Miss Fortune (21 page)

“David, that was like seven years ago . . . Are you serious? I can't remember but I think the programs had already gone to the printer and . . .”

My god, he's obviously been looping this story in his head for years.

“Oh. You can't remember.”

So I guess I did crash his car while having sex with his brother. He doesn't feel appreciated. Oh god, that's the worst. No, the worst is that it was seven years ago and I can't do a thing about it.

“Well, David, you look real pretty.”

I'm not that funny anymore. Once that's gone I can't fall back on my looks. Oh boy. We need a new start. How on earth did he
get so angry at me? What have I done? What can I do? Outside of anal, I'm open to suggestions, because I am completely confused as to why he is looking like . . . he hates me. It would be so awful, to be hated by the one person who knows me.

•   •   •

Eating breakfast while I'm checking for apartments for rent, I see Joel's child bride walk by our window and there's a woman with her. She's got short spiky blond hair on top of an older version of the young bride's face. Her mother. The two of them are chatting away and completely ignoring Joel, who runs behind them trying to get their attention. “Why don't I take you guys to a movie! Let me take you to a movie!”

His wife turns around and yells “
No!
” and keeps talking.

“But it will be a funny one. Tell your mom it's a funny one.”

Christina texts me:
“WHAT THE FUCK, LAUREN?! HE'S CRAZY!”

“She married him for a green card and he's been putting together some wedding-bliss bed from Ikea and potting plants for his front steps like he's a fucking newlywed! Oh my god. If the girl wasn't Russian, I'd turn him in so fast, but the Russian mafia makes the Sopranos look like the fucking Girl Scouts.”

At the end of the week, I hear a screaming fight. I'd miss one of the words and Christina would fill me in.
“She didn't do what on Tuesday?”
I'd text Christina.
“She didn't call him after she got off work.”
It's an epic fight. If we weren't scared of Joel being another Whitey Bulger, I'm sure someone would have gone over and tried to break it up.

“Her voice is so calm because you can tell she doesn't give a shit,”
Christina texts me. It's twenty minutes of yelling: “You whore!
What the hell do you think you're doing? I did all this for you and you don't call me when you're late?” Followed by silence. Followed by the sound of a suitcase being wheeled down the sidewalk.

Christina texts me:
“Jesus, that was quick.”

David, who is the non-snoopiest, most mind-your-business, most anti-gossip man I know, opens the curtains and watches her go. She's long gone and he's still staring out the window.

I feel completely alone. Like Joel must feel.

Last night I brought up the issue of me not giving David credit for helping me with
Bust
again. He told me that I'd never believed in him, and I didn't know to convince him how untrue that was. Saying it really loudly and pounding myself on the chest as I said it didn't seem to help. He told me that I took all the glory for myself. “But what good is glory if you don't have people you love to share it with?” I'd said. It sounded clichéd, but I meant it.

He's started to say things like, “Lauren, you're the kind of person who . . .” I jump in as quickly as I can with “Is good with ducks?” When he said, “Who doesn't care about people,” it was actually a relief, because while I didn't love that, it wasn't going to haunt me for days wondering if it was true. I can be easily convinced that I have a lot of displeasing personality traits, but not caring about people isn't one of them. The other day a homeless guy asked me if I had any change I could spare and I told him no but I had a smooshed granola bar in my purse if he wanted it, and he said not only did he want it, but it was perfect because he couldn't chew that well anyway and pointed to his toothless mouth. So don't tell me I don't care about people.

David has been wearing his sunglasses constantly. He never takes them off. He brushes his teeth with them on.

He's leaving me—one body part at a time. My life has turned into a Raymond Carver story.

One
A.M.
It's completely quiet. No fake sex.

The next day it's quiet too. No fake laughter either. Oh god, I worry. Maybe it wasn't fake and my note killed her spirit, made her feel ashamed. What if after this, she's never able to relax or have an orgasm again? The first night after the note, I bet he wanted to have sex and she'd started crying, “No! No! Don't you get it? I'm a freak!”

I didn't hear any crying. I heard nothing.

I lay awake in bed, picturing her husband holding her as she sobs as quietly as she can. Her vagina has dried up forever like a bad apricot.

The next morning, Florida girl is pulling a suitcase down the sidewalk. Oh my god, I've broken up the marriage. I text Christina. That's two suitcases pulled by women whose marriages have fallen apart. One of the wheels on my roller bag is stuck. Not that it matters.

“You're insane. And if you did, who cares?”
Christina says.
“She probably takes her roller bag to the library with her. Listen, she and her husband are going to break up and the next guy she's with will thank you for stopping those fake sex sounds. And so will every neighbor she ever has.”

Later that day, on WestsideRentals.com I find an adorable Craftsman three-bedroom house in Santa Monica for twenty-five hundred dollars. Most houses go for at least five thousand. At least. I email the owner immediately and look out my window and see Lurch.

Outside getting her mail. I walk out to the mailbox to see if she suspects me. The guilt is killing me. Marriage is hard. They didn't deserve this. I go up to her and she grunts at me. It's a friendly grunt.

“Hey!” I say, full of guilt. “Man, I got a note in my mailbox from the neighbors complaining that our kid was too loud. It came from
the building next to ours. Not our building. I think the building over
there
has some very unhappy people in it that won't let people be happy. Geez. Anyway—I'm just going to ignore the note.”

She looks directly at me. Her hair, beaten to death by curling irons, is held back on each side by barrettes intended for a little kid. She doesn't look guilty. Or relieved. She just looks blank.

“We're moving,” she blurts out. “We were only living here until our house was ready. So I don't really care.”

Her head slumps to her chest and she shuffles away. Happy. She's got her man. She doesn't care what anyone in this building thinks of her because this was never her home anyway. Now that really is one Lucky Lady.

A door opens. It's Joel.

“Listen, Lauren, let me ask you something.”

Joel points to a large floodlight on the side of the building. “Okay, now, you ever see that light working?”

I tell him that I hadn't because it was true. I hadn't.

“It's always been dark out here at night—right? 'Cuz that light—it's never worked—right?”

“Um, right . . . I didn't even know it was there, actually.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought. Okay, well, I changed that light bulb and so now it's working and I've been asking around and the other tenants are all saying how nice it is. How safe they feel now. Right? You feel safe?”

I didn't feel any safer.

Joel touches his novelty hair and nods at me. “That's right . . . you feel safe.”

My phone rings. It's Christina—

“If Joel asks you if the light has ever worked before, say yes! He's trying to extort money from the owners. So just say yes, it's always worked! And, hey, what's up with Ray Charles? I saw him coming
last night and I was like, hey, freak, it's nighttime. Take your sunglasses off. How do you stand it, Lauren? I don't get it. Hey, do you ever wonder if something is going on with David and that babysitter? Not the New Agey one but the one with the big boobs?”

She reads too many
People
magazines.

Joel very patiently waits for me to get off the phone with Christina.

“You done?”

Yes, I'm done.

“How long have you lived here?” Right as Joel asks me this, the light makes a popping noise and goes out.

“Cocksucker!” Joel takes off his hat and stomps off to his apartment.

By the time I get back inside, the owner of the house has responded—

“The place is yours! Enjoy! I'm currently tending to business affairs in Nigeria. Would you be so kind good friend to deposit a check for $9,000 as quickly as possible?”

It's a scam. A fake listing. That's okay. Wherever you go, there you are. Right? We live eight blocks from the beach. #grateful #blessed

I go into the living room determined to find a way to remind David who I am, who we are, and there he is, sitting in the dark watching
The Walking Dead
wearing his sunglasses again. I ask him if I can talk to him for a moment. He pauses the TV and turns his head toward me. I ask him if he could take his sunglasses off and he tells me, “No, Lauren, I can't,” and un-pauses the show.

Impending doom starts to make life feel surreal.

At a dinner party I hear him telling a little clan of attractive women that he's the sole caretaker of Leo. One of the women sits next to me at dinner and asks me if I've had a chance to meet that man over there, and points to David. “He's amazing. He's a widower
and stay-home-dad taking care of his kid full-time . . .” She doesn't even know I'm with him.

In the car afterward I ask him why he said that. “You keep telling me how you're ‘happier than you've ever been in your life' being a stay-at-home dad, but you seem so unhappy. At least with me. I can't take it anymore. Listen, David, if you're not happy, if you don't want to be married, then let's split. We'll be good co-parents. We'll—”

“Yes. I think we should.”

Everything I say is a lie or a test. Remember?

I didn't mean it. I was only saying all that to try to scare him into showing a little love. But he jumped right on it. By the time we got home it was decided that we'd have a trial separation. In the apartment I tried to stifle my sobs so Christina wouldn't call the cops on me.

Maybe the entire apartment building saw this coming, but I didn't. Not really.

The obvious choice was for me to move out with Leo. After all the years of me complaining, here was my chance to find sunlight and non-felon neighbors. Finally, I will get out of this dark, awful place. Filmmaker friends of mine from Seattle had a place they rented out in Venice. Venice has always been my dream place to live. At least on the Westside. They welcomed us the first night with vodka and pie. My two favorite things in the world. Tonight before I walked out of the apartment, David and I hugged each other so tight. Heartbroken. Both of us. I walked away thinking “no no no” and waited for him to come running to me or call or text. Nothing.

I've had many nights alone in the past four years, but tonight is my first night “alone” even with Leo asleep on the floor next to me. I made a bed with every blanket and pillow that I could find.
I wanted a better place for him. This place is smaller and too “rental”-like. I'd wanted some immediate perk that Leo would be excited about. I had some dumb idea that if I could leave on a fancy swan boat it would immediately make our future look brighter. I wanted to take him away to a castle.

I'm on the couch because the bedroom didn't have a bed big enough for Leo and me to share and we wanted to be near each other.

It's true what they say. It is easier to be suffering in a bad relationship than to leave.

I can't tell what's happening.

I mean . . . this is happening.
My When Things Fall Apart
book is back at my apartment. Our apartment. The apartment. What happens again? What happens when things fall apart?

I bet during the day it will be better.

It's so quiet. No texts from Christina dinging my phone every five minutes. No fake sex. No sounds of Joel yelling at whoever is in front of him. Leo and I ate our breakfast on vacation rental plates and drank out of vacation rental cups on a bright cheery patio with a perfect view. Nothing but sky overhead.

I can remember being curled up on the floor of my closet when I was nineteen years old because my boyfriend had canceled a date with me five minutes before I was about to leave the house. I sat on the floor sobbing. Waiting for him to change his mind. Waiting for him not to be doing this. For someone to save me. If I wished he was sensitive, I should have been sensitive to him. Be kind if that's the world I want.

I have been on the floor waiting for David to be kind to me and care that he hurt me, and I cannot tell if it's me making this happen. I'm forty-five and I'm sounding like I'm twelve. I'm back to it. I knew we would never connect unless I was suffering. I also
knew that I was a hard person to collaborate with and thought of myself first too often. It's possible for both things to be true—I have something to learn
and
he's been horrible. But I don't have to lie on the floor of my closet waiting for him to not be who he is.

I want my apartment back. That's my home I made.

After spending two nights there, I called David. “Leo and I are taking the apartment. You find someplace else to live.”

Welcome back home. The apartment looks so good. It's nighttime and I clearly see a hummingbird—the moon is so bright. The plants and trees are lit up and sultry. A little surreal, like a Disney ride through the jungle.

Right before I'm about to walk inside I turn around, and like Salieri in the final scene of
Amadeus
, I greet my people. I'm the patron saint of rent-controlled Santa Monica apartment living. Hello, Joel. I absolve you. Hello, Christina. I absolve you. Hello, Lurch. I absolve you; never mind, you already moved. Hello, my spitting lady. I absolve you. I think about absolving David but it seems a little premature, so I walk inside and leave the front door wide open so I can smell the jasmine.