I Almost Forgot About You (9 page)

“Deal,” he says, and walks over to pull my chair out as I stand up. This time he wraps his arms around me and squeezes so hard I think he squeezes all that ancient anger right on out of me.

“You sound different,” Wanda says as she devours the chips and salsa I just set out for her and Violet, who shocked me by apologizing after I didn't return her calls and said she still meant what she'd said, just maybe not the way she said it, and I just told her that it's my life to live it the way I want to and that I didn't need her approval to do anything, and then we hugged through the phone. This is nothing new.

“Hold on,” Violet says. “Where'd you buy this salsa? It's delicious.”

“I made it just for you two huzzies.”

“Where'd you get the recipe?” Wanda asks. “You know Nelson loves salsa.”

“I made it up. It's just heirloom tomatoes and lots of other stuff. I'll write it down.”

They're helping me pack all the photographs in tissue paper and Bubble Wrap as well as making labels for some of the art leaning against walls all over the house.

“You do look a little composed,” Violet says. “Did you make any sangria or what?”

“She saw Michael.”

“What? Did you finally curse him out? Did you punch him in the nose like you've been wanting to do all these years?” Violet never tires of animal prints, and today she's in cheetah leggings and a tight black tank top. I'll be glad when she realizes that animals come in solid colors, too.

“And?” Wanda asks, staring me in the eye.

“I swallowed it.”

“What'd you just say?” Violet yells from the kitchen, actually sticking her head around the corner. A giant areca palm standing in the corner makes her look like she really could be in a jungle. If only.

“You heard me,” I say as I pick up a picture and continue wrapping.

“Did he put something in your drink?” she asks as she comes back and sets a tray on the table. “Don't tell me you slept with the son of a bitch, Georgia. But if you did, how was it?”

“Are you nuts?”

“So what if she did, Violet? It's her damn business, and we could say a whole lot about some of the aliens
you've
crawled under.”

“So what'd you do with the anger?”

“I left it there.”

“Left it where?” Violet asks.

“At the restaurant,” Wanda says.

“You mean you had dinner with him?” Violet asks now that this story sounds like it's getting interesting.

“I did.”

“I don't know how you do that, but you should market the shit,” Violet says.

“I don't need any details,” Wanda says, looking pleased.

“I'll just say this. I'm glad I loved him. Glad I married him. But also glad I divorced him.”

“Where in the hell are you hiding the violins, Georgia?” Violet asks after downing what looks like a double shot.

“Why don't you shut up and wrap something,” Wanda says, and hands her a black-and-white photograph of me at eight months old, which is what's written on the back. I was not a cute baby, and why they tinted my lips pink I'll never know.

“Did he happen to mention his young Asian girlfriend?”

“She's his daughter, Violet.”

“Okay. Oh, she's the love child. I get it.”

“Are we done with this conversation?” I look at them like I'm at a tennis match. I love them to death, but sometimes I don't want to hear the truth. Sometimes I want them to lie. Or just agree with me. Or be neutral, though that would be asking too much. But since we're BFFs, I suppose I'm stuck with them.

“Well, just because
you've
decided to let bygones be bygones, that doesn't mean
I
have to like his ass. The only reason I spoke to him at the party was I was trying to be civilized.”

“People make mistakes,” I say.

“Mistakes can be corrected. Most men know exactly what they're doing before they do it. And that's called intent.”

“Okay, let's skip the subject for real,” I say.

When we hear the beginning of a song I recognize as Lady Gaga, we know it's Velvet calling her mama. Violet yanks her phone out of her purse, frowns, and says to us, “Lord, what does this child want now?”

Wanda and I know Velvet
always
wants something.

“What can I do for you?” she asks, listening and nodding her head as she walks around the room in those stupid stilettos.

She so thinks she's still thirty. She presses Off and throws the phone back inside her purse.

“I don't even want to know,” I say.

“Me either,” Wanda says.

And out she goes. We are so used to this kind of drama that we aren't even moved.

“So,” Wanda says, “this idea is turning out to be healthy. I'm glad. I always liked Michael.”

She picks up two pieces of the packing paper and starts wrapping it around my mother and father celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

“And please don't ask me who's next, because I've got quite a few other things on my mind. I think my daughter and her husband are having major financial problems.”

“A lot of people are, Georgia.”

“True, but I think Estelle and Justin might be brand-new casualties on that foreclosure list, too.”

“But Justin's a frigging designer at Hewlett-Packard! What kind of money problems could a Silicon Valley–employed Stanford grad be having?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Who told you?”

“Scarlett and Gabby.”

“Holy shit. They are smart. Why haven't you asked Estelle about this?”

“I don't want to embarrass her.”

“Oh, so if they're about to be homeless, you'll discuss it then? Come on, Georgia. Sometimes you need to act like you came from Bakersfield.”

“I'm thinking about how best to bring it up.”

“Just tell her those big-mouthed twins spilled the beans, and then she can either enslave them or be glad you're able to help them.”

We wrap and tape in silence for a few minutes.

“This may not be the best time to tell you this, Georgia, but Nelson and I are thinking of buying a condo in Palm Springs and possibly retiring there.”

“What! Why?”

“Nelson's arthritis will be better in a dry climate.”

“I never knew he had arthritis.”

“I'm lying. We just like it there, and we're tired of this cold weather, and plus we both want to golf anytime we want to.”

“You'll burn up down there.”

“We're black. We can take the heat.”

“Well, you two might be the only black faces you see for days at a time, because there's nothing but gay men and rich white people down there, and most of them are Republicans.”

“Ask me if I care.”

“Do you care?”

“No, I do not. I like gay men who don't hate women, and I don't mind being around rich white people, because there's plenty of them in the Bay Area, and I know how to ignore Republicans.”

“Seems like everybody's moving, huh?”

“So what if your house sells really fast? Where in the world would you move?”

“I don't know.”

“You have to have some idea.”

“Costa Rica.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Dubai.”

She cuts her eyes at me. “What about New York?”

“I just told Percy that's where I wanted to live to piss him off because I could tell he's a die-hard San Franciscan. But as much as I love New York, I feel too old to live there. And I'd only be able to afford a studio apartment, which would probably be more than my mortgage. I'll visit. Plus, I love sleeping in hotels.”

“Miami?”

“Florida is boring. Too many accents, and half of them you can't understand or they can't understand you. I hate that humidity, and I've got beaches and sunshine right here, and let's not forget those hurricanes. No thank you.”

“What about Arizona?”

“Do I look like I would want to live in a desert?”

“Denver?”

“Can't breathe there. That altitude kills me. And it's boring as hell unless you're into nature. Nature scares me. I don't understand the point of hiking, and I can't remember how to ski.”

“Seattle is nice.”

“I'd need to be on antidepressants. That rain is romantic and refreshing for a few days, but not nonstop week after week. Granted, it's full of smart, educated people, and they've got the best coffee, but so does the Bay Area.”

“Would it occur to you to just stay right here?”

“Maybe. But to be honest, I don't think I want to be more than driving distance from my mother and my grandkids.”

I look around at all the taped boxes. We've made a lot of progress.

“My work here is done,” Wanda announces.

I thank her with hugs, but at the front door she does an about-face. “Wait!”

“What now?”

“Two things. You want to stay in the guesthouse or with us while this place is being staged?”

“No. But thanks for the offer, honey.”

“I know you're not thinking of staying in a hotel for two or three weeks.”

“I don't know what I'm going to do, but I do know I want to do something I haven't done before and maybe go somewhere I haven't been.”

She looks at me like she's worried, and I push her out the door.

The rain wakes me up. And then people talking. It sounds like a conductor on a train. I must've fallen asleep on the remote's Pause button and now apparently rolled over on Play. I sit up. Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke are sitting across the aisle from each other on a train. He's American. She's French. They're both young and smart. I saw this film when it came out in 1995, and decided to watch it last night for reasons I do not know. It's called
Before Sunrise.
I do know. I love implausible romantic movies that become plausible. This one felt more like a peek into the souls of two characters who got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to share their thoughts and opinions and they had nothing to lose and it was just a train ride but as they talked it started becoming clearer and clearer that both of them were discovering themselves at the same time they were discovering each other. It was not the typical boy-meets-girl-and-they-fall-in-love love story. It's a very talky movie, although I appreciated the things they talked about, but what fascinated me even more was the train ride itself. The whir of it speeding over those tracks. What they saw out the window. What they missed. The medley of colors. Those open fields. Horses. Cows. Sheep. And homes, farms, buildings. Even a city here and there.

I rewind the film to the point when Ethan tells Julie he's been riding this train for two weeks and doesn't exactly know where he's going. But at least he's moving. Right now I'm right there with him. I grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting on the nightstand and then chase it down with a sip of lukewarm ginger ale, and I say aloud, “How frigging cool would that be?” A long train ride? Why not? I can afford to take the time off. I could ride up to Vancouver and maybe across Canada all the way over to Toronto and then down to New York and hang out with Frankie and fly back home. I could buy one of those passes that lets you get on and off in different cities. I could get one of those sleeper cars! I could read. I could wonder. I could relax. I could even think about my future on a blank screen until it comes into focus. I wouldn't be hoping to pick up an Ethan Hawke. That was a movie. I'd be starring in my own. I pull the duvet up under my chin, decide to get in touch with a good travel agent, press Off on the remote, and then close my eyes.

All aboard.

The rain finally stopped. But before I can brush my teeth, the phone rings. Without looking at the caller ID, I know who it is. “Good morning, First Lady of Bakersfield.” This is often how I greet my mother.

“I
wish
I could be Michelle Obama for a few weeks!”

“Well, it's certainly one for the history books all right. So how was the cruise?”