Girl Act (18 page)

The thought of returning her love letters to some kindhearted, elderly gentleman humbled me.

I was carrying the two stuffed TJ canvas bags towards Laurel’s house when I realized that I hadn’t checked back with my dad about the dog-mutt. My father doesn’t text, doesn’t email, and avoids the phone at all cost; he prefers snail-mail, but I’m used to that. Good news is always welcome, and there it was: my father in his favorite wrinkle-resistant button-down shirt (his style is L.L. Bean meets L.L. Bean), brown chinos, and Rockport shoes, walking dog-mutt outside his building.

“Hi there,” I said, hoping my father would realize that I needed a hug, but he didn’t.

“I’ve named him Twist, because Twist reminds people of the continuation of man’s need to own man. That slavery hasn’t perished. That there are countries that still practice it; Oliver was an owned boy, he was a slave, he represents man’s worst trait—”

“Twist is a cool name, Dad,” I said interrupting him on purpose.

He had found a local pet store to buy healthy dog food.

“So, you’re keeping the dog?” I asked, because it was funny to see my father so attached to anything that wasn’t a book.

“Are those the letters?” he asked, ignoring the obvious. I told him how Aunt Helen had asked me to return her love letters.

“Love letters? Good luck finding him,” my father said, as he and Twist trotted off in the opposite direction.

Suddenly I felt furious. He really didn’t care about talking with me, and clearly was relieved that I had to return the love letters instead of him. At least some man had been writing her love letters. But why hadn’t she told me about him? Why not?

I hurried back to Laurel’s to drop off the bags, grab Shadow and to go for a long walk to get rid of my confusion and the sadness that was mounting inside of me. There he was in her driveway, cutting slabs of wood, with my dog Shadow sitting happily a few feet away.

“What’s going on?” I asked, annoyed.

“Hello, I’m Tristan,” he said, British accent full-on. He babbled about what a cool dog I had, and how Laurel had requested an addition to the porch to be added for her wedding.

“Wedding?” I asked, dumbfounded. I mean, she had just flown off; no way could she be getting married yet, not before me.

“Oh, luv, didn’t you hear? She’s getting married to a divorced Italian banker, his third marriage, her first. Should be a jolly one, this time round,” he said. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing ‘jolly’ about it.

“How come you know before me?” I asked, like any third grader would.

“Check her Facebook page, silly,” he said, as if he was a schoolmaster.

Damn it! I stormed into the open house, followed by Shadow and Tristan. What a dumb name, but I didn’t bother telling him. He threw his blue jean shirt in the room opposite mine (I was staying in Laurel’s bedroom).

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m your new roommate, staying until the job’s done, she returns and gets married in the back yard,” he said.

“Great,” I said and I didn’t mean it.

A roommate? I felt like kicking him out—instead, I slammed Laurel’s bedroom door and flopped on her bed, ignoring Shadow scratching at the door. I grabbed my Apple ipad and looked at my Facebook messages. Three dozen postings with color photos were from Laurel about her ‘Italian-style’ American wedding, to be held at her Cambridge house in two weeks. Two weeks?

That’s when it really hit me. “What happened to my Hollywood dreams? What happened to my life? What the hell happened?” I glanced at the canvas bags of love letters I had dropped on the floor and cried. I couldn’t help it. Everything seemed so messed up.

Sometimes I re-watch the movie
Bonnie and Clyde
; there’s a scene at the end of the film where they’re setup to be gunned down by the cops—and they look at each other. They know it’s over, but they look into each other’s eyes, and I think they’re saying, “I love you, you love me.” And then I imagine Jill and Finch on that open, wide, beautiful southern American road—but just before the car careened into them, I picture Jill and Finch looking at each other. They’re not holding hands, but their eyes are locked, as if to say, “I love you, you love me.” That’s how I picture their final moment.

When I think too hard, I usually fall asleep, and that’s just what happened, deep sleep. Okay, so I woke up not feeling really rested, and in an extra grumpy-mood. Everyone was on my shit list including Shadow who had seemed so happy with Tristan. I marched out of Laurel’s bedroom into the smell of home cooking. Yup, Sir Englishman was standing at the stove in the gourmet kitchen that Laurel’s parents had designed, with Shadow watching his every move.

“Still sour?” he asked. A comment which only made me extra mad.

I ignored him and walked to the fridge, removed a fancy bottle of water and marched out. Drat, I wanted to stop myself, but really, I was on autopilot ‘bitch’ mode. I went into Laurel’s bathroom with the sunken, double-wide tub and poured lavender bath salts in it. I locked the door and called my father’s machine. I knew he wouldn’t pick it up, so I could leave a nasty message. It went as follows: “Dad, you and your brothers and sisters did nothing to help aunt get love, she never got to get married and you and everyone else GOT EVERYTHING. I hate you for failing her. I hate you,” I said, and I hung up.

Then I called Paloma, because when I spin out of control, I always call my first best friend, and she always helps ground me.

“Oh, girl, I’m going on date number eight with the Argentinean filmmaker. He might be Romeo,” she shouted into my cell phone. Wow, suddenly that made two best friends with new men and me with none. Double drat!

“Where’s Argentina anyway?” I asked, feeling sorry for myself and totally dim.

Paloma laughed, “You loca today or what?” she asked, in that tone only she can use with me.

“I would hump the doorknob at Bellevue, if they’d let me in,” I said, which meant I was extra, extra crazy. I told her about everything and she said, “Oh, me, oh my, oh no,” over and over, which made me feel really listened to. Paloma can do no wrong.

“Shut your mouth for twenty-four hours. Say nothing mean or nasty, and put your love necklace back on, stupid,” she said.

How did she know I had taken the ‘love’ necklace off? Then she told me that being unhappy helps nobody, and that my Aunt Helen needed sunshine, not a tropical emotional storm.

“Okay, message received,” I said, and then I asked about the filmmaker. She told me that he made independent films, and that he was 5’8”, with beautiful skin, a mohawk, and a beard (a full beard). That was a surprise, the full beard. Paloma laughed when she said what a good kisser he was and that she hadn’t slept with him, because she had decided to hold off til ‘true’ love was in place. Wow, did my first best friend just grow up without me? Can I catch up to her? I hung up and slid into the hot bubble bath to purify my angry, black-and-blue mind. Also, to get rid of my pity; pity parties only last so long—and mine needed to end.

I found my new roommate on the living room couch, listening to David Gray singing
Lately
, Shadow beside him. I scurried into the kitchen, made some tea, and then sat down across from him. He looked over, winked, and then went back to reading the
New York Times.
Tristan is 5’9”, lanky, with stubble on his chin, short dark brown hair, (think that English actors Jude Law and Alex Pettyfer had a son, I know that’s not possible but just image their looks mixed into one). His style is happy-camper/carpenter. He’s highbrow with a bit of lowbrow tossed in and seems to have that ‘I’m content’ attitude.

I felt like a wet mop next to him, but I had on my ‘love’ necklace, a black lace blouse, my black jeans with ‘GOOD VIBES’ sewn down the back leg, and my Steve Madden black leather pumps. My hair was wet, styled with a little Paul Mitchell. I was following Paloma’s rule of saying nothing negative—which meant I couldn’t say a thing. He got up and returned with a tray of hot food.

“Oh, God, do I deserve this?” I asked in my mind, but I said, “Thanks, I’m really hungry,” and he nodded and went back to reading. Shadow watched me, but he was stuck on Tristan, and didn’t move from his spot. Okay, so I’m not the best at following directions, because after complimenting him on his cooking, I asked, “Are you one of Laurel’s ex’s?” He laughed. Laurel’s always had international men, whereas I’ve had American plus American times whatever. So it seemed natural, because Laurel always ends things nicely—she knows the art of romance and the art of ending romance. Go figure.

“She dated my cousin,” he said, and then added, “I’ve never even kissed her.” As if that mattered to me.

“Night,” he said, and sauntered out with Shadow following behind him. Okay, I was not trying to come onto him, but suddenly I freaked out that he might have thought I was. I wasn’t, I swear! So much for trying to straighten out my really ‘bad’ day for a better night and so much for having a loyal dog—thank God, there’s always tomorrow.

I woke up at 6:00 in the morning, feeling terribly lonely because of my strange set of dreams, so I crept out of Laurel’s room and opened the guest bedroom door. Tristan was asleep, and Shadow was on the rug below him. “Shadow, come on, come with me,” I begged, and my dear dog got up and ambled over. I hugged my half-Shepherd mix. His warm tongue licked my face, and I sighed.

“Anything wrong?” Tristan asked, with his eyes half closed.

“I had strange dreams, I don’t feel so good,” I said. That’s when he moved his pillow back and patted his bed, and I walked over. Second guy to pat a bed in Laurel’s house, but this time it wasn’t sexual—it was just comfort, and I welcomed it. I told him my dreams.

“My first dream was in 3D, it played out just like a movie. There was a very handsome man swimming across a clear, sea-blue ocean. He had been visiting his woman, who had long wavy, light brown hair and (she looked like a younger version of my Aunt Helen). As he was swimming away, I thought sharks were after him, and I became scared. Then, just like in a movie I could see under the water. There were white horses with grey wings swimming behind him. When the horses’ wings flapped, they looked like shark fins above the water. Two men hollered to him; they were floating in the same clear, sea-blue water, and they called out in British accents, “M’ Lord, M’ Lord,” and then my dream ended.”

“And your second dream?” he asked, now sitting up and leaning against the sham pillows.

“It was extra strange, but too weird to tell to a stranger,” I said, trying to wiggle out of telling him.

“You woke me up, the least you can do is tell me about it,” he said.

“Okay, I was in the Malibu home of a guy who looked liked like Shawn White, the Olympic athlete. He and I were about to go to bed together, but I told him we had to be in love, really ‘in love’. I went into his bedroom and his friends wanted to watch us, they wanted to be with us. The dream ended.”

And then I laughed, because Tristan stared at me like I was crazy and I felt ridiculous.

“I’m a big dreamer, that’s my problem,” I said. He messed up my hair, like you would do to a silly little brat.

“Good on you,” he said, pretending to be Australian.

I walked out of the guest bedroom and away from my new roommate. Thanks Laurel, I felt like texting, but I didn’t. I dressed, did my makeup and headed to see my Aunt Helen; she would solve my strange dreams. Well, not the second one, but the first. I was wearing my favorite pair of old blue jeans that she had sewn the words ‘TRUE TO SELF’ across the front of.

My father stood at the end of Laurel’s block with Twist at his side. I had left Shadow with Tristan. Oh, no. I felt shaky; I had blasted my father on his answering machine, and now he was ready to confront me. I slowly walked toward him, because maybe an argument wasn’t the worst thing in the world to have.

“Let’s walk,” he said, and we did, to the Charles River. That’s when he told me how he had listened to my message, and it had prompted him to go have a talk with his sister.

“You did?” I asked, because my father never wants to talk about anything that isn’t written in a book. Then he told me how he had arrived in the nick of time, because Aunt Helen had taken a turn for the worse, and he was with her when she breathed her last breath.

“But you never got to talk.” I said, because it was easier than thinking about her death.

“She was fine with her life, she told me so. She wants you to take the letters back to the girl,” he said.

“The girl? What girl?” I asked, totally confused.

“Your Aunt Helen had a teenage pen pal, and she wants the letters returned along with her goodbye letter. Leave it to her to try to help one more soul during her lifetime,” he said, and gave a heartfelt chuckle. Not as in ha-ha, but one of those laughs as if you’re smiling from the inside out.

“Pen pal?” I asked, “But, what about the love letters?”

“If she had those, which I’m sure my sister did, she destroyed them. She was very private,” he said.

We continued to walk.

“A troubled teenager, not love letters, that’s a bummer,” I said, feeling really ticked off, sort of ‘goosed’ by my aunt.

“Now, watch it,” he said.

And after that, we both went silent. My father doesn’t yell and he never uses crude words, he loves the English language too much to muck it up with toilet vocabulary, as he calls it. I remember learning the F-word for the first time—along with the word ‘shit’. Wow, it felt like being an adult, just to say them out loud when I was a kid.

“She wrote you a note,” he tapped his breast pocket. “There’s a letter for the girl in a brown envelope in the bag,” he added.

I held out my hand and waited for him to give it to me. I wasn’t mad at him, I wasn’t mad at her, I just felt so confused by my family, what little there was of it. No one really communicated fully. Not that I knew how to change that. He handed me her handwritten note and I shoved it into my Chanel bag to read later.

“My sister Helen is with my mother in the old kitchen, cooking. My mother’s got a quilt wrapped around herself; my father used to put her in a chair before going off to work in the coal mines. My other sisters and brothers are asleep, but I was watching from the stairs. Our mother was a kind, sickly woman,” he said, as if he was back in Des Moines, Iowa.