Trouble (27 page)

I made coffee and tried to collect myself. I was completely scrambled and disoriented. I could hardly remember how to work the coffeemaker. Had the kitchen walls always been this sickly yellow? I had been gone only five days, according to the calendar. The kitchen looked as if it had been totally rearranged in my absence. The toaster had moved to the table; the coffee cups now seemed to live on a paper towel by the coffeemaker. I opened a cupboard and saw a box of Kraft instant macaroni and cheese, a can of chili, and three boxes of Pop-Tarts. I smiled inwardly at my own scandalized shock, struck by the absurdity of domestic living, the hubris of caring where the toaster went, the fact that my daughter’s nutrition had gone haywire for a few days.

I decided to re-create as closely as possible the breakfast I’d made the previous morning at Felipe’s. Again, the thought of him gave me a shock of sadness, a delayed reaction made more poignant by its tardiness. I sat at the table and ate my omelette with a side of heated-up canned black beans with pickled jalapenos. It wasn’t nearly as good as my breakfast the day before, but at least the coffee was better. I paged through the newspaper. It was New Year’s Day.

“You’re back,” said Anthony, padding into the kitchen. I stood up to meet him, and our arms went around each other. “Are you all right?” he asked, his mouth against my hair, his breath warm on my scalp.

“No,” I said.

I stood there in his arms for a long, long time, both of us breathing quietly, feeling each other again.

He released me finally with a grunt of strong emotion and put one hand against my cheek and kissed me. “Ariel and Wendy are still asleep,” he said. “They said they would be up all night waiting for you to get home, but I noticed their room got very quiet just after one o’clock. We stayed up to watch the ball drop on TV. I fell asleep shortly after they did. You must have gotten back at dawn.”

“It took forever from JFK,” I said. “New Year’s traffic.”

“I missed you,” he said. “We both did.”

“Mom!” Wendy yelled from the doorway. She pounced on me, hugging my waist while her friend Ariel, a sylphlike blonde who resembled a Victorian porcelain doll, watched self-consciously from the doorway.

“Hi, Wendy,” I said, hugging her back, amazed at the transformation five days had wrought in my daughter’s feelings for me. “There’s an omelette on the stove. Sort of Mexican food.”

“You made breakfast already?” Wendy asked, handing Ariel a plate.

“Hi, Josie,” said Ariel in her slightly smarmy voice. “I’m really sorry about your friend Raquel.”

“Thank you,” I said. “She was my best friend. The best friend I ever had, and the most amazing person I’ve ever known.”

“I miss her so much,” said Wendy. Her face looked a little puffy.

After breakfast, I went into the living room and lay on the couch and stared out the window while Anthony washed the dishes and the girls went into Wendy’s room for a teen conference, or whatever girls that age did behind closed doors. I rested my head against the arm of the couch, reached for the cordless phone on the coffee table, and thought about calling Felipe. I must have fallen asleep, because I was dreaming. In my dream, Raquel was singing in a spotlight on a bare stage. When I woke up, I had forgotten the melody, the words, but the sound of her voice stayed with me.

I heard water running in the kitchen, dishes clanking in the sink; I hadn’t been asleep for very long at all.

I got up and rummaged through my bag and found Felipe’s number and dialed it. As soon as I heard him pick up, I said, “Felipe!”

“Josefina,” he said. The sound of his voice instantly brought him back. “I read about Raquel this morning in the newspaper. Are you still in Mexico?”

“I’m in New York,” I said. “I flew home last night.”

“I was worried about you when I heard,” he said.

“I’m so happy to hear your voice,” I told him.

“How is your daughter?”

“She’s heartbroken. She loved Raquel.”

“It’s good you’re with her.”

“I needed her, too,” I said.

“I can imagine,” he said. “I’m glad you are safe at home.”

We were both silent for a while, breathing into each other’s ears. My eyes were closed.

“So,” I said finally, “I was really calling to tell you I wouldn’t be there for dinner tonight.”

“I know,” he said. “I understand.”

“I’ll call you again, okay?”

“I hope you will,” he said. “We’ll figure something out.”

“We’ll figure something out,” I agreed, and, with heartfelt difficulty, we said good-bye and hung up.

Wendy and Ariel emerged from Wendy’s room just then. Ariel had her backpack and coat on. She waved good-bye to me, then disappeared into the foyer as Wendy came and sat next to me on the couch. We sat together, curled up at either end of the couch, while Anthony fielded calls from reporters, friends, and other curious people who barely knew me or Raquel but wanted to hear firsthand what had happened. When I got up to make us some tea, Wendy put on
Big Bad
, and we listened to the whole album in tears, our untouched tea getting cold.

Anthony appeared in the doorway with the phone when the CD ended and said, “A reporter from
People
magazine.” He handed me the phone. For the next half hour, I talked about how funny and brilliant and wild she had been in college, told a few anecdotes about the Shitheads, her first band, went on about her stage presence and charisma, and described our recent trip to Mexico, omitting mention of most of the things we had done and focusing on her pride in her Mexican heritage and her love for Mexico City in particular. I predicted that her new album would be her masterpiece. I raved about it, even though I hadn’t heard one song on it.

“Was she very depressed in these final days of her life?” the reporter asked.

“She did not feel sorry for herself, ever,” I told her. “Things were very hard for her, but she was scrappy and self-determined. She wanted to go, so she went. It’s sad, so sad that I can hardly stand it, but mostly I just feel lucky to have known her and to have had her as my best friend.”

When I hung up, Wendy asked, “Is that true, that she didn’t ever feel sorry for herself?”

“Not really,” I said. “She was pretty down about everything this past week. But it’s what she would have wanted me to say.”

“So you lied,” said Wendy with a sneaky smile, nudging me.

It struck me anew that I seemed to have been admitted into Wendy’s inner circle; this made me so happy I could hardly bear it, even though it was probably due to reflected gossip-blog glory from Raquel; I was in no position to be choosy.

“A white lie,” I said. “Didn’t your mother teach you that those are okay?”

“I was impeccably brought up,” said Wendy. “I was told never to lie, even to avoid social complications or hurt feelings.”

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s wrong to lie, except when you’re talking about your dead best friend to a puff magazine.”

That night, Anthony stayed home, and Wendy and I dressed up in party clothes and took a cab to the Upper East Side with a chocolate cake I had bought at a nice bakery and a bottle of good rioja, in memory of my bistro dinner the night of my date with Felipe. I was looking forward to this evening, because in my experience, sitting shiva, like going to a wake, meant a big alcoholic party with a lot of good food, and I imagined it would be cheering to huddle together and drink with a whole bunch of other people who had loved Raquel.

In the taxi on the way uptown, Wendy said, “Mom, I have a question for you that I didn’t want to ask in front of Dad. Who was that guy in the pictures of you and Raquel at the bullfight? They were on Mina Boriqua’s site. He was that really, really cute Mexican guy and you two looked like you were sort of holding hands.”

I stared at her. “Wendy,” I said, aghast. “He’s a friend, Felipe, someone Raquel and I met down there. He’s part of a group of artists who invited us to dinner one night and to an opening. He was our host at the bullfight.”

“I was just curious,” said Wendy. “Really, Mom, it’s okay, you’re getting divorced. You should have some fun. I thought he was cute. Really.”

I stared at her with gratitude and a flicker of amusement. “Wendy,” I said, “thank you for saying that. I can hardly believe you mean it.”

“Of course I mean it. I never lie, except when I’m talking to a puff magazine.” She smiled wanly. I smiled back at her and took her hand. She nestled against me.

As I had hoped, Suzie Weinstein’s large, warm apartment was filled with people holding wine and cocktail glasses, and her dining room table was covered in catered food, silver chafing dishes, platters of crudités and hors d’oeuvres. The sideboard had been turned into a makeshift bar with an array of bottles and an ice bucket with tongs and dishes of cut citrus fruit, presided over by an officious-looking young man in a white shirt and tuxedo jacket. Suzie spied us and darted over immediately. She was, as Raquel had been, a teeny-weeny, sharp-eyed woman, but she didn’t have Raquel’s exotic brown-eyed beauty; she was blond, helmet-haired, and blue-eyed, and her nose was a tiny button, possibly due to surgical intervention. She was extraordinarily well preserved, also, no doubt, due to artificial measures.

“Josie,” she said, throwing her arms around me. She held me tightly for a moment. She felt exactly like Raquel, like a tiny tough bird. She let me go and kissed Wendy on the cheek. “I am
so
glad you girls are here.” She looked hectic and parched, as if she had been crying all day and was about to start again. “And what’s this you brought? You sweetheart.” I followed her stoical, bustling little form to the kitchen, where I was relieved of my offerings by one of the caterers. Then Suzie led Wendy and me into her plush chintz-covered bedroom. She turned and looked me in the eye. A flash of heartache passed between us. “I cannot stop crying,” she said, starting again. “I don’t know when I ever will. Maybe never. You never get over something like this, never.”

“I know,” I said. “I don’t know how I’m going to live without her.”

“I don’t know how any of us will,” she said.

“We’ll come up and visit you a lot,” said Wendy. “If you want us to.”

“Oh my God, do I want you to! I would love that,” said Suzie. “I hardly ever saw her, but I knew she was there, you know, and now I’m so absolutely lonely, I can’t stand it.”

“We’ll come whenever you want,” said Wendy, sobbing. “Every day if you want.”

When all three of us had finally managed to stop weeping enough to blow our noses, Suzie took us to the bar and instructed the bartender to take very good care of us.

“This was my daughter’s best friend,” she told him fervently. “Josie, you girls were so close for so long. She loved you more than anyone, except maybe her father.”

“She loved you, Suzie!” I said.

“Oh, she had a million problems with me,” said Suzie. She ran the back of a manicured finger under one eye to catch another tear. “I was too pushy and I could never say the right thing to that girl. I have to say, we weren’t very well matched as mother and daughter. I often thought we had zero chemistry, and that was our real problem.” She looked at Wendy and me. “I’m glad to see how close you two are,” she added. “You’re very lucky.”

Wendy said sincerely, “I know,” and put her arm through mine. My heart melted.

I asked the bartender for a glass of seltzer and cranberry juice for Wendy and a glass of wine for me. Indrani arrived then, looking flushed and distraught. She saw us all standing by the bar and made her way to us. I threw my arms around her and kissed her hard on the cheek. She clung to me for a moment and rested her head against mine, then we released each other, silently, with tears in our eyes. Suzie embraced Indrani and took her off to the bedroom to discard her coat.

“Indrani took me to lunch and shopping at Barneys while you were gone,” said Wendy. “She wanted to make sure I was okay. We had a long talk about you and Dad splitting up, and she was very nice and sympathetic. She talked about her own parents’ divorce. She said divorce is hard and that she’s there if I need her.”

“That was really good of her,” I said sincerely. “Divorce is extremely hard on kids, and you have every right to feel upset and angry with me.”

“I’m not angry,” she said. “I swear I’m not. You’re not really going anywhere; you’re just getting your own place. And you will be so much happier living apart from Dad. You already seem different to me. I even think of you differently now.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” said Wendy. “I think maybe living with Dad all those years sort of crushed your spirit. He’s not the easiest. He’s very wrapped up in himself. You were probably very lonely with him.”

“Wendy, how did you get to be so smart?”

“Precociousness,” Wendy said with a sly smile. “The curse of the New York kid.” I laughed, but she gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry to joke at Raquel’s shiva,” she added quickly.

“It’s okay to joke,” I said. “We need it.”

“You promise?”

“There’s no better place for a joke than a shiva,” I said. “I promise.”

Indrani and Suzie reappeared.

“That was great of you to take Wendy shopping,” I said to Indrani.

“I loved it,” replied Indrani.

The bartender handed Indrani a martini glass so perfectly full, the liquid trembled over the rim but didn’t spill. It looked icy and viscous. Two enormous green olives stuffed with pimientos rolled slowly against the oily bottom. Indrani held the glass carefully in both hands and took a quick gulp to lower the level. I watched, imagining how it tasted and felt in her mouth. I loved martinis, but for some reason I always forgot to order them. I had become such a lush in the past week, it was amazing.

Suzie’s face went very still; she put a hand on her breastbone and said, “Oh my.”

She stepped forward and was swept up into an embrace by a solid but slightly stooped man: Rafael Dominguez. Behind him stood a stout redheaded woman, his wife, Maryann, I assumed. She was holding a small suitcase, hanging back.

Raquel’s parents held on to each other for a long time, not saying a word, rocking back and forth.