Can I See You Again? Page 4

  So does a cellophane-wrapped dog bone stuffed with some sort of colorless, but unfortunately not odorless, poultry paste for Martin, Jo’s gray-and-white, seven-year-old shih tzu. I picked up the treat at the pet store across the street from Sara’s gallery.

  My driver, a young woman whose long side braid rests on top of a fuchsia hibiscus tattoo fanning over her right shoulder, winds her way through the streets of my grandmother’s neighborhood.

  I’ve often considered a tattoo. Went as far as scheduling an appointment years ago on my nineteenth birthday but backed out at the last minute after my friend said I’d get herpes from the needle. Thank God I believed her, because my cowgirl phase was short-lived and a horseshoe with a dangling star inked around my right calf would’ve been a horrendous mistake. In all the years that followed, I haven’t thought of anything worthy to embed into my skin. Until now. I giggle to myself, imagining bestselling author inscribed in bold cursive letters across my chest.

  I reach for the copy of Fallen and thumb through the first few pages, recalling the many Saturdays Jo and I spent together during my early teenage years, lingering in bookstores or lounging on her sofa, snacking on fruit candies and soaking up every #1. We shared a yellow highlighter and marked our favorite lines in each book, writing comments in the margins, giggling at the saucy parts.

  “Here you are,” the driver says.

  We’ve pulled curbside to Jo’s house, a single-level home with a grass lawn, smooth-glass windows, an aged terra-cotta tiled roof, and ivory siding repainted a dozen times over walls that wrap around and safeguard my memories of laughter and love. I stare at the home I’ve spent countless hours inside, with its same seashell wreath hanging on the front door, same squeaky porch swing Jo and I nearly laughed ourselves off when Dad shocked himself tightening screws on the doorbell, same fake rock where the hide-a-key is buried, same pale-yellow room I lived in after my parents died.

  Jo said she’ll stay in this home until the day she dies. Begged me not to stick her in a center for “old geezers” once the time comes. “I’d rather sip on a bottle of brandy and fall asleep in my recliner, pretending your G-pa is holding my hand,” she’d said. “Promise me, that’s the only way I’ll leave this house.”

  I promised, then asked her to talk about something less depressing.

  Martin barks at my knock. His nails scape along the wood floor as he stampedes down the long hallway toward the door. I can’t help but take a step back.

  Over the years, I’ve brought Jo’s four-legged companion all sorts of treats. Bought him squeaky toys, filled his water bowl, cleaned up his turds, and yet each time he sees me, he snarls at me with the ferocity of a wolverine.

  “Bree?” Jo says, opening the door as wide as the chain lock allows. “Is that you?”

  Martin pokes his furry head through the gap, jingling the bells on his lime green collar as he yips at my feet.

  Martin doesn’t like me.

  I don’t like him.

  We both like Jo.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Come in. Come in.” Jo unfastens the chain, scoops Martin into her arms, and opens the door. She stands in a lilac bathrobe cinched tight around her narrow waist.

  I’m taken aback by the fact that she hasn’t dressed for the day, nor clipped her hair in a bun. I can tell something is wrong by the way she shuffles her slippered feet into the kitchen with its original white cabinets and gold appliances and the faint smell of grilled cheese and corn on the cob.

  I set my things on the counter and, as always, confirm that her daily pill box is empty, then glance at the Life Alert monitor box resting beside her telephone, verifying that the power light blinks green. The remote is slung around Jo’s neck and I’m comforted knowing she has this medical warning system. One push of a button and a nurse calls Jo. If there’s no response, the call center dispatches a paramedic and then contacts me. Jo’s required to check in with medical staff when she wakes each morning and again before she goes to bed.

  “Read this.” She hands me the paper, then pets Martin’s head with the nervousness of a prostitute in church.

  “It’s okay, Jo, whatever it is, we’ll—” But my comforting words vanish as I recognize the embossed Internal Revenue Service eagle insignia in the upper left-hand corner and read the words written in bold across the top: NOTICE AND DEMAND FOR PAYMENT. FINAL NOTICE OF INTENT TO LEVY AND NOTICE OF RIGHT TO A HEARING. Jo’s property address is listed and a balance due of $47,746.29.

  Oh, Christ.

  “What does it mean?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure.” The rest of the letter is full of legal verbiage—and Jo’s right, it might as well be written in Mandarin. What does “Deferred Acceptance” mean, anyway? It’s hard to tell if the claim is well founded. Maybe Sean can give me some insight. No reason to get overexcited. I stuff the letter into my purse. “I’ll check into it. I’m sure it’s nothing. Don’t worry, okay?”

  She nods, unconvinced.

  “In the meantime, I’ve got something that will cheer you up.” I open the lid on the chocolate cake as if unveiling a newly discovered Picasso. “Doesn’t this look yummy? Oh, and this is for Martin.” I hand her the bone, then reach to pat his head, but his lip quivers, revealing the glint of his pointy canine.

  Another time, then.

  She unwraps it, then sets Martin on the floor with his new prize. He picks up the bone and prances toward the living room.

  I pour her a glass of milk and grab a fork before moving toward the sink and tackling the dirty dishes. “The weather’s nice, don’t you think? They mentioned rain later, but I don’t see any storm clouds,” I say, with hopes of lifting Jo’s mood.

  It didn’t work.

  Through the window’s reflection I see the concerned look still plaguing Jo’s face.

  And she hasn’t touched her cake.

  Okay, now I’m worried. Jo never turns downs a slice of sugary bliss.

  The letter and its verbiage come to mind, dates and warnings and illegible signatures. But the more I think about the notice, the more I think it can’t be legitimate. The IRS doesn’t send a letter out of the blue and say you owe them a bundle of money, pay up now or else. Right? No, of course not. They have guidelines and rules, timelines and statutes to follow. This letter is a fraud, albeit a realistic attempt, but fraudulent nonetheless. I scratch at a chunk of egg caked on a plate with disgust. Whoever sent this deceitful letter is a horrid human being and I’m going to turn them in. They can’t get away with this. God, how many unsuspecting older people actually mail in a check? Well, we’ll get their money back. All of it. Sean will save the day. Justice will be served.

  Twenty minutes later, after I’ve turned on Wheel of Fortune and put a load of towels in the wash, Jo walks me to the door. She just now studies my dress. “You’re dressed up fancy. Where you off to?”

  “Having dinner with my boyfriend. You remember Sean?”

  “Who?”

  She’s met Sean before, many times. In fact, the two watched the final ten minutes of the presidential debate a few weeks ago while I called her homeowner’s association about a cluster of bees nesting by her front hose bib.

  She doesn’t seem to remember.

  A sense of urgency overcomes me as I grasp her frail hands and small wrists, the skin thinning over her cheekbones. She’s smaller than I remember, shrinking with each passing day, and I’m reminded again by the physical proof that so many strained years have passed. I pull her close and hug her.

  Martin gets wind of my affection.

  He doesn’t like it.

  He charges toward me and clamps his jaw around my ankle.

  “Aagh!” I scream, and flick my foot, but the little snot-wipe bears down with a fierce grip.

  “Martin, no!” Jo claps. “Off.” She then scurries toward the living room and returns waving his bone. “Marti
n, come here, boy. Want your treat?”

  He releases me and trots toward his master, sitting erect, proud, tail wagging.

  Suck-up.

  I examine my foot, grateful to discover he didn’t puncture my tender skin. I’m fine. The same can’t be said for my slingbacks, whose straps are now poked with tiny teeth marks.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “I don’t know what it is about you. He’s so good with everyone else. Maybe it’s the heels.”

  Or maybe he should be stuffed down the garbage disposal.

  She grabs Martin and follows me onto the porch. “You’ll take care of the letter for me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Let me know the minute you know anything, okay?”

  “Okay. But please try not to worry. We’ll get it straightened out and have a laugh. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I climb into the hired ride.

  My scar itches. It does this at random times: typing an e-mail, pouring detergent into the wash, watering the plants.

  I trace my fingers along the four-inch shameful reminder snaking the inside of my right forearm and hidden underneath the sleeve of my dress. I keep it covered. Always. If no one sees it, no one asks questions. If the scar is out of view, I don’t have to watch the mixture of shock and thank-God-it-isn’t-my-family flicker in the eyes of strangers who claim it’s none of their business but are dying to know what happened. If the mark is concealed, I don’t have to rehash the moment I broke my family apart.

  I glance out the window and wave good-bye to Jo.

  The car pulls away but I’m unable to leave behind the pained expression weighing Jo’s face.

  It’s far too familiar.

  four

  It’s a typical clear evening in La Jolla. I roll down the window and inhale the smell of the ocean and the sounds of bell-ringing beach-cruiser bicycle riders. Happy-hour crowds spill into the sidewalks of open-air restaurants as we drive along Mission Boulevard, which curves and bends with the shoreline toward Antonio’s, a boardwalk bistro in Pacific Beach.

  Maybe it’s the fact that I’m on my way to Sean or the excitement I feel about our joint adventure, but I allow the fresh air to blow away my anxiety regarding Jo, and I settle into a good mood. All around me are groups of friends laughing and couples holding hands. The streets are alive and colorful. The moisture in the air soothes my skin. I feel sorry for people still at work, boxed inside four walls with stuffy air and stuffy people. Or worse yet, those not in love. Outside, on the streets, savoring the evening, enjoying each other, is the place to be. I love this town.

  Stopping at a red light, I watch a wave of pedestrians crossing toward the beach, no doubt heading to catch the notorious green flash, a vibrant spot on the horizon visible for a second or two before the sun dips good night into the ocean.

  Halfway across the walk, a tan blond-haired girl with cut-off denim shorts and a turquoise bikini top flips her long hair and laughs at the shirtless surfer-looking guy beside her. He grabs her by the hand and they jog barefoot toward the curb, with a six-pack of Rolling Rock beer and a blanket folded over his other arm.

  My mind drifts to the countless evenings Sean and I have spent at the beach, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me across this very street with our own blanket and cooler in tow. We’ve lounged away seasons of sunsets sipping wine and wiggling our toes in the sand while he read depositions and I reviewed client files or edited my manuscript.

  But among those many evenings, there’s one in particular, a night three and a half years ago, six months into our dating, that stands tall above the others.

  “Watch this,” Sean had said, pointing at the horizon. “Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

  “We’ve seen the flash before.”

  “Just watch.” He slid his arm around me.

  I can still feel the strength of his hand on my shoulder. The tumbling in my stomach as he stroked his thumb up and down my summer-kissed skin. The tiniest friction from his stubble when he leaned over to kiss my shoulder and whispered for the first time, “I love you, Bree.”

  I forgot what I was supposed to be looking at. The flash might have been the brightest, most expressive of the entire year. I didn’t see it. I stared into Sean’s eyes and repeated the words. I love you. Any other day, I would’ve been concerned with who watched, judged, but at that moment, I didn’t care. The world around me stilled and I kissed him. My focus was him. My green flash was this man.

  We shared a bottle of wine, then made love in a secluded spot by the pier. More than his tender words or strong hands blanketing my skin, or maybe because of them, an awareness saturated my body like a wave soaking deep into the sand. The first time in years that I allowed myself to feel. My parents’ death sucked joy, anger, curiosity out of me. I had nothing left. Sean wrapped his arms around me and somehow my pain and guilt seemed less consuming if we shouldered it together. On that night, a balmy Thursday evening in July, I felt a flicker of possibility. The chance at a life not threaded with regret and shame.

  My vibrating phone jars my thoughts. I read a text from Nixon.

  Hope Sara likes coffee.

  Meet for coffee and I’ll strangle you. Go for dinner . . . cheapskate.

  Okay . . . but if the date sucks, you’re footing the bill.

  Unable to stop the smile shaping my lips, I type, Then don’t let it suck.

  If all goes well in the coming days, he’ll share a romantic dinner with an art curator. A woman of poise and intellect. Beauty and brains. A complement to him. Sara may very well be the woman who breaks down Nixon’s all-business-no-time-for-love approach to life. She may be the one to peel away his layers and soften his resolve.

  And who knows? Maybe their love story will become a feature in the newspaper article. Or better yet, a chapter in . . . dare I say it . . . my self-help sequel. Maybe soon I’ll be ordering a second sugar-pearl KitchenAid mixer.

  As I catch a glance at the manila folder peeking out from my purse, the possibility of my evening hits me. Sean and I are signing papers, coupling our money, binding our future? We have had the talk. A number of times. Even stopped at the engagement ring section of jewelry stores, dog-eared pages of wedding dresses in bridal magazines, and scrolled through the Ten Most Romantic Honeymoon Destinations on Yahoo’s travel website. Hell, we’ve dated longer than some marriages last, and the only reason we don’t live together is that we agreed that with his civil litigation firm gaining traction and the attention my book and my company have demanded the last few years, it hasn’t been the best time. But now my debut is all but stacked on the shelves and his law firm is a solid contender.

  I inhale a deep breath, trying to settle the anticipation swirling through my head.

  Did meeting with the advisor and discussion of a joint account trigger something within Sean? Is he ready for a shared last name? Monogrammed checkbook covers? A forever plus-one on RSVPs?

  “Ma’am?” The driver motions that we’ve arrived.

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” I step out of the car and nearly prance along the sandy and sunny boardwalk toward Antonio’s with a bubbly excitement for the evening ahead. There’s nothing better than being in love.

  Once I’m inside the dimly lit restaurant with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, complemented by the smell of grilling steak, garlic, and fresh fish, the familiar hostess says, “Mr. Thomas is already seated.”

  “Thank you.” Before joining him, I pop into the restroom and comb my fingers through my hair, pinching my cheeks so they flush pink. I smooth my dress, pleased with my toned belly and sculpted thighs. Hot yoga has paid off.

  Ready and eager to find Sean, I walk past the classy bar with its dark wood trim and glass shelves lined with polished liquor bottles and head toward the dining room decorated with rich linen tablecloths and waiters decked in bow
ties. Antonio’s is where Sean and I came for our first date. It’s where we’ve come for each birthday and anniversary thereafter. It’s the place we bring his parents when they’re in town. It’s the place we celebrated Sean’s first won trial and my book contract, sitting at the same curved leather booth by the window, sharing unhurried conversation and a bottle of Chateau Montelena Cabernet Sauvignon. Sometimes two.

  Antonio’s is our place.

  Comfortable.

  Warm.

  Familiar.

  So why is Sean gulping whiskey like a dehydrated Death Valley hiker sucks down water?

  five

  Experts say we lose our hearing bilaterally at a rate of two or more decibels per year. The average person is partially impaired by age fifty-four. Perhaps mine is deteriorating faster. Perhaps I have the eardrums of an old woman who spent her working years as an airport traffic director, never wearing the brightly colored ear protectors. I tug at my earlobe. That’s it. It’s the only possible explanation. I’m growing deaf. I mean, Sean didn’t actually say what I think I heard, right?

  I force a little laugh. “What did you say?”

  He sits across from me sporting a white button-down shirt, slightly wrinkled at the bend of the arm. His tie rests a touch to the left and his suit jacket is slung over the booth. Sean pushes his empty glass aside—one of three, I now notice—and taps his finger on the stack of documents I placed on the table. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to say it. But this isn’t working.”

  “What isn’t working?” I pray to God he’s referring to his TAG Heuer carbon composite watch, a thirty-five-hundred-dollar present he bought himself a few years ago after he won his first trial, or maybe a misspelling in the paperwork’s wording, but in my heart, I know that’s not true.

  “Us, Bree. Everything. This.” He sweeps his hands across the table as if to imply that our complimentary sourdough bread basket is also part of the problem.

  “I . . . I don’t understand.” My words are thick and confused, like the night I caught Dad sliding a dollar under my pillow, my baby tooth clutched in his other palm. “Where is this coming from? It makes no sense. We’re good. We’re happy. Aren’t we?”