
“Ahh,” said David.
“Pick one.”
He tossed the cards back into the bowl, stirred them with his finger, and picked one. “Courage,” he read. Beside the word was a drawing of an angel in a bathing suit, jumping off a high dive.
“Do you like it?” asked the lady. “Because if you don’t, you can take another one. I do it all the time.”
“Courage is fine.”
“You, young man,” the lady said, handing him some papers, “have gorgeous credit.”
“I get that a lot.” David filled out a check for a whopping $23,545.99.
“Come with me,” she said conspiratorially. David followed her down the corridor. “I sprained my ankle a couple of months ago.” She winced with each step. “It keeps flaring up. I guess I should have taken better care of it.”
“Rice,” said David.
“What?”
“It’s an acronym. Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. It’s what you should do for an ankle sprain.”
“You’d think working at a hospital, someone would have told me that!” She laughed. “Here you are, room 833.”
David hadn’t realized it, but she had escorted him to a door that read REYES, T. David balked. “Oh.”
“Have a nice day, Mr. Parry,” she said, and hobbled off.
“Yeah, you, too.”
Last night, David and Violet had taken his car to and from the hospital. Back home, Violet slept, but David couldn’t. He had called a taxi to take him to the Shrine to get Violet’s car. That was LA for you — a voracious gobbler of time and energy over car logistics.
The best example had been ten years ago, at a Grammy party at the old Morton’s. David couldn’t leave until he had said hi to Mick Jagger, who was in serious conversation with some chick. David lingered a few minutes. Then, to give Mick a hint, he sat on the edge of the banquette. David overheard them fervently debating whose car to take home. They could take both cars, but if they did, Mick would have to park his Bentley on the street, which wasn’t safe, but if they left his car at Morton’s, the valet would be closed in the morning, so maybe they should park one car on the street now, but this neighborhood had overnight parking by permit only, so they would risk getting towed . . . Christ, it went on for an eternity! David realized that if Mick Jagger wasn’t immune to LA car bullshit, nobody was. From then on, David had always found it amusing.
Driving Violet’s car home on the 405 early this morning, David had the freeway to himself. The shoulder was dotted with tough orange garbage bags. Parolees in stenciled vests picked up trash in the dry hills. A deer had one of the bags in its teeth and shook it with a dumb violence not usually associated with Bambi. David smiled. He’d have to tell Dot about it. He turned on the stereo. A CD was playing, something Violet must have been listening to on the way to the Shrine last night.
You’re always sorry,
You’re always grateful . . .
It was that Sondheim song she had wanted sung at their wedding. David couldn’t remember exactly what about the lyrics had made him so upset. It was some song where married men explain to a bachelor what it was like being married. David turned up the volume.
You’re always sorry.
You’re always grateful.
You hold her thinking,
“I’m not alone.”
You’re still alone. . . .
You’re sorry-grateful
Regretful-happy.
Why look for answers
Where none occur?
You’ll always be
What you always were,
Which has nothing to do with,
All to do with her.
It had taken him long enough, but driving north on the 405, just past the Getty, David finally got Sondheim.
A man coughed. A dry cough that wouldn’t stop. Teddy Reyes. David stood at the open door. Courage, the angel card had counseled.
Teddy Reyes sat on the bed, his back to David, naked it appeared, his hospital gown in one hand. His hair was shaggy, his back brown and slight. Seeing the skin his wife had touched, loved once, it made David’s stomach tighten. Teddy Reyes pulled a T-shirt over his head. Before he stuck his hands through the armholes, he rested, depleted from the exertion. The small man who had sundered David’s marriage barely had the strength to put on a T-shirt! Still, he had somehow managed to wrest Violet’s sanity. David knew she wouldn’t have relinquished it without a fight. Teddy got his arms through the shirt and sat there, slumped.
That’s when David saw them: the violets tattooed on Teddy’s arm. A garland, exactly like those behind Violet’s ear. They snaked from the inside of his wrist, up his arm, around his elbow, then disappeared inside his shirtsleeve. The violets. Those fucking violets.
LATER that day, David was returning calls at his desk when Kara entered with a Post-it: “The driver from PAPLA.” It took David a second to register, Private Ambulance Providers of Los Angeles.
“Get him on the phone,” David said. As he waited, there was a terrific squawking through the double-paned window.
A flock of birds, big ones, swooped down Beverly Drive and, in a glorious watery movement, alighted on the cheesy Santa sleigh that spanned Wilshire Boulevard. David knew from their silhouettes that the birds were Amazon parrots, giant and Christmas colored. He had never seen them before, but there was much lore surrounding this flock of LA parrots. Some believed them to have escaped from the set of Doctor Dolittle in the sixties. Here they were now, shimmering red and green in the tinsel under the harsh December sun. Marvelous!
The phone rang. “This is David Parry.”
It was the ambulance driver. Teddy Reyes was nowhere to be found. David got his friend with the sprained ankle on the phone. She was as surprised as anyone. When nobody was looking, Teddy Reyes had unhooked the IVs, gotten dressed, and walked out of the hospital. The only trace of him was a note on the bed. It read “Went to pick up a friend at the airport.”
TEDDY
I GIVE YOU THIS GIFT. COME CLOSER. ALL I HAVE TO GIVE IS THIS, AND I GIVE it to you.
I’m a know-nothing, my ignorance is immense. (You would call me a philistine.)
I’m a jailed crazy, a sobbing drunk in the garden, a diseased pirate, the scorpion king of Venice. Still you come, basket in hand, to collect more of my booty.
Come closer. . . .
I gave until you lit up the night sky. I took until you were a madwoman wandering the canyons.
Oh, how your basket trembles for my gifts.
Shall I fill it with my sick roses and counterfeit coins, my long nights, my sweet heart, and the birdsong of my brilliant parrots circling overhead cawing your name?
Look at your displeasure! How you hate to wait, plump, spoiled, bejeweled queen of the glass castle. I apologize.
I won’t make you wait any longer, darling, dear, sweet-smelling co-conspirator of mine. Here is my gift.
Come closer. . . .
I am gone.
Don’t be angry. Since that first too-hot morning, I am your laughing puppet, your dance floor caddy, and my heart leaps only for you.
Soon, you will wake up from a well-deserved afternoon nap. For one moment, you experience that wonder of not knowing who you are or where you are, or if it’s day or night. You could be, and are, anyone.
Then: the lake out the window, the newspaper beside you on the bed, the glasses in your hand, your daughter’s laughter swirling up up up through the pines.
And you
remember, I am Violet Parry.
But this time: you rejoice. Throw your basket in the air! Know I am by your side. See, I am branded, my arm forever abloom in your name.
I know you’re scared, so am I.
I have stumbled enough. I am forgiven. I am abundant. I am certainly insouciant. I’m not your tar baby. You’re the star, baby. Love the lucky well.
About the Author
MARIA SEMPLE wrote for television shows
including Arrested Development, Mad About You,
and Ellen. She has escaped from Los Angeles
and lives with her family on an island off
Seattle. This is her first novel.
READING GROUP GUIDE
THIS ONE IS MINE
A Novel by
MARIA SEMPLE
A CONVERSATION WITH THE AUTHOR OF
THIS ONE IS MINE
This One Is Mine is your first novel. What was your path to becoming a writer?
My father created the sixties TV series Batman and went on to write a bunch of movies. When you’re a kid, and your dad’s job consists of walking around the house in socks all day, then having barbecues with Archie Bunker, Major Anthony Nelson, and Sebastian Howell III, you decide, I want that job.
I was an English major at Barnard. I could have happily spent my life as an English major—reading books, writing papers, maybe teaching, eventually writing a novel—but I wrote a spec screenplay that sold to Fox (and never got made). It was the late eighties, when basically anyone could get a development deal. The stuff I wrote was terrible. I was too young.
Around that time, I met Darren Star, and he gave me my first TV job, on Beverly Hills, 90210. That led to about fifteen years of TV writing. I was good enough at it, but I secretly knew it was too hard. Not old-fashioned-hard-work hard, but sweaty-something’s-wrong-here hard. For the life of me, I couldn’t come up with sitcomy joke-jokes, which mainly consist of a person walking into a friend’s house without knocking, insulting them, then helping himself to a bottle of water from the fridge. If, in real life, I was even once on the receiving end of such behavior, I’d probably burst into tears.
The last show I worked on was Arrested Development—a brilliant show I’m humbled and a little embarrassed to have my name on because it’s all Mitch Hurwitz. (Mitch, if you’re reading this, BIG KISS.) After that, I thought, hey, I’m going to try writing that novel.
How was writing a novel different from writing for television?
Television is collaborative. I was in a room with ten fabulously talented writers, all working together, with an infernal machine bearing down on us. We answered to actors and network executives. Plus, we were sleep-deprived, behind schedule, and lucky to pull it all together for show night. Multiply that by twenty-two episodes, add a couple of pant sizes, and you get a year in the life of a TV writer.
Writing This One Is Mine, I was very much alone. I wrote it with no agent, no publisher, no deadline, no concept that it would make the least bit of sense, let alone get published.
But, really, the biggest and scariest difference is that in TV, if the work wasn’t great, I could always blame someone else. With my novel, it feels like I’m handing out something and saying, “Here’s the best I can do.”
Where did you get your inspiration for this book?
When I decided to write a novel, I had just finished rereading The House of Mirth and was in the middle of rereading Anna Karenina. I realized my favorite kind of story involves strong, singular women who set out to destroy themselves. Especially if the women are living in fancy houses, have lots of help, and commit adultery. Sorry, but I just love that. I decided simply to write what I liked to read. So I cobbled together a story.
Tell us about the title.
This One Is Mine comes from the poem in the front of book by the Sufipoet Hafiz. I love it because it’s deeply passionate. Yet at the same time, it’s impersonal and a little frantic, like, “You—you over there! I don’t even know your name, but you’re mine!” It fits with the theme of the book, in that at the beginning every character confuses love with possession. David sees Violet as his wife. Vio -let tries to buy Teddy’s love and is wildly jealous of Coco. Sally feels as though she has more right to David than Violet. During the course of the story, all that changes.
How did you approach writing these decidedly flawed characters?
When I was writing the book, I’d ask myself, “If I was reading this in bed, what would keep me from turning off the light?” Which is asking a lot because, man, I love to sleep. So I made sure my characters threw themselves headlong into their pursuits. You might not sympathize with Violet risking a life of luxury, and even her child, for a shifty dirtbag like Teddy, but hopefully it’s compelling reading. And if I’ve deprived my reader of precious sleep, I consider my job well done.
Do you see yourself in any of your characters? Which ones were the easiest or most difficult to write?
I knew the basic story I wanted to tell—woman having an affair; sister-in-law envying her. Constructing the characters, I tapped into aspects of myself and greatly exaggerated them. For Violet, it was the deadening effect of too much time in L.A. For Sally, it was self-will born out of anxiety. At the risk of being an author who claims my characters “wrote themselves,” I will say that if you have your characters want something really badly, it makes life a lot easier.
What are you working on next?
Another novel. My big idea is for it to be fast-paced, surprising, psychologically astute, gorgeously written, and deeply, deeply moving. Pray for me.
QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
1. Why do you think Violet is drawn to Teddy? What makes her risk “losing everything,” as David puts it?
2. How does the novel’s title, This One Is Mine, relate to the story? The book’s epigraph opens with the image of a slave block. Are any of the characters in the book “enslaved” in a way?
3. In the first chapter, David is upset with Violet for what he perceives to be her lack of interest in maintaining the household. Is his anger justified?
4. What does Violet find sad about Los Angeles? Where do you think this sadness stems from?
5. What do you think about Sally’s friendship with Maryam? Why does Maryam put up with her?
6. Los Angeles could be said to be a city of ambition. How do the characters’ ambitions relate to one another’s? What fuels those ambitions, and when do they get out of control?
7. In some ways, Sally seems to want everything that Violet has: a successful husband, financial security, a nice house, and stylish friends. Do you think Sally would be happy if she suddenly had everything she wanted? What similarities to you see in Sally and Violet?
8. Do you see any similarities between David and Jeremy?
9. Teddy seems to have a set of problems that make Violet’s (and everyone else’s) pale in comparison. Do you think Violet is drawn to him because of or in spite of these traits?
10. What do you make of Sally and Jeremy’s relationship? Do you think there is a way that it could ever have worked out?
11. Why is Violet happy when Sally tells her that she never really liked her?
12. In many ways, this is a very “L.A.” story. To what extent do you think the characters’ attitudes and actions are shaped by Los Angeles? Could you see this story taking place anywhere else?
13. At the end of the book, Violet, Sally, and David all visit Teddy in the hospital. In what ways did Teddy’s arrival in their lives bring them all together? How might this story have turned out differently if Violet had never met Teddy at the health fair?
14. In Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Anna is miserable in a loveless marriage and recklessly succumbs to her desire for the dashing Vronsky. What similarities do you see between Tolstoy’s novel and This One Is Mine?
15. What other books did This One Is Mine remind you of? What was similar or different about them?
BOOKS I LOVE: A LIST COMPILED BY MARIA SEMPLE
Henderson the Rain King by Saul Bellow
The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins
Ablutions by Patrick deWitt
Middlemarch by George Elliot
All About Lulu by Jonathan Evison
The Good Soldier by Ford Maddox Ford
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
Headlong by Michael Frayn
The Art of Fiction by John Gardner
On Becoming a Novelist by John Gardner