by Jackie Rose
At the moment of her death—nine years and two husbands after she filmed How to Marry a Millionaire—Marilyn Monroe also had dark roots. Presumably, the very different person she used to be was trying to get out and she’d finally tired of fighting her.
I dreamed that instead of just lying there on that table, Marilyn sat up and walked away.
The next night, I wake up at around the same time. I attribute it to too much coffee at Zoe’s house after the funeral. But the next night, the same thing happens (was it all that food at Cole and Olivia’s barbecue?). And then again the night after. If a dream is to blame, it’s a mystery to me, because I can’t remember a thing. All I know for sure is that sleeping in my old room is becoming harder each night.
The fourth night, I decide to get up. My parents left for Atlantic City this morning, so I don’t have to worry about waking anyone. I creep out of bed and go downstairs to the kitchen. It’s only 11:30 on the West Coast, so I take the cordless phone back up to my room, crawl under the covers and dial in the dark.
“Remy?”
“Holly?”
“Yeah.”
“Hi!
“You weren’t sleeping, were you? I mean, I’m sorry if I woke you…”
“Nah, you know me. What’s up? Isn’t it a little late there?”
“I couldn’t sleep…. Is it okay that I called you?”
He laughs as if it were a ridiculous question. “Of course. I was hoping I’d hear from you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really! So how are you?”
“Okay, I guess. I don’t know. It feels kind of strange here. I don’t know why.”
“Going home is always a weird buzz. Especially under unpleasant circumstances.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever been away from Buffalo long enough to make it weird to be back, I suppose.”
“How was the funeral?”
“Awful. I feel like…like death is all around me.”
“That’s because it is.”
“I used to write obituaries and it never got to me.”
“Professional distance, probably. It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”
“Still, every day I was reminded that people die. But it never seemed as random and senseless as it does to me now.”
“Heart attacks, lung cancer, falling safes, plane crashes…don’t bother trying to make any sense of it. Something’s going to get each and every one of us, whether they find a cure for cancer or not. A great man once said, ‘All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’”
“Gandalf the Grey. Fellowship of the Ring.”
“Man, I love that you know that.”
“Remember who my best friend is. I’ve seen Lord of the Rings at least 10 times. When Return of the King came out, George made me go with her to the back-to-back screening of all three.”
“12 hours well spent. A faithful adaptation.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve read the books because I won’t believe you,” I say. “Nobody’s read them and everybody lies about it.”
“Okay. But I did. In junior high. I was really into Middle Earth.” He’s quiet for a second and then adds, “I was a bit of a nerd.”
“Middle Earth,” I sigh. “That’s the beauty of fantasy. There’s this wonderful sense of order and justice and in the end, good things happen to good people while the bad guys get ripped apart by orks and tossed into the abyss.”
“You’re saying Zoe’s dad didn’t deserve to die?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, nobody deserves to die, Holly, but it’s kind of unavoidable.”
“And what are we supposed to do until then? Pretend that’s not true?”
“Live your life, I guess. Put one foot in front of the other. Follow your nose and see where it leads you. And when you’re ready, your destiny will reveal itself to you.”
Hmm. Destiny? “So it’s all about fate.”
“Not exactly,” he says, then pauses for a few seconds. “I believe in choices. But I also believe there comes at least one time in your life when all the choices you’ve made converge to either haunt you or heal you. Where you go from there is up to you.”
“Ah yes. A True Defining Moment. So what’s yours?”
“I don’t know if I’ve had one yet. You?”
“Leaving Buffalo, maybe.” Turning down Vale, definitely.
Remy and I continue to talk for nearly an hour—about everything and nothing and the funeral and Zoe’s pregnancy (finally confirmed) and the irony of life and death…. It’s one of those weird middle-of-the-night conversations where the next morning you may not believe or even remember what you said, but it’s comforting just to talk to him. As we’re about to hang up Remy reminds me that life goes on.
“No matter how outraged we are that it possibly could,” he adds.
I think about Sylvia and wonder if somebody said something similar to Remy after she died. “But it’s hard to have faith when you don’t have…”
“Faith?”
I laugh, because that was exactly what I meant although it sounds completely absurd.
“Do you want me to tell you a story?”
“Okay.”
“I’ve never told anybody this, so you better appreciate it.”
“I will.”
“All right. So after Sylvia died, things were rough. To be expected, obviously. So I kind of just let things settle for a while. Let her being gone sink in, you know? We knew it was coming, so we said what we needed to say to each other, but still, it hit me pretty hard. After a few months, I realized I needed to move, get out of that house. So I was packing shit up for the movers, cleaning out the garage, actually, and I found a beach ball that she’d blown up the summer before….”
“Remy, you don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to.” The last thing I want is for him (or me) to feel uncomfortable.
“No, it’s okay… So I find this ball. A beach ball with her breath in it….” He hesitates. “It was like…like striking oil. Like pirates’ treasure and Christmas and winning the lottery all at the same time. Better, even. So after I moved, every now and then, when I really, really missed her, I’d go downstairs and get it and open that little plastic plug and…and suck the tiniest bit of air out.”
My chest tightens. As usual, I have no idea what to say.
“What happened once the air was gone?” Best to stick to the facts.
“Nothing. It was just gone. That was it.”
“So…what did you do?”
“I dealt with it.”
Hot tears roll down my cheeks and onto the pillow.
I realize now that I love him. I love Remy Wakefield.
Instead of leaving on Saturday, I change my ticket to go back to San Francisco early. Zoe has insisted that I not stick around on her account, even though Asher had to go back to work. She’s staying behind with her sisters for another week or two to get her dad’s things in order and finish with everything. Packing up their childhood home is something she and her sisters need to do together, she says, without husbands or friends or boyfriends around to distract them. Truthfully, I can’t wait to get home.
chapter 20
Some Like It Hot
The U-Haul rolls away with George and her two Ikea bookcases, a closet’s worth of new clothes and the only thing her mothers had agreed to send her from Buffalo: Her signed life-size cutout of Lieutenant Uhura. (I told my mom about it recently and even e-mailed her a picture, thinking she might be interested in making an offer, but she coolly informed me that Star Trek memorabilia was an entire industry unto itself and ridiculously overpriced, to boot.)
I wave after her like an idiot while Remy snickers behind me.
“Do you mind? I’m trying to have a moment here.”
“Somehow I don’t think this is the last time you’ll be seeing each other.”
“We’re having lunch tomorrow, for your information, but that doesn’t mea
n this isn’t the end of an era—my little girl is leaving home. I can’t help but be a little nostalgic.”
He sighs and pulls up the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe his forehead. “Come inside. It’s disgusting out here.”
Only if you promise to do that again.
“Hello? Earth to Holly?”
“I’m fine. I think I’ll just sit and cool off on the porch for a while.”
“Cool off? Are you insane? It’s ninety degrees in the shade!”
Ahh. Summertime in San Francisco. Probably quite nice, if it wasn’t for the garbage strike.
“Suit yourself. But I’m going in—there’s a six-pack in the fridge calling my name….”
“A six-pack?”
An hour later, Remy and I are lying on his bed for all the wrong reasons—because it’s beneath the only ceiling fan in the house. Air-conditioning for the Wakefield manor isn’t on the agenda until next summer.
“I’m a charity case,” I tell him as he passes me another beer. “I know that. But I do have my pride, and I don’t want to feel like I owe you for every little thing. Or feel guilty if you see me come home with a new pair of shoes or something. Because I’d rather move out than deal with that. Capiche?”
We’re discussing the details of our new arrangement. I am simultaneously dreading it and looking forward to it at the same time. It’s basically the same deal as when George and I first moved in, only in exchange for the cheap rent, now I will be working full-time and helping Remy with the renovations every spare moment I have. So I’ll be exhausted and permanently sweaty on the one hand, but I’ll also be able to enjoy the pleasure of his company almost every day. (Maybe, just maybe, Remy will even work shirtless! Oh, the possibilities…)
“For the tenth time, Holly, you don’t have any pride. But that’s besides the point. And technically, you’re not a charity case, either. It’s not like I’m doing you the biggest favor in the world, you know—you’ll be my employee. I’m even thinking I might write you off as a tax deduction.”
“Aw, I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Nope—just you. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m going to put your rent back up the second you get a raise.”
“…or when pigs fly.”
“Whichever comes first. Or you might sell your book. Then I’d be asking you for a loan!”
I sit up. “I’ll pay you back, Remy, I promise. I already owe my dad thousands of dollars, but I’ll move you right to the top of my list of creditors….”
“I didn’t mean it like that. This isn’t a loan. It’s just a reversion clause in our lease. And frankly, having you stay makes more sense for me…the thought of having to find a new tenant right now is a complete nightmare.”
“And here I thought you enjoyed my company.”
“Not so much. So quit slacking off and grab a paintbrush….”
“Forget it!” I say. “It’s way too hot for fumes.”
“Fine. First thing tomorrow, though.”
“I don’t get Sundays off?”
“Ha! You would never respect me as a boss if I agreed to that. Don’t try and take advantage of me just because we’re friends.”
“So…we’re friends?”
Oh, God. Did I really just say that?
The combination of heat and alcohol has me playing fast and loose with my heart. Since Buffalo, once I realized how I felt about him, I’ve resolved not to discuss our relationship or even allude to it, since I figure I’ll probably say something so lame and obvious that he’ll figure out I’m in love with him, an incredibly humiliating prospect from which no good can possibly come. Yes, the thought of him letting me down easy is about a thousand times worse than lusting after him in secret for all eternity.
“Of course we’re friends! Why? You’d prefer we were enemies?”
“No,” I laugh. “But I’m glad you think so, too. I’ve always believed that men and women can be friends without…you know.”
Okay, now I’m really pushing it. If he even remotely senses I’m trying to see if he likes me, I will shrivel up and die. But somehow I can’t help myself. It’s like watching a car wreck, only I am the sadomasochistic lunatic behind the wheel.
“So, men and women can be friends, huh?”
“Sure. As long as there’s no chemistry. Like me and Asher. He’s one of my best friends. Always will be. But only because there was never anything, you know, going on between us.”
“Can I tell you something, then? As a friend?”
“Sure.”
Please, please, please don’t break my heart…
“What I want to say is this…”
He pauses and looks into my eyes.
“What, Remy?”
“Holly, what I want to say is…grab a paintbrush. Seriously. The kitchen still needs another coat. Oh, and make sure you cover the counters—I just put ’em in. If you spill so much as a drop…let’s just say it won’t be pretty. I’m going to take a nap….”
“Not a chance! Friends don’t let friends drink and paint. And while we’re on the subject, would you mind going downstairs and getting me another beer? I want a cold one.”
“Forget it!”
“Come on, be a gentleman.”
“You’ve had enough, m’lady…”
He’s right. One more beer and I’ll be professing my love in song.
“…and speaking of gentlemen, or whatever passes for gentlemen these days, how’s your attorney doing? Did he miss you while you were away?”
Great. Just what I want to talk about. Remy still doesn’t know about my delightful marriage proposal. I left town two days later and was mortified at the thought of admitting it to anyone besides George. Nor was I in any rush to broadcast the fact that my sex appeal apparently extends only to desperate bicycle messengers and gay men. Not exactly the kind of image I want to project to a guy who is out of my league to begin with.
Then again, since courtship obviously isn’t on the menu for us, friendship is the next best thing. I might as well get used to it. And friends are supposed to tell each other things. Remy trusted me enough to open up to me about Sylvia, after all, so why should I keep anything from him, no matter how embarrassing? He’s a good listener, he obviously has some insight into people, and maybe it would be good to get a guy’s perspective on the whole horrible experience…
But before I can answer Remy’s question, tell him all about Vale and what had happened, the doorbell rings. He rolls off the end of the mattress and walks over to the window. “It’s the guy for the plumbing estimate. He wasn’t supposed to be here till four. Probably can’t wait to tell me how much two hundred feet of copper pipe is gonna cost me.” He shakes his head in disgust. “These guys are no fools! They know I have to do copper…. Damn city! They won’t approve anything else in these old places even though PVC is just as good and…”
I manage to peel myself off the mattress and follow him downstairs while his rant branches out into the corruption of municipal politics, the evils of contractors in general, why plumbers and electricians in particular are the bane of his existence, and so on and so forth.
I’ll admit it—what he’s saying isn’t overly interesting; his tirades rarely are. But there’s something about the way he blabs on and on about whatever happens to be bothering him or inspiring him or distracting him at the moment that I find totally attractive. It’s proof that he’s a passionate man.
“…and get this—the last plumber who came out here pulled up in a Hummer. A fucking Hummer! Can you believe that? Plumbers, man. I tell ya…”
“Remy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going down to my place. I think it might be half a degree cooler in the basement.”
“Sure. Come up later? We’ll do pizza or something.”
“Okay. Good luck with the plumber.”
He shoots me an as-if look and goes to answer the door.
Downstairs, everything looks exactly the same (of course it does—al
l the furniture is mine!) but just knowing George’s room is empty makes my heart ache. I sit down at the kitchen table with a pile of mail. Phone bill, cable bill, another “No Thanks” letter from a publisher…
Frankly, I’m impressed by how quick and efficient the publishers have been at stuffing my S.A.S.E.s with the bad news; it had taken far less time than I expected for the rejections to start rolling in. At first, I was a little disheartened. The more I thought about it, though, the more certain I became that I was meant to write an entirely different book, anyway.
The real problem with the mail that has piled up while I was away is the bills. Without George’s half of everything, even with reduced rent, it actually looks like I might be going broke in the not-too-distant future. When I notice the interest charge on my Visa bill, I briefly consider calling Vale and setting a date for the wedding. Being a writer-philanthropist with a gay husband would surely be better than this!
I get out the calculator and crunch some numbers. For one very dark moment—even darker than the moment I considered calling Vale—I think about moving home, living with my parents while I get back on my feet. But then I remember my room and how sleeping there had literally been one long nightmare. Philadelphia is a better option. It’s a lot less expensive than San Francisco, and a fresh start might do me some good. But damn it, I like it here. And leaving every time things get hard is a pattern I can’t afford to develop, both because of short-term moving costs and the even greater expense long-term therapy might incur.
Fortunately, I don’t have to decide anything just yet. I take a long, cool shower and flop down onto my bed. I’m not generally a napper, but the heat and the beer soon lull me away to a better place….
When I wake, it’s already dark, but still hot as hell. I throw on some shorts and a tank top (there’s no point in hiding it from him anymore—I am a 34 A on a good day and bras for me are obviously strictly ornamental). I drag myself up the back stairs and into the kitchen.
Remy is on the phone with his mother. He must have just taken a shower because his hair is wet and his T-shirt is clean. Since he hasn’t gotten around to buying an actual table and chairs, he’s sitting on the newly installed granite countertop, his legs dangling over the side. I try not to stare at his bulging quads as I push past him on my way to the fridge.