Shelter Us: A Novel (19 page)

“No way.”

“Right. How ’bout a beer?”

“You have one. I’m fine.”

He goes to the kitchen. The refrigerator opens with a
swish
and closes with a
thunk
. He comes back with a bottle in his hand and sinks down into the couch. He takes a swig, lets out a satisfied “aah,” and says, “Tell me more about your kids.”

Hearing their voices earlier, so innocent, while I soaked myself in deceit and disloyalty made me feel like someone I’d never want to know. I don’t want to bring them into this moment. “How about you tell me about your life,” I say. “Tell me about having a purpose that’s bigger than you.”

“What do you mean? You should know. You’re a mom. That’s bigger than you.”

“It’s not the same. It’s just my little world. My kids, my husband, my life, my problems. I could do more. I used to want to.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

He asks the only important question. “Me, I guess.” I want to think about anything but me. “Go ahead. Tell me tales from your faraway adventures. Take my mind away from here.”

“Okay,” he says, and I listen, hoping he can distract me from what’s happened these past few years, these past few hours.

I
wake up
with a light shining in my face. Disoriented, I look for its source.
A beam of moonlight
is my first thought. But it’s nothing so romantic, just a coarse street lamp. It takes me another moment to realize where I am. Brian’s living room. The couch. A blanket is on me. I must have fallen asleep here. A wind has picked up. Branches and leaves brush against the window. As I come back to consciousness, I realize that Brian lies next to me. I jump up, sober, adrenaline-fueled. He stirs as I cross the room and find my clothes. I go into the bathroom and come out dressed in my suit.

“Where are you going? It’s the middle of the night.” He whispers, though we’re both awake.

“I’m leaving. Go back to sleep,” I whisper back, searching for my shoes.

“Where are you going to go, Sarah?” He sits up, now full-voiced.

“I don’t know. I just have to go.” My certainty trumps his volume.

He moves his hands through his long brown curls. He had a buzz cut in high school. He must have learned in college that girls like curls. I pause my frantic dressing, a shoe in one hand, and for one moment I allow my mind to step through the sliding doors that never opened for Brian and me, decorate the scenes of that other movie, what my life might have been if my mom had not died, if Brian and I had stayed together, if I had never met Robert, if I had had different children. It’s impossible to consider, I cannot play it out.

I suddenly want to know something. “Brian, why aren’t you married?”

“What?”

“I was just wondering, and I doubt we’re going to have another chance to talk. So . . .”

“We can have another chance to talk. That’s up to you.”

“No, Brian, we can’t. This is it.” He looks at me like he doesn’t believe me, or doesn’t want to. Fog rolls past the living room window. “Never mind,” I say. “You don’t have to answer. It’s not a fair question, anyway. I’ve got to go.” I move toward the door.

“No, wait.” He leans into his couch, looking at me as he considers my question. The longer he’s quiet, the more I wish I hadn’t opened up this topic. My mind fills in the blanks, imagining him with beautiful women in every country he’s visited, college interns with crushes on him, grad-student flings. I feel preposterously jealous of these imaginary people.

“I guess I never met the right person at the right time,” he says. Invisible velvety lines connect our eyes. He keeps his gaze steady, dares me to look away first. Night’s sounds fill the room, the refrigerator’s hum, the chatter of insects. Crumpled burrito wrappers litter the coffee table, offering their faint salsa smell. The sofa’s cushions hold the depression from my body. I blink. Maybe it was only timing that kept us from a life together. Or maybe other things would have. We were very young. No matter—choices have been made. Now is where we stand. I want to be a good mother. I want to be a good wife. I don’t want to be the woman standing here putting on stockings in the middle of the night.

“I have to go.”

“Sarah, just wait a few hours; it’s almost morning.” I resume the search for my missing shoe. He tries another tack. “Sarah, nothing’s even open.” The blare of a car alarm interrupts his protest; I interpret it as a vote against him. “Please just stay until morning,” he urges, wanting me to comply but aware that what he wants is irrelevant. The car’s beeping stops, and the lonesome bark of a dog picks up its tempo. I find my shoe,
hurry to put it on. Fumble, trip, recover. I am certain of my purpose, if not my destination: Get out of here. Get away from what I did.

In a gesture of defeat, he lies back down on the couch. The battle is over. In a quiet voice, he says, “I’m glad we found each other yesterday.”

There is so much I could say to him. Phrases skirmish in my head: “Are you crazy?” squares off against “So am I.” I am not glad this happened. But maybe it was inevitable after all this time, to get me back on track from the moment my parents’ accident derailed me and my naive belief that life made sense. “Good-bye, Brian.”

I go out the door, bumping the banister as I dash down the stairs. I walk as fast as my shoes—tight and punitive—will let me, back to where I parked my car yesterday. In the driver’s seat, my body tenses against the cold of the leather. I lock the door, start the engine, and turn on the heater in a vain effort to stop shaking. I hug myself and rub my arms to warm up, wondering where I should go. That’s when I notice the parking ticket under my wiper blade. I open the door and reach around the side mirror to rip it off my windshield. Back inside, door locked, I check to see when it was put there, curious to know how many free hours I got.

I drive down Shattuck, away from the neighborhood that was the cradle of my courtship with Robert. I will never come back. I will concentrate on the future, on being Izzy and Oliver’s mother and, God help me, Robert’s devoted wife. I turn right on University Avenue, toward the freeway. I see hotels, but they seem like fortresses I cannot enter. I can’t imagine speaking to a front-desk clerk, can’t think of the words that would be necessary to procure a room without a wallet. Besides, it’s nearly 3:00 a.m. Can you even get a room at this time? There’s nothing I can do but wait for morning. I’ll retrace my path to Victoria’s apartment and sleep a few hours in my car. I get lost a couple times before I find the right apartment building. I turn off the engine and recline my seat. All at once, the exhaustion of the past two days catches up to me. I close my eyes and give in to the heavy pull of sleep. It won’t be long until sunrise. Then I’ll get the hell home.

“M
OTHERFUCKIN’
BITCH! WHAT YOU SLEEPIN’ IN YO CAR FO? GONNA GET YO’SELF KILLED OUT HERE, BITCH!”

I wake up to a heart attack. Two young men bang on my wind-shield. It’s dark still; how long was I asleep? Not long. A split-second check: the doors are locked. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. My survival lobe thinks maybe I’m going to die right here. Then I decide:
no
. My hand finds the key hanging in the ignition. I scrape the engine trying too hard to start it. I try it again. The engine kicks in, and I peel out as they jump out of my way. I speed down the street, through a stop sign, and get on the first freeway on-ramp I find. A truck nearly sideswipes me. My heart races with terror; then I realize with relief that I’m heading the direction of home. I can just keep going. The adrenaline has me wide awake.

My breathing begins to regulate. Despite the adrenaline burning through me, a yawn stretches my mouth to its limits. It raises the difficult point: it is a long road ahead. I’ll stop for coffee at the first open Starbucks. And I can rest there as long as I need to. It’s a comfort to know what it will look like inside, what my drink choice will be, what that first sip will taste like. That I can give my name as Ella because no one there will know me, that I will see her name written in Sharpie on a cup, hear it spoken into the air. Then I remember—I have no wallet, and no money. Well, maybe they’ll give me a sample. I just want to be heading toward home. Forget the wallet. I’ll get a new driver’s license,
cancel my credit cards, begin anew. I turn on the radio and settle into the sounds of empty road, static, and music.

In the hypnosis of the highway, my thoughts turn to Josie and Tyler. I look to the empty passenger seat and can picture her dozing there. Was that just last night? I look in the mirror at the empty car seat behind me. A smoky string of regret floats up—I’m happy they are with her mother, and so sad to leave them.

Thirty minutes into this new chapter in my life, the gas tank indicator light glows. Empty. It takes a few more miles until I see an open gas station. I park at the pump and open the center console, praying to find a forgotten $20 bill. Nothing. I search the glove compartment, the trunk, under the seats. I find eleven cents. All I can think to do is to tell the gas station attendant what happened, ask if he’ll take an IOU, and pray that he’ll take pity on me. I walk over to the bald man in the cinder-block hut, outfitted with a cash register, security cameras, cigarettes, and gum. He’s smoking and watching TV on a small set in the corner of the counter. “Excuse me, sir?” He doesn’t look up until a commercial.

“Hello,” I say, with my best innocent smile. “I was hoping you could help me.” These are the magic words Bibi taught me to use: “You want someone to do something, Sarah? You ask them for help. Helping someone makes people feel important and powerful.” Except, it seems, for this guy. His expression does not change. I continue, still offering my warmest smile. “Hi, yes, um, I lost my wallet and my tank is on empty. Well, it’s not lost, exactly; I know where it is, but I can’t get it.”

He shakes his head and looks back at the television. A slow-brewing alarm begins to percolate, drip drip drip, down my spine. I still believe I can make him understand, if only he hears the whole story. “Sir, I’m trying to get home to Los Angeles, and I’m out of gas. I left my wallet at my friend’s apartment . . . her brother’s missing, so . . .” His eyes refuse to meet mine. His gaze is glued to the TV. My ego refuses to accept the obvious—he’s not buying what I’m selling—so I keep talking. “I was hoping I could fill up with gas and send you payment
immediately when I get home?” My voice gets higher, faster. “And I’ll give you my contact information, too? Hello? Excuse me, Sir?”

He looks at me like he hears a problem like mine every night, twice a night. No matter what words I choose, I can hear what he hears: I sound like a scammer. But it’s not like I’m on a street corner, asking for money for gas; I’m asking for actual gas! My heartbeat races to double speed, red light flashing, as it starts to sink in that he does not care.

“Sir, I swear, I’m really stuck. I’m not making this up.” At any moment, a fault will crack open under my feet, I will fall into the earth and it will smash closed above my head. I have to get through to him. “Please, I swear, I will pay you!”

It is his refusal to look at me, his total absence of compassion, that enrages me. It is as though I am invisible. I tremble, outraged, afraid. I stumble on my words. “Sir, please, look at me! I’m telling the truth.” Thinking of nothing else, I blurt out, “I’m a lawyer!”

Now he looks at me. His face tells me that only a lawyer would think this fact is a plus. “I promise. I will send you double the money. Please help me get home.”

Finally, he deigns to speak. “Lady, get lost or I’ll call the police.” I think of the officers in front of Victoria’s apartment. Did they find Michael? Is he alive and whole? The man picks up the phone and looks directly into my eyes while he starts to dial: 9. 1. His finger hovers above the 1.

“Asshole!” I shout, and I storm back to my car. I peel out of his shitty little station in the middle of nowhere. “I can’t believe that,” I protest aloud. Then, “Pull it together. You can figure this out.” I run through my options, but all I can think of is where I can’t go: I can’t head home or I’ll be stranded on the freeway. I can’t check into a hotel without a credit card and ID. I won’t go back to Brian’s. I need my wallet to get home. So, with the little gas I have left, I cruise back toward Oakland and Victoria’s apartment. I get off to take surface streets, hoping the slower pace will make the gas last. My eyes sting. I look in the mirror. Mascara is in and under them, smeared from sex and sleep and crying. My throat is dry. I’m thirsty. There is nothing to drink or eat in the car.

I have never felt so alone.

Down the street, I see the glowing arches of an all-night McDonald’s. It reminds me of Josie and Tyler and our first breakfast. A part of me relaxes, relieved at the knowledge that tonight they are warm and safe inside a real home for the first time in months. Knowing that her brother is in jeopardy, the relief is incomplete. Inspired by Josie’s resourcefulness at finding refuge in unlikely places, I pull into the McDonald’s parking lot. I lick my fingers and wipe around my eyes, trying to look more presentable. I get out of the car and walk into the restaurant, enter its promise of bright lights and climate control, to wait for morning.

I
avoid
eye contact with the man behind the counter. I go to the far end of the restaurant and sit down, pretending to look for something in my purse. I find a pen, a gum wrapper, a loose receipt from the dry cleaner. On it I write the date, time, and place, and put it back in my purse. I want to remember.

I go into the bathroom. It takes me a moment to recognize myself. My face is so appalling in these fluorescent lights, I actually gasp in shock. No wonder the gas station man kicked me out—I look like a heroin addict. I try to remove the smeared mascara with soap and water but I only make my eyes redder in the process. I return to my table, eyes stinging but feeling cleaner. I look around. It’s me and the McDonald’s man. I nod at him, and he nods back. He’s going to let me stay. For this moment, no one else in the world knows where I am. It feels like I could disappear, disintegrate. I hug my elbows, reassure myself I’m still here; then I lean over and rest my head on the table.