Circle in the Sand (3 page)

“Mommy, you said only medicine.” James stands in the cart, hovering over Ben who is
seated in the front.

“I know, Buddy. I just need to grab a few things.” I run my hand over his soft brown
hair. “Promise, now have a seat.” He sits and grabs his toy jeep, trying to squeeze
it through the holes of the cart. I have just picked him up from pre-school. He is
usually tired and hungry and it’s best to go straight home. But getting my circus
in and out of the clown car is not easy, and I need to minimize these trips. “Oh,
I almost forgot bananas,” I say as I pull into the produce section. My mind is in
a million places, and for once, I forgot my list. I live and die by my lists and with
three kids, two dogs, a cat, a hamster, and an iguana, there is no way I can survive
without a reminder to breathe. It’s chaotic organization at its best.

“Nano,” my two-year-old, Ben, says and points.

“Yes, sweetie, that’s right.” I rub his little dimpled cheeks. He is a mirror image
of Eric—dark eyes encased in olive skin. James is a combination of both of us—my chin
and blue eyes, but his father’s skin tone. My seven-year-old daughter Sophie, on the
other hand, must have been the product of some telepathic surrogacy because she doesn’t
look like either of us. “Do you know what color those bananas are?” I say to Ben.

“Pease,” he says, indicating that he does. “Please” means yes.

“What color, Benny?”

“Lello,” he says. He points to the bananas as we roll toward them. “Lello, lello,
lello.” He loves to say things in threes.

“No! No bananas!” James’s voice is fearful, not defiant.

I pull the cart up next to the offending fruit. James gets to his feet and grabs my
hand. “No, Mommy! Please, no bananas!”

“What’s wrong, Buddy? Don’t you like bananas?”

“Yes, but I don’t want them!”

“You had one for snack today at school didn’t you?”

“No, I threw it in the trash.” He sits back down with a pout, examines his jeep in
his lap.

“Now, why would you do that?”

James considers me a moment. “Jaden and William were calling me monkey. They made
funny noises and scratched their armpits.”

I take a moment to formulate the best response. It’s always hard when someone takes
your child’s happiness. You want to tell them to fight back, to stand up for themselves.
But you never know how far they will take it. I decide to be politically correct.
“That wasn’t nice of them. Next time you tell them to please stop.”

“I told them this time and they didn’t. They called me a baby.”

“Oh,” I say, stalling for time. My brain stutters, working on two hours of sleep.
Ben had me up five times with his fever. Thankfully it broke, but only in time for
us to get up in the morning. “Well, maybe you should play with someone else.” The
little bastards don’t deserve to play with you, I wanted to say. “They don’t sound
like very good friends.”

“But they’re the best at mini-basketball,” he says with concerned eyes.

Growing frustrated, I grab a bunch of bananas and put them in the front next to Ben.

“Nanos, Nanos, Nanos,” he says.

“James, sweetie, I won’t make you take a banana to school.”

A wide smile materializes on his face.

“But…don’t let your friends tease you and remember something for me.”

“What, Mommy?”

“You can be the best at mini-basketball, too.”

James’s brows knit together as he takes that in. I never want my children to settle,
or feel they’re not good enough. I constantly remind them that the world is just beyond
their fingertips. And soon they will grow and learn and grab hold of whatever they
want in life. Ironically, I spend my days killing myself to be a good mother and my
nights dwelling on my mistakes.

We finally make our way to the medicine—the reason we came here. I snag a bottle of
Motrin off the shelf and toss it in the basket.

As we wait in line, my cell pings. A text from Sage displays. I remember that she
and Jax are having lunch today, and I try not to be jealous. With Eric’s schedule
and the kids, I need a week and a personal assistant to leave the house alone. Jax
and I see each other more since we live close by, so I’m happy they get some time
together. I figure it’s not the time I’m jealous of, but the ability. They are both
free to spontaneously grab lunch with a friend, to catch a movie, or try a new restaurant.
Guilt fills me when I realize I don’t see myself as free. But the reality is that
I’m not. I’m on call twenty-four seven, working the most crucial, demanding, and thankless
job in the world. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The cashier tells me my total, and I reach for my bag which sits between Ben and the
bananas. He has been playing with the magnetic snap the whole time we are in line,
so he’s not too happy to give it up. I dig inside to grab my wallet, and the panic
hits me. My hand pushes around the inside as I silently pray that Ben moved it to
another pocket. I peek back at the three people behind me and then the cashier. Her
name tag says, “Lauren,” I note in case. “Sorry, just one sec.” Shit, this is the
last thing I need. My brain races to compile possibly scenarios. Did Ben pull it out
and drop it somewhere in the store? Did I forget it at home? It’s possible it fell
out in the car. I pray it’s the last one as I look up at the woman who is now growing
impatient. “I’m really sorry, but my wallet is gone.”

A man behind me in a business suit lets out an, “Aw geez” and glances at his watch.

The clerk registers the distress on my face, eyes James, and decides to abort the
attitude. “Could you have lost it in the store?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.” What I do comprehend is that I have two mini time bombs
in my cart that can only sit for so long without entertainment.

She says to the bag boy who has just set the bags next to James, “Get Andy and check
lost and found while you’re there.” Then she looks back at me. “It’s okay. Why don’t
you stand over there while we figure this out?”

I’m mortified that I’ve held the line up, but I’m doing everything I can to keep calm.
Business man eyes me, shakes his head and glances away. To further accentuate what
an inconvenience I am, he checks his watch three more times and sighs.
Asshole
. I’d like to see him be up all night with a screaming toddler and still function
properly the next day. Thankfully, another cashier appears in the next aisle and directs
the three customers her way. A woman behind assman gives me a sympathetic nod.

Lauren sticks a closed sign on the conveyor belt which for some odd reason causes
my stomach to flop. It really shouldn’t be a big deal. Mishaps happen in life, but
when they happen to me, I spend days recreating the events. I ponder where I went
wrong, even with something like this. I swallow a lump forming in my throat and berate
myself further for being such an emotional cow. If I’d had my freaking list this might
not have happened.

“Up, up, up,” Ben says, breaking me from my downward spiral. I don’t make him say
please because I want to hold him. I need him, knowing this is the last place I want
to lose it. I lift him up and bring him to my chest. His warmth and smell is comforting,
calming the chaos fighting inside me. I take a few breaths and smile at my angel,
James, who always seems to sense when I need him to cooperate…when I need a moment.

Clarity returns, and I suddenly flash back to the car ride over. Ben was crying, overly
tired from the rough night. I started singing his favorite song, “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
Each time I sang, he stopped. But after five rounds, I couldn’t take it any longer.
I handed my purse back to James. “There’s a fruit snack in there somewhere,” I’d said
to him. “Find it and give some to your brother.” Sometimes, in the midst of chaos,
you forget the obvious. Food. My wallet must have fallen out then.

I relay my story to the cashier and head to the van for a check. I set both kids inside
and take a quick glance around. Given that I don’t put them immediately in their seats,
they think it’s some kind of party. Ben climbs in a seat and stands with his hands
against the window. He spots a dog in the car next to us. “Goggy, goggy, goggy.” He
bangs his hands on the window. James runs up the middle and dives into the far back
seat, falling into a puddle of giggles. I let them be, not minding that my misfortune
has turned into an unexpected treat for them. Not only that, but I pull my phone out
of my pocket and begin filming my little hellions in action. I often fear that someday
I won’t be able to access these memories. That time is rushing by faster than a freight
train. I want every precious moment at my fingertips, to relive and savor over and
over.

After the video I snap a couple of stills and resume searching for the wallet. I grope
under every seat and finally, my hand touches something bulky and leather. Relieved,
I yank it from under James’s chair and smile. What a day, I think, and it’s not even
noon.

“Oh. My. God. Jax, you can see that guy’s butt cheeks.” We are in Jax’s ancient excuse
for an automobile, headed to lunch at George’s at the Cove in La Jolla. Jax wants
to eat at Juan’s, but I’m overdressed and not in the mood for grease. I insist and
say it will be my treat, so she insists on driving.

“Where?” she asks.

“Right there.” I point out the window to a homeless man. He’s wearing a tie-dye tank
top, tan corduroy pants that are shredded in the seat, no underwear. He’s pulling
a small wheeled cart behind him. “So gross.” One of the downsides to living in one
of the best climates in the country is that everyone wants to live here, including
the homeless. 

“Oh, that’s Crazy Carl,” she says. We pass him, and the car begins to slow and veer
toward the curb.

“You’re not stopping. Why are we stopping?” Jax has had wounded-bird syndrome since
I’ve known her. Friend of the friendless, hope for the helpless, aid to the less fortunate.
I don’t remember a time when she’s talked about her own aspirations, making a life
with career and family. I never understood it. I’ve worked hard to keep my nagging
to a minimum, but I haven’t lost hope for her to try for something bigger.

“I may have some back up underwear for him. Let me pull over and check?”

“You’ve got to be kidding. You’re going to give him your underwear?”

“It’s not
my
underwear,” she says. “I keep a few things in the car in case I see someone who needs
it.”

She jams the brake down and glances in the back seat. A small box holds snacks and
toiletries. She turns back and reaches under her seat. I hear the crumple of plastic,
and her hand reappears holding a three-pack of boxers. I blink thinking I must be
imagining this, but it’s Jax and I know better.

“He could be dangerous,” I say. Not to mention the germs and diseases that could be
taking up residence on his person.

“Sage, he’s harmless.”

“Uh, did you not just call him Crazy Carl?”

“Yeah, but that’s because he says crazy shit. You’ll see when we talk to him.”

“We?” I have no desire to do this, and it confirms another reason I was hesitant to
let her drive.

Carl reaches the car, stops, and bends over so he can see in the window that Jax has
just reached across me to roll down. I am still in protest mode. “That you, Jax?”
he says.

“Carl, your ass cheeks are hanging out,” she shouts across me. “You wanna get pulled
in?”

“That might be nice.” Carl’s tan looks as if he recently returned from a month in
Jamaica. He dons a scruffy beard of dishwater blond to match his wild, unbrushed hair.
When he smiles his teeth are splashed with light brown stains. I’m not exaggerating;
his chompers are an array of leopard print.

“What happens when they let you go?” Jax says. “Are you going to walk all the way
back here?”

He sets his hand down on the door where the window goes down, inches from my face.
I glance at his hairy, dirty knuckles for about two seconds before I pull my head
back against the headrest. I search the backseat for a distraction and something catches
my eye. Sticking out from under the box of toiletries is a brochure about HIV. A chill
runs down my spine at my first thought. I wonder if I should ask. If Jax needed someone
to talk to, wouldn’t she come to me or to Emily? Then I remind myself that I haven’t
exactly been sharing lately either. Jax helps a lot of people in a lot of different
ways. This must be part of some program where she hands out information…for a clinic
or maybe the church. I’m sure it’s something like that; I try to convince myself.

Carl slams his hand down on the door, startling me from my deliberation. I snap my
head in his direction. “I might just do that, pumpkin,” he says. Then he peers up,
floats a hand to the sky. “Or, maybe I’ll wander aimlessly around the city doing good
deeds and rescuing damsels in distress. Like this fair lady.” He nods at me.

“I like that idea,” Jax says, sounding so sincere. “But, your ass cheeks will still
be exposed and you could get sunburned. Don’t let this overcast fool you.” She tosses
the package out the window, and he catches it in both hands. “Go into that McDonalds
over there and put those on.”

“All right, sweetheart. For you, anything.” He tucks them under his arm. “I owe you
one, girl.”

He walks off and as we pull away, I say sarcastically, “Owe you one? What could he
possibly do for you?”

“He volunteers at the soup kitchen sometimes.”

“Him?”

“Yeah, when upstanding citizens such as yourself are too busy, they’ll take anyone
who is willing to help, even Crazy Carl.”

“It’s not like I don’t believe in charity because I do. But I also believe in hard
work and pulling yourself out of your circumstances.” I worked my ass off for every
dollar that is hibernating in my bank account, waiting for the next great depression,
or my future children’s education. Because that’s what we do in our family—save our
money, protect the principle, get insured, make smart decisions. Growing up we had
plenty of money and a home nicer than most of my friends. But what I didn’t have were
the warm family memories. The yearly family trips to Disneyworld like Emily’s family
took. I learned that money wasn’t for having fun; it was for security. And there was
only one thing that could get me to part with my money, even before it was my money,
and that was my friends: Jax and Emily. I would do anything for my girls.

Jax doesn’t reply to my comment. I hang my arm out the window as we head down Pacific
Coast Highway. It’s the only way to go. Along the way we see surfers, locals walking
dogs or jogging. In the summer, you’ll get the Disneyland crowd—folks from all walks
of life. I feel a sense of pride knowing that people from all over the world, rich
and poor, want to be here where I grew up. It’s a place where every day is like summer
vacation whether it’s hot or not.

When we reach George’s, there is a short wait so we head to the bar. It’s is
the
hot spot in La Jolla, the rodeo drive of the San Diego beaches. The restaurant is
three stories high, cut into the cliffs overlooking the ocean. The bottom floor is
fine-dining amidst floor-to-ceiling windows, the middle houses a lively bar, and the
ocean terrace is reasonably priced food, with an incredible view of the La Jolla cliffs
and ocean. A favorite in our family for years.

We order drinks and grab a seat at a small high-top table. The whole back side of
the bar area is open, and a pleasant breeze wafts in. I lower my head and check out
the horizon. The sun is clear of the clouds but battles the breeze to warm the air.
It should be sunny enough by the time we get our table and order lunch.

For the first few seconds after we sit, we stare at each other and smile. Jax looks
exactly the same every time I see her. It amazes me that no matter how many hair styles
she goes through, her face never changes. Her hair has grown back to a reasonable
length and is sporty, cut just below her chin. It reminds me of when we first met
as young girls. Her soft, light skin and genuine smile always have a glow that reminds
me of a lantern on a summer night.

And then she opens her mouth.

“It’s about time you got your ass down here,” Jax says.

I sip a skinny mojito and cock an eyebrow at her. “I have a spare room, you know?”

“I know, but everybody’s here. This is home.”

She’s right, but that’s not the point. “Still, you could visit me once in a while.
In the five years I’ve lived in LA, how many times have you or Emily come to visit?”

She picks up her beer and points it at me. “I was there for your birthday last year.”
Then she takes a long drink and sets the bottle on the table. “So how’s your bitchy
boss?” she asks, trying to change the subject.

“She’s not a bitch,” I say. I work for Chase Bank as a private client advisor. Christine’s
been hard on me since day one, but the last month or so it’s gotten exponentially
worse. She says the finance industry has always been a man’s world, so we need to
think and act like men. Other than grabbing my crotch and sleeping with every person
that offers it up, I thought I was doing that.

“Has she let up on you since the last time we spoke?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“Then she’s bitchy. You go above and beyond for her and that company. Does she ever
show appreciation?”

A sigh comes out because I’m frustrated that the answer is no. But more than that,
I don’t want to tell Jax the whole story. I don’t want her to hear what happened at
the Christmas party and that I’m worried Christine knows. I decide to change the subject
back on her. “You still seeing that guy…what’s his name? Dan?”

“It’s Dale and no. He’s reconciling with his wife.”

“Ooh, does he still work at the bar? That could be awkward.”

“No, he quit a few weeks ago.”

“I thought they were divorced,” I say.

Jax glances away, tries to down her beer. “They were, but I guess that doesn’t matter
now.”

I can’t read the expression on her face. There’s something there, though—sadness or
regret. I miss the days when there were never secrets between us. I miss the times
when I could look at Jax or Emily and know exactly what they were thinking.

As we finish our drinks, the server brings two more and sets them on the table.

“We didn’t order these,” I say to her.

She flashes a knowing smile and points over to the bar where two men stare at us and
nod. It’s not the first time free drinks have come our way.

I give Jax the eye and say, “I
wonder
what they would do if one of us went over there and wrote our number right on one
of their foreheads.”

She shakes her head. “Nice try. You know I don’t do that stuff anymore.”

“Whatever you say,
Wonder
Woman.”

The hostess calls our name for a table and we pop up and grab the drinks. We pass
the two men on our way out, smiling our thanks as we hold up the drinks. The perfect
timing makes us laugh. One guy slumps in disappointment, the other shakes his head
and laughs. We both giggle as we head upstairs to the terrace, traces of nostalgia
washing over me. Emerson said, “It is one of the blessings of old friends that you
can afford to be stupid with them.” Nothing applies more to my relationship with Jax
and Emily. I’m in my own world in LA, mostly working and trying to live life day by
day. But sometimes I feel as though I’m treading water until I can see my girls and
start swimming again.

Every table on the terrace is a winner, but we are seated along the wall with a view
of not only the ocean, but the steep cliffs poured into rocks lined with birds and
seals. I glance around and am reminded of the atmosphere on this rooftop; everyone
is engaged in lively conversation or enjoying the spectacular view. When you’re on
the terrace, nothing else seems to matter—as if the ocean breeze carries a magical
calm that blankets everyone below.

Jax and I order and then talk about old times, work, she fills me in on some of our
high school and college friends. Both Emily and I went to UC San Diego and even though
Jax didn’t attend, she was right there with us. She went to all the parties, made
friends with all the same people we did. I ended up spending more time with her after
Emily dropped out to get married.

We are just finishing our meals when Jax brings up the subject I’ve been dreading.

“Are you going to visit Rose?” she asks.

I’m on the immediate defensive. “Jax, you know I don’t have time. I told you that.”

“Uh-huh.” She nods.

I try to convince us both. “My meeting is at three. Even if I get lucky and we’re
out by four, I’ll be battling traffic the whole way back.”

“Don’t go back. It’s Friday. Stay the weekend. Or just the night.”

I had anticipated Jax would try this, so I’m ready with my story. “I can’t. I told
Christine we’d go over stuff for this new client right when we get back.”

Jax doesn’t let up. “Why can’t you do it on the phone? Or that video chatting I’ve
seen you do with her? I know you’ve got your laptop. You never go anywhere without
it. And I also know you always bring extra clothes with you in case you decide to
stay. C’mon, it’s bad karma. You said you had to visit your grandma, so now you damn
well better do it.”

“She doesn’t even like me.” I half believe this excuse. It’s not that I don’t want
to have some extra time with Jax, and it has been a while since I’ve visited my grandmother.
But, she never seems glad to see me, and she always finds a way to make me shrink
with inadequacy.

“She loves you.” Jax leans over and touches my hand.

She saw how hard my grandmother was on me growing up. “She likes you better,” I say.
And that I could never figure out. I always did everything she expected. School, job,
saving money. I wish I could say it was because Jax volunteers at Oak Grove and so
now they are close. But, grandmother always connected with her even though she was
the opposite of everything she preached.