The Last Place She'd Look (10 page)

Lila arrived promptly at 8 p.m. to drive to the gallery opening. Smiling while I opened her car door, as I got in, the chopsticks in my hair got caught in the top of the door, tugging at my head and pulling me back. After I maneuvered out of my near whiplash, I slid into the seat. Composing myself, I mustered a smile. Not a good omen.

We arrived at Bergamot Station, a former train station nestled in a nook of Santa Monica that was home to a series of quaint craft and art galleries. Packed with people, mainly older, single women, I felt intrigued and energized by their presence. It's one thing to be unattached and healthy. I can't imagine the mind/body angst of surviving cancer and seeking a partner too. I wanted to take in their life stories one by one.

Still not convinced I should be here, my eyes scanned people, looking at the edgy, emotion-provoking photos. Their comments and reactions were juicy entertainment. I was caught up in the theater of people experiencing art, sipping champagne; the obligatory actors, celebrities, and hunky guys. But the most interesting and attractive of the partygoers were the women over 50 who'd NOT had cosmetic surgery.

As I studied them around the room, I could only assume from my own eager-to-be-thawed iceberg existence that melting a mid-life woman could have avalanche-like repercussions. I thought they carried themselves with an air of boundless life experience, style, and grace, coupled with a treasure chest full of passion waiting to be unlocked. I felt magnetized to their hidden, untouched selves; the aloof, smiling facades they wore, like Academy Award nominees who didn't go home with an Oscar.

I sensed or maybe I projected parts of myself, envisioning that these were women with full lives and empty beds. Maybe they filled their lives
because
their beds were empty. I mirrored their highs and lows and wanted to reach out and touch them, hug them, and hold them close. Touching—that was the scary part. To me, and like me, most of these women seemed untouched for so long. Would they know where to begin?

Their past experiences and memories were with men in heterosexual relationships. Mine, too. It was clear why this group of women resonated with my friend Lila. In her tearful confessions to me over the years, separate from her cancer, all of her untapped passion and sexuality was on ice for a decade. Her aloof husband turned arctic after her surgery. It seemed criminally wrong.

I knew I had no right to compare myself to cancer victors. They faced life-threatening battles, surgery, and other tangible, painful horrors and losses. In this moment I was grateful Lila brought me here, to relinquish my self-pity. It had kept me from being present in affectionate moments and left me laughing at myself because my wants seemed unreachable and unquenchable. Would I ever get close, really close, to anyone ever again, or discover the emotional intimacy I craved whole-heartedly?

If I wanted to melt an untouched woman, I'd treat her the way I'd want to be treated, with a warm smile and lots of eye contact. But how would I approach another woman? Not every woman would be open to the idea—just ask Diana. She recoiled at the thought of two women together.

Sweeping statements about vague scenarios, talking about Virginia Woolf, or examples of other women, was a clumsy beginning. What about a lingering hug for hello or goodbye? These seemed to be feeble attempts to chip away at a female iceberg. Scary undertakings, filled with the risk of rejection. Would the rewards be like having a New Year's celebration with someone wonderful shuddering in your arms?

I observed women in the crowd standing alone, appearing radiant and glowing on the outside, masking inner, untouched yearnings on the inside. I believed they were eager to be thawed and warmed, resigned to the fact that no one would notice them. There were women linked arm-in-arm with men, receptive husbands, and companions. I saw other women wearing wigs, no doubt experiencing the trials of chemotherapy.

Captivated by an eight-piece photo study of women who'd had mastectomies, I stood transfixed in front of the portraits of women cannibalized by cancer, one breast missing, a long slither of a scar where a tear-drop shaped breast and nipple once resided. Another photo, a woman had tattooed a field of flowers over her scar tissue. All of them looked beautiful and strong. I wondered who was hugging them now.

“These are amazing, aren't they?” said a woman next to me. I glanced over and saw a small brunette with almond-shaped eyes and a very glossy mouth. Her breasts were poured into a burgundy leotard, offset by lots of silver jewelry and form-fitting grey slacks.

“Yes, there's so much courage in these portraits,” I responded.

“Cancer makes women courageous,” she added.

I moved to look directly at her. She was stunning, with the hourglass figure of a young Elizabeth Taylor, no evidence of anything cancer-related, like I'd seen in these portraits. “These women are beautiful.”

“Hello, I'm April,” she said, extending her hand to me, her bracelets clattering. As our hands touched, her eyes took me in, slowly and deeply, the way a smoker inhales the first puff of a cigarette.

“I'm Sara. What brings you to this event?”

“I'm a healer and a victor,” said April. We walked to the champagne table together. The din of other people's conversations faded away.

Chapter 13

Party Faces

The gallery crowd was growing, but all I noticed was April--animated and expressive, talking with her hands. When her jewelry clinked, it sounded like wind chimes.

“I know a lot of people here. Many are cancer survivors,” April said, beaming. “I had a bout with ovarian cancer, but I won! Now I help others to keep on winning.”

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“I'm a holistic practitioner. I work with clients keeping their lymphatic system healthy.” April raised her glass to me, took a sip, and then tilted her head back to swallow, revealing a long, ballerina-like neck. As we toured the gallery together, people nodded and smiled at her. I felt like I was on a dance floor with the prom queen.

Back to reality. I felt someone squeeze my arm. It was Lila.

“I've met a lovely woman and we're continuing our conversation over coffee,” she said, beaming. “Want to join us?”

“I'll stay here,” I said, thinking out loud. “I can't go now. I've just met an intriguing woman, too.”

“Good. I hoped you'd meet new people.” She giggled, touching my arm, then walked away.

Back to adoring April.

“Was she your date?” April asked, needing to know.

“She's just a friend.”

“Good.” April took my arm in hers as we strolled around the gallery. She was heady with charisma, like French perfume, and I was wafting in her essence. Everyone we saw admired her and stopped to chat; doctors, clients, gallery patrons. One woman wearing an elaborate hat kissed April on both cheeks. The two women embraced.

“Sara, Maggie. We saw her photo earlier tonight. She's the woman with the flowers tattooed on her chest,” April explained.

To Maggie, I said, “You're so beautiful.” I reminded myself that she'd had a double mastectomy. Maggie walked off to join another group of people.

“We've seen everyone and every picture here. What would you like to do now?” April asked.

“I have no car. Whatever you'd like to do would be fine,” I said.

The next thing I knew, we were driving to the beach in April's Jeep. It was midnight. The windows were open; our hair was blowing wildly as we listened to Maria Callas arias from
Madame Butterfly
. The ocean air was revitalizing and April's zeal was contagious. She parked a block from the beach in Venice. As soon as our feet hit the sand, she whipped off her shoes and ran, feet purposefully pounding into the sand. She grabbed my hand to run with her. When we got to the wet sand, she stopped, raised her hands in the air, and shouted with delight as the waves rushed over her feet. I copied her because the moment felt so right.

A few minutes later, April took a step back and exhaled. “Whew! See, that's energizing your senses,” she said. “One of the best parts of being alive.”

In that moment, I thought one of the best parts of being alive was being with April.

“Let's go,” April said breathlessly. I wasn't sure where we were going, but I eagerly jumped in the car. “Where do you live? I'll drop you off.”

I was disappointed that our evening—our adventure—was coming to an end.

After a short drive, we arrived in front of my house. I touched April's shoulder. Her hand warmly stroked the length of my arm. This comforted me. It wasn't an old woman's hand. She was a sensual, energizing healer eager to touch me.

“If I didn't have to see clients on Saturdays, I'd love to see you tomorrow,” she said. “Day after? Sunday brunch?”

I nodded. “Yes.” We moved towards each other for a friendly hug and polite kiss on the cheek, which became a lip graze, followed by little nibbles. I turned slightly, prompting a full-on passionate kiss. It felt strange to kiss someone and taste
their
lip gloss. But her lips were so soft and inviting, caressing and enveloping mine. Gentle lips, delicate tongue, breath increasing, I felt stirred with excitement and anticipation. Encouraged, she leaned in closer, her ample breasts pressing against mine, as if our clothed nipples wanted to kiss, too. They were warm and stimulating, something I could get used to. I wanted to touch her breast, wanted to know if my touch would excite her, but I held back. Too soon, I thought. Swept up in the thrill of our first kiss, in this moment, I was a giddy 15-year-old. I felt as if I was racing up a 100-story elevator and I'd rocket into the sky once I reached the top.

“I didn't expect that to happen,” she said.

“Me, either,” I mumbled.

“Did we like it?”

“Did we?” I was uncertain what to say.

“I did,” she said.

“Me, too,” I responded.

“I hope it happens again,” she said as we paused, looking at one another, smiling. “See you Sunday.”

Rather than being with some old man or some man-child who wanted me to watch
Star Trek
movies with him, April boldly took me where no man had gone before.

The following morning, I woke up and called Beth. “I kissed a girl last night — and I didn't puke afterwards.”

“Excellent progress,” Beth said, laughing. “What happens next?”

“Brunch Sunday,” I excitedly replied.

“I'm happy for you. Remember what Rodney Dangerfield said: Bisexuality immediately doubles your chances for a date on Saturday night.”

Chapter 14

Brunchin’ Babes

April arrived promptly at 11:30 Sunday morning, as sexy in daylight as she had been on Friday evening. She selected a healthy macrobiotic restaurant, Real Food Daily. I found the name of the restaurant to be humorous because the food was familiar favorites re-created from reconstituted soy products and tofu. The bacon and eggs I ordered were soy, somehow colored and shaped to look like bacon, and scrambled tofu, decked out and seasoned to resemble eggs.

In the restaurant, everywhere I looked I saw two women together, delighting in each other's company. Some were young, some old; some had similar haircuts. Suddenly I was in a women's world. Everyone was happy, chatting with her companion, not like some of the married couples I saw in restaurants for their Sunday night dinners, chewing in stony silence because they'd said everything they could possibly think of during the course of their decades of marriage.

I felt at ease, relaxed, not sure if it had to do with what was unique about April, or if it was just the magnetization of our estrogen. Either way, I chewed on fake bacon and enjoyed the day.

“How was work yesterday?” I asked, biting into seven-grain toast.

“One of my clients was an animator for Disney. She said my treatments spark her creativity. She sees colors racing through her mind during our sessions.”

“Wow, your work sounds magical,” I marveled.

“I help people work through traumas, and I do transformational healing.”

I sipped my coffee and gave April a long look, wondering what transformational healing she would perform on me.

After brunch, we strolled through shops in Larchmont Village, considering British soaps and trying on shoes. We both spotted sale signs at an athletic clothing store. We entered, tried on a few things, and bought matching yoga outfits. We walked arm in arm, carrying our shopping bags to the car.

“You know, there's a yoga studio right down the street,” April said. “We could wear our new outfits together for a class. I always have extra mats in my car. Let's go right now.”

Her spontaneity was infectious. The next thing I knew, I was in a downward dog pose on one of April's mats, wearing my brand new outfit. I agreed to everything April said from the moment we met, like a teen at a new school, trying to fit in. But in the moment, everything she said sounded right and felt so good.

After class, we both glistened with sweat. April's short hair was matted to her forehead and neck. “Let's go to my place for showers and cocktails,” she said. “All this clean living should be balanced with some alcohol.”

I agreed. We hopped back in the Jeep and cruised to her place, a modest two-bedroom apartment, feng shui'd throughout. Her second bedroom was a treatment room for clients and contained a massage table covered in a beige flannel sheet. The room was sparse and beige, too. She gave me a plush super-king-sized towel and ushered me off to her bathroom.

In her shower the water pressure was a hard pounding that eased my shoulders and neck. The walls steamed up from the warm water. I found a bottle of Aveda moisturizing shampoo and squeezed some out. As I was massaging it into my hair, I felt another set of hands on my head. I was surprised and delighted. Then I felt the warm heat of April's breasts pressing into my back as she kissed my neck. I turned to face April and greet her soft lips as they eagerly engulfed my own, kissing passionately under the hot water.

The shower dripped hypnotically as April embraced me, first holding close, then standing back and reaching down, between my legs, searching, probing, then finding and frantically teasing the warmest parts of me until I ignited and screamed with pleasure. She bit my neck and as the pleasure intensified, I screamed louder. We locked eyes and then kissed. It was a heart-pounding exhilaration, like I had too much of a double
Starbucks
cappuccino and the caffeine wanted to pry my chest open. Woozy from the hot water, intoxicated by April's passion, I felt fearless in my nakedness.