Back to Life (8 page)

“You’re still a beautiful woman, Lindsay. I hope you’ll be very happy.”

I nod dully. “I hope the same for you, Jake.”

“Thank you for the money,” he says softly. “My business has done well. You could’ve had it all, if you had been patient. Granted, not this kind of lifestyle, but I would have taken care of you. I would have protected you with my very life.”

I step closer to him where I can feel the warmth of his chest. He still smells the same, an earthy mixture of sandalwood and musk. I could reel him in right now. I know I could. With one kiss, I’d have him questioning his fiancée’s very name, but I have changed. The very idea now makes me ill and for that, I am thankful.

“I’m not a saint, Lindsay. Don’t play with fire.”

“I might have had it all, Jake. Patience is a virtue, and I’m afraid God isn’t finished with me yet. I pray you’ll be very happy.” I squeeze his hand and let him go.

My neighbors’ drapes are wide with shock-and-awe, Lindsay-style. Closure is a good thing, both in unrequited love and the neighbors’ curtains.

Jane

H
e’ll be taxed on everything exceeding that. My best guess is two and a half million.”

Two and a half million
, he had said. And that’s the last I heard of him. Mr. Hamilton Lowe, a lawyer too important for his own good. It’s been excuse after legal excuse, and three more full weeks in this overcrowded, smog-ridden desert they call Los Angeles. Living here, I find reasons that the Mayans were so very violent. A human sacrifice here and there is starting to sound reasonable when there are so many humans abounding. This is a sign I’ve been here too long.

I could be in my courtyard, painting and laughing with friends. I could be on a backpacking trip on the ridge of Copper Canyon, but I am wasting my life in the city…waiting for money, which I couldn’t care less about. I want to be sitting in the local Internet
café, chatting with tourists from all over the world. I despise waiting for life to start.

I draw in a lung-expanding breath.
This is about my son, and he is worth it.
I’ve made his entire life difficult, and if I have the opportunity to make his future easier, I have no choice but to be here and fight for what’s his. I’m the only advocate he has.

Probate. It’s just a lawyer’s excuse to keep squeezing blood from a client. The man has been dead a year, who do they think is coming to file a claim against the estate? The Mayan, “Fire is Born” is rising to stake a claim? “Ron, you and your financial games.” I stare up at the ceiling and laugh, knowing he’s probably listening as well as he did when he was alive. I might as well have spoken to the ceiling then, too.

I zip my suitcase and Kuku, recognizing the familiar sound enters into his cat carrier, excited for the next adventure. I bend down and rub behind his ears, “You can’t stand being locked up either, baby? We’re gypsies. We can’t be held by these mere mortals, can we?” He sways his head for closer contact with his chin.

He meows long and laboriously, stretching his paws out of the container, and then retreats into the box in anticipation. I look at my watch, wondering when the princess might show her flawless face on this fine morning.

I sit on Lindsay’s sofa with my suitcase and cat carrier at my feet. She’ll appear soon, after her strange workout, whatever it might consist of. When I first heard her clunking around in her bedroom, hitting walls and odd, breathless noises coming from the room, I thought we’d had an earthquake. I thought to myself,
I leave Mexico for two weeks, and I have to be in L.A. when the big one comes
. This is my luck!

It turned out, the only shaking involved some form of praise and worship aerobics—these religious sorts have to get everything
involved. They eat with prayer, talk in weird code, and even dance to music about God. I’ll tell you, it’s enough to drive normal people crazy. The first time Lindsay emerged from her bedroom with iPod plugs in her ears, singing God tunes, wearing shorts that really didn’t have enough material to officially qualify as shorts, I thought to myself,
She questions
my
art?

At nine-thirty, Lindsay finally appears at the top of the stairs, in taut Lycra shorts to her knees. The shorts are as tight as her muscles. She carries a bottle of 365 Water and her face is misted with sweat. It’s a curse to look like Lindsay. Think of the maintenance! If there’s a God above, He knew I wasn’t ready for that commitment and graciously allowed me to be average. He definitely graced me with a complete lack of ability to care.

Her eyes rest on my suitcase. “What’s with the bags? Are you going somewhere?”

“I’m leaving for a while. I’ve been here too long, and I’m getting restless.”

“I thought Hamilton said—”

“Just to Ensenada for a few days. I’ll be back before someone can mail something certified.”

“Is that safe?”

“Lindsay, I live in Mexico. What do you mean, is it safe?”

“But you live on the other side of Mexico. That’s like me saying I live in the U.S. and assuming it’s the same in New York.”

“I don’t live my life in fear. I like to explore, and most of our fears are usually unsubstantiated. It’s something completely unforeseen that will get you in the end. I have my breathable, khaki shorts on with hiking boots, my suitcase, and Kuku—what more do I need? I rented a SUV, and I’m going to drive.”

“To Mexico? In an SUV? Are you nuts?”

“Lindsay, is that your way of saying you care?” I grin at her.

“You can at least take me out to breakfast before you go. I’m craving pancakes.”

“It’s all that exercise in the morning. You don’t have enough fat cells to support that intensity of workout.”

She rolls her eyes. “Is that a yes?”

“Fine. Breakfast is the least I can do before I go.”

Lindsay wiggles into pants over her shorts and throws on a T-shirt. “I’m ready.”

“You’re going out like that?”

“This is L.A. I’m practically dressed for a funeral.” She does a full twist for me, and if there’s a trouble spot to be had on her, it doesn’t show anywhere. Ronnie was right when he touted her beauty, and begrudgingly, I have to admit she’s been sweet and most welcoming. I really had wished her to be the evil, little temptress I always imagined. I have no doubt she is an evil, little temptress—just one without guile or knowledge of her superpowers.

We get into her luxury sedan, which is showroom clean, like the condo. It’s an odd statement that Lindsay goes out with her hair flowing every which way but doesn’t allow a speck of dust on her dashboard.

“How’s the wedding shower coming along?”

She starts up the car and it purrs to life. “Everything is done, with the exception of the location, so I can’t send out the invitations. I was thinking I might ask Ronnie if he’d let me use the Pacific Palisades house one more time?”

I scratch the back of my head, wondering if she isn’t plotting to end up with the house and my son in the process. For the life of me, I cannot imagine why she didn’t ask for the house in the first place. “Why don’t you buy the house from Ronnie? He’s going to need to sell it, and you clearly have use for the home. It would make things easier on all of us.”

“Never mind, Jane. I’ll just rent out a restaurant.”

“I didn’t mean that. I’ll ask him for you, of course. I can’t imagine he’d mind. He probably won’t even see the house before it’s sold.”

“He should see it. There’s a lot of Ron in that house. I think he’d like to visit before it sells.”

“Why would he want to do that?” I gaze across the black leather interior, wondering if she’s messing with my mind. She realizes that Ronnie isn’t Ron’s son, doesn’t she? Or is she questioning that fact, hoping to catch me in my tangled web of deceit?

She pulls to a stop sign and turns her head. Her blue eyes blink rapidly and the corner of her lip turns up. “Um, because he inherited a four million–dollar house from the man? Chances are, he’d be curious.”

“Right.” I watch Lindsay’s easy smile. My hope is that she’s happy for Ronnie. He did, after all, get what he deserved, for being raised without a father. Probably a good deal more than he deserved, but I do hope one day he’ll know the truth and forgive me for what I tried to do for him.

We pull up to a restaurant that has plants hanging from hippie-themed pots along its storefront. Although it’s nearly March, the day is bright and shiny, as usual, and a bevy of gym beauties fill the tables along the sidewalk.

“What time are you leaving for Mexico? Do you need to get back at any particular time?”

“I don’t have a schedule. I was just anxious to get out of your hair. I don’t know. I have this fear that as soon as I get out of here, something will go wrong with the will. Maybe I should just stick this out. It’s not worth the chance of my being stuck here longer.”

“Don’t be silly, Jane. I have plenty of room, and you’re not bothering me. I like the company, and you’re better than a cat. At least you take care of the cat you came with.” She giggles.

We enter the restaurant and someone even thinner than Lindsay (if that’s possible?) seats us at a table near the window and all the other diamond-clad trophy wives in gym gear. “Doesn’t anyone work around here?”

“For a lot of these women, going to the gym is work. They are either actresses or trophy wives, both of which require a certain physique.”

“You say that matter-of-factly. Don’t you find it sad?”

She shrugs. “Of course I do, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Haley could never please her ex-husband, and there isn’t anyone who tried harder. That’s one thing I loved about Ron. We were both very flawed individuals, and we could respect that in each other. I loved him though he was older and drank too much. He loved me though I was flighty, can’t cook for beans, and had to work hard to understand what he did for clients so that I could be of some help to him.”

“You tried, Lindsay. That’s more than I did, so I applaud you for that.” And I do. The more I get to know Lindsay, the more facets I can see in her that are genuine and intelligent. But beautiful people are often charming and put one off their guard. I try to remember this as she orders a breakfast fit for a lumberjack. “I’ll have the gluten-free pancakes with fresh strawberries on top and a side of organic bacon. Oh, and Diet Coke to drink.”

“Organic bacon and Diet Coke?”

“You want that, too?”

I peruse the menu, which has an abundance of adjectives that mean nothing to me. Organic, gluten-free, farm-raised, non-hydrogenated, no GMOs. “I want two eggs, over-easy, with a side of toast,” I say.

“Whole wheat bread all right?”

“Absolutely. Orange juice to drink and a coffee.”

“Fresh-squeezed or flash-frozen?”

“Fresh-squeezed.” I hand her the menu and peer at Lindsay, who is putting her hair into a large, tortoise-shell barrette. “I have to ask: are there chicken sausages which aren’t raised on a farm?”

She giggles. “Look, I save my chemicals for Diet Coke. I want my chickens clean. Better living through chemicals, but not diseases from imported, dirty birds, you know what I’m saying?”

“I haven’t a clue, actually. So what happens when you come to visit me in Mexico and someone in the neighborhood skins their chicken for your dinner? Is that street-raised?” The waitress fills my cup with something dark and cinammon-scented. “This is coffee?”

“Our special blend,” she says with a smile.

“Yum!” I take one sip and have to fight to swallow the bitter liquid.

Lindsay continues, “I’d be thrilled to have Mexican chicken from the streets of Campeche. Are you inviting me?”

“You’re afraid to go to Ensenada. You’re telling me you’re going to take a Mexican airliner all the way to Campeche?”

“No, I’m afraid you’ll go to Ensenada and won’t come back soon, and the probate will drag on ever longer.”

“Ah, so it’s a selfish reason you want me to stay here.” Secretly, I think it’s because she doesn’t want to be alone again, and nightmare that I may be for her, I’m still preferable to being alone for Lindsay.

“Maybe. Mostly, I don’t like being alone. I like having you there.”

“Aha!” It’s as though she read my thoughts.

“Even if you don’t like me very much.”

“I like you, Lindsay.”

“You like me, except when it comes to your son. You’re just like Jake’s mother. She never liked me, either—said I would break his heart.”

“And from what I can tell, you did.”

“True, but there were extenuating circumstances. And although you may not want to see it, your son is not interested in me. He’s interested in the man he thinks is his father. I just happened to be attached to his history.”

How I wish that were true. My son has the opportunity to do everything right in his life, and I want him to start fresh. Without the baggage I attached to him at birth. “So you wanted to bring me here for breakfast to tell me I should tell my son the truth. Lindsay, I know I should tell my son the truth.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“I will tell him, of course. I’m waiting for the right time.”

“After he inherits Ron’s house? Is that what you are waiting for? Because the house will not eliminate the problems. He’ll have to get it sold, have an accountant figure out what he owes for taxes on the sale. He’ll have to find a place to invest that kind of money. Nothing comes without a cost of some sort.” Lindsay has the face of an angel and the tongue of a viper.

“That money belongs to Ronnie. You may not understand it, but—”

She clutches the sides of the table until her knuckles are white. “I’m not stupid. Explain it to me, Jane. Explain to me why you can’t tell Ronnie the truth. I’m all ears. I’m rooting for Ronnie. He seems like a man who will spend the money well, but I was married to Ron for ten years. We kept nothing from each other, but now I’m finding out about family I didn’t know existed. It doesn’t add up. You can’t blame me for being curious, can you? I mean, your own son is curious.”

“It was complicated, and obviously Ron thought it best to keep things the way they were: quiet. If he didn’t tell you on his death bed, what makes you think I should share the truth?”

“If you were me, would you really want to remain in the dark, Jane?”

Yes, I would!
I want to shout, but I know I wouldn’t have been able to. I would have forced it and made my life all the worse because of my pushing. “That’s not a fair question, since I know the truth and in knowing the truth, I can say it’s a good place to be. The dark, that is.”

She whistles like a teakettle, clearly frustrated she is not going to get Ron’s secret out of me. He couldn’t have trusted her with everything, or he might have told her. Instead, he probably drank away any guilt he’d stored up for decades and protected his princess from the ugly truth.

“I don’t care if you think I’m stupid, Jane. Most people do. Most people think I’m a money-grubbing blonde like all the rest, but I learned early on that while money makes things nice, it doesn’t take away your problems. So if you think making your son a millionaire is going to take away his desire to know the truth about his past, you’re only setting the both of you up for disappointment.” Her pancakes arrive and she pours a healthy portion of, no doubt, some natural version of what non-Californians call syrup.