“But the big problem is, there’s a really big fault off the coast of Oregon, and when it has its next earthquake—”
“Okay!” Steph says, raising both hands. “That’s enough. I’ve got to get going, and I don’t want to have earthquakes and tsunamis in my head while I drive.”
Jasmine pouts. “I was just telling you. They taught us in school.”
“I know, baby,” Steph says. “I have a lot to think about. Can you write it down and send me a letter?”
She shrugs. “I guess.”
Steph blots her lips with a napkin, then pushes back her chair, and all at once my heart aches hard, in worry and loss and a million other mother things. She won’t be gone that long this time, only a few weeks, but then she’ll be gone for ages and very far away and I hate that idea so much, even as I know it’s a great opportunity. Her expression is blank, which means she’s feeling all kinds of things she doesn’t want to feel. “I’m off, then,” she says, standing.
“We’ll walk you to your car.” I hold out my hand to Jasmine, but she has tears in her eyes suddenly, and flings her skinny self into her mother’s body.
“I don’t want you to go!”
Steph breaks ever so slightly, tears welling in her eyes, too, before she can blink them away. She curls around her daughter, kissing her head and then just resting her cheek against her hair. “It won’t be long, sweetheart. You love being at Nana’s house.”
“I want you to live here, too. I want us both to live here, not far away in London.”
“I know,” she says, not disputing it, or arguing, or presenting all the good reasons it will be great, just validating Jasmine’s feelings. “I promise there will be things you love about our new house, too, okay?”
“Okay.” Jasmine nods and pulls away.
Steph rubs her back and looks at me. “I’ll walk myself out.”
So they don’t have to do it all again. I nod. “Give me a hug.”
She wraps me up in a big hug, too, strong arms and soft shoulders and a fierce squeeze. “I’ll call you when I land tomorrow.”
“Text me tonight when you get home.”
“Yes, that too.”
She starts to pull away and I say quietly, “She’ll be okay.”
“I know.”
And then she’s gone. Standing in the doorway, I feel a hollowing out, a sadness that plagues me every time I have to part with her. Or Jasmine. It started when I was a child and forced to leave Amma every summer, and it got worse when I had to leave Suze. It always feels like some important thing is being ripped out of my body.
Chapter Six
Suze
The house scares me. It used to be completely by itself up here, empty and lonely. Now there are other houses, too, but I feel scared anyway. Vulnerable. Too many windows and doors, too many ways for someone to get in. Yul Brynner and I are curled in bed, and I’ve done all my nighttime rituals—no devices for an hour, washed my face, meditated—but I’m still lying here in the dark, hearing things.
The wind is blowing, so that’s probably why I hear creaking and slamming and all the other terrifying noises I log in my book of terrors. Yul purrs beside me, low and soft and comforting, but if someone broke in, would they hurt him, too?
As happens so often, a visceral memory of the attack suddenly arrives and reels out in perfect detail.
Someone had thrown a bag of trash onto my sidewalk, and muttering under my breath, I padded outside to pick it up and dispose of it properly.
It was a beautiful morning, just after dawn, and I admired the way pinkish light brightened the cream walls of my neighbor’s house across the street. Jacarandas bloomed on both sides of the street, soft purple, so pretty and strange, like Dr. Seuss had planted the trees in LA.
I felt good, thanks to a new yoga teacher, who was helping me work out the kinks in my aging back and hips, and a regimen of cannabis chocolate at bedtime. The world was quiet aside from a pair of finches chirping in the boxwood hedges that bounded the property, and I took a moment to stretch in gratitude, thankful for my soft pajamas and bright, fancy silk robe and the new haircut that had taken off so much extra weight.
Every detail is seared into my memory. Feeling so peaceful.
They must have been crouched behind the bushes, because I didn’t even see anyone before the first blow landed, something hard across my upper back, knocking me to the ground. My palms dug into the earth, and another blow landed against my head. I cried out, covered my face and ears as feet slammed into me, into my ribs, into my skull. I scrambled to my feet, screaming at the top of my voice, but somebody yanked me by my hair and I hit the ground again. A fist or a foot or something landed in my belly, doubling me over, and another hit my head, and then—
Nothing.
Sweat soaks my back, and exasperated, I fling the covers off my body and turn on the lamp by my bed. It casts deep shadows in the corners, and I get up to turn the overhead light on, too. Compulsively—I know it’s compulsive and yet I can’t stop, which is I guess the definition—I round the entire house turning on lights and opening closet doors to make sure they’re empty of malevolent humans. I check the doors. All locked and bolted. Yul Brynner tags along, curious, his tail in the air.
I thought it would be better here, but it appears my anxiety has followed me, fully clothed, after finding the squirrel.
Assured of momentary safety, I go to the kitchen and turn on the kettle. When Phoebe and I were in our early twenties, I lived in LA and she was going to art school in Seattle, so both of us were swamped and unsure of where our lives were going. We kept our connection by sharing books and ideas via letters and the rare, expensive phone call. One of the books we read was about tea, the multitudes of styles and ceremonies, and we spent the entire year experimenting with various infusions, and black and green teas. Both of us now eschew coffee for the more nuanced (in our opinion) layers of tea.
My stock is a bit weary, but I find an herbal blend of chamomile and peach bits. The scent eases my tension, and I stand at the counter waiting for it, looking down the dark coast. A light is on in the studio, but I know Phoebe must have left it on. She wouldn’t leave Jasmine alone.
The light serves to reveal the space, however: the big table in the middle of the room, the easels, the faded carpet. The windows must be new, because I don’t remember them being so clear or solid.
On the table is artwork of some kind, but I can’t see the details from here. The sight of it makes me ache, ache for the sense of belonging I found there, with Beryl and Phoebe, and sometimes Joel.
Joel. Being here makes me miss him, even if it’s been decades since we were so forcibly parted. I wonder where he is, how his life has unfolded after he went to juvie for burning down my dad’s church. It couldn’t have been easy for him as a youth of color, in what basically amounted to prison for teens.
I move my head in a circle, loosening my neck. Joel. My father. That terrible—
No. There are enough issues I need to resolve without going back to all that.
But maybe I should go back to painting and drawing. Beryl taught both Phoebe and me, and while art became her career and I haven’t picked up a pencil to draw in decades, I did always enjoy it. Not as a career—early on, I knew I wanted to act. We thought we would move to New York City and find an apartment and become famous and always stay best friends.
I did go to New York. Phoebe went to Seattle for art school, but never finished. By then, I’d spent years in school plays and had an eye toward Broadway.