I Almost Forgot About You (21 page)

“We just found an adorable little bungalow-type house to rent in Bernal Heights, not far from his job. Is this cool or what?”

“It certainly is. I'm so doggone happy for you two I could shout! Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

“I didn't want you to think we've just been sitting around twiddling our thumbs when we've got a baby on the way. Hunter's very responsible, and we just wanted to wait until we had something solid and concrete to report. I think this qualifies!”

“It certainly does. So will you be able to move before my grandson or granddaughter arrives?”

“How does next week sound?”

“That soon?”

“Yessiree! Where are you now? I called your landline first.”

“On the 5 heading to see your grandma and her betrothed!”

“Well, tell them hello and that I love them both! Hugs!”

This is the kind of news that makes me not need music.

After another hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic, I look at my phone and see there's a text from Wanda:
Nelson's not breathing right and feeling pressure in his chest, so the paramedics are taking us to emergency. I'll call you as soon as I know something definitive.

I stare at the text a few minutes until I hear the trucks behind me start honking. I pull over and call Wanda back.

“Is Nelson okay?”

“I told you I'd call you, Georgia! Yes and no. Apparently he might have had a mild heart attack. But he's going to be okay.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the medic said it was a mild one.”

“A medic? They're not doctors!”

“But they have EKG equipment, and they know how to read it. Anyway I don't feel like debating right now, Georgia.”

“I'm sorry. But what can I do to help?”

“Just be careful driving, and I'll call you later or tomorrow. Sorry for scaring you. He's going to be fine.”

But then I hear her crying.

“I'll see you in a few hours.”

“I wish I had a calling,” I tell Wanda as we sit on a bench outside Nordstrom Rack. We're in Petaluma. At one of her favorite outlets, which she dragged me to in an attempt to cheer me up after Amen persuaded me to drop the price on the house by forty thousand dollars, since we haven't had a decent offer in four months. The good news is we're also celebrating Nelson's having made a full recovery. It turns out his blood pressure was off the charts, and he's going to have to get more physical besides just swinging a golf club, and he might even have to start cutting that little blue pill in half and stop trying to be such a sexual tyrant.

“Did you hear what I just said, Wanda?”

“No. Repeat it. My mind is on the dress I saw in this very store last week and didn't buy. I'm pissed because they don't have it in my size, and I should know that beautiful things disappear in seconds when the price is too good to be true. So what were you saying?”

“I said I wish I had a calling.”

“Oh, would you please stop whining, Georgia? You're getting on my nerves with this shit,” she says cheerfully.

“What shit?”

“Tell me why you quit your little upholstery class?”

“Because it wasn't fun. It was actually boring. The only thing I did like was the staple gun.”

“What'd you expect, Martha? You put some new fabric on an old couch or chair. Duh. I told you it sounded about as exciting as watching Korean TV, but you never listen to your smart BFF, so I'm not saying another word about any of your brilliant ideas.”

“I don't blame you. I'm getting on my own nerves. Change is hard, and sometimes I think I should just turn to drugs and stay high and not worry about a damn thing.”

“Sure, let's pick up some crack on the way home, why don't we?”

“Shut up, Wanda. You don't understand what it feels like to be dissatisfied with yourself. To not know if you're really good at something.”

“You know what, Georgia, there are millions of us who don't have a damn calling. And some people just do what they do and keep doing it until they retire and don't worry about it. Some folks don't even know what a fucking calling is.”

“I know that, Wanda.”

“I mean, either you're born some kind of prodigy or you're not. But some people do get lucky and find what they love doing by accident. I also know for a fact that a lot of people turn their hobbies into careers.”

“Not at my age, they don't.”

“Look at Martha! She started out on Wall Street and then started decorating her old barn house, or maybe it was just the damn barn, but anyway, then she started baking cookies and shit, and by the time she was in her forties, Martha was cooking her ass off and published that book on hors d'oeuvres and spending Christmas with her, and she got rich, and of course she had that little prison stint for doing what men who do the same fucking thing get away with scot-free, but then Martha came out and went back to doing what she loves, and the rest is history. So don't tell me what can't happen.” Wanda then throws her hand up.

“Okay! I get your point. But who would hire someone my age?”

“You know, sometimes, you don't sound like you even went to college, Georgia. That is about the stupidest shit you've said this week. I didn't think you were going to be
looking
for a job.”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“Look, huzzy, when you cash in from selling your house and your partnership, you should be okay for a while, don't you think?”

“At this rate there might not be any money from the house, and as long as I get most of my investment back from the practice, you're right, it should buy me some time.”

“You don't know how lucky you are. A lot of people would kill to be in your position. And for lack of a better cliché: Rome wasn't built in a day. I don't get the urgency. You need to make something and just have fun making it. Then see what happens.”

“I'm taking another class.”

“Please don't tell me it's making corny jewelry or lopsided pottery or that boring tie-dye that only babies wear or herbal soap with weeds inside it that makes no bubbles or those musty-smelling aromatherapy candles that stink up the house, because if you do, I'm going to take a macramé and a glass-blowing class, too.”

“What do you call your needlepoint?”

“It's called a hobby. But I'm not interested in making more of it than that. Besides, I know that most of them are ugly as hell and serve absolutely no purpose, which is why I let the dogs sleep on them and give most of them to friends like you, who put them in low-traffic areas so as not to hurt my feelings. You have no idea how many of them I donate.”

“Then why don't you find another hobby?”

“Because I like this one. It doesn't require much imagination, but it's relaxing, which is invaluable if you ask me.”

“That's not a good enough reason if you ask
me.
”

“I
didn't
ask you. Look, Georgia, everything you do doesn't have to lead to something bigger. So what class?”

“I'm thinking about furniture restoration.”

“Really? That sounds dirty and rough and loud and cancerous and disgusting, and you have to use heavy tools. What about your acrylics?”

I look at her. Then down at my nails.

“Whatever happened to that stool you were going to paint?”

“It's locked in a cabinet in the garage. I can't do any painting out there until I know where I'm going to be living in the near or far-off future.”

“Then why don't you get yourself a little studio?”

This time I roll my eyes. “Get real, Wanda. How many stools can a woman paint?”

“Then paint something else! Damn. You are so small-minded, Georgia. I used to think you had vision, but I'm on the verge of losing faith in your ability to think outside the box.”

“I need a latte,” I say.

“I think I'd much rather have a double shot of gin.”

Wanda buys another Golden Girls jogging outfit and a pair of last year's Reeboks but cannot find a dress she likes for some award dinner she has coming up. I don't buy anything.

On the drive home, we stop by a fruit stand.

“Have you spoken to Violet lately?” Wanda asks as we go from fruits to nuts to olives and cheese.

“Nope. She doesn't return my calls.”

“You know Velvet had that baby a month ago.”

“I figured. What'd she have?”

“A little boy. And he
was
little. Only weighed five pounds.”

“And she couldn't tell anybody?” I ask.

“You're still on her shit list.”

“Anyway, what's the baby's name?”

“I can't remember it. I think it's a natural disaster or a planet or some kind of vegetation or something. You know how these young kids name their kids after anything.”

“Is she working anywhere?”

“I'm not sure, and I'm not sure what she can do if she can't practice law.”

“Do you have her address?”

“Yes.”

“I want to send something for the baby.”

“I already did. From both of us.”

She pulls up to the drive-up Starbucks and orders our usual.

“Let's talk about something light,” I say.

“I haven't heard you mention any of the Talented Four in months. What happened, you changed your mind?”

“I'm not feeling as enthused about it as I was.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was probably a stupid idea.”

“That hasn't stopped you before. I never thought it was a stupid idea. I still think it's a very large idea.”

“Maybe. But I've got a lot more pressing things going on in my life these days, as you very well know.”

“And this makes you special?”

“It's nothing but the past, and it's over.”

“Well, what a surprise that is.”

“I'm trying to focus more on my future.”

“Well, I thought it was you, Ms. Psychology Today, who said your motive was not to try to hook back up with these men but to see how they've fared after all these years and to let them know you hadn't forgotten about them and that you were glad they were a part of your life or some shit like that.”

“But I
had
forgotten them. And apparently they've forgotten about me, too.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I'm easy to find.”

“Oh, stop, would you? You are really getting on my last nerve today, and here I was trying to cheer your ass up.”

“Well, you asked.”

“You should think about what Jesus went through, and then maybe you'll understand what real suffering is about and how the past does play a role in our present. Look the rest of the men up, Georgia. Finish what you started.”

“You may have a point.”

“To be very honest, I really don't care one way or the other, but this was your bright fucking idea, and if you don't look them up—since Nelson isn't acting like he's sick and shut in anymore and I've got a lot of free time on my hands—I might track the bastards down myself and send them a questionnaire, and this is what I'd ask them:
Do you
remember a Georgia Young? Was she a good lay? Was she crazy? Did she have a lot of unresolved issues? Did you love her? What made you stop? Was she a bitch? And what the hell happened to you? How are you these days? Did you become successful, or are you a failure? Did you learn anything from her? Have you ever thought about the huzzy after all these years? I mean, has she ever crossed your mind? And if so, would it have killed you to look her up just to tell her, “Hey, how you doing? I hope you're happy and have found your place in the world and a man or a woman to love and treat you the way you deserve to be treated, and I hope you're healthy, and it was nice having you in my life for that little bit of time we spent, and God bless you, Georgia”?

“Okay! Damn.”

The office is quiet. Everybody's left for the day except Marina and me. We often turn my office into happy hour. White wine.

Marina, who now has midnight blue streaks in her hair that I absolutely love, is twirling a clump of it around and around two fingers. Her lips are red. She takes a sip of her wine and sighs.

“Can you keep a secret, Doc?”

“Sure I can.”

“Mercury has to quit, but he's afraid you'll be pissed.”

“No I wouldn't. How soon?”

“Like so soon it may have already happened.”

“Spit it out, Marina.”

“He was offered a position in the men's department at Neiman's that he applied for centuries ago, and he said yes.”

“Good for him. So we'll just have to find a replacement. You know I'll miss him. Won't you?”

“We've become quite close.”

“How close?”

She rolls her eyes.

“You mean you slept with him?”

She nods, pivots, downs the rest of her wine, winks, and says good night.

But I'm not ready to go just yet.

I'm hungry. So I order Chinese.

I flip through a catalog I picked up outside my local grocery store:

Lifelong Learning: Personal Enrichment. As thoughts turn to warmer days, why not consider doing something just for you? Studies, time and again, show that at any age staying active both physically and mentally benefits both body and mind. Why not sign up for a class just for fun? Thousands of community members, your friends and neighbors, have taken and continue to take classes through our extension. Sign up! Get enlightened!

The yellow booklet is a little more than fifty pages. Knowledge is cheap. The least expensive class is thirty-nine dollars and the highest is two hundred. I have to admit I'm impressed by the categories:
Professional Development.
The first course listed is certified in IT networking to help you decide if you might want to pursue a real career, and it's offered by Cisco no less. Under
Enrichment,
you can learn how to sew, make soap and candles, tie-dye, bake and cook and even paint. You can become the next Ansel Adams: nature photography; learn how to understand your dreams, clean a house, and even how to stop procrastinating. They have a fiction-writing class that Frankie might like, and there's beginning belly and tap and line dancing! Decisions! Decisions! If for nothing else, it would give me something interesting to do on a Saturday morning.