I Almost Forgot About You (18 page)

“Can I help?” I ask the cooks.

“We've got this covered, Mom,” Estelle says.

“We've been up all night,” Frankie says.

“You mean you and Hunter spent the night?”

“Why are you so surprised, Mom?”

“I'm not. Just asked.”

“So sit. Relax. Have a glass of wine. Watch some basketball with Hunter.”

I don't like basketball, but I like Hunter, so I sit next to him and the twins curl up next to me, and I try not to laugh at their beige Uggs sticking out from under the hems of those princess dresses.

It smells like Christmas. It even looks like a gingerbread house in here. Estelle is old-fashioned and loves white and jewel tones and stained glass and fat, stuffy sofas and things made out of brass and copper. I recognize a golden turkey and an already baked honey-baked ham and what I know are au gratin potatoes and those creamy green beans I've never quite understood the appeal of and rolls just waiting to go into the oven.

We have a wonderful meal.

“Dinner was delicious,” I say.

“We can burn,” Frankie says.

“We sure can, and thanks, Mom,” Estelle says, looking somewhat preoccupied. I assume it's hormonal.

“So how're you both feeling these days?”

“I feel pregnant,” Estelle says.

“I feel fat,” Frankie says with a smile.

“It's because you're getting fat,” Estelle says.

“No she's not,” Hunter says from the family room. “She's getting rounder, and she's beautiful.”

Frankie has a
So there!
look on her face, and Estelle passes a phony smile back to her brother-in-law, who's now jumping up and down because of a three-pointer.

I pass on the cobbler but opt for coffee. I'm ordered to sit and sip and not to help clean up. My cell phone rings, and I can't imagine who it could be, and I answer it without looking.

“Hello?”

“Merry Christmas, Georgia. It's James. Harvey.”

I stand up, and my daughters are apparently wondering who's causing what feels like a smile.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, James. How are you?”

“Good, good, good. Skiing in Tahoe until after the New Year and wondered if you'd like to have dinner sooner rather than later. My treat.”

“That sounds like a plan. Do a black diamond for me.”

He laughs.

“Will do, and have a happy New Year.”

After I press End, I look over at my daughters, both of whom have their hands on their hips with a smirk and a question on their faces.

“Well?” Estelle asks.

“He's a friend.”

They give each other high fives.

As I back out of the driveway, Estelle and Frankie wave good-bye like I'm leaving them on Gilligan's Island. I know that look of uncertainty, and I sure wish I could give them a handful of joy. They don't seem to understand that babies aren't a remedy for unsolved problems. I know I have no right to be upset. But I am upset. About both of them deciding to have a baby under the circumstances. But I've also resolved to mind my own business and not offer any advice unless they ask for it. I'm just curious how they're going to pay for all these children and, in Frankie's case, where in the hell they're going to live. They can't raise a child in my friends' guesthouse. I'm also starting to think Frankie was probably pregnant when she came home. But so what? I did it my way. And they're doing it theirs.

I forgot the flowers. They're still on the front seat, but they've fallen over. As I head down the street, the leaves on the trees seem to be waving in slow motion as if I should've stayed longer.

I get home in less time than it took me to get there, and I'm so glad I forgot to unplug my stars. They are still bright. They welcome me home.

On New Year's Eve, I order Chinese. Combination chow fun, because I love the soft, wide noodles and that light gravy. Egg rolls because I like and hate the way the hot mustard burns my tongue and opens my nostrils. Salt-and-pepper shrimp just because I like the way they smell and you get the best of both worlds. And garlic spinach because I need a vegetable. I'm not a pig. I believe in leftovers.

I light two of my favorite red-currant candles, take a shower with my new lemongrass-and-bamboo scrub, and put on a pair of white velvet pajamas. I pop the cork on a bottle of French champagne and pour myself a glass. I walk over to my laptop and open Facebook. I also turn on the television and decide I'll wait up for
Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve
and watch the ball drop, which is when I hear someone say for his New Year's resolution he is going to smile more. When I turn around, the man who said it is gone and an ASPCA commercial comes on, with Sarah McLachlan singing that beautiful but depressing song I don't want to hear on New Year's Eve. I donate enough money to rescue about twenty dogs a month and have enough ASPCA T-shirts to last, so I change the channel.

I don't believe in making New Year's resolutions because I read in
Forbes
magazine that only 8 percent of people even keep them. I wonder how they know that? I suppose resolutions are more like reminders of things you've been meaning to do that you haven't gotten around to. Or they're like secret weaknesses you want to turn into strengths. I don't really see any harm in making them, except most people don't just pick one big thing they want to improve or change, because most of us know just how imperfect we are. Which is probably why the list of our perceived shortcomings is so long, because what they really seem to want is to be somebody else, and besides, it's like promising you're never going to get drunk again until you remember you were drunk when you said it.

My Chinese food gets here before I have a chance to finish my second glass of champagne that was worth every dollar I paid for it, and I eat standing up and put the rest in the fridge. I take all four of the fortune cookies I never eat over to the desk and crack them open one by one. Number one says, “Good news will come to you from far away.” Number two says, “A cheerful message is on its way to you.” Number three says, “You have an important new business development shaping up.” Number four says, “We must always have old memories and young hopes.”

It would sure be cool if just one of these fortunes were to shock the hell out of me by coming true. I eat number four. Decide that music would add even more flavor and energy to this evening, so I open iTunes and press “Green Light” by John Legend with that sexy Andre 3000. I turn up the volume so all my neighbors can hear it if they're at home, and I jump up and start dancing like I'm thirty—no, twenty-five—and by the time the song is over, here comes Tina Turner asking “What's Love Got to Do with It” and I do what used to be called the cha-cha and pop my fingers and rock my hips from side to side and then yell out to Tina, “Everything and nothing!”

I attempt to pour another glass of champagne and am surprised to discover that the bottle is empty. Although I'm not drunk, I suppose this means I've had enough.

I finally open Facebook and decide tonight might be a good night to see if any of the remaining Talented Five can be found.

I try Carter first. He saved my life. And never knew how his bravery turned my heart into a warm, wet sponge. Will you look at those emerald mountains? What a backdrop. Apparently Carter has become the old man in the shoe, because he's got eight kids, twenty-two grandkids, and five great-grandkids, which might explain why his hair is white and his skin looks like old leather. He's a retired chief of police in Charlotte! Still married to the same woman he was married to when I met him.

Oh. Oliver. A minister? See what giving up drugs can do! Not! As the young kids say, LOL. Seriously. Oliver was quite the philosopher. I learned a lot about life from him. A lot of which I think I forgot. Or failed to apply. I mean, here I am half drunk, and what am I celebrating? A new year. He would tell me I could come up with a better reason than that. And Lord, did he wear me out with the orating. It was definitely his mind I loved, because he wasn't all that heavenly in bed. I had to work too hard for an orgasm. Look! He's married! No children. And lives in Chicago? I forgot. He was from Chicago.

Lance isn't on Facebook. Which means he's probably behind bars. He was a smooth operator, who conned me—and Lord only knows how many other young women—to fall in love with him. How'd he do it? With that smile. He was smart as hell and could outtalk you on almost any subject. I can't leave out the unbelievable sex. Or I should say that what he did with his tongue would make any woman or man fall under his spell. But I pretended not to care about him and made him think I didn't take him seriously and was just doing to him what he was doing to me: using him for sex. I failed at faking. Last I heard, he'd gotten busted for selling cocaine. He told me he was doing field studies for his postgraduate work in sociology.

And there's the too-good-to-be-true David, who after months of on-again, off-again dating called out of the blue and told me he was moving to New York to work in theater and would not be in touch because he found me too insipid and uninteresting but wished me a good life and then hung up. He wasn't exactly a thrill a minute either, and a one-trick pony in bed. But he was socially wild and fascinating, which is what kept me wanting to spend time with him. A few months later, he called from New York to apologize for his crassness and said he was just having an
episode
and was now taking his medication. Well, it looks like he got clear and found his true calling. He's a television producer in Toronto. Been married since 2005. To a Canadian woman.

And here's Eric. The man responsible for resuscitating me after my post-Michael divorce hiatus. His status is blank. Hold on! He's standing in front of one of my favorite restaurants: Toulouse Petit! I don't believe this! It's right here in San Francisco and within walking distance from my office. I've eaten there at least ten times since it opened a few years ago and never saw him. I think I'll move Eric to the top of this list.

But this is what I really want to know: Where in the hell is Waldo—a.k.a. Abraham?

Oy vey.

I realize I may in fact be drunk, so I slam the lid of my laptop shut, and it makes a sound like it's letting all the air out of its computerized soul. I laugh at this. I look out the window, and it's raining again. I cup my chin inside my palm, and I bet each one of these guys is probably ringing in the New Year with the one they love.

I've got mold on the houseboat and have to move the hell out of there as soon as possible because it can harm the baby and our lungs, and on top of this I'm having problems with work, and I'm around the corner at the Waterbar. Can you meet me for a drink after your last patient? Please?”

I'm almost at a loss for words.

But I call her back and say, “Give me an hour, Violet. Are you okay?”

“I've been better. Get here when you get here. And thanks, girl.”

Mold?

Right after I finish with my last patient, Marina taps on my door. I tell her to come on in. She stands there and crosses her arms. Her hair is up in a big black knot. “Guess who just quit without giving any notice?”

“Jamie. I'm surprised she lasted this long. Did she say why?”

“You don't even want to know, Doc.”

“I do since you put it that way.”

“She's moving to Hollywood to become an actress.”

I try not to laugh but I can't help it. “At least she won't be needing a reference from us. Well, you know what to do. See if you can find us somebody with a personality this time.”

“Will do. Nobody liked her anyway. And she's going to starve down there. Have a good evening, Doc.”

And out she goes, but before she has a chance to close the door, Lily pokes her head in.

“Got a minute?”

“I do. Meeting a friend for dinner in about an hour, but if it's important, sit.”

“It can wait until tomorrow,” she says. But the somber look on her face tells me this may not be true.

“Talk to me, Lily. What's going on?”

She sits down and crosses her legs. Through the opening of her lab coat, I can see her cobalt lace top and the floral slacks with rhinestones surrounding each petal. Her orange heels match one of the flowers. She leans forward and places her left hand on the desk.

“My parents haven't been doing so well.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Lily.”

“I know. My mom's seventy-seven, and her dementia is at the point where I can't care for her at home anymore. My dad's been fighting me, but he has to have a hip replacement. So all this is to say I'm going to need to take about a month off to manage all the changes that need to happen since I'm the only one who can do it.”

“Do whatever you need to for your parents, Lily.”

“I just want to find a good place for my mom. I don't know what my dad's going to do without her there. I really don't. He's been postponing this hip replacement for so long that now he's having a hard time getting around.”

“How soon, honey?”

“Well, that's the thing I'm not sure about right now. Suffice it to say in the next two weeks for sure, because I can get Dad scheduled, but I'm going to visit a number of facilities before deciding which one'll be best for my mom. I also think I should get a temp to help Marina let all my patients know I'll be away and reschedule. How's all this sounding to you?”

“The office should be the least of your concerns. Marina and I will handle it. You do what you need to do, Lily. If it were my mother, I wouldn't give this a second thought. Take as much time as you need.”

“Did you have any plans in the next month or so? Because I can try to postpone it for maybe a week.”

“No, nothing that can't wait,” I say.

She stands up. “Let me ask you something, and be honest with me.”

“I'm always honest, Lily.”

“You ever thought about not practicing one day?”

I'm thrown for a loop by this, and without thinking I just say, “Yes. I've thought about it.”

“So have I. What would you do instead?”

“Not real sure. Why'd you ask me this?”

“Just curious, because depending on what happens with my parents' health in the next year or so, I might want to sell my interest in the partnership.”

“Really? You've thought that far ahead?”

“Haven't you?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. But let's talk more about this when you get back.”

I give her a hug and return to my office. When my cell moves across my desk I answer it. “I'm walking out the door right now!”

“Georgia, it's me, Percy. Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year to you, too, Percy.”

“Sounds like I've caught you at a bad time.”

“No. Talk to me.”

“Well, I'd like to first thank you for agreeing to the cost. It's usually such a challenge convincing sellers just how important it is to make their home look as amazing as possible to potential buyers.”

“I'm a believer, Percy.”

He laughs. “Okay, so did you not see my e-mail?”

I scroll down my in-box, and there it is.

“Sorry, it's been busy around here. Just tell me what it says, Percy. I need to be out the door in ten minutes.”

“Well, I've got great news! All of the materials are in, and I've even hired a new assistant who's a godsend, so we can get started as soon as three or four days from now.”

“What?”

“I knew you'd be excited to hear this! You don't have to do a thing except pack, because we'll schedule the movers, and we know what needs to go in storage. But the other even better news is that because all our ducks are now in a row, we can have you back in your fully staged home in seven to ten days.”

“You mean completely finished?”

“Yes! Aren't you thrilled?”

“I'm overjoyed,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “But, Percy, I think I'm going to need about a week to make some arrangements.”

“I totally understand. Still, read over the e-mail. Get back to me tomorrow, and you have a great evening, and thank you so very much for your patience, Georgia. I can't wait to get started!”

Well.

I sit here and don't move. I'm trying to process what has just happened in the space of ten minutes. If Lily's going to be out of the office for at least a month and she's probably not even leaving for another two weeks, then this also means Percy could conceivably be finished before she even leaves, which also means I have to find somewhere to live, and this also means I won't be able to go on any train ride anytime soon.

Shit.

It's now raining nine-millimeter bullets, and I don't know if it makes much sense for me to meet Violet, but she'll have a stroke if I use rain as an excuse for not coming. I valet-park. When I spot Violet inside, I stroll over. She looks like she's in a trance, staring at the tropical fish in one of the floor-to-ceiling aquariums.

“Earth to Violet,” I say, and when she turns, it's hard to believe those cool little porcupine quills are really her hair. One day I'm going to burn all my wigs.

“I'm surprised you came out in all this,” she says, and lets her arm sway and float like she's Vanna White showing a vowel or a consonant. “I was waiting for you to cancel.”

“It's just rain,” I say. “Besides, I love this place, and I might just stay in the city tonight. I don't feel like driving in this. So talk to me, Violet.”

“Talk,” she sighs.

“I ordered you my drink of choice, and they're bringing over some oysters even if you don't feel like eating them. Sit.”

And I sit. “So tell me what's going on? This obviously isn't just about mold on the houseboat.”

“Nothing and everything.”

“Look, V. I didn't drive over here in fucking torrential rain to play guessing games with you. Talk to me.”

“Mold is inside the walls and beneath the floors of my entire houseboat. As you know, it can be deadly, so I have to get Velvet and my unborn grandchild out of there immediately.”

“Then let's find you a new place!”

She stares at me so hard that her eyeballs look like they're going to pop out.

“What?”

“I'm having financial difficulties.”

“What kind of financial difficulties?”

“What difference does it make? How many types are there?”

“Look, Violet, either you're way ahead of me or you've lost me.”

“I need a loan.”

“How much of a loan?”

“Ten thousand.”

I almost cut myself on the oyster shell. It's right up there with asking me to cosign for that Range Rover because she was already overextended.

“I just spent way too much having my house staged, Violet.”

“Which was a complete waste of money.”

“Oh, so I should've asked if my sports-attorney girlfriend might need it?”

“I said it's a loan.”

“What is it you do with your money, Violet? Tell me that, would you?”

“Ever heard of college tuition?”

“Ever heard of fathers?”

“Ever heard of defaulting on student loans and getting behind in mortgage payments and being too embarrassed to tell your friends because they'll get on your case and interrogate you about what you've done to ruin your credit and then have nowhere else to turn but them?”

“Ever considered making your daughter get her own apartment and maybe that thing called a job and not buying her luxury cars and the latest of everything?”

“She's my daughter.”

“She's also twenty-five.”

I down my mojito. “I don't get it, Violet. You're a fucking sports attorney!”

“Not anymore.”

“What!”

“I'm under investigation by the bar for purportedly violating two codes of professional conduct.”

“Are you serious?”

She nods but doesn't look at me. She's staring at the empty shells. “Yes.”

“For doing what?”

“It's total bullshit.”

“Answer the question, Violet.”

“For purportedly accepting gifts from a client or two and for sexual misconduct, and I'm not getting into any details. I'm going to fight it.”

“Really? So you're sitting here saying you didn't do any of this shit?”

“Everybody does it but I'm just being singled out.”

“Oh, so the bar doesn't like you, is that it?”

“I don't need a lecture, Georgia. I'm just trying to figure out my next steps and how to do what you're doing.”

“Which is what?”

“Reinventing yourself.”

“Who said I was trying to reinvent myself?”

“You're a middle-aged woman attempting to sell your beautiful home for no legitimate reason except that you're bored and trying to start a new career when the one you have is perfectly fine, and then to top it off you're looking up all your old boyfriends hoping you can hook back up with one of them since you can't seem to find one right here in the Bay Area.”

“How many drinks have you had?”

“Not enough.”

“So I'm not even going to address what you just said. But back to your request. I can't afford to lend you ten thousand dollars right now, Violet, especially since my own financial future might be tenuous.”

She rolls her eyes at me.

“When do you think you might be able to pay me back?”

“How in the hell do I know?”

“I could do five.”

“That won't cut it.”

“You're really scaring me, Violet. You've just laid some heavy-duty shit on me, and a few minutes ago my partner did the exact same thing, which means I'm going to have to postpone my so-called reinvention, as if you care. What did you do with the ten grand you borrowed from Wanda?”

“I told her not to tell you!”

“Well, she told me. So what are you going to do about it? We love your stupid ass, and you can take my offer or leave it.”

“Wanda and her big fucking mouth. You know what? I'm done with both of you bitches.”

I stand up after this. “I'm not hungry. And I don't think you should drive home in this rain,” I say.

“I drive a fucking Range Rover,” she says, standing up, and I plop back down.

“Look. I said I'd lend you five thousand.”