I Almost Forgot About You (16 page)

“I kissed you once.”

Everybody's eyes light up, and his son gives him a high five. My daughters both look at each other and then at me and then at Grover and back at each other. Everybody's wearing a smirk. Hunter goes to get us all more punch.

“I have never kissed you in my life because I didn't kiss any guys until high school.”

“Did you kiss girls before then?” his son blurts out, his eyes now dreamy.

His dad places his hand on top of Grover III's. “Watch yourself, son.”

“I didn't mean it the way it came out, ma'am. I'm sorry.”

“No harm done.”

And this is when the party starts.

We eat dinner. OD on punch. The kids watch these seniors dance to songs by Barry White and Sam Cooke and Al Green and Nancy Wilson and Aretha, and when Gladys Knight's “Midnight Train to Georgia” comes on, before I can think about shaking my head, Grover Jr. gets up and walks around to my chair and holds out his hand and says, “We have to dance on that song, or how will we ever forgive ourselves? May I?”

And I get up from my chair to dance with my new brother.

We sing the traditional birthday song and clap as Ma blows out the 8 and the 2 and a tiny white candle to grow on. She cries when she opens the scrapbooks that I finally had digitized and presses her hands softly on top of them and then pats them. Of course there are boxes and boxes of See's candy that I pray she doesn't eat. At least five Lee Child thrillers, because she says she loves Jack Reacher. And cash, because she's told everybody she couldn't be bothered with gift cards. Grover gives her a small diamond ring that she holds up before putting her hand on her chest.

The party is supposed to be over at ten, but my daughters and Hunter leave about nine thirty, because Estelle says she needs to be on the road by six the next morning. Ma and the elder Grover are over by the door saying their good-byes, and I've been sitting here trying not to fall in love with Grover Jr. every time he smiles, which has been a lot, and I'm surprised when my breasts start throbbing after he tells me he lives in New York and was a stockbroker for almost thirty years but took early retirement because he was simply burned out.

“How'd you know you were burned out?”

“Well, maybe burned out isn't entirely accurate. I was tired of thinking about money. I was tired of being driven by it. Tired of worrying about it. But especially tired of losing it.”

“So does that mean you don't have any?” I ask in a tone meant to produce another smile, and it does.

I hope this doesn't constitute flirting, but if it does, I'm certainly not doing it on purpose. At least I don't think I am.

“I'm not as dumb as I might look,” he says. “I still invest, but now I'm trying to find a new road to travel on. How about you? My dad told me you're an optometrist.”

“I am.”

“Well, that's a respectable profession and probably low on the stress Richter scale.”

“True almost to a fault. I'm not burned out, just bored and hoping to try my hand at something else next year.”

“Try your hand at what?”

“That is the question I'm hoping to find the answer to.”

“Well, if you had your druthers, what would you rather be doing?”

“I don't know what makes sense.”

“Why does it have to make sense?”

“Well, I'm not rich. I can't just decide to start doing watercolor. What about you, Grover?”

“I'll admit it. I'm confused as hell about what to do next with my life, but I know I've still got time to find it.”

“That's a healthy attitude.”

“I don't have much of a choice, because I'm not ready for a rocking chair. Like father, like son!”

I laugh at that one.

“Seriously, do you have any hobbies?”

“Nothing I do on a regular basis.”

“I didn't ask you that, did I?”

“Isn't that what a hobby is?”

“Not in my dictionary. I'm talking about something you do that you get a lot of pleasure from when you're doing it. And not sex.”

We both laugh at that one.

“What about you?” I ask.

He slides that rickety white chair a little farther away from the table. We're both noticing how few people are left and the small crowd gathered around our parents by the exit door. “Okay, while you think about it, I'll go first.”

“I'm all ears,” I say.

He taps his fingertips a few times on the table. Smiles. And suddenly stops. “Back in the day, I used to love coaching youngsters in basketball every Saturday morning without fail. But then I was in a bad car accident and broke my femur and tibia and didn't know if I'd lose my leg. As you can see, I didn't, but I just haven't gotten back to those kids.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. Too preoccupied with my own problems, and I suppose I've just become entirely too damn lackadaisical.”

“Doesn't sound like it.”

He waves his hand as if to blow me off.

“So think for a minute about something you used to do or wish you could do more of if you had the time or took the time that you'd get a major charge out of if you didn't have to worry about money.”

“Who doesn't have to worry about money?”

“Okay. Pretend for a moment that you don't.”

“Then it would definitely be painting furniture and making pillows and some kind of decorating.”

“So when was the last time you did any of them?”

“Don't ask.”

“I just asked.”

“Suffice it to say it's been a while. I've got a lot going on in my life.”

“And this makes you unique?”

“If I had all the time in the world and could do any or all of these things or even discover new things to create, I would, but I can't make a living doing any of them.”

“You don't know that, now, do you?”

“No, I don't. But I'm also in my prime and speeding right on through it.”

He just shakes his head at that.

“It sounds like we should both go to one of those places in Santa Fe with Deepak or on one of those Eat, Pray, Love excursions until we find ourselves.”

I snicker.

“Are you two going to sit here all night?” Ma says when she and the elder Grover come to the table hand in hand. “The party's over, if you haven't noticed.”

“Maybe not for everybody, Early. Did you have a good time, son?”

He nods a yes.

“Did you remember him, Miss Georgia?” his dad asks.

“No, she did not,” Grover Jr. blurts out.

“Well, if she's anything like her mother, you have to give her a good reason not to forget you. Good night, you two.”

“Good night, and happy birthday again, Ma,” I say. “And I'll see you later.” As I stand up to kiss her, she gives me a
Really?
look.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Dad.”

And our parents waltz outside.

“Are you staying with your father?”

“There's not enough room in his place for two big men.”

I can't even comment.

“I'm staying at the Four Points. Are you staying with your mom?”

“Nope. I'm at the Four Points, too.”

“Great! You feel like having a drink?”

“Where?”

“There.”

“Isn't there something illegal and unethical and immoral about this? I mean, aren't you about to be my brother or something?”

He gets up from his chair and walks over and pulls mine out. When I stand up, my knees feel shaky. I am too damn old for this, and I know it. I haven't felt slutty in years, and yet it feels so good. I don't know if I remember how to have sex with a real man, and I certainly can't let him see me with the lights on. As I turn around and this hunk of a man hands me my black clutch, I realize I don't even think there's enough space between my thick thighs to let anything slide in there. But I'll give it the college try.

“I just asked if you'd like to have a drink. Where's your mind, young lady?”

“Young?”

“That's what I said.”

I follow him to the hotel, and we have a drink, and I must sound like I have Tourette's, because I just can't seem to shut up. He must be able to tell what's been going through my mind when he says, “Relax, Georgia. I don't want anything from you except friendship. I'm a happily married man. Your mother is marrying my dad, so we're almost family.”

WTF?

I close up like a clam.

But this isn't Grover's fault. How was he supposed to know I'm a hard-up, horny woman who hasn't sat next to a man at a bar in years?

I turn down the second drink and tell him that I'm exhausted but how nice it was meeting my soon-to-be stepbrother.

“Same here,” he says, and walks me to the elevator. “So I guess I'll see you at the wedding?”

I get on the elevator, smile, and wave good night.

Welcome to the goddamn family.

And I push 10.

“So what do you think about your soon-to-be stepdad?” Ma asks as I drink a parting cup of coffee. She's having mac and cheese for breakfast. “This is so good I might have to hide it from Grover!”

“He seems very nice. And I can tell he cares a great deal for you, Ma.”

“Cares? Are you crazy? He
loves
me. And the feeling is mutual. He makes me tingle. In fact—and please don't laugh—he makes me feel seventy!”

I smile and giggle for her, with her.

“Well, I just feel much better knowing you're not going to be living alone anymore.”

“What are you talking about? Grover's not moving in here, and I'm certainly not going to be living in his unit. We like visiting each other.”

“I didn't know.”

“We're close enough.”

“I see. Well, if it's not getting too personal, do you two ever have sleepovers?”

“If you're asking if we have sex, the answer is ‘As close to it as we can get.' I just enjoy the warmth of his body next to mine. I like it when he gives me a kiss. That's all I need. Does that answer your question, missy?”

“Yes, it does. On another subject, his son was very nice, and I had no idea we were in middle school together.”

“He's a good man. Too bad he's snagged. We could've made this a double wedding! That would've been fun.”

“Okey-dokey, Ma. I'm going to have to get on the highway.”

“What's your hurry?”

“I've got a lot of things to do.”

“Like what?”

Right then I realized I
didn't
have anything pressing at home, I'm just used to saying it. “I might go look at houses.”

“You haven't sold yours yet, so what's the hurry?”

“It's been a long time since I've looked at houses, and I figured I might as well get some idea what money can buy.”

“Do you not watch
60 Minutes
or read the paper? Don't you know how long you could be sitting on your house, especially in that bracket?”

“Of course I do.”

“Why would you want to buy another stupid house when it's only you?”

“I said I was starting to look. And I might not be by myself by the time I move.”

“Don't tell me you're dating?”

“I've had a few here and there.”

“Stop lying, Georgia. Not only don't you look like you haven't been on a date, but tell me this: When was the last time you had sex, missy?”

“That is none of your business, Ma.”

“How many years?”

“What makes you think it's been years?”

“Because you've got that unsatisfied look, and you've had it about four years. I've been counting.”

“It hasn't been that long.”

“It's not healthy to go this long without love, Georgia.”

“Well, I can't put a For Sale sign on me, now, can I?”

“You need to do something about it.”

“I'm trying to.”

“No you're not. But heck, maybe I'm wrong. Some women forget all about love when they haven't felt it in a long time, and I believe they're called spinsters. Is that what you're aiming for?”

I shake my head no.

“Then you need to let somebody know what you want.”

“Come again, Ann Landers?”

“Times have changed. You'll be as gray as me if you sit around waiting for your prince to pick you out of a lineup and sweep you off your feet. Men are stupid, you know. And they can't see for looking. How do you think I snagged your daddy and now Grover?”

“I didn't know you had those kinds of skills.”

“Seriously, Georgia. There is nothing wrong with asking a man out. All he can say is no or that he's not interested. It won't be the end of the world. Men are used to rejection, but it doesn't stop them from asking. Learn from them.”

She walks over and kisses me on the forehead, then gives me a big hug.

“Are you going to Michael's wedding?”

“He told you he intended to ask me?”

“He divorced you, not me. Yes. I hope you go. I always liked him, even though I know he hurt you. But you survived, because you're strong and smart. You need some joy in your life, Georgia.”

“And you think I'm going to find it at Michael's wedding?”

“If you can be happy for him, that would be a yes. Now, get out of here. Grover's taking me to Victoria's Secret! Just kidding. J.C. Penney is having a sale on everything. And now that I've got all this extra cash, I want to spend some of it. Call me when you get home.”

“Before you say no, just say yes,” Wanda insists. “Hold that thought. Nelson's calling to ask a silly question he already knows the answer to.”

I'm in downtown Oakland driving around Lake Merritt looking for a new BBQ place that's supposed to be close to where I get my hair done when I get it done. I don't know why they call this a lake when it's really a lagoon. And a gorgeous, heart-shaped one that's almost three and a half miles in circumference, smack dab in the middle of Oakland. I used to jog around it when I was in grad school. Berkeley's only a ten-minute drive from here. And right now the sun is setting and the water's surface looks like orange glass. I pass joggers and bicyclists and am once again overcome by yet another staggering sense of how-lazy-I-am shame. There's no valid reason I shouldn't be doing some form of exercise. People much older than me are doing yoga. I'm five pounds away from being fat, and I don't want to be fat, but I also know that since menopause has come and gone, it's been harder to lose weight. My long list of excuses is plentiful, but at some point reality is just reality. I finally get why it's so hard for drug addicts to kick their habit even when they want to. So from this day forward, I'm not going to keep using the same lame-ass excuses for not taking care of myself. And that's final.

“Georgia, you still there?”

“Yes. But the answer to your question is no,” I say, and start laughing. “Are we talking about another blind date?”

“You're the one who's blind, sweetheart. Anyway, I've seen pictures of him, and he's right up your clichéd alley: tall, dark, and handsome.”

“You and Nelson should let me check your eyes again, because your vision is clearly distorted based on all the other sex symbols you've tried to throw at me.”

“You need to stop thinking you still look like a Playboy Bunny, because the last time I saw you, your days of stopping traffic are long gone, Miss Thang. So shut up.”

“Some of them still slow down because they like thick chicks, so
you
shut up,” I say, being more sarcastic than anything. “Anyway, what's this one's name, and what's wrong with him?”

“His name is Richard Cardoza.”

“Is he Puerto Rican or Cuban or what?”

“Why? Do you have something against either? But to answer your question, he's Puerto Rican.”

“Well, if he looks anything like Ricky Martin, I'll pick him up at the airport. So tell me his story.”

“You're just too cynical, and I wish you'd stop, Georgia.”

“Okay. But you know how many times I've been through this, Wanda? You have no idea how much energy it takes and what it feels like to be in my shoes, going on blind dates at my age, hoping I'm going to meet someone wonderful, and it never goes anywhere. It's exhausting.”

“Oh, stop whining, would you? Have you ever thought maybe it might be you who has unresolved issues? You're not Miss Perfect, you know.”

“I know I'm not perfect, and I'm trying to own up to some of my shortcomings, which is one of the reasons I wanted to look into the men from my past to see if maybe they saw then what I'm just learning now or if I inherited some of my unnamed issues from them. So cut me some fucking slack, would you?”

“Okay. I'm sorry. I'm on your side, baby. But anyhoo, Richard is an interesting and decent man, and that's all I have to say. Google him when you get home. And by the way, we're having a few friends over for dinner to welcome him on his impending move to the Bay Area. He's an old colleague of Nelson's.”

“Aren't they all?”

“See what I mean? I wish I could slap you through this phone. It's next Saturday. Usual time. And wear something that proves you put some thought into it. Bye.”

“Wait! Don't hang up, Wanda! I need to talk to you—or a priest.”

“Is it about a child, an ex-husband, an ex-lover, or a house?”

“Maybe all of the above. How close are you to Lakeshore?”

“Why?”

“I was looking for that new BBQ place, but I've changed my mind, and now I don't know where I want to eat.”

“I can't believe you're turning down barbecue! Meet me at the Sushi House on Grand. See you in ten and order me some sake. Please.”

I'm proud of myself for turning down tender, succulent barbecued ribs with candied yams and potato salad, collard greens and corn bread, and probably peach cobbler to go. Nope. I'm having raw fish instead.

When I stop at the light, it's starting to rain, and I look over at the Grand Lake Theatre, my favorite art deco place to watch a movie. On top of it, the gigantic
GRAND LAKE
neon sign is lit up, because it's Friday. The lights stay on until the last show on Sunday. I'm glad some things that are old haven't been replaced.

I'm lucky and snag a parking spot right in front of the restaurant. I don't bother getting my umbrella, since my hair is synthetic and I'm wearing a trench coat. It was close to seventy degrees a couple of hours ago, but I'm sure the temperature has dropped at least twenty degrees. This is one of the things I appreciate about living in the Bay Area. You don't burn up. You learn to dress in layers or keep a sweater or a jacket in your backseat at all times. This is the beginning of the rainy season, which you live for if you're a skier, because three short hours north you'll be seven thousand feet up and can get out of your car and make a snow angel.

When I walk in, it's quiet and serene, and of course they're playing Japanese music that always sounds as if the singer is in pain. The waitress bows after I tell her that there will be two of us and no, I don't want to sit on the floor, because if I did, I probably couldn't get up.

I order a carafe of sake and pull my chopsticks out of the paper wrapper. As I'm looking over the menu, I hear a man's voice say, “Georgia Young?”

When I look up, I see a tall, somewhat good-looking black man in a black suit and wearing a nice pair of black-framed glasses. He looks vaguely familiar, but when I'm caught off guard like this, I'm off guard, so I just say, “Yes,” with some skepticism.

“You don't remember me, do you?”

“I'm trying. But forgive me.”

I hate it when people ask me that. I just played this guessing game with Grover Jr. I'm getting too old to remember everybody I used to know or once met, especially patients. I pretend like I'm trying to remember him. But what I'm really doing is praying I never fucked him back in the day when I drank too much. No. Because whoever he is, I know he's not on my list.

“I'm James Harvey. We were at UCSF together. You dated an old friend of mine for about two weeks before you slept with me.”

I'm trying not to laugh out of pure embarrassment, but I can hardly speak.

Then
he
starts laughing. “I'm just kidding,” he says. “We didn't go to any college together. Do you remember breaking your ankle at Vail, when we were both members of the black ski club?”

“Yes, I do. But I was pushed.”

“Maybe you were, but it was me who picked you up and stayed with you until the ski patrol came. How's that leg doing?”

Now I remember. Michael didn't want to go. He thought skiing was too bourgeois, even though he golfed—and this was probably before Tiger was in kindergarten. “Well, I'm able to put a little more weight on it.”

He doesn't react. I really need to stop being so self-deprecating.

“Do you still ski?” he asks.

“Nope. Gave it up years ago.”

“Well, I've seen you around over the years, with one or two husbands, but I didn't have the guts to say anything. Some men are insecure about other men knowing their wives in past lives.”

“Well, they're both casualties, or maybe I should say I'm a casualty. But oh, here comes my good friend who I'm meeting here. Do you have a card?”

“I do. I know you're an optometrist. I've wanted you to check my eyesight, just didn't have the nerve. But seeing you now tells me this may not have been accidental.”

“You might be right,” I say. But what else can I say?

I look down at his card. He's a cardiologist. In private practice. Did everybody in our age group go to law school and medical school or what? I want to meet a plumber or an electrician or a contractor. A man who does normal stuff for a living. Even still, I can't help but notice there's no ring on James's left hand.

“Hello there,” Wanda says, sizing him up before she takes off her red rain poncho, the one I find embarrassing. “I'm Wanda, Georgia's best friend and confidante. I should know you, but I don't. Are you a relative or an interested party?”

I grab her by the arm.

James is laughing.

I'm not.

“I'm not a relative, that much I'm sure of. We're old acquaintances, but I'm hoping to get reacquainted if at all possible.”

He looks down at me. If I were white, I'd be blushing.

“Would you like to join us?” Wanda asks.

“I'd love to, but I can't. You see that young man over there looking bored? He's my son. He's a college dropout. Biology wasn't his thing. But we're here to celebrate, because he's also a pretty good pianist and just got accepted to the Berklee College of Music.”

“Hot damn,” I say, and then, “I'm sorry. I meant to say that's wonderful.”

“Congratulations to your son,” Wanda says, trying to sound dignified for a change.

He smiles and winks. “At any rate, would you mind if I gave you a call sometime in the near future?” He pats those long cardiologist fingers on his black lapels and smiles. “I'm harmless.”

“No, she doesn't mind,” Wanda says, and I kick her under the table. “May I have your card, too?”

“Absolutely,” he says, and gives it to her.

She is not even close to being slick.

“That would be nice,” I finally say to him. “Do you live here in Oakland?”

“I do. Piedmont.”

“With your family?” Wanda blurts out.

I kick her again.

“He's my family,” he says, and smiles. “Enjoy your sake and sushi.”

“Wait, one last very personal question,” I ask. “Who makes your glasses?”

He chuckles.

“I have no idea. They're twenty-nine-dollar readers I buy online and then have my prescription put in. Good?”

“Smart,” I say as he heads over to sit with his son.

“Damn, so is he a blast from the past you never told me about, or is picking up strangers your new middle-aged move? Regardless, he's not so bad on the eyes, I must say.”

“Shut up, Wanda. He's not my type. Anyway, I met him years ago but didn't remember.”

“We've been through this before. But I don't think you know what your type is, and you need to forget it whatever it is, since there's no line of any type trying to get all up inside your castle, sweetheart.”

“And throw that ugly poncho away, would you?”

And after a couple more sake shots and no sushi, she says, “Maybe you'll have two men fighting over you. Okay. So anyway. I'll just tell you. Richard's a nonpracticing accountant and a practicing divorce attorney who lives in L.A. but is relocating up here.”

“Oh, Lord, not another fucking overachiever. Is he
from
L.A.? Because if he is, I'm not interested.”

“What a bitch you can be. But to answer your question: no. He grew up in New York, but his family lives in San Francisco.”

“Then be honest. What's wrong with him?”

“He's lonely, just like you.”

“Fuck you, Wanda.”

“No, I'm doing okay in that department. Nelson's on that little blue pill. You're the one who could use a magic wand.”

“You know what? I'm thinking maybe I should just settle for a loser, or someone who doesn't have any credentials at all. Or, even better, maybe I should find myself a revolutionary. Someone who believes in something besides himself. Like a cause. Someone who stands for something, sees the need for change, and keeps me up at night because he's trying to help me figure out the role I can play in changing the world, too.”