Awake (7 page)

-12-

We had a down home feast of pork chops, corn-on-the-cob and tapioca pudding. No pretense whatsoever although the pork chops did have a zesty Caribbean flavor to them.

“Lovely,” I say with my last scoop of tapioca pudding. “Felt like I was back in Minnesota.”

“We Midwest girls have to stick together,” Alodia says beginning to clear the table but William chases her away and does it himself.

“Worked three years at the Olive Garden after college,” he says as he carries away every plate expertly. “This is child’s play.”

William had just finished his wistful account of his first love. To all of our surprise it was a girl named Yvonne. She lived on his street back in Boulder, Colorado. A high-end neighborhood of doctors and lawyers. William’s dad was an ophthalmologist.

After years of admiration from afar, William found the courage to ask Yvonne to prom. She reluctantly agreed but on the night of the prom, drunk on spiked punch, Yvonne confessed that she was pretty sure she was a lesbian.

With the love of his life playing for the other team, so to speak, William said he had no choice but to become gay himself. In reality, he already knew he had similar desires as he enjoyed the opening of a show called Magnum P.I. way too much for a straight guy. They had to explain to me that the opening credits had a young Tom Selleck looking manly with his shirt off.

I didn’t follow that up by confessing I had no idea who Tom Selleck was, but William read my mind. He explained that this Selleck guy also played Monica’s older boyfriend on the show Friends. I have heard of Friends and even Monica, but that’s an old show too. I haven’t watched more than one or two partial episodes.

I’ll just have to google Tom Selleck later if I think of it.

We move out back and sit on strangely comfortable wicker patio furniture under hanging Japanese lamps. The sky is darkening and the lamps bathe us in the soft orange and green light.

Simone insists on getting around in her wheelchair unassisted and does so as gracefully as she does everything.

“Where are you from, Simone?” I ask as I accept a glass of chardonnay from Alodia.

“Our Simone is a French girl,” Alodia says. “Born in Paris no less.”

“But you don’t have an accent,” I say to Simone.

“There is a slight one in there,” Alodia corrects.

“I mean no accent for the ears of mortals,” I tease.

“I grew up in Southern California. West Covina,” Simone says. “I was born in Paris, in the Latin Quarter, because my father taught at the Sorbonne briefly. He was from West Covina too.”

“But doesn’t it sound so cool to be born in Paris in the Latin Quarter?” William asks rhetorically.

“I was born in Eden Prairie,” I say. “Not as cool.”

“Oh I disagree,” Simone says. “That sounds like a magical place.”

“It’s so Little House on the Prairie sounding,” William says. “You’re like a real live Laura Ingalls mixed with a little Paris Hilton.”

William makes me laugh. Everything is a punch line of some type. I recognize that even if I am not always in on the joke.

“So you were born in Paris,” I say to Simone redirecting the attention back to her.

“Yes,” she says, “only that. We moved back to the states when I was two, but my mother was a petite French woman. She struggled to ever feel at home in California. West Covina could hardly compare to the City of Light.”

I think of my own nostalgia for the quiet breezes of the rolling hills of Minnesota and feel I can relate to Simone’s mother. “Your poor mother,” I say to myself more than anyone.

“And to be forever separated from your first language,” Alodia says sadly, “creates a hole in your soul.”

Simone smiles at our empathy for her mother. “It’s true,” she says, “but love speaks a language of its own and my mother had that.”

“What about our Simone?” William asks. “Who was your first love?”

She smiles. “Tommy Preston. His father ran the Longs Drugstore near my father’s office.”

A look of concern overcomes Alodia which makes William and me immediately curious. “Tommy Preston? Do tell,” William says.

“I have not told anyone this,” Simone says. “Not Tommy and not my sister.”

“Your sister?” I say.

“He married my sister in the end. They were closer in age,” Simone explains almost bereft. “Tommy passed away some years ago.”

Alodia puts her hand on top of Simone’s.

William tilts his head and puts his hand on Simone’s shoulder. “We’re going to need details. Do I smell scandal?”

I try not to smile, but it’s hard. William possesses a certain sense of fun that lightens the mood instantly.

“No,” Simone says, “nothing so lovely as that.” She taps her wine glass and William pours the last of our second bottle of Sea Smoke Botella Pinot Noir into Simone’s glass. “I was the one who met him and we met in the most unusual fashion.”

Alodia hurries back from inside with a third bottle of wine.

“It was 1967. The Summer of Love,” Simone began, “I was fifteen and I wore a tangerine sundress. My slim legs were tan and strong. I ran track, if you can believe it, for the high school.”

I am surprised. She is younger than I first thought. Early sixties. I’m also happy to learn she was not always in the wheelchair and become immediately curious as to when and how the wheelchair became a part of her life.

“Tommy Preston ran right past me. I could feel a breeze caused by his fast and fluid motion. His arms and chest were very muscular. He had no shirt on and I felt dizzy.”

William fans an imaginary heat away from his face. “Oh Tommy Preston sounds delicious. I don’t blame you, Simone.”

Simone looks at William and does not smile. “He ran right past me. A sprinkle of his sweat landed on my throat. Here.” She touches a finger to her throat. “He was chasing a football high in the air. I watched him reach his hands out to snatch the football just as he entered the street.”

We catch our breath while Simone collects her memories.

“He never laid his hands on that ball. A Chevy pickup truck snatched Tommy out of the air. He rolled up onto the hood and over the windshield and landed with a splat on the road.”

Alodia covers her mouth.

“But I thought you said he married your sister?” I say hoping there is more to his story.

Simone nods. “Tommy did not die. I tore off a piece of my dress and applied pressure to his bleeding head.” Simone’s eyes glaze over as her mind returns completely to the past. “He stared up at me so frightened. I told him to stay with me. His beautiful green eyes were like a boy’s. Sad and uncertain. I told him to just stay with me.”

None of us say anything. We watch Simone’s eyes moving backward in time to events every bit as real to her as the present.

“I visited Tommy every day for the rest of the summer. I held his hand while he spent three weeks in a coma. I played checkers with him when he was able finally to sit up and communicate.”

“How old was he? You said you were fifteen,” William says free of humor for the first time.

“He was nineteen,” Simone answers quietly. “My sister Ruthie was eighteen and she was built like Barbara Eden. She started coming with me on Saturday mornings and we took Tommy breakfast from Bob’s Big Boy. I remember watching him chew and it thrilled me.”

“Okay, that was love,” William decides. “When chewing does it for you, you know you’ve been bitten by the bug.”

“I loved Tommy Preston with all my heart and I still do,” Simone says. “And Tommy loved Ruthie and eventually Ruthie began visiting him without me. When he was released it was Ruthie who drove him home in my father’s new Chrysler. They were married and pregnant by Christmas the following year.”

“Sounds like Tommy was a gentleman,” Alodia says. “He was not about to start something with a fifteen year old girl.”

“And if your sister looked like Barbara Eden,” William says, “can you really blame him?”

“Was she the one who played Jeannie on that old show?” I ask. My mother watched the reruns of
I Dream of Jeannie
for years. I knew she saw herself in Jeannie. They were both beautiful blondes trying to make a place in a world unfamiliar to them.

“Very good,” William says. “Someone must have watched Nick at Nite growing up.”

“My sister was beautiful,” Simone says. “They were married for fourteen years. The first five were good years, but Tommy started to drink and eventually they divorced. Ruthie was left with the two kids and bills to pay.”

“Not such a Prince Charming,” William says.

“No,” Simone agrees. “Not to Ruthie anyway. I did not see Tommy for two years after the divorce until one night someone knocked loudly at my door at three in the morning. It was Tommy. He was drunk. He told me he loved me. He said he had always loved me.”

Simone has us on the edge of our seats. She sits back and exhales.

“Oh, come on, you little temptress, let us have it,” Tommy urges. “Did you pull him into your house for a fit of passion?”

Simone laughs and smiles. “I sent him away. I’ve relived that night a hundred times. All I did was kiss his cheek and tell him he was drunk and sweet and I sent him away.”

“No, you didn’t, did you?” I say feeling a little guilty now about Wade getting in my door.

Simone nods. “You see, Tommy had made his choice. You don’t get to go back. After that night I was free at last.”

“And Tommy?” Alodia asks knowingly.

“He kept drinking until years later his kidneys gave up on him,” Simone says reflectively. This is a sadness she has come to terms with years ago.

“He should have married you,” William says. “It was destiny.”

Alodia stands up and rubs William’s hair. “You silly dreamer, I love your big heart.” She walks to the kitchen counter and pulls a towel off the top of a strawberry pie.

“I agree,” I say. “You would have cherished him in a way that he needed. Isn’t that what love is all about?”

“Maybe it is,” Simone says. “Now it’s your turn, sweet girl.”

My eyes meet Alodia’s as she returns with the pie. She betrays a curiosity born that day at the shelter.

“Oh, well,” I say stalling. I am terrified for some reason. I’m not sure if it’s because I have never had a first love or because I might be having it now and do not dare speak of it. “After those stories, I’m pretty sure I have never had anything like that, a first love.”

William’s face screams
bullshit
. “Really?” he says.

“I think Erin is right,” Alodia says coming to my rescue. “I am emotionally spent after those stories. It’s time for some fun. Let’s play a little cards. How about Euchre?”

“What’s that?” William says. “Some barbaric game from the dark lands from whence you came?”

“Erin, do you know it?” Alodia asks.

“Of course, I do.” Erin turns to William. “Alodia and I can teach you west coast snobs a thing or two about real fun.”

“Oh great,” Simone says. “Does it involve cow tipping?”

William lifts his hand and gives Simone an awkward high-five.

-13-

I arrive back at my apartment just before midnight. I play a little night music which is heavy on ethereal wave. I fade to sleep with a smile on my face. Alodia, Simone and William and a little too much Pinot Noir has charmed me completely. My mind floats above me. I feel holy and blessed for the first time in a long time.

It’s sad and beautiful that their first loves remain in their hearts as pure as if they were still teenagers after all these years. I don’t know if Alodia saved me or herself from having to tell of her first love.

In the taxi on the way home I finally admitted to myself that I have never had a teenage first love. Wade is my first love and I realize now that maybe I don’t have to have him, maybe he is the story I will tell over wine decades from now. I will feel him in my blood then the way I feel him now and it will be okay. Sweet nostalgia and all that.

Glancing over to my bedside table I see the red digits telling me something new. It’s past midnight. I am twenty-one. I am a full adult.

There is no path back to childhood from here. Maybe Wade was my last whisper of that lost childhood where my only love was Zac Efron when I was fourteen. I got over that infatuation when some skater boy hipsters made fun of High School Musical and my poor Zac and then later that summer I experienced my first kiss with a real boy.

The morning comes suddenly. I don’t remember falling asleep. I never closed the shades and so it’s earlier than I want it to be. Six thirty-five, but I decide to get up to wet my dry lips with a bit of morning tea.

I want to work out and get this life as a twenty-one year-old woman started with a bang.
Fuck father time
, I think,
I’m keeping fit forever
.

After twenty minutes on the stair-climber outside on the cardio deck, a little dizziness and a cold sweat reminds me my blood is still jazzed up with wine. I go back inside the Spectrum Club to the Pure Energy Café and have them mix me up a raspberry smoothie with a protein shot.

The world slowly regains its balance. I get my first text of the day from Kat.
U R 21 now. Get your drinking slippers on, Sinderella.

Go back to bed. It’s 8 am
, I text back.

At 9pm u r mine
, Kat text-threatens.

Oh joy
, I respond which is one of the ways Kat and I sign off.

I finish with my smoothie throwing half away. It’s time for Clyde whose hands are a miracle to the female body. He’s hot and straight, but extremely professional, so there’s no messing around. Although what he does to my thighs and ass and lower back is more pleasurable than what most guys have to offer in bed.

I lie down naked on my front. I quickly pull a fresh sheet over the back of my legs and bottom. Clyde enters and with him comes his musky body scent mixed with the eucalyptus oil on his hands. He moves the sheet up to just below my butt so I feel cooler air on my legs.

“Hi, Erin,” he says and steps closer to my head and shoulders.

I lift my head to smile for him. “Hey, Clyde, is it okay if we don’t talk today? I need to disappear.”

Clyde uses two fingers to zip his lips. I lay my head back down on the massage table. His hands take my feet. The simultaneous strength and gentleness of his thumbs rubbing circles in the arches of my tired feet relieves tension throughout my entire body. I exhale as if expelling toxic gas from my lungs. Life is exhaustion sometimes. Emotional, physical and spiritual exhaustion.

I fade away. I dream of Wade’s eyes and let my thoughts become abstract while Clyde nuances my muscles into a happy state of stimulated submission.

My eyes close heavily and my mouth falls open.

I am nothing more than the air I breathe. There are no heartbreaks or desires in this dim room. I am not woman or girl. Not tragic. Not alone. No tests. No expectations. No love slipping away.

I drive home with the radio off. Every time with Clyde is like a meditation. It richens the silence and burgeons the spirit. Everyone needs an off switch sometimes. Hopes and aspirations can tie a tight knot around our necks and make it hard to breathe.

It’s two in the afternoon and I pull up to the gates of the family estate. I click my remote and the gates slowly open. My relaxed bliss will pass as I pass through those ornate barriers and began again being Erin Cassidy. A specific girl with specific problems. It’s better when I feel like a universal consciousness rather than one small girl with a sickly heart.

My father greets me at the door with the same bear hug he’s given me on my birthday since I can remember. I pretend it’s too much but it’s not. It’s just right. I love my father and sometimes I miss him as much as I miss my mother. He is so many things now other than my father.

The time he has spent connecting with me has decreased rapidly every year since he met Gloria Matheny, the woman who became my stepmother. They met at a garden party shortly after we moved to the Palisades. She taught him how to be
nouveau riche
LA style.

“Where have the years gone?” He looks at me as if we have been apart for years. It’s the same every year. My birthday reminds him each year that I am still here, that I never died when my mother died.

“Hi Daddy,” I say and kiss his cheek.

“One day you’re wearing pink overalls chasing after that old mutt of yours and the next you’re twenty-one and breaking hearts,” he says.

“Rusty wasn’t a mutt, Dad, and I’m hardly breaking hearts.”

“What about that awkward boy who wanted to be a dentist?” he asks. “He called here one time sounding bent out of shape.”

“Jamie’s going to be a surgeon not a dentist,” I tell him. “I am sure I was nothing more than a small blip on his way to a charmed life.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo,” my father says losing interest.

My stepmother enters in a controlled rush and smiles with a fervor she only possesses when my father is in the same room with us. “There she is, the most beautiful girl in a city of angels,” she says wrapping her arms around me and kissing my cheek.

“I’m not a girl anymore,” I point out the obvious.

“Oh, Erin,” she says, “you’ll always be your father’s little girl.”

My father and Gloria lead me to the sun porch which overlooks our back grounds and the Pacific Ocean below in the distance. A stack of blue Tiffany boxes of all sizes cover a circular table and other various presents have been artfully placed on side tables.

Silver serving carts display various treats and finger foods.

“It’s just us?” I ask.

“You wanted low key,” Gloria says.

“It’s perfect. Thank you,” I say and give my stepmother a reassuring but quick hug for her efforts. I know that she painstakingly decided on each and every detail of this simple but elegant arrangement.

This is my birthday party.

“I’m afraid you inherited a bit of the anti-social gene from me, angel,” my father says as he grabs a powdered cherry puff pastry from a tray with his thick, working-man fingers.

Gloria rushes to him with a red linen napkin to put under the puff. “Let’s stay elegant, James,” she whispers tenderly as she moves his other hand to hold the napkin under the puff.

“Leave me be,” Father says to her.

I take a napkin and a puff and sit down with my dad.

“I’ll check on lunch,” Gloria says, “and check in on the Wexlers.” She passes me and stops to touch my shoulder. When our eyes meet there’s a brief moment I feel as though she is studying me somehow.

Alone with my father eating delicious puffs, I become suddenly uncomfortable. I don’t understand why my stepmother needs to check-in with the Wexlers on my birthday. They better not be coming to my non-party or I am going to make an excuse and leave immediately.

“The Wexlers? Why is she checking on them?” I finally say.

My father considers me as if I am speaking a foreign language. “Don’t pull me into woman’s gossip,” he says dismissingly.

“Daddy!” I command.

“Near as I can tell, there’s a problem with the wedding plans,” he says as if in pain. He really abhors talking about such things.

“Tori’s engagement?” I say maybe too eagerly.

He nods. “These things happen,” he says and accepts a lemonade from Della, our cook who has suddenly appeared. “Thanks, Della.”

Della hands me a Long Island Ice Tea. “Enjoy your big day, Erin,” she says. “I wanted to give you your first legal drink.”

My father grins and so do I, even if preoccupied by what my father has just told me.

“You’re so cool, Della,” I say and take a sip which instantly sends a shiver of alcohol through my body.

Della and my father laugh as if they had just experienced my first ever taste of alcohol. I smile innocently, going along with the charade.

“You might as well try everything in one drink,” Della says. “There’s Vodka and Rum and Gin and Tequila in there.”

“Della, you devil,” my father says. “You’re making my little girl jump into the fire with both feet.”

“Wise up, Mister Cassidy,” she says with a wink. “Erin’s not a little girl and hasn’t been for years.”

“Yeah, Daddy, my feet have been in the fire before,” I inform him.

“I don’t want to know about all that,” he says. “Ignorance is bliss.”