Lost in La La Land(71)

The tiny grave was perfect. The rose bush was the touch it needed. I sat on the lawn, the dampness of the grass cooling me through my underwear and pants.

“Lola was a good dog.” Seraphene, Marguerite’s eldest daughter, smiled. She was so grown I wouldn't know her but for the look in her eyes. It was her mother’s.

“Thank you so much for taking care of her when I couldn't.” I had nothing else to offer. What did you say to a child when you were trying to explain that level of darkness? She might have been eleven years old, but she was still too young to understand that overwhelming darkness could lurk inside a person.

“We were just glad you gave her to us. Mom said you lived in kind of a crazy house and Lola would have hated it.”

“She would have. This was a better fit for her.” I nodded, swallowing the acidity in my throat. Crazy house was an understatement.

Marguerite carried over a couple of glasses of wine and sat next to me, handing me one. “Mike is officially my favorite person in the world and if you break up with him, I will murder you, for real.”

I held my glass up to hers and clinked it as a response.

Seraphene got up. “Mom, you’re so weird.” She turned and left.

“Probably.” She wrinkled her nose at her daughter and then turned back to me. “And if you do, he’s mine. I am calling shotgun on him now. If Stan dies, I also get visitation rights.” She winked.

“You’re drunk.” I laughed and sipped the wine.

“I’m happy.” She leaned into me. “This is the life I knew you would one day have, so fabulous and smart and kinda refined and yet trashy at the same time. I just never imagined you would date a construction worker, I guess be common-law with him. How many years has it been now?”

“Dating or living in sin, as his mother calls it? Three. Which is nuts. I agree. I never imagined this was how my life would be.”

“Hey, you said imagined normally like a Yankee should,” she beamed and turned back to the guys on the huge back deck, laughing and talking like they’d been friends for decades. “She said imagined normally.”

“Oh my God.” I shoved her.

“Still says God weird though.” Marguerite laughed, nudging me back.

“You should hear her say cup of or spot of. That’ll never be normal again.”

I lifted my middle finger in the air at Mike.

“Ladylike.” He scoffed. “And in front of the children.”

“Mommy tells Daddy to piss off.” Kara, the youngest daughter laughed.

Marguerite’s eyes widened as she burst out laughing. “Stan! Deal with your kids.”

“Yes, because I’m the one cussing in front of them in traffic.” He chuckled and spoke quietly to Kara, letting her know that piss was a bad word.

“They’re gorgeous, Marguerite.”

“I know.” Her eyes squinted as she smiled hard. “I never imagined this would be my life either. You remember that apartment we had before the kids? God, I loved that place. I was so smug then. So blissfully unaware what life really tasted like. What pain and hate and disappointment were.”

“We all were.”

“No, you’d lost Jonathan already. You were filled with misery then. But I was still smug and foolish. I had so many ideas about who and what I was.”

“The word you’re looking for”—I took a big gulp before I said it—“is insufferable.”

“Asshole.” She laughed and stared at the rose bush on her small farm. “Come on, let’s go inside.” She got up. “I need to put out some snacks before we all get too drunk.”

I took her hand and followed her inside. She went into the kitchen, but I sauntered over to the dining room, sitting at the same large industrial table that they’d had for ages. I noticed now it had scuffs and marks and even something resembling crayon on it. There was food in the crevices and no fancy tablecloth or runner. No bowl of pretentious dried acorns or yarn balls made out of grape vines. It had a stack of plastic tablemats that weren’t particularly clean and a stuffed bear who seemed like he was a bit lost.

But none of this had brought me to the room.

It was the painting I had come for.

The one spread across five canvases, the one of the beach grass and the boardwalk. I sat and stared, stunned that the beautiful painting was still here.

I could still smell the grass and sea and hear the waves. I could hop from canvas to canvas. But this time I didn't want to get lost in the beauty of a world where I could flee my troubles. I pondered if Mike would want to go to the beach. I desired to snuggle into his arms around the fireplace with the weird broken glass pieces and listen to him tell stories. Or walk on the beach with him, my hand safely encased in his.

I glanced outside quickly to check and see if it was raining as I wondered for a moment if I was possibly still in the machine.

It happened frequently when it rained, especially if I was sitting in a window. I would gaze around, double-checking.

This painting was the full circle moment, the pinnacle of me sensing I was reliving something.

But unlike the first time I saw the painting, I didn't listen to the siren’s call. I didn't let it tempt me into a fate I believed was better than this one.

I turned my back on it and smiled at my friend. “You need help?”