Tomorrow There Will Be Sun

by Dana Reinhardt

  “It wasn’t a cancer scare. It was cancer.”

  Peter sighs. He has no way to come back at that. And I need a minute to regain control.

  “You lied, Peter. I asked you who called and you lied.”

  “I did. But you didn’t exactly leave me much choice. It was either lie, or have you throw a fit at dinner in front of everyone.”

  “You didn’t tell me last night. When we came back to the room. When we weren’t in front of anyone.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t. I think probably because I was still a little angry.”

  “You were angry? You were angry?” I yank my hand out of his. There goes the calmness I was trying so hard to channel. Everything is going exactly as I’d planned—the only deviation is that I didn’t even have to bring up the phone call. Peter did that all on his own. He’s telling me precisely what I’d hoped to hear, that he’s sorry, that he lied only because he could see I was upset and a little drunk and he didn’t want to cause a scene. And yet: I’m still furious.

  “Yes, Jenna. I was a little angry because I don’t want to have to lie about who I’m on the phone with. I want to be able to talk to my assistant about what is going on at work without being made to feel as though I’m betraying you. You are putting me in an unfair, and frankly, an untenable, position.”

  I hate the word frankly. Just like I hate the expression to be perfectly honest. Both imply that everything else you’ve said is a lie. Peter and I keep lists of words or phrases the other is not allowed to use. The forbidden, inexcusable words. Peter knows frankly is on my list, so I can’t help but believe that on some level, he’s trying to needle me.

  “It’s only untenable if she continues to ignore boundaries. A good assistant knows when to leave the boss alone.”

  “Really? And what would you know about that exactly?”

  Forget needling, that’s a full frontal punch to the face. That’s Peter telling me I’m useless. Peter telling me I don’t know anything about real work. Peter reminding me that he’s the breadwinner and I’m just the stay-at-home mom who can’t finish my fourth book for young readers. A book for which I’ll be paid barely enough to cover half of a single year of the mortgage on our three-bedroom house. This is a retreat into our old patterns. We aren’t our parents. We’re a team. We waded into the waters of this business endeavor together, hand in hand. The only reason he can put in the hours at work that he does is because I pick up the slack at home. We’ve talked about this. Ad nauseam.

  “Fuck off, Peter.”

  This is not at all how I wanted this to go. This was not part of my plan. For how to talk about the phone call, nor for how to spend our siesta. Clem has gone off to town with Malcolm. We have this wing of the house to ourselves. Nobody will come knocking on our door. I was hoping we’d make up for last night’s missed opportunity. This is vacation. We have a view of the ocean. These are high-value minutes.

  I start to cry.

  Peter comes over and he puts his arms around me. He reeks of fish. “Shhhh,” he says. I choose to believe he’s trying to comfort me with his shushing, not scolding me to keep quiet so the Solomons won’t hear us fighting.

  “Come on, Jen. Please. This is stupid. Fine. Okay. I’ll tell Gavi not to call again. Even if the building is on fire. Even if we poison half of the Westside of Los Angeles with a batch of bad bagels. Even if . . .”

  “I get it.”

  He steps back and takes a look at me. He brushes the hair off my forehead. “We good?”

  “Sure.” I try for a smile.

  “I love you. You know that, right? You are my person, Jenna. You’re my wife. I don’t like all this jealousy and suspicion. It’s not who you are and it’s not who we are and I guess it just sets me off that I feel like I’m constantly answering for a sin I haven’t committed. So I’m sorry if I haven’t been patient with you. I adore you. I don’t know what I’d do without you and I’m so grateful for all the work you put into making this trip happen and please . . . let’s just try and enjoy it?”

  He puts his chin on my shoulder and rests his cheek on mine. In his ear I whisper, “Okay.”

  He takes a deep breath in through his nose. Then he leans away from me and makes a face. “What stinks?”

  I tell him. “It’s you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  IT’S NOT LIKE I’VE NEVER held a real job, but it is true that since Clementine was born sixteen years ago, I have not woken up in the morning, showered, put on a pair of panty hose and gone off to work in an office. I didn’t do this before Clem was born, nor did I ever aspire to; in fact my aspirations involved never having to wear panty hose at all. (Panty hose, by the way, is high on Peter’s list of forbidden words.)

  I spent the first few years after college in a string of jobs at which my newly acquired degree was utterly useless. I worked in a clothing boutique, a fancy stationery store and waited tables at two different restaurants. I spent my off-hours sleeping with the wrong people and writing bad short stories. Eventually it felt like it was time to get a real job, something with some responsibility. Something that mattered and might lead me toward a career. That’s when I saw the listing on the bulletin board of the YMCA where I’d occasionally go swimming: a city agency was looking for caseworkers to manage teenagers in the foster care system.

  I made less than I did at the combination of my meaningless jobs, but because the agency was overburdened and underfunded, they didn’t require that I have a degree in social work. I had a small budget to provide what they called “enrichment experiences” for the kids in my caseload. I’d take them to museums, or to the movies, and sometimes I’d buy them books, which is how I became familiar with the Young Adult genre. My job also required that I drive from home to home and sit with the kids and their foster parents to try to determine whether anything abjectly horrifying was going on, and if it wasn’t, I’d say, See you next month. If I worried something abjectly horrifying was going on, I’d hand the case over to a caseworker with an actual degree in social work.

  I really loved the job and lasted longer than most. I connected with my kids and developed a deeper understanding of, and fascination with, teenagers in general. I even went so far as to start studying for the GREs, thinking maybe I’d go back to school and get that social work degree. But in the end, the path just seemed too long and too difficult and I never even took the test.

  Peter and I got together when I was still in that job. When he’d introduce me around he’d often lead with: Jenna is a social worker. I liked that I impressed him, even if he had to fudge the details.

  All along I kept up with my writing. My short stories got better and I started writing essays, too. Eventually I got some freelance work at various teen magazines and phased into writing full time. I ghostwrote a few books in a mass-market series about the dating shenanigans of teenage zombies and one short nonfiction book in a series about teen entrepreneurs. None of this required I don the dreaded panty hose, or go to an office, or negotiate boundaries with my assistant (because I’ve never had an assistant, so perhaps Peter does have a point there).

  Once Clem was born I took on less freelance work and started spending what few precious hours I could find each week on my own writing. My first novel, my bestseller hands down—and also my best book, according to not only Ingrid but pretty much everybody else—is about a girl in the foster care system who falls in love with her foster brother.

  After Peter finishes showering off the smell of fish, I decide I should probably shower off the smell of cheap sunblock. When I come out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, he’s already sound asleep, snoring just loudly enough that I know siesta time is a total bust for me, so I decide to go for a walk.

  The rest of the house is quiet. I don’t know where Ingrid, Solly and Ivan are, but I’m guessing they’re napping together in the master bed, Ivan sprawled out
between them. Or maybe Solly and Ivan are napping while Ingrid soaks in the volcanic tub, balancing the shit out of her pH levels.

  I go out to the beach and walk to the right, away from the rocks where Malcolm and Ivan hunted for starfish, toward the northern bend in the cove. On the other side of this bend are more private villas. After this there will be another villa, and then another villa, and then another, and then, eventually, there will be hotels with beaches packed with tourists, which will then give way to broader beaches fronting ritzy resorts.

  Three villas share the first beach I come to, all built tall and shallow like ours, one a little shabbier than the others, one a little tackier, and one is flat-out gorgeous, with an infinity pool on the second level. I pat myself on the back for finding Villa Azul Paraiso, because even if our pool is shaped like a kidney and isn’t infinite, at least we don’t share our beach with Villa Shabby and Villa Tacky.

  I can see people moving around in each of these villas. They are all living, like we are, out in the open, no walls to hide behind. I wonder about them. Are they also celebrating a big birthday? Did they come for the religious festivities? Did they experience a series of travel mishaps on their way here? Are they with their families? Are they groups of friends who gathered to share the same space? Do they have staff making them hibiscus margaritas? Who claimed the master bedroom?

  On the second floor of the gorgeous villa, next to the infinity pool, stands a woman. She is tall with long black hair tied up in a bun, black sunglasses and a black sheer cover-up that most definitely did not come from a juniors department. She is glamorous. She is not fighting with her husband. She is not having trouble finishing her manuscript. Nothing is keeping her up in the middle of the night. She looks content. She looks . . . like she is staring straight at me. It’s hard to tell with the dark sunglasses. I look back at her for another beat before I stop and turn, continuing up the beach.

  I scramble over a few rocks to reach the next stretch of sand. There is nothing here, no hotel, no villas, just a small patch of undeveloped jungle that has somehow managed to survive despite its prime oceanfront real estate. There’s nobody here but a young couple, sitting in the sand at the far end of the beach, under the shade of a palm tree. As I draw nearer, I sneak another look at them.

  It’s Clem and Malcolm.

  “Hey, Mom,” Clem calls and waves. She doesn’t seem embarrassed. She’s not behaving as though she’s been caught in the act of doing something she shouldn’t. She actually looks happy to see me. I probably imagined it was a young couple in the distance because I saw two species—male and female—side by side, and my brain connected the dots. Jumped to conclusions. They are lying next to each other in the sand, yes, but I can see, now that I’ve drawn close, that there’s a good two feet of separation between them.

  “I thought you were going to the church,” I say.

  “We did.” Malcolm reaches over and picks up a palm frond and waves it at me. Clem does the same with hers. “It was really crowded—the whole town must have shown up. There were these people in costumes. It was kind of awesome. We didn’t stay for the whole thing, though, because Clem got hot and thirsty.”

  “I did,” she admits.

  “We decided to take the beach route home instead of the road,” he continues. “And then we found this place.”

  “It feels like a beach on a deserted island. Like in Lost,” Clem says.

  “That show was sick.” Malcolm puts his hand up and Clem claps her palm against his.

  “Totally.”

  “Come on, Jenna,” Malcolm says. “Hang with us.” They inch a little farther away from each other and I squeeze in between them. Clem is right. From this spot you can’t see any signs of civilization.

  “I haven’t even gone for a swim in the ocean yet,” Clementine says, staring out at the calm water. “I’ve only been swimming in the pool. That’s, like, what I do all the time back at home.”

  “You probably don’t remember our house, Malcolm,” I say. “But we don’t have a pool, so I’m not sure what Clem is talking about.”

  “Mom. God. I’m talking about L.A. and how, like, everyone has a pool.”

  “Not everyone.” I’m annoying her, I know. But I can’t let her go around saying things like everyone has a pool. It’s tone-deaf and obnoxious. That school of hers teaches kids not to make assumptions about gender identity, but it doesn’t teach them not to walk around saying everyone has a pool. Of course, Solly and Ingrid do have a pool, so Malcolm probably isn’t offended by her crass generalization, but still.

  “You know what we should do tonight,” Malcolm says to Clem. “We should go for a night swim.”

  “Isn’t it scary swimming at night?”

  “No,” he says. “It’s awesome, trust me.”

  It’s always been this way with the two of them. Even if they don’t remember that this is their natural order, I do: Malcolm, older by fifteen months, leading the way. Walking, talking, stuffing Cheerios into his mouth by the fistful. Maureen was my first friend to have a baby and I carefully watched every move Malcolm made like those slow-motion nature videos of a flower blooming or a frog catching a fly on its tongue.

  Malcolm leans back and closes his eyes. Clem does the same. It’s silent except for the water lapping at the sand. It’s almost eerily silent. That’s when I realize what’s missing. The sound of Clem clicking away on her phone.

  “Clementine, where’s your phone?” I’m trying to quell my rising panic. If she lost her phone in Mexico, we won’t be able to replace it, and she’ll have a meltdown, and she’ll ruin the rest of our vacation with her sullenness.

  “I didn’t bring it.”

  “You didn’t?” Her phone is like an appendage. Or an organ. It’s as if she left the villa without a lung.

  “Nah. Sean is off with Ryan and those guys at some soccer game or something so . . .” She shrugs. “Whatever.”

  “I bet it’s nice,” I say. “Being out without a phone. Giving yourself a break from ubiquitous connectivity.”

  “Let’s not push it, Mother.”

  I open my mouth to say something back but Malcolm speaks first. “You know . . . I do remember your house, Jenna. I remember it almost as well as I remember my old house.”

  “We did spend a lot of time together. Your mom was my only friend with a kid. We were in the trenches together.”

  “Stop trying to make yourself sound like a war hero,” Clem says. “You were a mother. Big deal. And anyway, most of the time you just stuck us on the couch in front of a Disney video.”

  “I remember that couch,” Malcolm says.

  Clem turns to look at him. “Me too. I loved that couch. But we got rid of it years ago.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I LET CLEM AND MALCOLM go back ahead of me. I’m not quite ready to see Peter and I want a few more moments to myself. I sit cross-legged in the sand and close my eyes. I breathe in deeply. My go-to stress reliever is picturing myself on an empty beach. Smelling the salt in the air. Feeling the breeze. Since that sit-down conversation with my doctor I have imagined myself in this very spot over and over and over again. And now here I am. No more imagining. So why don’t I feel the calm an empty beach promises?

  Peter and I went straight home after the appointment. He took the rest of the afternoon off from work. He made me an omelet for lunch and he squeezed me some orange juice straight from our tree and he reminded me again and again that the doctor said I had every reason not to worry, that with minimal treatment I’d be shipshape. But I worried anyway. I pushed the omelet around on my plate.

  “I used three different kinds of cheese,” Peter said.

  “It looks beautiful.”

  “Don’t make me force-feed you.”

  I took a bite. And then another.

  He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

&n
bsp; “Remember, we have that concert at Largo tonight,” Peter said later as he rinsed the dishes. “That’ll take your mind off things.”

  Of course I’d forgotten. Solly had invited us to a benefit concert at Largo. “I don’t think I feel up to it.”

  “Jenna, come on. It’ll be fun. It’s just what you need. A night out. A distraction.”

  “That may be what you need, Peter. But I don’t know if it’s what I need.”

  “Solly paid a fortune for these tickets. I think we have to go.”

  “I imagine Solly would understand. After all, I did just find out I have cancer.”

  He sat down at the table beside me. He took my hand and he kissed it. “I know this is scary. But there are all kinds of cancer, and sometimes it sounds worse than it really is. The doctor said you’d be fine. You have to believe her. She has no reason to lie to you.”

  “She can’t know for sure.”

  “Oh, honey.” He leaned in close and took me into his arms. With his chin resting on top of my head he said, “I love you and I am going to be right here with you for all of this. It’s going to be okay.”

  We went to the concert that night. We had drinks beforehand with Ingrid and Solly at a bar down the street from the club. Ingrid got tipsy—this was before the nutritionist took her off alcohol. We didn’t tell them about my diagnosis. We worried it would ruin the mood. Naturally, Solly’s seats were front-row center. He beamed up at the stage with Peter beaming along right beside him.

  Afterward, in the car on the way home Peter squeezed my knee and said, “Wasn’t that fun? Aren’t you glad we went?”

  It wasn’t and I wasn’t, but I didn’t see why I should spoil what had been a great night for Peter so I said, “Sure.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I FINALLY GET UP from the sand to walk back, but only because I realize that after my shower I didn’t reapply any sunblock. I’m a sunblock Nazi with my daughter, but I’m not nearly so rigid with myself, when I need it even more than she does to ward off the wrinkles that multiply while I sleep.