Live a Little (45 page)

As my mind charts the logic from point A to point B and puts together what happened, the woman seems to sense my presence, or maybe she just overhears us and turns around.
She is pretty
is the first (superficial) thing I register. Also:
She looks healthy.
Then:
Where’s the husband?

“Oh,” the woman says, unfastening one of her kids’ sticky-looking hands from her Bermuda shorts. The boy whines and drops a karate chop in the middle of his sister’s back. The girl erupts. “Oh, damn,” the woman says, then, absently, “Kids, there’s Daddy, run and get him.” They charge off, leaving only us, two Raquel Roses in orbit around each other at the United counter.

“Are you . . . well?” I ask. There is no need to explain; we both know what’s going on. Just seeing her solid and actual in front of me—she, the intangible, elusive manifestation of my blunders—is sweet relief.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Her smooth, clear face is serene. “And you?”

I point to my burgeoning stomach. “Pretty good, considering.”

“Yes, well.” She gestures toward her incoming family, a study in hibiscus patterns and ice-cream stains. “I’d better go.”

“Right. Well, have a good time.”

“You, too.”

I walk ten steps before something turns me around. “Is your name really Raquel?” I call.

She smiles. “Yeah. My mom thought it sounded racy. I’ve always wanted something classier. Rachel would have been nice.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I
was born in Hollywood in 1969. That sounds fancy, but all it really means is I played in public parks alongside the children of grips and the occasional transsexual hooker. Throughout the 1970s, I followed the zeitgeist, enjoying
Star Wars,
Judy Blume, Madeleine L’Engle, and recreational soccer under the leadership of various well-intentioned but misinformed dads. For a brief period, I developed an unhealthy interest in the Bermuda Triangle. I read a lot of grown-up books I “borrowed” from my friends’ mothers that turned out to be soft-core porn. It was all very
Boogie Nights,
very Southern California!

Then my parents loaded up the station wagon with three kids, a basset hound, and a hillbilly pile of stuff and moved us up to northern California. It was about the same, minus the tans, plus the mullets. The ’80s were filled with new-wave music, Boone’s Farm wine, and a succession of ill-advised fashion choices. I wrote angry journal entries and a love paean to Duran Duran.

After high school, I left for the big city and U.C. Berkeley, eventually earning my B.A. in political science at U.C. Davis. Flirting with working for an NGO or the diplomatic corps, I got an M.A. in international relations at the University of Amsterdam in the Netherlands, which qualifies me to create exotic settings for my books and little else.

Around this time, I began a successful career in. . . underemployment. Researching mechanics liens, copyediting reviews of pet-worship Web sites, spoon-feeding psychotropic medication to a clinically psychotic boss . . . no job was too soul-killing or weird for the likes of me. That’s when I decided to take a stab at this writing thing. Really, there was nothing left to fear.

Along the way, I met my wondrous husband, Gabe. (My grandmothers, who never agreed on anything, both deemed him a mensch.) We live in San Francisco with our perpetually curious daughter Lucca and our son Zev, who, at eight months, already smiles like he means it.

FIVE THINGS YOU NEVER THOUGHT YOU’D SAY TO YOUR KIDS:

1. “That’s why they call it
medical
marijuana, honey.”

2. “Of course surfing is a valid career choice.”

3. “You’re sitting on my wig.”

4. “Staying together for the children? Who told you that?”

5. “What I did is perfectly legal . . . in Sweden.”