by Andrea Adler
I put on some blush and lipstick and combed my hair, remembering Rachel’s smile and the way her whole body shook when she laughed, as if the whole universe was contained inside her. I’d missed her sense of humor, her sarcasm, her batik outfits. I couldn’t wait to see her.
I grabbed my purse and walked to the door, knowing Emma did not want me to go.
“Have a nice time, dear.”
She didn’t mean it. If she had, she would have looked up at me and smiled. But she kept her eyes down and pretended to read the paper.
“I won’t be gone long.” Hand on the doorknob, anxious to get out, I remembered: “Oh, Emma, Bert called. He wants you to call him—something about a party he’s having. ’Bye.”
Chapter 17
The high plateau is dry and unsuitable
for the wild goose.
Whenever we dined at the Brasserie, which on our budgets we could only afford once every few months, Rachel and I always gravitated toward the room with the fireplace. It was in this room, where the lights were soft and the sounds were muffled by thick, plush carpet, and dark mahogany walls that we shared our catastrophes and our triumphs; where we cursed and cried, and recovered from our personal tragedies
I missed our intimate talks, and swept the room looking for her over a sea of heads, huge ferns, and Tiffany fixtures hanging low. Half a hundred bodies were in the Brasserie, but Rachel was nowhere to be found. I looked back at the entrance in hopes of catching her coming in late. But only men in black suits with slick dark hair stood there, executive types, looking pointedly at their watches as they waited for the maître d’. I turned back to the dining room and scanned it again.
Someone in the back, sitting behind a tall, slender Italian vase, caught my eye. I looked again. She was the right height, but the details were wrong, the moves weren’t right: the way she tilted her head, the way she slid her sunglasses up over her forehead, perching them on top of her blonde hair. She wasn’t twisting off broken ends from her hair, shifting her weight in the chair every second, like Rachel always did. This woman was calm and purposeful. She wasn’t wearing batik. She was wearing a pink Ann Taylor suit with a matching silk scarf. Rachel wouldn’t be caught dead in Ann Taylor. And Rachel had … well, I had no idea what color her hair was this week.
I moved closer, skirting the wall, not wanting the woman to notice me staring. There was something about her. With the help of a sudden brightening of light through the windows and a waiter who had moved aside to give me a better view, my pupils enlarged when I realized: she was indeed Rachel.
I wanted to become invisible, get as close as I could without her knowing I was there. I wanted to absorb all the changes from a distance. As I moved closer to her table, I noticed that her complexion was flawless. The heavy makeup she used to wear had been replaced by a natural iridescent glow, untainted by packed-on rouge. Her eyes sparkled and her nails were polished. She looked radiant. What the hell had happened to her?
She saw me and stood up. I quickly moved over to her table, bumping into the backs of chairs and a few waiters on my way. When I reached her, we embraced. We stood there looking into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the traffic jam around us. We could’ve stood there for hours, hugging, only one of the waiters asked us to sit.
No matter how mad I’d been that she hadn’t called and had disappeared for months, the bitterness dropped away the second I was in her presence.
“Oh my God, look at you. You’re completely … transformed!”
“Look at you!” she replied. “You must have lost twenty pounds … Turn around. Your buns look really firm.”
“Well, if you ran six miles a day, swam twenty laps, and sweated for an hour doing calisthenics, your buns would look really firm, too. But Rachel—come on, you’re a whole different person.”
“I’m more than a whole different person. I’m two people. I’m pregnant.”
“What?!” I could hardly contain my excitement as we settled in our chairs. I took a second look at her waistline. There wasn’t anything showing yet, but … well, maybe a little roundness.
Then Rachel showed me the ring. Excuse me, the diamond rock on her third finger. “Holy shit! It’s beautiful!
“Thank you. It’s all kind of unbelievable to me, too. Where should I begin?”
“Begin with that bump I’m not quite seeing yet.”
“Well, I think I need to start before the bump.” We both took a couple of deep breaths, picked up the menus, and looked around for a waiter. “I stopped singing telegrams and decided to go to nursing school.”
“Nursing? When did you ever want to be a nurse?”
“It’s something I started thinking about when my father died.”
“Your father died? When … Rachel, I’m so sorry to hear …”
“I’m okay now, but it was a shock. I hadn’t heard from him in years, and then Kathleen, his new wife, calls me and tells me my dad had a stroke.”
“What a shocker! What did you do?”
“I flew to Nevada to see him. I fed the man, bathed him. He even apologized for not being in my life. We cried. And then he died the next day. Just like that. Gone. It was so bizarre. When I left their house, it was like I had no identity. No clue what I should do with my life. He left me more money than I knew what to do with. I thought about traveling—I didn’t know where, I just felt like I needed to get away. I ended up going to South America. I always wanted to see the Andes and learn the Tango. I met Armando, and that’s when this nursing thing came up even stronger for me.”
“Why didn’t you call me and tell me any of this?”
“I guess … I just needed to hear my own voice. I had so many decisions to make. I didn’t want to burden you with my stuff.”
“I love your stuff.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I just needed the space.”
The waiter came to take our order. I ordered a bacon-and-cheese omelet with French fries and a Tab. Rachel asked for a chef’s salad, with no cheese, and an iced tea.
“What? No triple-cheese omelet?”
“Remember when we met at the Lake Shrine and vowed to learn how to cook? Well, I’ve been reading a lot about nutrition. And, let me tell you, the human body is not designed to digest animal protein, especially milk products. You wouldn’t believe how many people are lactose intolerant. Almond milk is very high in protein, and tastes delicious. You should try it.”
It was hard to believe that only months before, this woman had sat in this same room, ordering cheese balls rolled in walnuts, onion soup au gratin, a milk shake, and marshmallow-swirl ice cream for dessert.
“Thanks for the advertisement.” Then, relenting, “Rachel, I’m really glad you were able to clear things up with your dad. There’s no way, this side of a miracle, I could ever clean up any of the relationships in my family. So … tell me about the baby’s papa!”
“It’s your turn first. Tell me, how is it living with Emma? Did you learn how to cook?”
“A little. I’m still working on it. Finish your story, and then I’ll tell you about Emma.”
“I met Armando in Argentina. He sat down at a table next to me at an outdoor café. This hunk, with dark Mediterranean skin and sparkling brown eyes, says ‘Hi’ and my knees started shaking. I thought I’d fall off my chair. Anyway, we started talking, we went out, and … well. I totally fell in love. I find out later he not only has a place in Buenos Aires—he has a house in L.A., and in New York.”
“Let me guess. He’s a doctor?”
“A lawyer.”
“Of course.”
“Right now he’s in New York working with his father. His dad has a pretty substantial law practice on both coasts, and in Argentina. He’s being trained to work with the firm. You’ll like him, Sandra. He’s kind, sensitive, and smart.”
“And rich! God, it’s a storybook fantasy.”
The waiter came with our food. There was silence while we ate.
“So,” I asked, coming up
for air halfway through my greasy omelet, “you’re really happy?”
“I’m very happy. Look, I’ve stopped biting my nails.” Rachel showed me her manicured hands.
Manicured hands! My stomach gave a little lurch. Unbelievable! Never in a million years would I have imagined that my outrageous, frizzy-haired friend would have turned into this polished creature before me now.
“We’re going back to Buenos Aires in a few weeks to get married,” Rachel said with a ladylike smile. “You wouldn’t believe how many relatives he has.”
“Aren’t you going to have a wedding in the States?” I asked, hoping to celebrate the union at some point.
“Probably not.” She could tell I was devastated. “We’ll have some kind of party, don’t worry. Okay, enough. Tell me about Emma.”
I took a big gulp of my Tab, as I tried to rebuild my self-esteem and share my story. “Well, she’s amazing, supportive, caring. She has this incredible eye for detail. I don’t know where she gets it. Very disciplined. She certainly helped me get into shape. She’s been really good for me.”
“Sandra. There’s something else going on here, I know it. What’s underneath the words of gratitude?” Rachel might have changed in many ways, but her insight into the workings of my brain was still operative.
“Maybe I’m just used to having my own space. Don’t misunderstand me; I adore the woman—but I feel trapped at the same time. It’s like she knows what I’m thinking, what I’m going through, before I do. It makes me feel claustrophobic. I don’t know … she’s great in so many ways. I have no business complaining. Maybe I just need a phone in my room. There’s only one in the house, and the cord is three feet long.”
“Doesn’t she ever go out?”
“Hardly. Today was the first time in months I was alone in the apartment for more than ten minutes. Maybe I need a job. Maybe I need to get laid.” I might have said “laid” too loud. The guys at the next table winked when I looked over, signaling none too subtly they were available if I was interested.
“How is the career going?”
“Worse than my social life,” I whispered.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Well, there’s this bartending program I’m really keen on applying for … seriously! Do you think I’d have put an ad in the paper, moved in with Emma, if I wasn’t serious?”
“Then deal with this. It’ll change. Everything changes. Just be patient. Stop and look in the rearview mirror for a second. Remember how frustrated you were? Think about the other prospects you could have ended up with.
“Here, take my number. As of tomorrow, we’re staying in Armando’s apartment in West Hollywood until I finish school.” Rachel pulled out her neat little notepad and wrote down her phone number. God, she was organized. A notepad!
“I wish I could stay longer,” she said. “But I just registered for a nursing program, and orientation is in a few minutes. The professor will take off an entire grade point if we miss it.” Rachel rolled her eyes. At least that is familiar. And then, I watched my friend’s fingers move around inside her purse in search of something. It was her lip gloss. Instead of smearing it on with one finger like she used to, she brought out a tortoiseshell case with a tiny brush inside. Peering into the small mirror, she carefully applied the gloss with a brush, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and then took out her keys.
My stomach clenched. I knew we’d never spend time together like we used to. “It’s good to see ya, Rache.”
“Have patience, kiddo. Enjoy the moment.”
Rachel paid the cashier, and we walked outside and hugged.
It seemed like the embrace was a good-bye to the friendship we had known. Hopefully, there would be future ones.
Enjoy the moment! Have patience!
I leaned back against the low brick wall of the restaurant and watched my old friend in her new pink suit walk in her pink high heels to a light gray BMW. I watched her get in, turn on the ignition, and bring her sunglasses down from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose. She waved and took off into the smog.
I wandered aimlessly down the street in the direction of where I had parked my own car.
I’m happy her life is full. I’m glad she has everything she ever wanted. I’m joyful that she …
You’re such a liar, Sandra Billings. You’re so pissed off, you’re ready to jump off the top of that insurance building across the street. Why are you so angry? If you wanted that kind of life for yourself, you’d be looking for a husband instead of living with an eighty-year-old woman. You wouldn’t be making this sacrifice every day to become an actress. You don’t want what she has, and you know it. So, the question is: If you don’t want that kind of life, why are you having such a strong reaction?
I started the car. A pulsating migraine came on. My mind was consumed with doubts. My entire life seemed pathetically shallow. I pressed down the accelerator and placed my hands on the wheel. I had no idea where I was going … and yet, I knew exactly where I was going.
My car, now on autopilot, drove me down Sunset and into the parking lot of La Fontaine Bakery. Inside, my eyes—with a will of their own—roamed the acres of fresh stuffed croissants. I moved closer, peered through the clear glass case. I knew if I had just one or two of those bakery delights, I’d feel a whole lot sweeter about Rachel’s new life. And myself.
I stood there frozen. Do I really want to do this?
What else is going to fill this hole in the pit of my stomach?
I asked the smiling woman behind the counter for a chocolate croissant, an almond croissant, and a cheese croissant. And to please give me the chocolate one right away. She handed me the pastry, rich and glistening on a gleaming piece of waxed paper, and then went to the rear of the store to fetch the other two from trays fresh out of the oven.
I was devouring the chocolate pastry as she handed me a bag with the other two. I handed her the cash. Before I’d reached the door, my hand was inside the bag groping for a second croissant. By the time I’d pulled out the keys and started the ignition, I’d grabbed the third, the one stuffed with cheese, and was scarfing it down as fast as my mouth could chew. By the time I rounded the first corner en route back to the apartment, there was nothing left but a bag of crumbs, some almond slivers, and a few pastry flakes that had scattered onto my pants.
I burst into the apartment and headed straight for the bathroom. Thank God, Emma was asleep in her chair. I turned the bathtub on full blast to drown out the sound, shut my eyes tight, stuck my finger down my throat, and purged. When I opened my eyes, there in the bowl were roasted almond slivers still intact, pieces of chocolate, and crusty flakes floating to the surface. I could taste the eggs from lunch, the shreds and lumps of the bacon and cheese coming up from my throat.
I kept purging. Hoping the anguish of my mind would vanish with the food disappearing in the swirling of the flushing water. But nothing more came out.
I flushed the toilet and turned off the bathwater. I was done, limp. Mascara streamed down my cheeks. I tore off a few squares of toilet paper and wiped it away. I don’t know what possessed me, but I knelt down on the shiny tile floor and began to pray, desperate to understand why I continued doing this.
Wrung-out, I staggered upright, rinsed out my mouth, dragged myself into the bedroom, pulled down the shades to dim the ambient light, and collapsed on the floor. Cradling my arms around my knees, I looked up at Josef’s painting, the beach scene that always invited me in. I tried to lose myself in it. But all I saw was a chaotic surface of brushstrokes, a mirror of myself. I had to look away. I thought about reaching for the I Ching, something that might pacify my mind, help me change the direction of my thoughts. But then I thought, Why? What’s the point? What good was my desire to reach an understanding, to lead a conscious life, when I couldn’t even control my actions? What good was all the reading if it didn’t sink into my bones and change me? And even when I read the lines and had a breakthrough, I kept forgett
ing what I’d read. It didn’t last.
I couldn’t sit there in this absolute emptiness. I had to do something, no matter how pointless. I reached into the bookcase and fumbled around, desperate for a distraction. I picked up a small Buddhist pamphlet and opened it to a random page. I didn’t know if the book was Emma’s, Josef’s, or mine. It didn’t matter. The Chapter I opened was titled: “Sense Pleasures.” Gee! What a coincidence.
Craving after sense pleasures is primarily due to insecurity and not recognizing craving in ourselves.
We don’t know what we are lacking, so we look outside ourselves. We try to fill our emotional vacuum with all kinds of diversions. But invariably we find that there is no end to indulgence and pleasure-seeking. There is no lasting and absolute satisfaction from these sense pleasures because we are not free in the moment.
There is only one way to deal with insecurity.
It is to arrive at the understanding that security cannot be found anywhere or in anything. The most critical thing is to realize our own freedom in the moment.
Freedom in the moment? I’m never in the moment. I don’t know what that’s like. I don’t even know what that means.
If you start to want this and that, thinking about the past or thinking about the future, you are not free. Your present moment is preoccupied with the wanting, and as a result your natural freedom in the moment is lost.
Got it.
We are naturally free. We make ourselves “un-free.” It is as though you were being tied up with an invisible rope, by no one but yourself.
Oh, great.
Chapter 18
This shows the situation of someone too weak to take
measures against decay that has its roots in the past….
It is allowed to run its course.
It wasn’t like Rachel had said “I never want to see you again,” although she might as well have. It wasn’t like I’d never work in another ensemble like LaPapa again, although I hoped the next director would have a little more sanity. These and a few hundred thoughts raced through my mind as Emma and I drove through the palatial streets of Beverly Hills to Bert’s Halloween party. Cars were backed up for half a mile. Only the reflection from floodlights in the sky revealed that we were close. And not until we started creeping up toward the house did we have a full view of the circus of people in costumes.