Queen of the Oddballs (16 page)

When I go to the locker room to dress, I discover a note has been left in my locker. Written in the same scrawl, on the same yellow paper, with the same purple pen as the last one, this one says:

I race up my street just in time to meet Nora who has brought with her a Middle Eastern take-out feast: chicken kabobs slathered with a thick, garlicky paste; baba ghanoush; falafel balls; and neon pink pickled turnips, which I take off my plate and put on hers.

I tell her about the hunt, asking if she’s behind it, but she becomes distant. She’s convinced it’s from Danielle. I tell her that the last note I received makes me think it’s going to continue tomorrow, and she gets annoyed. She’s made a 10:00 a.m. brunch reservation, and since she only has until 3:00 p.m. to be with me, then I go off with Danielle, she wants to make sure she has her time. I assure her that even if the hunt continues, I’ll keep our plans.

The next morning the phone rings at 8:00 a.m. and this time it’s “Mrs. Street,” a woman with an English accent. She instructs me to go to my “next destination,” the Sunrise Villa on Fairfax and Melrose, and to be there no later than 9:00 a.m. When Mrs. Street won’t tell me who’s behind this, I ask her to thank whoever it is but to inform them that I won’t be able to go. After I hang up I grill Nora and, once again, she swears she knows nothing. Then, unexpectedly, she tells me I should continue with the hunt.

“Why? We have plans.”

“You think I’m gonna stop you?” she says. “No way. You’d only resent it
and
me. We’ll go to brunch after.”

I thank her profusely for understanding, all the while wondering if I’m being had. I find Sunrise Villa in the phone book, call back Mrs. Street, then head out to destination unknown.

Sunrise Villa turns out to be a retirement home. All my friends and lovers are aware of the soft spot I have for old people. Those moments of vulnerability where authenticity peeks through touch me at my core. Or perhaps being sent here is to put my birthday in perspective? To show me that as old as approaching thirty feels now, it’s so young in the scheme of things.

“You must be Hillary,” a woman says in the same British accent I heard earlier on the phone.

“Mrs. Street?”

“Yes, come with me.” We walk down a hallway that smells of disinfectant and burnt veal.

“Could you just tell me who sent me here?” I ask. “
Please.
”

“Sorry.”

Before I can probe further, she throws open a door to a large, barren room full of old men and women, most in wheelchairs. They look right at me and burst into song. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you….”

A nurse wheels an industrial silver cart toward me. I start crying as I look down at a cake, candles aflame, with icing that reads: “Happy Birthday Hillary.”

“Happy birthday, dear….” The elderly folks stumble over the name, no one quite sure who they are celebrating. “Happy birthday to you.”

Then comes the chanting: “CAKE. CAKE. CAKE,” they demand as they tap their hands on tables and wheelchair arms.

A tiny woman in a big yellow sunhat calls out, “Make a wish, make a wish.”

I close my eyes. What do I even wish for? That I find out who sent me here? That Danielle and I get back together and make it work? Or that my heart forgets about her and gives itself over to Nora?

I know.
Clarity.
I will wish for clarity.

I blow out the candles.

I spend an hour with Lil and Harriet, Marvin and Troy, and the rest of the seniors who are thrilled to have company. I hear tales of lives lived, love discovered, and hearts broken. When I leave, I thank everyone for making my birthday so special and vow to visit again.

Mrs. Street meets me in the foyer. “You’re to call home now,” she says. “And happy birthday.”

I beep into my answering machine and listen to seven birthday messages—the first from Danielle, then my mom and dad, Howard, my old friend Greg, and two other friends. The last message is a familiar voice—it’s
Mrs. Street,
who happens to be standing just three feet away from me. Amusing.

In her proper British accent she says, “A bear has shit in the woods. Can you find him? Try Griffith Park.” By the time I hang up, Mrs. Street has vanished.

I call Nora and tell her of my dilemma, of the puzzling, indecipherable next clue.

“Go ahead and just finish whatever this is,” she says, trying to conceal her upset. “But if it goes past my time, I think you should reschedule Danielle for later. Don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Thanks for being so cool.”

Relieved, I head to Griffith Park. I remember seeing a statue of a bear at the Los Feliz entrance. When I arrive and find the statue, I see an envelope placed under the bear’s ass. Inside the envelope is a small key and a note:

My heart begins to pound, my mind races. This is it, I am sure, the moment I will discover who the genius behind “The Case of the Inexplicable Birthday Treasure Hunt” actually is. Will Danielle be standing there, begging me to come back to her? Or Nora, helping me to forget all about Danielle? Or maybe it’s someone I haven’t even considered? It could be anyone, I realize, and it’s about time I found out.

I continue up the path and approach an oak tree. I scream when I suddenly see someone I know very well—in fact, it’s someone I have been living with for seven years. It’s Sally—
a child mannequin from my collection of department store mannequins.
She’s chained to a tree. I fall to the ground, laughing my ass off.

When I calm down I discover a note pinned to my old sixties Snoopy sweatshirt that Sally wears over her tasteful vintage corduroy jumper.

I unlock the lock with the key from the last envelope, then unwrap twenty feet of chain from Sally and the tree. I drape the chain over my shoulder and continue on, carrying Sally. What a sight I must be, a stunned grown woman draped in heavy chains, carrying a child mannequin, counting paces, and staring at backwards writing, talking out loud: “TFEL KOOL. Look left!”

And I do. There, on a fence, is a large sign written in black marker.

I turn my head to the right, and see a pile of rocks, with another note on the top of the heap.

I creep along, checking the bushes, waiting for someone to appear. Sally and I sit on the bench. When I look up, I see another huge sign tacked to another aged oak tree.

I lean over, and, just as I’m about to nab the manila envelope beneath the bench, my hand touches someone else’s hand. I sit up fast.

Standing next to me is a middle-aged man in a baseball cap, his eyes droopy. “Hey!” he says at the same time I do.

“That’s for me,” I declare, wondering if he’s just a plant, all part of this cooked-up scheme.

“How do you know it’s yours?” he asks defensively.

I point to the clue in my hand, the chains draped over my shoulder and the mannequin I’m sitting next to. “DUH!” I can’t help but say.

He looks disappointed but hands me the manila envelope and walks away.

There’s a Dynamo label stuck on the front of the envelope that makes me shiver. It’s as if someone was listening to my birthday wish at Sunrise Villa.