Love Is Red (13 page)

“Fine.” I smile.

But she's persistent. “So why that conversation?”

“I was reading
Where the Wild Things Are
and it came up.”

She relaxes. “Oh, I love that book.”

“Me too.”

Everybody, it seems, loves that book.

I look at Sael. “David told me that you had an imaginary friend, a woman? That seems unusual.”
I'll be the one to ask questions here.

“Well, I wouldn't have called her a friend; we just ‘hung out' a few times.”

He is straight-faced and it takes a moment for everyone to get it and start laughing.

“Touché,” says David.

Sael grins.

“It sounds like you were very evolved to me,” says Andrea.

Or maybe he had to imagine female figures in his life because his mom was so useless.

“I don't remember much. It was strange actually.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” he answers, pauses to think, and then, “I don't remember her talking. I think she just watched me.”

“Watched you? Sounds creepy.” Andrea looks at him, interested. “Could it have been an actual person?”

He shakes his head. “I doubt it. I saw her sometimes in the doorway to my room or sometimes on the side of the street. She never came too close. Long dress, long hair.” He half smiles. “Sounds like my imaginary friend was an ancient hippie. Now
that's
really terrifying.”

“And she just looked at you?”

“Well, I was a very beautiful child, obviously.”

We laugh; he does too; the awkward moment is over.

“And you guys? Any imaginary friends?”

Andrea shakes her head. “None to speak of.”

I feel that I have to represent the women; we look pretty unimaginative. “No, but when I was a kid a psychic got really excited about me.”

Andrea is intrigued. “When did you go to a psychic as a kid? I wouldn't have thought your mother would be into that.”

I've only told Andrea snippets about my mother, but even from those she can decipher enough. Mostly she's amused.

“Oh, believe me, she isn't! They came uninvited to her dinner party.” Like Sael, I realize.
Mother, for the first time I think I can sympathize with you.

“What?”

“They came with a friend of my stepfather's. She didn't even tell anyone, just brought in these two Asian guests.” I had come downstairs to forage for hors d'oeuvres when I heard my mother and Richard “call me Dick” fighting about it in loud, angry whispers in the kitchen.

“You mean this woman brought two uninvited guests to a dinner party? That's insanely rude.” Andrea is outraged on my mother's behalf.

“Yeah, but she was the type, someone people call a ‘character.' She had known my stepfather for ages. And I think she came from serious money, so people let her get away with all sorts of crap. She called herself Cherry. She was clearly manic, larger-than-life—you know, the kind of woman who wears turbans and eye-stinging perfume and could eat you like a prawn.”

“Turbans are terrifying,” says Andrea. “I'll give you that.”

“So the psychic?” Sael prods.

“Well, the gist of it was that Cherry had met him at some
retreat and had convinced him to come and stay with her.”

“What did he look like? Did he also wear a turban?” David is having fun.

“Hardly. He wore a black suit with one of those mandarin collars and little blue smoky glasses, John Lennon style, so you couldn't see his eyes.”

“Weird.” Andrea shudders theatrically.

“There was a woman with him who was gorgeous, really tailored dress, perfectly made up.”

I still remember her standing so pale and delicate among the white, suburban upper-middle-class guests, like an orchid surrounded by houseplants.

“Wait, who was the woman?” Sael asks.

“His translator.”

“Sure she was.” David gives an exaggerated wink.

I laugh. “Now that you mention it, I remember that Cherry didn't seem quite so keen on the translator.”

Sael is impatient. “So get to the good part already!”

“Okay, okay. I had spotted these smoked oyster things my mother used to serve sitting on a low table in the far corner of the living room. I was heading for them when the man grabbed my arm. Then he turns and says something to his translator. She looks at me and says, ‘Mr. Nakamaru feels a great energy coming from you. He would like to know more about the day you were born.'”

“Wow.” David seems impressed.

“I know, but I didn't know anything about that other than it was my birthday, so obviously it was the most important day in the whole world.”

“Obviously.” Andrea nods.

“So?” Sael prompts, refusing to be distracted by the side banter.

“So Cherry gets all excited, and she calls my mother over, who by that point looked like she was ready to kill everyone.”

Andrea is still sympathetic. “I'll bet.”

“And Cherry asks her if anything unusual had happened on the day I was born.” The room had grown quiet waiting for her answer. “My mom said nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but when the translator pressed her she said she thought there might have been a meteor shower that night.”

“And?” Sael leans forward, intently.

“And when the translator tells Mr. Nakamaru, he nods as if that explains everything.”

“And then what happened?” Sael stares at me and for a moment it's as if he and I are in a little restaurant together, exchanging stories that no one else will ever hear.

Finally his translator turned to me. I remember the strange blank gaze of Mr. Nakamaru's little smoky lenses, his soft voice carrying weight and meaning in the hushed room. It was oddly solemn—perhaps that's why the scene has imprinted itself so clearly on my mind. Perhaps that's why I can remember it, word for word. The translator's voice was light and musical, with only the hint of an accent.

“She said, ‘Mr. Nakamaru says that there are many great legends about meteor showers. Some cultures thought they brought great luck and others believed that a shower would bring doom. Some people see in them the hand of God, and others death and evil. One thing, though, is certain. Those born during this auspicious hour are known to bring great change and wield much power.'”

“That's a little abstract,” David remarks.

Andrea smiles knowingly. “Weird how he didn't go into specific details.”

“So what did everyone say?” Sael asks. I can't read his expression.

“Well, Cherry said I should be honored and that I was a lucky little girl, but I think she was mostly pissed because I was getting all the attention.”

“Ugh.”

“Pretty much. I was mad because Cherry had called me a little girl in front of all those people and I never managed to get any of the smoked oysters because my mother told me to go to bed.”

“The meteor shower does explain one thing,” says David.

“What's that?” Andrea and I ask together.

He bats his eyelashes dramatically as he takes my hand and kisses it. “Why you're such a shining star.”

“Awwww,” Andrea and I say, but when I glance at Sael his eyes are flat and cold.

“That's adorable.” Andrea stands. “Now let's clean up.”

I try to rise but she pushes me back down gently. “No, no, the shining star made dinner; the shining star gets to finish her wine first.”

“All right then,” I say, “twist my starry rubber arm.” I watch them all get up, groaning theatrically, and move off into the kitchen. Then I lean back and close my eyes. I think of the other part of that story, the part I have never told anybody.

I was on my way back up the stairs, still angry about Cherry calling me a little girl, when the translator stepped into the hallway. She walked to the bottom of the staircase and looked up at me standing three stairs above her. I involuntarily shrank away; I had no idea what she would want with me.

“Sorry if I startled you.”

“That's okay,” I mumbled. I looked down, embarrassed that I had been so jumpy. I saw she was smiling. She was so pretty and gentle I couldn't help but smile back.

“If I may ask you, what do you know of meteor showers?” She seemed genuinely curious. She spoke to me as if I were a grown-up, not some “lucky little girl.”

“They're rocks?” I hazarded. “Smaller rocks from comets?” Recalling Mrs. Wilson's fourth-grade science class, I grew
braver. “When they come too close to the earth's atmosphere they burn up.”

“That is right”—she nodded—“but our ancestors believed that they were signs from the heavens. They believed that the fallen stones held powerful magic. They built temples where they had landed and they worshipped them.”

“Worshipped them?”

Her smile widened. “Does it seem strange to you?”

I had half shrugged. I didn't want to seem rude. “A little?”

Accepting this, she nodded again. “Yes, though I think our ways would have seemed strange to them. What else do you know about the day you were born?”

“My father said—” I stopped, suddenly choked with shyness.

“Yes?”

There was no escape now. “My father said that I was special because I was carried into the world on a sea of stars.” My cheeks burned. I waited for her to laugh at me.

“Your father was right.” Her expression was grave.

I gaped at her, speechless.

She hesitated for a moment, as if choosing her words with care. “You see, there is a balance. The Greek philosopher Pythagoras described it as a universal harmony, a ‘music of the spheres.'” She saw my confusion. “The spheres are the planets.”

“Music?”

“Not that you can hear, but yes, a kind of music. The person who is born under this sacred time has the power to change that harmony, some would even say to end it.” She looked at me, and I realized that though she was smiling, her eyes were the saddest I had ever seen. “It is true that your line has not been lucky.” Her hand floated out to touch my cheek, her fingertips as light as snowflakes. “But as a wise man once said, ‘When there is life, there's hope.'”

Then she leaned in and whispered, “
You have a right to know.
”

Before I could respond, she bowed, turned, and walked back into the dining room, where Cherry was shrieking with laughter.

—and I hear further laughing and Sael's voice saying, “Watch it!” I open my eyes and I give myself a mental shake and head to the kitchen, where there's light and people and no old, unsettling memories.

Andrea's starting to yawn. She has a four-year-old so there is some excuse, but it's contagious and soon David and I are standing together in the hallway while Sael and Andrea say their good-byes.

“It was a wonderful meal,” he says.

“It wasn't bad, was it?”

He holds me in the safety of his arms. “I kind of wish we were at my place, though.”

“Me too.”

“Thanks again for handling that curveball so well.”

“No problem,” I say, and wince inwardly.

“Speaking of, I had better escort this guy home; it's dark out there.”

“At least neither of you seems like the Sickle Man's type, not being a single female.”

“You haven't seen me with a wig.” He looks hurt.

I laugh. We're being ghoulish, but occasionally you have to let go a little.

He gives me a kiss and looks at me. “Will you take care of yourself until I see you again?”

“How can I make any promises until I know when will that be?”

“Tomorrow?”

“I'll try until then.”

So this is what happiness feels like.

“It would have been cool.”

Andrea has come back into the kitchen. I'm doing a last go-over, making sure things are put away, not wanting to invite roaches. She's in her bathrobe and is pouring a glass of water from our pitcher, her back to me.

“What would have been cool?” I'm fuzzy from the wine.

“If he wanted to stay the night.” Her back is still turned.

I've never invited anyone to stay over. Theoretically I could, but I haven't. It always made more sense for me to stay at the guy's place: sleep in his king-sized bed, walk on his wooden floors, shower in his shower while using his soap, his masculine shampoos. I love sleeping at men's apartments. I love being there, feeling clean and newly made and exciting as if I have left all my woes and my mess behind and become a different person, an efficient woman who needs nothing but a toothbrush. The real reason, though, is Lucas. Lucas's large brown eyes watching strange men using the bathroom, sitting at the kitchen table, using a spare towel. It seems weird to bring some man into his home, his world.

Andrea doesn't talk about Lucas's father. “I want that chapter in my life to stay closed,” she'd once said.

I have a feeling things got bad, like really bad, like domestic-abuse bad. Things have to be pretty bad to move with a one-year-old, to New York.

It's hard not to see her primarily as a mother, but I sometimes wonder who Andrea was pre-Lucas. Andrea laid-back, drinking beer, Andrea sexy and ready to dance, who gets involved with the wrong kind of man, makes bad choices. Who knows what makes couples couple, what makes the heart flutter, the pulse race? I know more than anyone that stupidity can happen in the moment. I'm the last person to judge anyone on their choices when it comes to love.

I'm more familiar with the Andrea who works hard, Andrea the tired, Andrea the lawyer, Andrea the laugher, Andrea the wise friend, the tough but good single mother. Andrea, whose shoulders and voice grow tighter when she feels judged, as she so often is, by a world that doesn't seem to understand that the heart wants what the heart wants, the world that makes us pay and pay and pay. We weren't born only children, but it feels that way. I have stepsiblings but they don't count, and Andrea has a half sister with what social workers would call “serious substance abuse issues” and she would call “a drug problem.” Her parents are Christian, full-on Baptists she'd said, but apparently not the kind of Christians who would accept their unwed daughter or her son. She once told me she gave up on her family. “Nobody's turning the other cheek.”