Shake Down the Stars (9 page)

For the life of me, I can't make out why Spence wants to be here. So far, Diane and Mitch are just the kind of couple we find obnoxious. They're conspicuously moneyed but not doing anything with their money except bargain hunting across the globe, collecting culture just so they can give tours in their home and talk of their adventures with the “natives.” They are all things PC but only as much as it suits them. I know I'm being bratty and judgmental, but I don't get it. Spence wants to bail on a night of drinking and watching TV—for
this
?

Diane and I turn a corner, and I hear his laughter. It's been a long time since I've heard him laugh like this—light and easy. But the sound of his laughter also makes me suspicious, and I instinctively narrow my eyes. We round another corner, and I see him standing in the dining room with a young woman. They're both laughing so hard, their heads fall back in unison.

I hear Diane at my side: “Shall I get you some wine? We have another ten minutes before the meeting starts.”

“Yes, please,” I say, my eyes trained on my ex. “Make it a double.”

She gives me a curious look and heads for the kitchen. I walk slowly toward Spencer and the woman as though dragging my feet through mud. She's of the happy variety with round cheeks and big brown eyes that are currently locked on my husband—
ex
-husband—all topped off with a mop of soft brown curls. And she's young. No more than twenty-five, if that.

They take deep breaths as their laughter subsides: postcoitus breathing with dreamy smiles on their faces. Knowing Spence as well as I do, I'm sure he doesn't realize he's here because of this girl. But I know she's exactly the reason he's here. I walk directly up to him and stand by his side.

“Oh, hey,” he says. “Tisa, this is my wife—” He laughs, embarrassed. “Ex-wife.
Ex
. Piper.”

Tisa smiles warmly. “It's so nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you.”

I steal a peek at Spence:
How is it that she's heard so much about me?

“We went out for coffee,” he explains.

I raise my brows.
Coffee?

“Spencer told me you teach at MacDowell,” Tisa says. “I think that's amazing. Teachers have the most important jobs of all. I think if we followed our authentic paths, there would be more teachers and artists and fewer lawyers and politicians. I truly honor what you do.”

I have to stop myself from gagging.
I truly honor what you do?
Ugh.
“And what do you do?” I ask.

Spence answers for her. “Tisa is just back from Senegal.”

She shares a smile with him that indicates his reply is an inside joke. “That's the polite way of saying I'm unemployed at the moment. I finished courses at Cal for my master's in social work and needed a break. My aunt left me money when she passed, and so I used it to live abroad for a year.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yeah, the time away was just what I needed. The Universe definitely provides.”

“Isn't it too busy imploding on itself?” I chuckle lightly, but neither she nor Spencer joins in. Whatever. I hate the way people talk about
the Universe
as if it were a person or something. “So, is your aunt the reason you're here?” I ask.

“Yeah. She died last year.” She leans in. “These meetings do help; you'll see.”

“But it's not the same,” I murmur.

“Sorry?”

“It's not the same. Losing an aunt or a pet is not the same as losing a child.”

“Piper.”

“I'm sorry, but it's not.”

“My aunt and I were very close. She was like a mother to me.”

“It's still not the same.”

Spence gives me a look:
Can't you be nice?

I return the look and then some:
No, I can't. Losing your aunt is not the same as losing your child. It's not!

Diane interrupts our silent eye wrestle. “Here's your wine, Piper. Sorry it took so long. Mitch had to get more bottles from the cellar.”

I thank her, forcing myself not to chug it all back at once. I'm grateful for my empty stomach; the wine goes straight to my head without a single detour.

“Everyone okay?” she asks. “Refills?”

Spence shakes his head no. Tisa holds up her mineral water and says she's fine.

When Diane leaves, Tisa gazes at the floor. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to compare.”

Spence bumps my arm ever so slightly.

“It's okay,” I say, but my voice is tight and unforgiving.

Spence, ever the diplomat, fills the awkward silence: “It's fine, Tisa, really. We're all friends here.” He extends a hand toward the living room. “Shall we find a seat?” Tisa offers an apologetic smile as she walks past me. I pretend not to notice and gulp back more wine. Spence pauses as he reaches my side and presses his mouth close to my ear. “Easy now,” he whispers.

The meeting is reminiscent of AA meetings I've seen on TV, except no one here looks remotely down on his or her luck; most of us are drinking our hosts' expensive wine while our plates brim with gourmet appetizers. We sit in a circle around the living room. I sit two people over from Spence; Tisa sits away from him, too, closer to Mitch. There are two newcomers besides me, so Diane explains a ritual the group uses involving the Native American talking stick. Instead of raising a hand, if you want to speak, you ask for the stick and have at it. Living in Oakland now, I forget how annoying rich people of this ilk can be. I don't have to wonder how multiculturally “hip” or PC they'd be if Detrane showed up with me, or Sharayray.

A young blond woman asks for the stick. Dead husband. She says she finally gave his clothes to Goodwill. People nod in support. Next is Roland. He's silver haired and soft spoken. At six foot four, he dwarfs the chair he sits in. He's nice enough to say how happy he is to see me here tonight and falls into memories of his time with Sadie at Tilden Park. I close my eyes briefly and wish upon him the courage to go to the pound and get another dog.

I feel my heart rise to my throat when Spence asks Roland for the stick. I try to beg him with my thoughts not to say anything, but he's already holding the stick and looking around the room.

He takes a moment before speaking. “I—I just wanted to say a few things about—” His voice cracks, and he pauses long enough to clear his throat. “I just want to say a few things about my little girl.”

I let my gaze shift toward the floor and hold my breath. I don't dare look at him. If I do, I'll burst into tears; I know it.

He's quiet as he tries to gather the strength to continue. When I finally look up, he's staring right at me. “That's her mother over there. Piper. We lost her almost five years ago now. I know everyone talks about how special their children are, but my little girl really was special.” He laughs to himself. “Sometimes I'd come home tired, and Hailey would wrap her arms around my neck—” His shoulders buckle as the tears start. We hardly talk about Hailey, and when I see just how much he's been carrying inside, I start to cry, too. Why don't we talk about her more? He pulls himself together. More deliberate now, he sniffles and says, “She would wrap her arms around my neck and kiss me. And she'd say, ‘Daddy, no one expects you to be perfect.'” He coughs and takes a deep breath. “I mean, how does a kid learn something like that? My daughter, thanks to her mother over there, knew the names of the planets and a few constellations.” He chokes back any more tears that want to come and takes a long, deep breath. “Anyway,” he says, after a second breath, “she was something else. And I miss her. That's all. And I want to say thank you for having me here. This has been good for me.”

Tears continue to stream down my face as people pat Spence on the back and offer hugs. The woman next to me tries to put her arm around me, but I shake my head no and go about wiping my face and pulling myself together as quickly as I can. When I'm finally calm, I cross my legs and grip my chair. I don't look up.

•   •   •

“T
hat ex of yours is one fine specimen.”

I look over at the woman who's just sat down next to me. I'm sitting on the Montgomerys' backyard porch with a small plate of cookies resting on top of my knees. The meeting has ended, and everyone is milling about inside the house over dessert and coffee.

“Excuse me?”

The woman turns and stares over her shoulder. I follow her gaze and see Spence through the kitchen window yukking it up with a few other guests; my stomach drops when I see Tisa at his side.

“Your ex,” she repeats. “He's a cutie.” She hands me a glass of wine. “Here you are, sweetheart. I saw you from the window sitting out here by your lonesome self and thought, ‘I bet that girl could use a refill.'”

I thank her. I did want a refill, but I didn't want to go back inside. For a group of mourners, everyone sure is cheerful; plus, I couldn't take a second longer of watching Tisa and Spence.

“I'm Clementine, but call me Clem. I've always hated my full name.”

“Piper.”

“Piper? And I thought my name was odd. How on earth did you get a name like Piper?”

“My mother.”

“Fair enough. My mother and grandmother shared the genteel name of June. I get Clementine. Go figure.” She takes a long pull from her wine. She's busty with small features and a pout of a mouth. Auburn hair. Late fifties I'd guess, with a light Southern drawl. She was one of the few guests, like me, who didn't say a word during the meeting, which is a surprise since she comes across as a motor mouth. “Bet you got teased an awful lot with a name like Piper. Let's hear it.”

I grin. “Let's see. . . . Piper Diaper. Pipeline. Piper the Sniper. Pipe Head, or there was the abbreviated version of Pipe. My sister's name is Margot,” I add. “And my mom is Margaret. Go figure.”

“My turn. I didn't get teased because of my name so much as my boobs. There was Twin Peaks, Double Trouble. Silicone Valley. Lactation Station.”

“Lactation Station? Whew. That's harsh.”

She makes a loud smack after polishing off the contents of her glass. “One thing's for sure—Mitch and Diane know their wines.” She sets her empty glass down and wraps her arms around her knees. “Anyway, real sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.”

“Was it illness?”

“Car accident.”

“Those buggers will get a person every time.”

“How about you? If you don't mind my asking.”

“I'll tell you what, Piper Diaper; if they were giving a prize for the biggest loss in this here group, I'd win hands down. Lost my son, my husband, and my big brother all in one shot. Plane crash. Everybody gone.”

“Sorry.”

“They were on their way to Vegas. My husband was flying the plane. Just a fun trip for the boys, you know.”

There is absolutely nothing to say that she hasn't already heard, so I scoot closer and hold up my plate of cookies.

“Don't mind if I do.” She chooses a chocolate-mint macaroon. After a couple of bites her chewing slows and her eyes widen. “My Lord, this is delicious.”

“Yeah. They're from our favorite bakery.”

Favorite, not only because Lulu's bakes the best cookies and cakes around, but also because it's where Spence and I met. We were sitting table to table when we noticed we were both grading papers. He was working on his doctorate at the time and teaching Intro to Philosophy. We struck up a conversation that led to a walk along College Avenue.

Clem finishes a cookie in no time. “Hold on a sec.” She disappears into the house and comes back with an entire bottle of wine. “Now this is what I call a meetin'.” She fills both our glasses, and we clink. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

We don't talk for a while, just eat and drink, the mix of cookies and wine our reward for putting up with the meeting.

Clem finishes another cookie and polishes off her wine. I don't judge. What else are you supposed to do after losing your entire family if not drink?

“How long?” I ask.

“Almost nine years ago now. My boy was only twenty-six. My husband was the love of my life. My brother, Billy, was my parents' only son. Momma took it so hard; she passed not long after. How's that for tragedy?”

“Not bad,” I say softly.

“Told you, sweetheart, biggest mourner here.”

“How long have you been coming to the meetings?”

“Off and on for three years. I've slept with half of the widowers here. Diane and Mitch may as well be running a high-class singles bar.” She chuckles.

“Do you think you'll ever marry again?”

“Wrong question, sweetheart. Question is, do I think I'll ever
feel
again.”

“I've wondered the same thing myself.”

I watch as she pours more wine. As different as we are, I'm struck by the fact that I may as well be looking at my future self: drunk night after night and sleeping with widowers.

I think of Spence and glance back at the house, but there's no sign of either him or Tisa. I can't imagine losing Hailey and Spencer in one fell swoop, and I feel an onslaught of panic and dread at the thought of living my life without him. All of these years in limbo and I've never considered that I could actually lose him. In truth, I've been waiting until we get back together; officially back together, that is, with a second wedding and the whole bit. And then, only then would we think of having another child. But what if I have things wrong and we need to get back together now? What are we waiting for, anyway? Why are we playing at pretend marriage when we still love each other? I sip my wine while thinking that I need to talk to him. I love him and can't lose him.

I start to stand, but I don't want to leave Clem behind so abruptly. I have virtually no friends, and I already like her. After Hailey died, I pretty much secluded myself in hopes of never having to deal with anyone's pity ever again. And there were also those who shunned me, as though by virtue of our friendship my bad luck would rub off on them. But Clem's frankness and ability to relate are not lost on me. “I should get going,” I tell her. “I'm not sure I'll be coming back to any of these meetings, but if you ever want to meet for coffee or lunch, I'd love to talk more.”