Marrying Up (23 page)

The clink of champagne glasses from somewhere behind us gathers my wandering thoughts and leads them back to the face of the man sitting across from me. It’s a face I know well, but it’s also the face of a stranger.

“…but are you one hundred percent sure, Holly? Have you
really
thought about what this would mean for you? Every success imaginable, every
excess
imaginable…all of it awaits if you just say
yes!
”

“I know,” I sigh. “I know.”

An inkling of hope puts some of the fire back in his eyes. Vale grabs my hand again. “Have you ever shopped the Ginza in Tokyo? Been on safari in the Serengeti? Bought your parents a Bentley?”

No, no and no.

But…is what Vale offering me really success? More likely, it’s the worst kind of failure, all wrapped up in a pretty blue box with a big, fat bow. The kind of success that spoils once it’s been sitting out in the sun for a while.

“I can see it for you, Holly…” Vale’s normally staid expression begins to twist, revealing a curious grin I’ve never seen, and his fair complexion is overcome by an angry purpling “I’m offering a life of unmitigated luxury.”

Vale stares me square in the eyes, and I meet his gaze dead-on.

Might this be my True Defining Moment?

All I know for sure, in this instant, is that the more seriously I consider accepting Vale’s offer, the more disgusted I become with myself, and the less I want to be a person who would live her life like that. Even if I ask for some time to think about it and walk out of here in limbo, I’d hate myself for it, and I’d never be granted a do-over. My entire body hums with the certainty that I was meant for greater things than what Vale Spencer had to offer.

And this growing visceral reaction within me leads me to a thought, and then to another, and then another, and another, until I arrive at a thought I’ve never thought before: that maybe there
is
something I want more than a moneyed mate, more than a bestseller, more than bigger boobs or a bigger byline. More, even, than a plain old boyfriend.

Peace.

I want peace. Quiet in my own mind. Release from the burden of worrying all of the time about all of these things, these instruments of self-torture and yardsticks of failure that have shadowed me as far back as I can remember. For the longest while, I believed that rejecting my need for them outright, denying them, was the only way to be free of them. More recently, I decided that achieving them one by one was the way to go about it. Now I see that letting them go with a smile is the only way I’ll ever be happy. And that’s what I really want. To be
happy.

Isn’t that all anybody wants?

“So, Holly? Will you at least think about it?”

With an evil grin of my own, I squeeze his hand. “I guess you don’t know me as well as you think, Vale. I want no part in this. Any of it.”

Now it’s he who pulls his hand away from mine. “A fortune lands at your feet and you step over it to get to the unemployment line?”

“Why do you care so much about the money, Vale? Aren’t you rich enough already? Wouldn’t you rather be free from pretending you’re someone you’re not?”

“I know exactly who I am, Holly. Make no mistake about that. And I also know exactly what I want. Being a lawyer will never afford me the kind of life I need to have, the kind of legacy I need to leave for my children. It’s like…the difference between flying first-class and owning the plane.”

“Seems to me a better legacy for your kids than a private jet would be a father they knew loved their mother. Or, better yet, a father who loved their other father.”

He smiles. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is.”

“So this is goodbye, then?”

“Yup,” I say, getting up quickly while the adrenaline is still pounding through my veins. “Good luck, Vale.”

On my way out, I pay the bill.

The house is dark when I walk through the door. George is out again, probably staying at Max’s place, so I call Remy. I gather up the strength to tell him what happened—that he was right about Vale, of course; that I’d been a fool—but I get his machine.

I leave a short message and hang up.

A second later, the phone rings.

“Remy?”

“Hi, Holly.”

“Asher? Is that you?”

“Yeah—”

“God, I’m so glad you called. How are you?” I so need a friend and his voice is like music to my ears.

“Not so good. Zoe’s dad died.”

Back to Buffalo

M
y old bedroom doesn’t look quite the same as it did six months ago. Granted, I hadn’t actually lived in it for almost ten years, but I’ve always enjoyed knowing my room’s there, just as I left it the day I moved out during my second year at Erie. Time waits for no woman, I suppose.

My mother, in her zeal for change, had torn down all my posters and taken my bulletin boards off the wall. My once-beloved stuffed animals had been rounded up and summarily dumped at Goodwill. The contents of my closet? Boxed and put in the basement. Even my old-fashioned gumball machine was gone (it didn’t work—I’d once tried to turn it into a fish tank by waterproofing all the cracks and moving parts with a glue-gun—but was that any reason to put it out with the trash? I think not.)

Greeting me instead are built-in glass display cases (locked!) crammed full with an impossibly odd assortment of sixties’
TV memorabilia. Auction catalogues and photographs of garish figurines and old lunch boxes cover my desk. Against one wall, stacks of cardboard boxes overflow with foam packing peanuts; against another, empty prefab shelving. God only knows what she has planned for that.
Bonanza
trading cards? Gilligan’s coconuts? Mister Ed’s riding tack?

It’s amazing how much shit she’s managed to amass in such a short time, and if I weren’t so shell-shocked already, I probably would be extremely weirded out, not to mention angry. Heaven forbid she move a single football trophy or model plane from one of my brothers’ rooms, but my entire pre-adult life? No problem—we’ll just get rid of it!

“I changed the sheets,” my mother says by way of apology as my dad places my suitcase at the foot of my bed.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“What time’s the funeral?”

“Umm…tomorrow at 11:30, I think.”

“I’ll check the paper and find out for sure. Your dad and I are going to come, too.”

“Yeah? That would be nice. I’m sure Zoe will appreciate it.”

“I always liked that Douglas Watts,” she says. “He certainly had his plate full raising those girls alone. He struck me as a very decent man.” My dad nods in agreement, though I can’t remember them ever having met face-to-face. “Imagine? Beating the cancer only to slip in the bathtub like that. It just goes to show, when it’s your time, it’s your time, and there’s not a whole helluva lot you or I or the good Lord can do about it.”

“I suppose.”

“Oh, and did I tell you? Cole’s having a Fourth of July barbecue on Sunday. And then we’re off again on Monday.”

“This Monday? Where?”

“A show in Atlantic City. Peter Tork is speaking.”

“Who?” I mouth to my dad.

“He’s one of the Monkees, dear,” he whispers.

“I can hear you, Larry. You’re standing three feet away from me. I don’t expect you to know this, Holly, but if Peter Tork signs the
TV Guide
I recently acquired from the week the show first aired, it just might fetch us a pretty penny in Anaheim this fall.”

“Anaheim?”

“Big collectibles show,” my dad says loudly in her direction.

“Not just big. The biggest! Frankly, Larry, to say the N.A.C.’s annual event is just big is an
insult
to the participants who travel there from all over the
world
—”

“Watch it, Louise, or we’re going to start cutting back on some of your budget and redirecting it to our portfolio like we talked about. So don’t push me!”

“You’re right. I’m…I’m very sorry, dear,” my mother stammers, then blushes.

“It’s okay,” he says and kisses her on the cheek. “Just remember we have to keep things in perspective.”

It’s by far the longest conversation I’ve seen them have in years, and the first public display of affection
ever.
Obviously, they’re completely insane, but it seems to be working for them.

“Okaaay…so, um, you guys are leaving when? Tuesday, right? I took the whole week off so I’m going to stay until Saturday, if that’s okay.”

“You’ll have to show her how to work the alarm, Larry.”

“Don’t worry about that now.”

“I’m just saying, is all.” She checks and then rechecks the lock on a case.

My dad’s eyes meet mine and he smiles. He clears his throat. “Leave that alone for now, would you Louise?”

“Fine.” She turns her attention to me instead. “Holly, you look drawn. You want a cup of tea?”

“No thanks. It was a long flight. I’m just going to try and get some sleep.”

I had a Gravol and four bloody Marys on the plane (part of my plan to eat more vegetables), so even though it’s only 11:30 East Coast time, I can barely keep my eyes open. All I want is to sleep for ten hours, get through tomorrow and spend the rest of my time in Buffalo doing whatever I can to make things easier for Zoe.

It doesn’t take long for my subconscious demons to wake me. The wisp of a dream escapes into the darkness as I rub the sleep out of my eyes and squint at the time—2:13 a.m.

By 3:00 a.m. I’ve counted a thousand sheep and named all my therapists in alphabetical order. By four, I’ve named all the neighbors on my block, which unexpectedly brings back the dream that had awoken me….

Rena Helmdry was a take-no-shit kind of girl who lived across the street from me growing up and whom I envied desperately because her parents were never home and because she was allowed to smoke in her room.

Anyway, Rena’s older brother Rob had an impressive collection of true-crime books which I never tired of reading. In one of them was this incredibly haunting photograph of Marilyn Monroe, dead, and laid out on a slab in the morgue. Just like that. Her eyes were closed, she had a strange double chin, and her face was dark and discolored. You could hardly tell that it was her.

What fascinated me about the picture was how surreal it was. I found it amazing that they just sort of stuck her in a drawer, probably next to some homeless drunk or stroke victim. Like who she was didn’t matter anymore because she was dead. And you’d think that if anybody could look good in an autopsy photo, it would be her. But she didn’t. Not at all.

At the moment of her death—nine years and two husbands after she filmed
How to Marry a Millionaire
—Marilyn Monroe also had dark roots. Presumably, the very different
person she used to be was trying to get out and she’d finally tired of fighting her.

I dreamed that instead of just lying there on that table, Marilyn sat up and walked away.

The next night, I wake up at around the same time. I attribute it to too much coffee at Zoe’s house after the funeral. But the next night, the same thing happens (was it all that food at Cole and Olivia’s barbecue?). And then again the night after. If a dream is to blame, it’s a mystery to me, because I can’t remember a thing. All I know for sure is that sleeping in my old room is becoming harder each night.

The fourth night, I decide to get up. My parents left for Atlantic City this morning, so I don’t have to worry about waking anyone. I creep out of bed and go downstairs to the kitchen. It’s only 11:30 on the West Coast, so I take the cordless phone back up to my room, crawl under the covers and dial in the dark.

“Remy?”

“Holly?”

“Yeah.”

“Hi!

“You weren’t sleeping, were you? I mean, I’m sorry if I woke you…”

“Nah, you know me. What’s up? Isn’t it a little late there?”

“I couldn’t sleep…. Is it okay that I called you?”

He laughs as if it were a ridiculous question. “Of course. I was hoping I’d hear from you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really! So how are you?”

“Okay, I guess. I don’t know. It feels kind of strange here. I don’t know why.”

“Going home is always a weird buzz. Especially under unpleasant circumstances.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever been away from Buffalo long enough to make it weird to be back, I suppose.”

“How was the funeral?”

“Awful. I feel like…like death is all around me.”

“That’s because it is.”

“I used to write obituaries and it never got to me.”

“Professional distance, probably. It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

“Still, every day I was reminded that people die. But it never seemed as random and senseless as it does to me now.”

“Heart attacks, lung cancer, falling safes, plane crashes…don’t bother trying to make any sense of it. Something’s going to get each and every one of us, whether they find a cure for cancer or not. A great man once said, ‘All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’”

“Gandalf the Grey.
Fellowship of the Ring.
”

“Man, I love that you know that.”

“Remember who my best friend is. I’ve seen
Lord of the Rings
at least 10 times. When
Return of the King
came out, George made me go with her to the back-to-back screening of all three.”

“12 hours well spent. A faithful adaptation.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve read the books because I won’t believe you,” I say. “Nobody’s read them and everybody lies about it.”

“Okay. But I did. In junior high. I was really into Middle Earth.” He’s quiet for a second and then adds, “I was a bit of a nerd.”

“Middle Earth,” I sigh. “That’s the beauty of fantasy. There’s this wonderful sense of order and justice and in the end, good things happen to good people while the bad guys get ripped apart by orks and tossed into the abyss.”

“You’re saying Zoe’s dad didn’t deserve to die?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, nobody deserves to die, Holly, but it’s kind of unavoidable.”

“And what are we supposed to do until then? Pretend that’s not true?”

“Live your life, I guess. Put one foot in front of the other. Follow your nose and see where it leads you. And when you’re ready, your destiny will reveal itself to you.”

Hmm. Destiny? “So it’s all about fate.”

“Not exactly,” he says, then pauses for a few seconds. “I believe in choices. But I also believe there comes at least one time in your life when all the choices you’ve made converge to either haunt you or heal you. Where you go from there is up to you.”

“Ah yes. A True Defining Moment. So what’s yours?”

“I don’t know if I’ve had one yet. You?”

“Leaving Buffalo, maybe.” Turning down Vale, definitely.

Remy and I continue to talk for nearly an hour—about everything and nothing and the funeral and Zoe’s pregnancy (finally confirmed) and the irony of life and death…. It’s one of those weird middle-of-the-night conversations where the next morning you may not believe or even remember what you said, but it’s comforting just to talk to him. As we’re about to hang up Remy reminds me that life goes on.

“No matter how outraged we are that it possibly could,” he adds.

I think about Sylvia and wonder if somebody said something similar to Remy after she died. “But it’s hard to have faith when you don’t have…”

“Faith?”

I laugh, because that was exactly what I meant although it sounds completely absurd.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?”

“Okay.”

“I’ve never told anybody this, so you better appreciate it.”

“I will.”

“All right. So after Sylvia died, things were rough. To be expected, obviously. So I kind of just let things settle for a while. Let her being gone sink in, you know? We knew it was coming, so we said what we needed to say to each other, but still, it hit me pretty hard. After a few months, I realized I needed to move, get out of that house. So I was packing shit up for the movers, cleaning out the garage, actually, and I found a beach ball that she’d blown up the summer before….”

“Remy, you don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to.” The last thing I want is for him (or me) to feel uncomfortable.

“No, it’s okay… So I find this ball. A beach ball with
her
breath in it….” He hesitates. “It was like…like striking oil. Like pirates’ treasure and Christmas and winning the lottery all at the same time. Better, even. So after I moved, every now and then, when I really, really missed her, I’d go downstairs and get it and open that little plastic plug and…and suck the tiniest bit of air out.”

My chest tightens. As usual, I have no idea what to say.

“What happened once the air was gone?” Best to stick to the facts.

“Nothing. It was just gone. That was it.”

“So…what did you do?”

“I dealt with it.”

Hot tears roll down my cheeks and onto the pillow.

I realize now that I love him. I love Remy Wakefield.

Instead of leaving on Saturday, I change my ticket to go back to San Francisco early. Zoe has insisted that I not stick around on her account, even though Asher had to go back to work. She’s staying behind with her sisters for another week or two to get her dad’s things in order and finish with everything. Packing up their childhood home is something
she and her sisters need to do together, she says, without husbands or friends or boyfriends around to distract them. Truthfully, I can’t wait to get home.