Aftermath of Dreaming(121)

I couldn’t sleep all last night thinking about it, so I got up at two A.M. and drove on the 10 and the 101, going between them on the 110 again and again, looking at the skyscrapers that are always standing no matter what is happening, shiny and bright like perfectly cut jewels, until finally I was sleepy and went home. I woke up at seven and have been waiting until mid-morning when Andrew will be at his office. I tried to limit my caffeine because I am already nervous enough, but not drinking coffee made me edgy, so it was a toss-up as to which was worse.

I am sitting on the couch with my back to the tree. Maybe I should just put the damn couch in front of the windows, but then I’d have to face the butchery head-on whenever I sit down. Draperies may be unavoidable now but that pisses me off because I’m not big on window treatment. Okay, focus on what I have to do. Or have decided to do. I try to form the question in my mind, to rehearse it, but the words slip around, and unrelated ones jump in and join sentences they should never be in, and I realize it is useless to try to make this a comfortable thing to do. I just need to breathe, if I can.

“Are you okay?” is Andrew’s hello when he answers his cell phone. He sounds very concerned, like something is terribly wrong. I guess he saw my number on his cell phone, and I don’t usually call him.

“Andrew, I’m broke.” The words come out so fast that the breath they were on barely left my body.

“Oh.” He sounds startled, like someone just handed him a curious prize.

“Can I borrow some money?” I realize that I am clenching my calf hard, like it’s the safety latch on a theme-park ride.

“Of course, but I don’t want it back.”

Relief is pouring into me, but it has to get past the words tumbling out. “I’m sorry to ask, it’s just I’ve been looking for commissions and a new store, but there hasn’t been anything, and I told you how Greeley’s isn’t paying for this order, and I’ve even looked for waitressing jobs, and I really will pay you back, is it just horrible that I asked?”

“Not at all, don’t worry about it, and I don’t want money from you. I told you you were like a daughter to me. How much do you need?”

The ease in his voice envelops me and I am able to get a real breath in. “A few thousand? To keep the wolves from the door until something turns up. I’m sorry to—”

“Stop, it’s fine. Do you have health insurance?”

“Health insurance?” He could have asked if I had a condo at the beach. “No.”

Andrew sighs. I have a feeling I have become a face to a statistic he has fought for and lost.

“I’m happy to get you the money, but this is embarrassing because I don’t have any on me. I never do, so it might be a while before I can get any to you. Will you be okay until then?”

“Yeah, I’m not being kicked out, I just don’t—” I annoyingly start to cry.

“Yvette, it’s okay, don’t worry about it. I’m glad you asked. I would’ve been mad if you hadn’t. Now just let me call you later today, okay, honey? I’ll call you later.”

His protectiveness feels so tangible, I should be able to take that to the bank.



I need to get out of my head. It’s been two weeks since I asked Andrew for money, and every day on the phone he says he’s getting it, but he hasn’t yet. I alternately lambaste myself for asking—maybe Suzanne was the better choice, after all—and wish he would just get it already because my request has been hanging in the air between us all this time, getting distorted in our minds, or mine at least.

Or maybe he’s not even going to give it to me. At what point do I stop believing he’ll come through? Fuck, I don’t want that to happen for so many reasons. I decide to give it another week, and if still nothing’s happened, then I’ll come up with plan B. Though God only knows what that would be.

But staying in my apartment is making me batty. I need to do something besides pursue work and create jewelry because neither are happening, but “free” is the deciding factor for me and in L.A. that means the Getty. I call Steve to see if he can join me. I considered calling Reggie, but since Betty’s been around it’s felt better not to. Steve and I are finally going to do that Zen for Christians retreat in a couple of weeks, so it’d be nice to see him before three full days of silence when I can let go of thinking. And worrying.



The late October afternoon at the Getty Museum is God’s own artwork, though the land that it is situated on helps. The promontory doesn’t jut straight into the ocean, but the area below it, Brentwood, becomes so much scenery as the sea takes all the attention. Steve and I walk through the antiquities, or ancestors as he calls them, then spend our time in a photography exhibit of the Mississippi Delta in the thirties, i.e., dire poverty, but softened by the exposure and printing. Looking at a particularly beautiful bleak view, I am transported to the unforgiving sun and land of my home state. The seasons’ sharpness overpowering anyone who lacks the resources for simple body-comforts defense. I have a moment of seeing my being broke as a split second in the hours of my life, a click in time with barely enough import to make a sound. Then the panicky feeling that my breath has been navigating around returns and it is all I can do not to run out of the gallery and call Andrew.