by Amy Meyerson
But her death was my fault, Billy insisted. He’s right to blame me.
“How was Evelyn’s death Billy’s fault?” I interrupted.
“It wasn’t. That was his grief talking.”
“You’re sure?”
“Trust me. We all blame ourselves.”
“Did he tell you what happened to her?” My pulse raced.
“He never offered, I never asked. That’s what enabled us to connect. We didn’t need to know what happened.”
Sheila continued to describe their first date, if you could call it that. They finished their tea, and wandered down to the beach. It was a clear day, and they could see up the coast to Malibu. Cold waves crashed against their bare calves. When they reached the pier, Billy took hold of Sheila’s hand.
Evelyn liked walking on the beach, Billy told Sheila.
Daniel hated the beach. Relaxation made him anxious, Sheila said.
After their walk, they drove across town to Billy’s house in Pasadena. The house was white and colonial, large enough for a family of six, but Billy lived there alone. He led Sheila upstairs to a guest room.
“Honey, are you sure you want to hear this part?” Sheila asked. She found an empty patch of grass beneath the thick trunk of a palm tree.
“I have the powers of disassociation.” I lay on the grass, staring up at the fronds rustling in the wind. At ground level, the air was calm.
After that night, Sheila and Billy met at her house and his. They went to hotels, parking lots, bathrooms. Sheila didn’t mention the affair to her therapist. She assumed Billy didn’t, either, if he still visited his doctor. She wasn’t sure. As they came to know each other’s bodies, they spoke less about their lives.
Sheila was surprised when Billy invited her to his sister’s for dinner.
Are you sure that’s a good idea?
Why wouldn’t it be?
Sheila could account for a dozen reasons why it would be a bad idea, yet she told Billy she would go. She put on a white dress that hugged her waist and hid her stomach. But white was the color of brides, of youth, so she selected a black dress instead. This was the color of mourning. She decided on chartreuse, hoping it would be the perfect compromise.
It wasn’t. The dress clashed with the many shades of pink that overwhelmed our house.
“Even you were wearing pink,” Sheila said.
Susan hugged Sheila and pretended she’d heard so much about her, though Sheila knew Billy had mentioned little.
David should be home any minute. He needed to run to the office. Susan threw her hands in the air to suggest nonchalance, but Sheila could envision the argument that would commence once the guests were gone and the baby—“You,” she emphasized—was in her crib. I don’t know if Billy told you, I’m a huge fan.
Susan made wine spritzers. Billy drank his too quickly.
Take it easy, Billy. No one’s going to take it away from you, Susan said.
It’s a spritzer. Billy finished the glass. How about a real drink? Sheila and Susan waited for Billy to apologize. Instead, he took a flask out of his blazer and filled the wineglass with clear liquid.
The sound of gravel under the tires broke the women’s spell. David walked through the door in an expensive suit. He kissed Susan, then greeted Sheila.
Ms. Crowley, I’m sorry I’m late. Sheila remembered that he had a firm grip.
Throughout dinner, Susan spoke too much. She gave a synopsis of each of Sheila’s novels. Her experiences in New York had been similar to the protagonist’s in Downtown Eleanor. When the baby fussed—“I mean you,” Sheila said. “When you fussed. Sorry, dear. I’m having trouble connecting the sophisticated woman before me to that tiny little creature bawling her eyes out. I’ve never been particularly fond of children.”
“It’s fine,” I assured her. No one had ever called me sophisticated before. Kooky, certainly. Overzealous, for sure. But sophisticated? Not on my life. “It’s not like I remember being a baby, anyway.”
When the baby fussed, Susan interrupted herself to rock the cradle. Otherwise, she continued to detail the club from Sheila’s first novel, where Eleanor first sang, how it looked a lot like the club where Susan had performed with the Lady Loves. Billy sat at the far end of the table, almost as if he weren’t there.
After dinner, David and Billy retired to David’s home office.
David’s helping Billy with the lawsuit, Susan told Sheila as they cleared the table. The baby started to cry. Susan put down the stack of plates and indicated to Sheila she’d be right back.
So that’s still going on? Sheila asked, gathering the napkins. Susan sat down and started to unhook her nursing bra.
Do you mind? she asked Sheila, who stated that she did not. Susan positioned the baby’s head, trying to get her to latch. Sheila knew she should turn away, but the baby’s constant squirming, how she was hungry yet refused nourishment, fascinated her.
“I was difficult even then,” I joked.
“There are worse things than being difficult,” Sheila said.
Susan switched breasts, cooing until the baby surrendered. Evelyn’s father is relentless. He always disapproved of Billy, even in high school. Can you imagine, your wife dies in a terrible accident and you have to keep living it over and over again in depositions. It’s hard not to feel like it’s vindictive.
I sat up too quickly. Red dots floated in my periphery. “Evelyn’s death was an accident?”
“I remember your mom calling it that, ‘a terrible accident.’”
I imagined Billy and Evelyn driving down a slippery road, the dark night, the car or tree they couldn’t see. “My parents told me she died of a seizure. I can’t believe they lied.”
“For years, until my memoir was published, I told people that Daniel died at home. We all craft euphemisms to hide behind,” she said, defending them. “I remember your mom was really upset. She started pacing with you in her arms, rocking you so aggressively I was worried she might drop you.”
I wish this would end, Susan said. David says it could go on for another few years. I don’t know how Billy can move on with this lawsuit still pending.
Sheila wiped the food scraps onto one plate and stacked the others beneath it.
How’s he seem? Susan asked, returning the baby to the crib. She followed Sheila into the kitchen. I try to talk to him, but he never says anything.
Sheila hesitated. Maybe you aren’t asking the right questions.
Everything I say is wrong. I feel like I’m in training for when Miranda’s a teenager.
You want him to get over it. It’s not that easy. Some people take longer than others.
Susan balled a towel and began wringing it absentmindedly. I don’t know what else to do. I want Evelyn back, too. Susan wiped the same square of countertop repeatedly and Sheila understood what Billy couldn’t.
“She was grieving,” Sheila said.
I pictured Mom in the kitchen when I first returned to LA, scrubbing the counter, the muffin pan, anything within her reach. “My mom can be difficult to read.”
“No, Billy didn’t want to see it. He wanted to feel like he was the only one who deserved to mourn Evelyn.”
Sheila watched Susan wipe the same square of countertop until Billy stormed into the kitchen.
I’m not feeling well, he said to Sheila.
David raced in behind him. Bill, don’t walk out on me. I’m trying to help.
Billy grabbed Sheila’s hand and pulled her to the door. Sheila tried to thank my parents for a lovely time, but Billy was tugging her too forcefully.
Neither of them said anything on the drive to her house. Billy stopped the car in the driveway. He didn’t unbuckle his seat belt.
So you’re going to shut me out, too, now?
I need to be alone.
Billy, they want
to be there for you. You need to try.
You sound like her. Billy snorted.
You need to let people in. Eventually, they’ll stop trying to find you.
Sheila had several friends who’d called her for months after Daniel died. She’d ignored the phone, erased their messages. The calls dwindled until they stopped completely. She was too embarrassed now to reach out to them.
“We kept seeing each other.” Sheila dug her heel into the soft sod. “But it was never the same. I don’t even remember when it stopped.”
In my back pocket, I found the letter and handed it to her.
Sheila read the letter. “I can’t believe he kept this.” She tried to hand it back to me.
“Keep it.”
Sheila held the letter for a moment before putting it in her purse. “That means a lot to me. Thank you.” She peeked at her watch. “I’ve completely lost track of the time.” She gathered her things.
“So Billy never told you what happened to Evelyn? Not even when you reconnected?”
“I know it sounds weird. The less someone talks about a tragedy, the worse you know it is. When we reconnected, I think he needed me not to ask him.”
“How did you and Billy get back in touch?”
“Prospero Books.” Sheila grabbed my hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I followed Sheila back to her car.
“You go,” I said. “I’m going to walk back.”
“But it’s over two miles.” Sheila shook her head at herself. “I don’t know when I became so LA.”
“Did Billy give you anything for me?” I asked as she stepped into the car.
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure exactly. You’d know if it was for me, though.”
Sheila frowned and shook her head. She waved goodbye as her Prius merged into traffic around the lake. I walked toward Sunset, turning onto the main thoroughfare of Echo Park. There was only one reason you would hide a terrible accident—if it was someone’s fault. What had Billy done? Was he drunk? In some other way negligent? And why would Mom keep that from me now? I walked past the old theater that had become a vegan-friendly restaurant. Sheila should have had something to give me. Billy wouldn’t have broken the pattern he’d created. He must have assumed she’d tell me about the accident, something that would lead me toward the next clue. I followed Sunset through the stretch where there were no storefronts, no other pedestrians, only steep sandy cliffs harboring the road. I thought about what Sheila said, how we create euphemisms for tragedy to shield ourselves from the pain. Maybe Mom wasn’t trying to keep Billy’s actions a secret. Maybe she really couldn’t return to the scene of Evelyn’s death, to pick at the scab time had hardened. Sheila had said that Billy had refused to acknowledge Mom’s loss. Was I doing the same thing? Was Mom closing herself off to me because I wasn’t willing to listen, really listen?
“Sweetheart.” Mom answered the phone as though this was our regular daily call, like there was never a doubt I’d be calling her today. “We’re just headed to the movies. Can I call you later?”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you—I’m really sorry I haven’t been more considerate of your feelings. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” I said.
“Miranda, we’re running late. Let me call you later, all right?” She hung up before I could respond.
I held the phone in my hand as I continued down Sunset, certain she would call back. I walked past the old burger place that was now a brick oven pizzeria and the empty chess tables behind the derelict donut shop, which Malcolm had said were once an institution of the east side. My phone would ring any moment. She would apologize for rushing off the phone, then I would say, “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” and she would say, “No, I am,” and we would laugh, and in our laughter we would begin to heal. I clutched my phone all the way back to Prospero Books. It grew wet from my clammy hand, but Mom didn’t call back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sheila and I began to see each other regularly. We would meet for an early morning hike in Griffith Park before the day grew too hot. Although her English cottage sat at the base of the park, we’d hop in her Prius and drive up to Ferndale or Crystal Springs, supporting her theory that, at least in Sheila’s LA, you had to drive in order to walk anywhere.
During our meet-ups, I pressed her on Evelyn’s death. Sheila had given me a vital detail—Evelyn’s death was a terrible accident—but little else to go on.
“You’re sure Billy didn’t leave you something to give to me?” I asked as we marched across the lawn beside the old, abandoned zoo. “That’s the way this works. Alice in Wonderland led me to Billy’s doctor, who led me to Frankenstein, which led me to his physicist friend, who led me to Fear of Flying and you.”
Sheila smiled as she caught her breath. “Billy always knew I fancied myself a disciple of Erica Jong.” She motioned me to keep walking.
“You didn’t get any strange packages in the mail? Something you may have accidentally thrown out? Nothing from Billy’s lawyer?”
“I’m sure if Billy had sent me the next clue, he would have made if obvious enough that I wouldn’t have thrown it away.” We wound our way around tan hills, Sheila setting a steady pace despite her labored breath.
“And there haven’t been any rumors around Prospero Books about Evelyn? How she died?”
“There’s been at least a generation of patrons since Evelyn died. I don’t think any of the regulars even know there was an Evelyn.”
“Except you,” I said.
“Except me.”
“And Malcolm?”
“I don’t know what Malcolm knows.” Her voice had no hesitation to it, no cageyness. Whatever Malcolm was keeping from me, Sheila wasn’t in on it.
We continued our climb toward Amir’s Garden, finding a bench that overlooked the square buildings of Glendale. Cacti grew in wild formations around us, stretching and twisting toward the sky, not quite tall enough to block the man-made masses in our periphery.
“Quite the view.” Sheila wiped sweat from her forehead.
We sat on the bench, trying to cool down. Every time I started to get up, she said, “Let me sit here one more minute,” so I settled onto the bench, taking in the little bit of shade the cacti offered, and confessed Prospero’s money problems. I told her how each month Billy had flushed his own savings into the store, the financial equivalent of scooping a bucket of water out of a sinking ship. I detailed the calendar we’d put together with first-time authors and other writers we’d lured away from readings at other bookstores around LA, about our new rewards program, the small bump in sales from the KCRW piece advertising her reading. I explained our plans for the gala, the donations we’d lined up, the tickets we hadn’t sold. I tried to sound upbeat as I listed our programming for the upcoming months, but my tone revealed my skepticism, my fear that Prospero Books really could go bankrupt.
“Prospero Books can’t close. I’ve got lots of rich friends. Let’s gouge them at your gala.” Sheila agreed to send them personalized invitations with promises of a reading from her current project—unfinished, something she always advised other writers not to do—and an auction of a one-on-one meal with her, even though they were her friends and could dine with her whenever they desired.
I told Sheila I had to go back to Philadelphia in late August, whether Prospero was likely to stay open or not. I wasn’t even certain I would be able to come back for the gala.
“I just hope I have an apartment to go home to,” I said. Jay and I hadn’t spoken since our fight. Not on the phone. Not over text, either.
Sheila put her sweaty hand on mine. “Honey, don’t you know men become children when their egos are bruised? You have to fawn over him a little, let him think he’s in control. It’s really very simple.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be giving me some emp
owered, don’t-take-any-shit type of message?”
“There’s a time and a place. If you want to be with him, you need to let him be right. That’s important, learning how to let someone else be right even when they’re wrong. God, when did I become someone who gives life lessons?” She made a sour face, disappointed in herself. It may have been good advice, but I was right. I didn’t want to pretend that he was. I didn’t want my relationship to depend on me bowing down to him.
“Well.” Sheila stood. “This hike isn’t going to finish itself.”
As we sidestepped down the stairs carved into the side of the hill, I continued to talk, turning the conversation to Mom. I told Sheila that I was ready to let Mom be right, but just because I was ready to listen didn’t mean she was ready to talk.
“We’ve never been this way before,” I said. It was going on a month since I’d seen her.
“I remember that time when your mom stops being a parent and becomes a person,” she said as we crossed the road toward the parking lot. “It’s difficult seeing parents for who they are rather than who we want them to be.”
“I don’t know who my mom is. I’m not sure I ever really have.”
“Then you should try to get to know her,” Sheila offered.
As close as we were, there was always a part of Mom I could never know. I identified it as her former life, her faded promise of stardom. I never understood why she gave all that up. I never understood how she’d wanted it in the first place. I assumed she always regretted that she didn’t end up with the career she’d envisioned, but maybe the shadow that followed her wasn’t her aborted dreams. Maybe that shadow was Billy. Evelyn.
* * *
By late July, the store was still in peak sales before they promised to bottom out in August. Even with that extra income, after the daily operating costs, the payroll and taxes, the utilities, the mortgage, the line of credit, Prospero Books was still firmly in the red.