Aftermath of Dreaming(9)
“I refuse to have this conversation,” Suzanne says, her eyes hard on mine before staring off in the mid-distance as if the sister I should be is there. “You either want to show up for me in my life today or you don’t.”
“No, I do. Jesus, I just…” Not understanding why we can’t talk about our parents, I want to scream. Considering that we are the only two people in L.A. who know them. Who know that they aren’t just “parents”—that amorphous, only-exist-as-psychological-factors-in-your-life stratum that everyone’s parents fall into out here because no one can actually meet them. Whenever I talk about my parents (to my friends or even that therapist I went to a couple of summers ago, right after Momma died, to help me with the grief), I can feel little parts of them getting cut away by the words I use (which is the worst part—the words I use) because they have different meanings to each person who hears them. The people my parents were—in the shadowy memories that hold together the love I have for them—don’t exist where I live. Sometimes I long to be in a place where they still do.
Suzanne is staring at me and my untouched coffee.
“I’m happy to be in your wedding.” I carefully push a lace garter aside and place my china cup on the table. I can’t have something so fragile in my hands right now; the way I feel is breakable enough.
“Good, I am, too.”
“Good. So.”
There is not one yellowed or dead leaf on any of my sister’s ficus trees or on the floor underneath. I understand this to mean that she has a maid.
“How are the anklets?”
It takes me a second to figure out what she’s talking about. Our mother thought anklets were trashy—hooker jewelry. Not that Momma ever would have used that word, but then she didn’t have to, with the expression she’d have on her face.
“You mean earrings, bracelets, rings, pins.” My sister is the director of a small foundation that helps children with AIDS, a fact I have never forgotten, so why she can’t remember what I make I have no idea. Talking about my designs with Suzanne is like watching the semiprecious stones and gold I use get transformed into colored glass and tinny aluminum. “It’s going great, actually.” I keep my tone light, refusing to let her see how pissed off her remark made me. “I’ve been getting new commissions, and at the gem show in Tucson, the prices were so much better, I was able to buy bigger stones, and, you know, size matters.”
I laugh; Suzanne does not. I had forgotten that since she got engaged, all sexual jokes have become verboten, as if the road to infidelity is paved with chuckles.
“Okay, so.” I move the tulle aside again to uncover my purse. “When am I seeing y’all?”
“This Saturday, three o’clock.” Suzanne gets up. Even though I am the one who started to leave, I immediately feel dismissed.
“Right.” I stand up in the gleaming, blinding whiteness of the room. She and Matt must walk around in here squinting at each other all the time, either that or wearing sunglasses. “Why’s Matt coming anyway? Won’t the ceiling of Bridal Tradition come crashing down on our heads?”
“It’s your dress we’re fitting, not mine.” Suzanne is walking me out through her immaculate nuptial labyrinth. “I want him included. Too many men feel left out of their wedding plans.” She opens the front door, stopping on the first step. “Our marriage is a partnership—we do things together.”
“Oh, well. That’s great,” I say with no enthusiasm at all. I have a sudden urge to run to her couch, throw myself on it, and demand to stay. Instead, I lean in to give her a hug. She moves forward, arms out wide, embracing more a force field than my body. I stare at my truck over her shoulder, willing it to pull me away from her.
“Okay, so.” I step out of her loose grasp. “See you then.”
“Bye. And bring my veil,” Suzanne says, and turning around, shuts her door.
The walk down the sidewalk is the exact opposite of the wedding processional in a church aisle: no family all around, no celebration, and no one waiting for me at the end.
4
“Jesus God,” I say inside the refuge of my truck as I reach for my cell phone to dial Reggie to tell him about my sister encounter. I can’t sit with this until our call tomorrow morning. But his phone rings the dreaded four times that means he’s already left for the editing room. I leave a brief message though I doubt I’ll hear back from him soon enough, as in now. Any other time feels too far off.
Driving down Suzanne’s street, I resist the urge to floor the accelerator. All I want to do is rush and speed through this uneasiness since being with her. Talking to Reggie would have gotten rid of it. God, I wish he were home. Maybe I’ll try him at the editing room. No, I’m not going to bother him at work. Okay, I’ll take the more scenic route from Suzanne’s—perhaps literally slowing down when I want to speed up will soothe my jangled nerves. I hope.
I turn right onto a street that will reach the PCH, then take a left onto the highway, driving past the bright, shining beach to get back to the 10 freeway. The ocean is completely flat, as if at rest, exhausted from its morning exercise of tides. Sometimes when I’ve been on my side of town for long stretches of time, I almost forget that L.A. is at the very edge of the country and has a beach. The ocean seems so regulated here, like a giant set they pull out when you drive by, to give the promised view with an endless supply of joggers and surfers and cyclists clamoring through as unwitting extras in the picture for you.