Lydia's Party: A Novel (14 page)

•   •   •

Lydia had decided to set it up so that when she died, whatever funds were left would go into a scholarship fund for returning students. She’d been musing about the idea for years. Only recently, belatedly, had she acknowledged to herself that it was time to make an actual plan. “Call abt. fund,” Lydia wrote on a Post-it. She stuck it on her computer. She’d had one exploratory meeting with the dean already, but now, to make it happen, she’d have to come clean about her circumstances. And she needed to hurry, before the kid she had in mind for the first award gave up and dropped out.

Though the student Lydia was thinking of—Rochelle Smith—was a little older, not really a kid. She’d been in Lydia’s art appreciation class, and the next semester she’d signed up for drawing. Lydia knew from her first paper that she was bright.

Lydia always started the semester by getting them to make a list of ten beautiful things—not to be graded, just to make them think. Rochelle had begun her list with “My son Bryan.” Numbers 2 through 4 were “sunsets,” “Twinkles our cat,” and “Gale Jordan my mother.” But then it got interesting. Number 7 was “the sound of a bee.” The list ended with
Untitled
by Mark Rothko.

Lydia had to go back and read the paper again to be sure. At first she couldn’t account for the leap, but then remembered: the painting appeared as a color plate, in the textbook. Rochelle had actually bought the textbook, and had been boning up, or at least paging through, before the semester even started! In the section where they were supposed to say why each thing was beautiful, about number 10 Rochelle had written, “I like how it makes me feel peaceful and also dizzy.” Affixed to the paper was a photograph of Bryan in a Santa hat, tightly holding Twinkles. The boy’s eyes, behind thick glasses, didn’t quite focus.

Rochelle had started hanging around after class. Lydia learned she lived with her mother, and worked as a dancer at a place called the Pony Club out by the airport. (Her stage name was Amber.) She wanted to be an art therapist, she’d told Lydia, or if that didn’t work out, a dental hygienist.

Lydia planned to make sure Rochelle got the money, and got to keep it, no matter what they found out about her. The dean wanted to make it a contest, set up
criteria
. Grades, conduct, letters of recommendation. Qualifying essays. After that, progress reports. Bull
shit
, Lydia wanted to say. Then she remembered it was her money and just said no. But the fact the dean had even brought it up made her sick. That was exactly the sort of filter designed to keep someone like Rochelle out, the fork in the road that would shunt her finally and forever into the won’t-get-any lane. This had to vault over all that, be a gift, out of the blue, with no sucking up or showing off required.

There were only two criteria, in Lydia’s mind: need and desire. Plus that other little thing, whatever it was, that Rochelle had that Lydia could sense. Lydia wished she could survive, just so she could stay around to keep an eye out for that. She couldn’t think of a single person at the college she could trust to do it for her, after she was gone.

Lydia remembered the time Rochelle, wearing jeans and gym shoes, had come to her office to talk about an assignment. She’d been on her way to catch the bus, to work. “Oops,” she’d said, on the way out, grabbing the nylon tote bag she’d set down for a minute. “Better not forget my uniform.” She’d allowed herself a little one-sided smile then. Lydia had pictured the contents of the small bag—a wisp of lace spandex, maybe, a pair of platform heels. Probably a wig, too, given the usual state of Rochelle’s hair. She’d heard soft clinking coming from the bag when Rochelle turned to leave—cosmetics jars knocking against the shoes, Lydia guessed.

But probably Celia could use an infusion of cash, too, Lydia decided. There were signs that they were worse off than she let on, though Lydia didn’t want to insult her by asking. Peter’s business was doing
fine
, Celia always claimed. And she’d gotten that library job, whatever that was. That was good, wasn’t it? Lydia had been too distracted lately to really pay attention to the details.

Best just to rearrange it and add her. She wrote “Add Celia” to her “Call guy abt. finances” list. What a pain, though, to have to think about money at a time like this.

Cookbooks—Maura, Peter.

Raspberries—Norris.

It was the only thing of hers Lydia could think of that Norris might want—Norris had admired them once. She’d have to dig them up herself next spring. Lydia would put Spence on notice to expect her. He wouldn’t mind—they needed to be thinned, and Norris was the only one of her friends he liked.

Lydia hoped she’d replant them in Michigan. Roots were what Norris needed, if she was going to stay. She should have some of Chicago with her there in the soil, whether she liked it or not, a reminder of this place and the raspberry cobbler Lydia used to make. Not that Norris ever ate any.

Car—sign over to Spence.

Organs.

At least that was in order. She’d already signed the form. At the bottom she’d written,
Help yourself
.

Art—Jayne, Betsy, Celia.

Jayne might like the paint-by-numbers German shepherd, Lydia thought. She’d bought it at a thrift store in East Los Angeles and now it hung, in an enormous gilt frame, in the downstairs bathroom. Jayne collected what she still called outsider art, though the term had been debunked. Betsy might want the photos, for her office. Lydia thought she’d give the signed Kandinsky drawing to Celia.

Lydia had never liked it. It reminded her of Garrett, who she’d watched haggle for it, in French, at a flea market outside Paris. She’d been in love, and she’d been impressed. Afterward he’d given it to her, then taken her to some adorable bistro where dogs were eating from their own plates. He’d spent the whole lunch staring at some girl at the next table.

•   •   •

“You sure have known some assholes,” Celia said when Lydia told her this, years after it happened. They’d been sitting at Lydia’s kitchen table, drinking beer and munching on Cheetos, when the subject of Garrett had come up. Celia was married by then. She’d felt qualified to dis Lydia’s ex-boyfriends.

“The things we do for love,” Lydia had said, quoting that awful song, thinking it was clear she was being sarcastic, meaning that it was OK, funny even, and that Celia should back off. It was during a bad patch with Spence. Lydia felt proud somehow, that she’d survived him and Garrett and all the others, the rough-and-tumble of love, and that they’d mostly survived her, stayed friends, even. She was proud she hadn’t caved to something tame and sweet and painstakingly negotiated, the way Celia had. Celia had gotten so complacent.

“The things
you
do for love,” Celia had said, in that superior tone she got, popping another Cheeto into her mouth to punctuate her point, then popping one into Maxine’s for good measure. Maxine had been younger then, she’d eat anything.

“Does it work for anyone?” Lydia had said, forgetting for a minute that it seemed to be working for Celia. Celia had raised her eyebrows and shrugged, avoiding Lydia’s eyes.

It had stung, Celia going all smug like that.

“The thing to do,” Lydia had said, yanking the pop-top off another beer. “I don’t mean now, it’s too late. But if I had a daughter? I’d tell her the thing to do is just do what you want.” Lydia squared her shoulders and took a gulp. “At least then you’d have that. Act like a man. Go be an architect in Budapest or something. Keep your sex life on the side, the way they do.”

“It seems you did,” Celia had said, though she hadn’t meant to let herself be drawn in. “Besides, it’s not that simple. What if what she wants is to fall in love?”

“Then she’s fucked,” Lydia had said, flinging the pop-top in the direction of the sink. She felt betrayed. It wasn’t fair that Celia was the one doling out advice on love.

•   •   •

Lydia didn’t want to think about it, even now. She should have given that drawing away years ago.

•   •   •

The phone rang. Lydia stared at it. She’d been waiting all day for a call but now she was afraid to answer. Lydia tried to read the number but something was wrong with her caller ID.

The phone continued to ring. A part of her liked not knowing who it was. It allowed her to believe, or to
visualize
as she’d been told to do, that it was her doctor calling to leave a message, to tell her the tests were wrong, that the spots on her pancreas, which more recently had appeared on her liver, were gone.

Lydia imagined calling him back.
But how, why
, she’d say.
I don’t know
, he’d say, and she’d say,
What does someone in my position do now
, and he’d say,
There is no one else in your position so do as you like
, and she’d try to imagine what that would be. Or maybe he’d say, in an intimate tone,
Which position is that?
She allowed herself to visualize him inviting her to dinner. He’d be wearing his stethoscope, a loosened necktie. He’d roll up his white sleeves and pour them each a glass of wine.

Lydia spotted Spence’s boots in the corner, then, and felt embarrassed. She’d been trying to invoke the positive power of visualization but already it had backfired, as these things so often did. Embarrassment was first cousin to shame, which, everyone agreed, fed cancer. Guilt, too. Also grudges, hate, resentment, remorse—all killers. Regret was the worst, they said.

Listing her regrets had been making her sicker!

•   •   •

Hope and gratitude, then, Lydia thought. That’s what heals, they said. Love. Though the thought of that loaded word deflated her somehow, made her feel unloved. A disapproving voice in her head—but whose? Her father’s? Some ex?—said,
Not being loved, you idiot, loving
, so she tried to visualize that. She reached down and buried her hand in Maxine’s thick coat, though maybe that didn’t count, it was so easy. Lydia thought about her friends then, already on their way to her house
,
and how good it would be to see them, how she would savor the evening after the doctor called to tell her she wasn’t dying.

She made a quick deal with the god she wasn’t sure she believed in—if that happened, if she got a reprieve, she’d give away everything. Already she felt better! That’s what she’d announce tonight, after she got her good news—her newly formed plan to remake her life. She didn’t have time now, but she was already looking forward to a new list: How I’ll Change My Life After My Miraculous Remission.

Lydia picked up the phone to see if there was a message, but whoever had tried to reach her hadn’t left one. Then the phone rang again. This time she grabbed it.

Celia

Celia got to Lydia’s house early, hoping for a chance to talk before the others got there, but when she arrived, Lydia was on the phone and wouldn’t get off. She didn’t seem to have finished dressing. Her face looked strange—maybe it was the overhead light. It was odd, though, Celia thought. She wasn’t that early and Lydia didn’t like to be seen looking bad. Even when she was a mess it was usually for dramatic effect. But now Lydia really was a mess, and agitated, holding the phone with her shoulder, gesturing to Celia to put the food in the kitchen, then turning her back so Celia couldn’t hear what she was saying.

Celia set the food down, hung up her coat, then sat on a kitchen stool and waited. After a few minutes she opened a bottle and poured herself a glass of wine. She looked around for Maxine, to give her the treat she’d brought, but the dog was in the next room, lying sideways at Lydia’s feet, staring into the middle distance. Maxine looked worried.

Celia heard Lydia say,
No, but thanks, I’ll be all right. Thank you for calling to tell me.

Lydia: 6:50
P.M.

Celia stood at the foot of the stairs, suspicious. “Are you sure I can’t do something?” she called up to Lydia.

Lydia was standing in front of her mirror, trying to think of what to do. “No,” she called back, wishing Celia would just leave her alone. “Or, open some bottles.” That should keep her busy for a while. Celia was terrible at opening bottles.

Now would be the time to pray, Lydia thought.

Though what would she say?
Please God, don’t make me extinct, and forgive me for wasting my life.
Or
Don’t make me extinct yet.
Or
Please, God, make what I know isn’t true, true. Exist. And while you’re at it, reverse time.

She didn’t think she could. Prayer was for children, or believers, on the fast track to heaven.
Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—
all that. She thought again of how comforting it would be, at a time like this, to believe. Who wouldn’t like to have a little chat with Jesus right now, that all-forgiving best friend, that big boyfriend in the sky?

Ye who are weary, come home.

But she and Jesus had drifted apart. As she had from all her friends, if truth be told. A queasy feeling washed over her. Even she and her body had drifted apart. Or rather, it was drifting from her.

•   •   •

Lydia was remembering Sunday school. They’d prayed out loud, together—
Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.
She’d even sung in the choir, if quietly and out of tune. Every year she’d tried out for the Christmas pageant. She remembered praying then, for a speaking part, but she always ended up as an angel. Her name wasn’t even in the program, but it didn’t matter, they said. Every voice was precious to Jesus. Every voice raised in praise made Him glad. Or so they said, and she’d believed it.

She’d believed it all—Baby Jesus and eternal life and that mercy was better than vengeance. It wasn’t that she was gullible. She knew it defied logic, but she’d liked that. She’d liked the riskiness of believing in something so outlandish, and when her nonbelieving friends took His name in vain she’d felt a pang, real pain. She wasn’t even Catholic but she’d stared at her palms and hoped for blood.

•   •   •

Now she stared at her face, grotesque and yellow in her magnified makeup mirror, and hoped for—what? Not blood. Who needed that, she thought, brushing on a little more powdered blush. Time—that’s what she hoped for now. She squinted into the mirror. Time and smaller pores.

“Lydia, are you all right?”

“I’m almost ready!”

Lydia had thought she’d go back to church when she got old. She’d even looked forward to it, to a time when the burden to fit in with the secular world would be more easily shucked off. She’d looked forward to the privacy of old age, when she could become strange in her beliefs and no one would notice or care. She’d thought as she approached death that she would rediscover faith, had planned to include in her practice some of the more exotic beliefs the early Christian church had dumped in favor of the harsher, more simplistic system it later adopted. The Gnostics believed in reincarnation.

But here she was, as old as she was going to get, and abruptly she’d lost interest. When she needed belief most, she couldn’t summon it. Was that possible, even? Wasn’t the well of faith supposed to fill from below? But it was the physical world she wanted to hold on to now, even as it ran out of her, away from her, leaving her high and dry, between two worlds.

It was the doctor who’d called. The test confirmed what he thought—the cancer had spread. He gave her six weeks.