Aftermath of Dreaming (20 page)

“I need to have a fitting with my veil,” Suzanne says, leaning past her still-in-shock wedding coordinator. “I've waited long enough; the wedding's just over a month away, for God's sake. How's next week?”

 

I wake up in a scream. The black clothes I wore to the bridal shower are on the floor next to my bed, and I try to remind myself that nothing else was there, but it feels as though something just left my room. I am still for a few moments, sitting straight up in bed, barely daring to breathe, as I listen, trying to hear anything, anyone, some tangible evidence of what scared me, but the apartment is quiet.

As I sink back onto my pillow, I am relieved no one was really there, but I'm still flipped out. My praying to Mary before going to sleep clearly did nothing to keep the dream away. I consider calling Michael to ask him to come over, but it's after three in the morning, and even though it's Sunday, he probably has a long work day ahead. I don't know where he gets his energy. I wish more of it was spent on me. He almost called me his girlfriend the other night. Kind of, at least. He phoned on Wednesday in the late afternoon, wondering if I wanted to hang out later, then showed up at nine
P.M.
with Indian food and a video of
The Phantom of the Opera
with Lon Chaney. Even though it was a silent film, Michael insisted we not speak. “The music, after all,” he said,
which was fine with me. I love Lon Chaney in that role—taped-up nose and dreadful wig, so desperate for the love of someone plainly annoying as hell. Like
Gone With the Wind,
sort of. Though with that story, I had no patience. I couldn't stand Ashley, and found Scarlett a fool for wasting her time and thoughts on him. One rainy summer day when I was ten, in the middle of reading the book in my grandmother's attic-playroom, I literally threw it down in disgust and tramped loudly down the stairs, my critique coming out in my feet. My grandmother was in her sitting room, embroidering pillowcases for a cousin's bridal trousseau.

“I can't stand Ashley,” I declared, flouncing onto the couch, but carefully so as not to jar her needlework.

“Ashley Wilkes is a perfect Southern gentleman,” she said without looking up from the violet petal she was sewing and knowing exactly whom I was talking about.

“Then I don't like Southern gentlemen.”

She pulled the needle taut from the cloth, stopped her embroidery, and looked at me with her gray eyes over her glasses, as if acknowledging my age and deciding that there was still time for this view of mine to be saved. Then she handed me a tea towel, and suggested I help with that, thereby ending the subject.

The Phantom of the Opera
video had ended, the credits were rolling by, I was lying on my couch with one of Michael's arms around me, happy, but the movie had made me think of Andrew in a sideways sort of way, and I didn't want to. I had already missed part of what Michael was saying to me, small and low in my ear.

“I mean, we hang out and stuff, isn't that enough? I know there's a label for that, but I'm not into semantics.”

By “stuff” I guessed he meant that we have sex. And I didn't exactly want labels, either—though, okay, maybe a little—what I really wanted was the security of “I love you.” And to actually feel it for him. Which I think I really will—fully, completely, and truly—once I finally forget about Andrew which surely will happen any day because how long can one interaction, if I can even call it that, which, okay, I am call
ing it that, an interaction and so much more because he talked to Sydney about me for Christ's sake, and what's that if not the result of an interaction we had, but even so, how much longer can that fuel these constant thoughts of him? He is married, after all, with children, like Suzanne will be soon, but at least Michael will be at her wedding with me, and maybe their love spell will move onto us, so next year we'll be up there. But is that what I want?

It is obvious that I'm not going to fall back asleep, so I get out of bed, put away the clothes I wore to Suzanne's shower, and go to the kitchen for a glass of water and that forces me to pass Suzanne's veil on the iron stand in my living room. I keep moving the damn thing back and forth from my studio to this room, half to force myself to finish it, half to get it out of my sight. I wish it would take flight and my responsibility for it would end. Why in God's name did I ever agree to do this for her? Could there be any bigger emotionally loaded commitment to make? Sure, I'll be completely responsible for what everyone sees around your blushing bridal face on your wedding day. No, that's not too much pressure—okay! I figure I have another week of putting Suzanne off before she tears down my door to see it, but surely I can finish it by then. In fact, I know I can. It's a veil, for Christ's sake, not the
David
I'm meant to create—just get it done. If only I didn't get such ennui whenever I try.

I get lost driving in Venice.
The streets near this part of the beach angle and cut into one another unlike anywhere else in Los Angeles, so it always surprises me when I am able to find Lizzie's store. She named it Tizzie's, which I thought was charming when I walked in that first time and she bought my jewelry before anyone else. But now as I park my truck, I wonder if the
T
of her sign was less expensive than an
L
. Knowing Lizzie, she got a deal on it somehow, but I guess it's better than a
D
.

The store is the usual customer-challenged turmoil when I walk in, but it's Monday, so I try to pretend to myself it's because of that. The shop is completely rearranged; new items next to retro, any decade fair game.

“Merchandising, that's what they call it.” Forgoing a hello, Lizzie has launched into an explanation of her retail method madness. She is sitting on a high stool behind the counter, Santa-suit red hair above pale skin, sipping a diet soda in a to-go cup that looks as though she
could dunk her entire head in it. Lizzie is inexplicably attractive in an against-your-will kind of way. I have never seen her in the same pair of glasses twice. Today's are cat eye. For the first time, I wonder if the lenses are fake.

“Suddenly the customer wants to buy, but they have no idea why.” She taps her purple-painted fingernail against the jumbled-bright innards of a display case for emphasis. I realize she is directing me to the new location of my jewelry.

Reassuring her what a big change it is (this is true, I just let her interpret it how she likes), I see my earrings and pins in a chaotic clump intermingled with outdated high school rings, forgotten feather earrings, and molded plastic bracelets. My creations look enslaved.

“I need to get that check from you, Lizzie.” I smile as I say it, trying to make it pleasant somehow.

“Uh! You never come to visit—just business, business, business with you. Besides, I specifically recall saying—”

“That was three months ago, I can't wait any longer.”

“Well, if your stuff sold better in here, hon, maybe I'd have the money for you.” She is holding her Goliath-sized beverage cup ominously, as if it were always intended as the weapon it seems. “You know, I've believed in you a real long time. Hell, I've had your trinkets in here since when was it?”

“For a good while, Lizzie, yes, and now I just need to get paid.”

“That is not gonna happen today.”

I want to grab her drink and throw it in her face, but I am silent for a moment, though wish I weren't. Wish a stream of invectives were pouring forth, covering her with righteousness. For a second, I consider taking the rest of my jewelry back, but that would piss her off so much that I'd never get a check for all the other pieces she sold.

“Okay, three more weeks, can you have it for me then?”

“Of course, Yvette, haven't I always been right as rain with you?” Lizzie's sunny smile is as reassuring as a cloudy day.

Yeah,
I think as the bell on the door clangs my departure from the store,
right as a thunderstorm on my economic parade.

 

When I get home from Lizzie's, the only messages on my answering machine, besides yet another hang-up, are ones concerning work. One is from an actress who just got back in town and is wondering if the pieces she ordered are ready. They are, so I'll call her to set a time to take them, and I make a mental note to remind myself to somehow work it into our conversation how great they'd be on her when she attends the premiere. Another message is a possible new commission; a woman saw my jewelry on a friend of hers and wants to see what I've got for herself. Why couldn't Michael have called? Just once, I wish he would call to say hey, how are you, I was thinking about you. I haven't seen him since Friday night, and he did call on Saturday, though it wasn't much of a conversation what with radio people talking to him in the background as if the phone to his ear was merely some odd contraption to be ignored. I've been having a small little feeling that I disappear for him if I'm not right in front of him. Like he does for me when I think about Andrew, actually. Stop already. Andrew is out of my life and Michael is here now. Though not enough really somehow. Though maybe he would be more if I could stop thinking about someone I haven't been with in over four years.

But I am relieved that there isn't a phone message from Suzanne asking when she can see her veil. I need to sit down and finish the damn thing. Dipen doesn't have the jewelry ready yet, though there is some invoicing I can do on commissions, but I really should just work on the veil. Talking to Reggie will help me begin even though our conversations have been kind of stilted since Michael's been in the picture again, but work anguish Reggie understands. I know he is at the editing room, so I leave a message on his home number, while wishing for the millionth time that he had a cell phone like everyone else. That and his refusal to watch the Oscars are his two acts of defiance as an Angeleno, which I respect, though it would be a lot easier if Reggie weren't so difficult to reach anytime other than our morning calls. He is usually always out.

One night last year, he came to my apartment, and we ate the Mexican
food he'd brought, then pored over a photography book he'd found on turn-of-the-century New Orleans, talking until late about the future filming of his script. Before he left, he used my phone to check his messages, which I found odd since he was heading home, but then realized that there are times when I want to know before I drive home if messages are waiting for me. He pressed some buttons, listened for a bit, hung up, and hugged me goodbye, his body cousin-comfortable with mine, then was out my door.

I went into the kitchen for a glass of water to take to bed. Noticing that I was out of milk for my morning coffee, I headed out to the gas station/convenience store two blocks away. About to cross the street to reach the store, I noticed Reggie's car in the parking lot, but far away from the gas pumps. Then I saw Reggie with his broad back to me, talking on the pay phone. I was just about to shout to him, but a voice in my head stopped me. Why hadn't he used my phone for the call he was making? Traffic was scarce, so I easily could have crossed the street and asked him or just said hello, but I stayed on the corner, letting the situation unfold.

Reggie hung up, got in his car, and took off in the direction opposite his home. It was clear he never saw me. I waited until he was a good distance up the street and out of view, then walked to the store, wondering what it was that was waiting for him? And who? And when, if ever, would he tell me?

Though maybe Reggie's silence about whatever and whoever that was—or is possibly—in his life is no different than the silence I've kept about seeing Andrew a couple of weeks ago. Okay, it will be two weeks ago exactly tomorrow night since I saw Andrew. Like I didn't know. Like he hasn't been in and under and around every thought I've had since then, damn him. And damn you, Michael, for not distracting me enough from him. But I just need to focus more on that relationship, on Michael, because it definitely is moving forward, I can tell, and soon, eventually, the name Andrew will just be one big “Who?” and Michael is the only man I will want to be with.

I hope.

I do?

 

I cannot figure out how to dress. I am going to a baby shower with Michael. I could tell he really doesn't want to go, mostly because he said, “A baby shower? I'm a guy. I'm not even supposed to go, much less have to.” Not that I completely disagree with him. Where I grew up, you'd never catch men at a baby shower. No woman in her right mind wants them around for that. “But,” I explained to Michael. “This baby shower is for two men.” The music producer I worked for when I first moved here, Bill, and his partner, Tom, adopted a baby, and they aren't women so I guess that throws the whole females-only baby-shower code straight out the window.

As I stand in front of my closet staring into its depths, the only item that keeps popping into my head for me to wear is a pair of breasts. I keep trying to bring my mind back to a pretty skirt versus a dress, but for some reason, all I can think is,
What I really need is a different pair of breasts
. I tell myself that this party is not that thematic—okay, it is about a baby but not how we dress. Bill and Tom definitely don't have breasts. Or need them even for the baby. I suddenly wonder if this body part has finally evolved into scenery—pretty but useless, like the palm trees everywhere. Anyway. I put on a pale pink top that I love with some gray pants, go to the safe in my studio for a necklace, earrings, and bracelets of citrine, amethysts, and gold, grab the baby gift, and go.

I am late, in my truck driving the 101, praying that I get there on time. Michael was supposed to pick me up, but he called half an hour ago to say that things at the station were crazy, the new Sunday-morning talk show had a little blow-up on the air. I had a feeling he was hoping I'd say, “Oh, don't worry about it, I'll go by myself.” But no way. Going to a baby shower alone is as bad as going to a wedding solo, in a “Why aren't you further along in your life?” kind of way. So I gave him the address and said he could meet me there.

The baby shower is at a house in the hills of a friend of Bill's, but on the Valley side, which is much less treacherous, but almost as exclusive. As I pull up to the large iron gates in front of the sequestered community and wait while the man in the guardhouse checks his list, I remember a story the nuns used to tell us that if Saint Peter won't let you in the Pearly Gates, run around to the side and Mary will sneak you in the kitchen door. How could I not prefer Mary with promises like that? I always imagined her in a fragrant spotless kitchen, stirring a big pot of gumbo, places at a table ready and set. Then the massive iron gates swing open and a second guard waves me in.

A swarm of valets in pale pink oxford shirts descend upon my car. Michael is standing waiting for me on a meticulously manicured lawn; I am shocked that he is on time. He is surrounded by a forest of giant topiaries depicting every character in
Alice in Wonderland.
The Red Queen's mallet is hovering menacingly over his head. Michael has a look on his face of a man consigned to a circle of hell that he didn't know existed.

“I'm late, I'm late,” I say as he kisses me. I wish we could stay at the Mad Hatter's tea party instead of going in, but we stop kissing and turn toward the house, a spectacularly authentic faux French chateau, and walk up a long stone path covered by a continuous archway of pale pink balloons.

“Well, this is nice.” I immediately feel like a woman I once overheard exclaiming that the Louvre sure is big.

A pale-pink-shirted man greets us at the door. “Hi! I'm Ken. Everyone's outside.”

I put out my hand to introduce myself, thinking he is the host, Bill's friend, but he cuts me off by repeating his lines, and while one hand takes my gift, the other, with a sweeping winglike motion of the arm, guides us along.

Through a bank of open French doors, I see a sea of pale-pink-shirted men moving among a tiny handful of extremely well dressed guests. I realize that I actually have dressed appropriately for this party—as one of the caterers.

“Oh, my God,” I say as we step outside. “It looks like a wedding.”

“Or bat mitzvah,” Michael replies.

Music is wafting from a string quartet playing on a parquet floor laid on the grass. A huge white tent covers ten tables swathed in pink organza and white. Each one is perfectly set for ten guests with a lifelike diaper-clad baby girl doll sitting on every china plate. Trays of mimosas and canapés glide by us, stopping only long enough to be emptied of their wares.

I see Bill and a young woman leaning over a large lace-covered bassinet. A veil of white netting suspended from a tree branch above is streaming down, surrounding the baby's bed. I have an almost irrepressible urge to yank down the veil, throw it on my head, and vow “I do,” but I wonder if Michael is the man I want to say that to. Andrew pops into my brain, so I try to get rid of him by quickly taking Michael's arm to walk with him down the carpeted aisle to see the newborn child.

“Here she is,” Bill says, pulling aside the veil. The sleeping baby looks just like a cherub. I've heard that before in nursery rhymes and fairy tales, but this one truly does, a sweet little cherub fallen from a cloud.

“She's perfect,” I tell Bill, and introduce Michael to him, then Bill introduces us to the baby's mother, Sarah, a seventeen-year-old from the Midwest.

“We took her on a shopping spree on Friday; got her hair cut and colored,” Bill gushes as Sarah stands by and blushes. “Malibu beach was yesterday and tomorrow a private tour of the museum. She is having a nonstop great time.”

“Oh, that's wonderful,” I say to her. “You're really getting to know L.A.” But not her own baby, I think, then immediately realize that that may be the point.

“And there's a movie star here!” Sarah suddenly yells, causing the flock of pale-pink-shirted men to stop, turn, stare, then quickly move on.

“Oh,” is all I can think to say.

At that moment, Michael, who has said nothing except “Congratulations” to Bill, takes my arm and leads me away.

“Okay, where?” I say to Michael, looking around at the few other guests as I give in to the voyeuristic urge to find the movie star in this extremely sparse crowd. “Him?”

A few feet away stands a blond man that anyone would define as gorgeous. Not that I recognize him, but I figure that has more to do with my box office attendance than his.

“I guess.” Michael snags two snacks off one of the ever-roaming trays going by. He has just put one in my mouth when a woman approaches us.

“I thought that was you,” she cries, putting a perfectly French-manicured hand on my arm.