The Practical Navigator (22 page)

“Beth…”

“I'm sorry, you're right, you're right…” she says, almost whimpering. And then she leans close and whispers in his ear. “But Michael, if you ever want to … because I'm unhappy, Michael. And I've always cared about you so very, very much.”

And now his mother is sorting through garbage.

Taken from the bins, the plastic kitchen bags are on the driveway, uniformly spaced, their contents spilled into awkward piles of refuse on the cement. The dog, Abigail, is wolfing down carrot peelings.

“What are you doing, Mom?” he asks, hoping it's something as simple as retroactively separating the recyclables but knowing it's not.

“Nana lost her money,” says Jamie, who seems to be engaged in a spastic, one-man parade around the periphery of the driveway, skipping, hopping, and flapping. “We're looking for her money in the garbage!”

“There was fifty dollars in my purse,” says Penelope, dumping another plastic bag out onto the cement.

“Are you sure you didn't spend it?”

“Of course I didn't spend it, Michael. I'd remember if I spent it, wouldn't I?”

Would she? Three days ago she arrived home in a police car, having been picked up, wandering up and down the boulevard.

“I wasn't wandering, Michael. I was
lost.
There's a complete difference.”

She'd gone off to see the remains of the old house. To say good-bye to it, as it were.

“The problem is I
walked
. I'm sure if I'd driven, I'd have remembered
exactly
where I was going.”

“Mom, just ask me, I'll take you wherever you want to go.”

“Oh, really, Michael, I don't need or want you to do
everything
for me. Besides, there are things one must do oneself. And if you can't understand that, there's really not much at all I can do about it, is there.”

She had been on the verge of tears.

“Besides. It was the coming back
here,
darling, that was so difficult. I found the old place just fine. The lovely bones. And I said a prayer and I left a little something there. A bit of spirit, I think. And in return, I took any number of precious memories with me. Now give me one good reason why after all that I wouldn't get a bit lost.”

Knowing he had any number of good reasons but none that would satisfy her, Michael hadn't answered.

“Mom, why do you think your fifty dollars is in the garbage bin?”

“Because where else would it be? Do stop asking stupid questions, Michael, and help.”

And so he does. He hunkers down and digs through eggshells, cucumber and carrot peelings, and coffee grounds, through open sardine cans …

“Who doesn't like sardines, darling?”

 … and old, cooked spaghetti, Abigail at his hip, tail wagging expectantly, stomach gurgling with expectation …

“Do not feed her, Michael, she's a pig!”

“I
know,
Mom.”

 … until, finally disgusted, he excuses himself, goes into the house, and pulling out his wallet, puts two twenties and a ten into Penelope's purse.

“Mom, look, your money's right here in your purse.”

“What? No. Really?”

“See? Fifty.”

“But—I know I checked.”

“It's all right here, Mom.”

“And I could have sworn it was a single bill.” Penelope doesn't look so much suspicious as perplexed.

“Mom, what difference does it make? It's fifty bucks and it's in your purse.”

“Oh, maybe I
am
getting just a bit forgetful.” And taking the money she goes into the house, leaving him to return the garbage to the bags, the bags to the bins, and the bins to the side of the house.

Uu-unck—hu-uck—hoo-unk!

Michael turns. The dog is vomiting. Spewing carrot peelings and chicken bones, kibble and green bile onto the driveway.

“Abbie's puking money, Dad,” says Jamie, pointing at the wadded and sordid fifty-dollar bill. He giggles in happy disgust as Michael carefully picks up the bill.

Would that the fucking dog could.

“Abbie is buying us Bahia for dinner with this,” Michael says, naming their favorite Mexican takeout.

“Yay!” says Jamie. Together, they turn and head into the house, Michael determined to open the first of what will be several cold beers. What's worse? he wonders. Crotchety old men, unhappy women, or puking dogs?

At least it didn't come out its ass.

Holding the bill by the edge, he shuts the gate, intent on putting the day and all things Beacham behind him.

 

37

As Fari prepares herself dinner, she tells herself yet again that she has done the right thing. For him, yes, of course, but mostly for her. She had no choice. Her upbringing, her education, the values and morals she holds herself to, what little remains of her religion—all dictated her decision.

Still.

When she lets her guard down, she feels sick with the knowledge that Michael is no longer in her life. She wonders if this is what being in love is—to feel physically ill at its loss.

She has turned to what has always been important to her. She has worked extra hours, seeing more patients. She runs, she shops, she meditates. Music has been proven to have a therapeutic effect and so she listens to the radio, mostly classical stations. Even though food seems to have no taste, she cooks, she sets the table, she opens good wine, she eats. She watches some television. She reads before bed. Her mind keeps constantly going to him. She berates herself for it.

Pain is the gateway to lasting happiness, she tells the people who come to her for advice, for help, for solace.

Easy for you to say.

She goes to visit friends in Los Angeles. Fellow Iranian expats. Successful and well educated. So very stylish and sophisticated. She feels like a performer in a play with characters she no longer knows. They arrange a date for her. He is an orthopedic surgeon, a bit older, divorced, brilliant, part of the “brain drain” that left Iran in the nineties, the kind of man she used to be in the habit of having affairs with. He has family in Tabriz who refuse to upgrade to mobile phones and he jokes about how bad the landline service is in Iran. He has been back recently. It is all double-digit unemployment and sky-high inflation, he says. No one in their right mind would live there. He proceeds to tell her all about women's knees, and when he conspiratorially compares a lateral meniscus to a beautiful vagina, she smiles politely, excuses herself, goes out to the parking lot, gets in her car, and drives back to San Diego. She cries the entire way, telling herself it's perfectly natural to feel what she's feeling, not believing it for a second. She wonders, not for the first time, if she's afraid of happiness. She reminds herself that the conflicts associated with the human condition can often impact one's capacity to accept and enjoy love. When we feel cherished and admired by a loved one, we place greater value on ourselves and therefore we face more pain related to the loss of that person. Consciously or unconsciously we may pull back from love.

Blah-blah-blahshit.

She spends the entire fourth weekend unable to get out of bed. It's not so much grief and longing anymore. It's not even about Michael. It's that her life seems like a gilded, empty house. All façade. No roots. Nothing real inside. She feels helpless to do anything about it.

The phone rings while she is eating dinner. For a moment she wonders if it's him. Don't be silly, she thinks. But she lets the answering machine take it anyway.

“This is Dr. Fari Akrepede. If this is of a professional nature, please call my office at 858–555–0971. Otherwise, leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can.”

Fari likes it that the voice—
her
voice—sounds well trained and very professional. It betrays nothing. She will be back to that place soon.

I have to be.

The machine beeps, she hears the faint voice of her mother, and she rushes to the phone.

 

38

The library is dark. Something about shelves lined with old, unread leather-bound books makes a room quiet. Provides soundproofing. Has a certain smell. As do old cushions and silk throws. When in the throes of a migraine or a panic attack, Anita has often sought refuge here. Curled up, closed her eyes, and feigned sleep.

Sessions with the dark-haired Dr. Akrepede aren't doing anything. It's all too vague, too harmony-speak. The good doctor recommends books and articles to read. All recommend mood diaries, positive thinking, meditation, tapping, and deep breathing, and Anita feels a need for something far stronger. Like an exorcism. Like a memory wipe. Like a drink. It's exhausting when the past is constantly confronting you.

Constantly.

*   *   *

The day she leaves them, she leaves
knowing
she is leaving. Before Michael goes to work, she hugs him. She holds him tight and kisses him.

“What's this about?” he says.

“Nothing,” she says.

Later in the morning after putting Jamie down for a nap, she calls Penelope and asks if she can come over. “Errands to do,” she says. Her bags are packed and in the trunk when Penelope arrives. Starting the car, she falters, panic welling up in her, suddenly not sure she can do it. But then she does.

She drives north to L.A. and checks into a mid-range hotel. She fully expects—
wants
—to feel guilt, despair, and self-loathing. It's only fair. But she doesn't. She finds the solitude a balm. For the first time in she isn't sure how long, she feels at peace. No one is asking anything of her or expecting her to be what she isn't and feels she never can be. It's so easy to deal with people at a distance, even those you love. You can make it
their
fault.

On the fourth day, slightly concerned she might not ever come out of the room, she calls her mother. Tisha is not so much frantic as she is indignant.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“Michael and I have separated.”

“Have you told him? He's beside himself with worry.”

“I can't go back.”

“And your child?”

“He's better off with Michael.”

“There's no talking to you on this, is there.”

It's a statement not a question and Anita says nothing.

“Where are you?” asks her mother.

She drives up and in three days moves Anita into a small, one-bedroom apartment in the flats of Beverly Hills. Furniture is purchased at Ikea. Kitchenware, towels, and linens at Walmart. “You can leave it behind at a moment's notice,” Tisha says.

“Don't tell Michael where I am,” says Anita.

“I'm not the idiot,” says her mother, departing. “You are.”

As she gains courage, she ventures farther and farther out from the apartment. She walks to the grocery store for food. She goes to the Verizon store where she opens a new account and buys a new, virgin phone. She goes to Rodeo Drive where she finds the people more interesting than the clothes. She's hopelessly out of style, hasn't so much as tried anything new on in years. Like her mother, she shops, quickly and efficiently, knowing instinctively what's a fad and what will last. “You make anything look good,” says a salesgirl, wistfully. She smiles politely, goes back to the apartment, stuffs the new clothes in the closet, and closes the door.

She is in Starbucks on Beverly Drive when a guy—inevitably—hits on her. He is an actor. Is she? Why not, yes. Is she working, does she have an agent, who is she studying with? No, no, and no one. He makes recommendations. He gives advice. When he asks for her phone number, she makes one up on the spot. Call me, she says and goes home.

But a week later she does enroll in an acting class, not because she is all that interested in acting, but because it will make her feel as if she's working toward something. A goal. A noble endeavor. Actors are artists, artists make sacrifices. Family, friends, relationships. Artists tend toward crazy. They can't be held accountable for a fucked-up muse.

She attends the classes. She watches. She listens. It's impossible to take sensory exercises and emotional recall seriously and she thinks of quitting. She does a scene from a Neal LaBute play with another woman. She kills. Unlike Thornton Wilder, she
gets
Neal LaBute. Cynicism, anger, and self-loathing are right up her alley. The teacher recommends her to an agent, the agent sends her out on some casting calls, and she finds herself sitting in rooms with a throng of young women who were, without a doubt, the most beautiful girls in their own hometowns. She feels happily lost in the crowd. She doesn't care if she gets cast or not and so of course she does. A walk-on in an episode of a TV series—third whore from the left. A commercial, both film and print, where she pretends to be—
are you kidding me?
—a blissful mother. The bar girl with no name who gets picked up by the star, then shot to death, naked in bed, twenty-six seconds of screen time later. She moves up the pecking order. She is the drug lord's mistress in a pilot that doesn't get picked up. She is the Navy SEAL's philandering wife in a pilot that doesn't get picked up. She is the oncologist in a medical pilot that
does
get picked up and is killed in the third episode by the scalpel-wielding wife of the brain surgeon she's having an illicit affair with. She comes to realize that while the bits and pieces of lives portrayed on screen might seem interesting and dramatic, the making of those pretend moments, the countless takes and ten-hour turnarounds, is tedious and boring to the point of brain death. She decides that someone who never goes to movies, never watches television, and doesn't have the patience to sit through even a one-act play, has no business being an actor, and she quits the profession for good.