Chapter 9
The rest of the day I worked in a bubble. Customers greeted me and shared their sympathy, but I could only think about one thing—becoming an aunt. I wanted so badly to tell Annie I knew she and Rich might’ve made a baby together, but I respected Rich’s wishes to keep quiet and let them work it out. If indeed she was pregnant with his baby, it’d soon be known, and he’d take care of them. If not, he didn’t want to raise hopes, especially his own. Whether the baby was his or Steven’s, she was going to need us; we knew that for sure.
Candy came in a full hour early to give me a chance to get away if need be. I couldn’t escape her big bear hug, and for the first time, I didn’t really want to. The smudged orange lipstick on my cheek was another story. I could’ve done without that.
There was no one in sight when I walked by the bookstore. I remembered the look on Jonathan’s face when he tried to explain Rachel. He was so sure I was her. I still had a hard time grasping it, though when I was quiet and alone, I felt it could be true. Or should I say, I prayed it was true.
A light sprinkle fell as I walked down Thornwall, heading for home. The sun in the western sky filtered through light fluffy clouds, causing pieces of rainbow to cast over the landscape. The smell of rain-dampened earth was about the most wonderful fragrance in the world.
When I passed Lily’s house, I waved. She just stared past me, as usual, but this time I hoped she was staring at the rainbow forming above me in the distance. The gentle breeze blew her blonde hair, so it covered much of her sweet face.
“Hello, Lily. Isn’t it nice out?” I stood for another moment, hoping she’d respond. When she said nothing, I went on my way.
I caught my neighbor, Myra, and her yapping Chihuahua, Bert, as they made their way from my doorstep. Bert sniffed at my leg, surveying it for a bite, no doubt. From the sharp tug on his leash, I could tell Myra feared the same.
“Sorry, Becka, honey. Sometimes he’s a little pill.”
“No problem. He’s just fine. Aren’t you, Bertie?” When I bent down to try to make friends, he hid behind the blowing expanse of Myra’s muumuu, growling.
“Never mind him, honey. He’s just shy. I brought over some mail that got delivered to our place by mistake. I found it under some magazines on my coffee table, so there's no telling how long it’s been at the house,” she said apologetically. “I hope you’re doing better these days, honey.”
“I’m doing as well as can be expected, Myra.” I looked down to avoid her eyes. “Thank you so much for the card and the flowers. That was very nice of you both. Thanks for bringing this over,” I added, waving the mail in the air. “I don’t know why he keeps mixing up our boxes.” Our mailman had made this mistake more than once, usually delivering her mail to me, so I had to walk through the dog-shit mine field to take them their copies of Reader’s Digest.
“This had your name on it, but our address, so it wasn’t his fault this time.” A half smile was all she could manage after having a cancerous mole removed from her cheek, rendering the left side of her face partially paralyzed. Her short, curly, gray and black hair was wound tight from the wetness in the air. Her always-too-colorful muumuu dress dragged on the ground, floating dangerously near a fresh, steaming pile Bert had seen fit to leave near my steps. She waved before heading back to her side of the duplex.
“Thanks again, Myra. Tell Mr. Lowenstein hello for me.”
“I will honey. I will.” Then she disappeared around the corner, pleading with Bert to stop tugging at her arm.
Once I got inside my apartment, I felt safe for the first time in days. Every time I ventured out of this place I found out something else that rocked the foundation of my little world. If I could just barricade myself inside my haven, then nothing else could happen, right? I tossed the unopened mail on the game table, and then headed to the refrigerator for my Mountain Dew.
The curtains were drawn, and Billie Holiday’s “Me, Myself and I” vibrated from the speakers. I was sure the Lowenstein’s could hear it, but I didn’t care. I put up with Bert’s obnoxious barking at three every freaking morning, and they didn’t seem to care, so why should I?
After stripping out of my work clothes, I showered, put on my favorite sweats, and lounged on my chaise, just listening and drinking my soda and searching for that illusive single point of light inside my head. Knowing how to meditate would be really helpful but it never came to me so I pulled my History of Hollywood book onto my lap and flipped through the pages.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the light on my answering machine blinking the number four, causing a sense of dread to waft over me again. No matter who it was or what the problem, I knew it’d somehow disturb my momentary serenity. Of course, I got up. Curiosity winning out, I pushed the button and closed my eyes, silently praying for four consecutive wrong numbers.
“Becka, its Annie. Call me when you can. I need to talk to you. I have something to tell you that I should’ve already told you. It’s bothering me, so please call. I love you.”
So now she wanted to share her dirty little secret? I decided she could wait. The second message started playing.
“Sis, I have my cellphone with me if you need me for anything. Steven is still in custody. I put the kibosh on his release for the time being. I guess it does pay to have friends downtown, after all. Anyway, call if you need me. I’m working on the will stuff and I—” The message cut off before Rich finished, so the third message was easy to predict.
“Goddamnit, Becka. Get voice mail like a normal person, will ya? What I was about to say is I’ve got a lead on the Sullivan thing that I’m checking out. Call my cell if you need me. Oh”—his voice made a noticeable change towards the sensitive—“I talked to Annie. You need to call her!” The beep of his cellphone disconnecting followed. With all my heart, I wished the last message was from Silvy. I really missed my mother right now.
I pushed the advance button to listen to the last message. No way, I thought, and I turned down the stereo before repeating the message. Quietly in the background, a scratchy version of “Me, Myself and I” played on what sounded like an old car radio. Who in the world could know that Billie Holiday was my all-time favorite blues singer, and why would they play that song into my machine?
~ ~ ~
It was a good hour later before I pried myself out of the chaise, thinking it was about time to put Annie out of her misery. Next to the cordless phone lay the unopened envelope that was delivered to the Lowenstein’s. It was one of those expensive 8 x 10 bubbled mailers that usually contained a complimentary calendar from an insurance company. I started to throw it in the trash, when I recognized the handwriting.
It took scissors to open the top. I carefully cut the flap, trying to avoid disturbing the contents. The only thing that came out of the envelope was a small spiral notebook. When I flipped open the cover, I recognized my mother’s handwriting, but the notes she’d written made no sense.
Frances Garcia, 1976 to 1983
William Sorey, 1980 to 1997
Ruby Lakewood, 1991 to 2000
The names and dates went on and on for pages with no explanation for their being listed. Silvy had a purpose for everything—I just had to figure it out. Who on earth would send this to me? A sick feeling crept over me as I called Rich’s cell number.
“Rich?” I asked, making sure it was him on the other end of the phone before going on.
“Yeah, it’s me. Is everything okay? Have you talked to Annie yet?”
“Not yet. I’ll call her later.”
“You should’ve already called her. She’s going nuts up there worrying that you’re mad at her.”
“She can worry for a little longer. She should’ve told me already.”
“Becka!”
“Will you listen to me a minute? I didn’t call about Annie.”
“What’s up?”
“I got the strangest thing in the mail.”
“In the mail?”
“Are you gonna let me tell you or not?”
“Okay. Sorry. What did you get?”
“A notebook—with Silvy’s writing in it.”
He was silent for a few seconds, then asked, “What’s in it?”
“There are names and dates and stuff in it. I don’t recognize any of them,” I replied, taking a breath. “Rich, who’d send this to me?”
I could hear Rich mumble to himself and then the shuffle of paper in the background. “Becka, put that notebook in the wall safe. I’ll be over to pick it up as soon as I can.”
“Wall safe? You mean at the café?”
“Yeah, run it down there now. Don’t wait. I’ll go by there and pick it up. Don’t tell anyone else about it.”
“You’re the lawyer. I guess I’ll do what you say.”
“Keep the envelope too. By the way, what’s the date on the postmark?”
I reached across the table and pulled the envelope toward me, searching the faint red lettering for a date. “It looks like March 5th.” I nearly stopped breathing. “Oh God, Rich, that’s the day Silvy died!” I swallowed hard to keep the tears back.
“Becka, listen to me. Take that notebook to The Health Nut, now. Then get back home and lock your doors. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up the phone before I could ask another question.
I wrapped the notebook and the envelope in my chenille throw and ran back to the café, shoving the blanket and all into the empty wall safe. Candy watched me curiously, but she turned away when I offered no explanation. I figured she thought it was either none of her business, or I was out of my mind. I didn’t take another full breath until I reached my apartment and locked the door behind me.
Finally, after my heart dropped down out of my throat, it dawned on me that the Lowenstein’s must’ve had that package in their apartment for days and days. I sat down and bundled myself up in the butterfly comforter from my bed and waited for Rich. It could be a long night.
~ ~ ~
I sat stunned, trying to understand what about these cryptic notes were important enough for her to mail. God, was that what she was doing that night? Mailing this stupid package? The big blue mailbox was only a block from where she was run down in the crosswalk. She died for this? I tried to force my mind to happier things, like a new baby on the way, hoping to calm the nausea churning in my stomach.
“Silvy,” I said out loud, “what in the hell is going on?” I unwrapped myself from the comforter and slowly unfolded my crossed legs. The bottom of my feet tingled when I shuffled across the antique rug.
“I wish you were here. You may be a grandma soon, and this thing with Jonathan—I know I never wanted to listen before when you talked about all that spiritual stuff, but I sure could use your guidance now.”
The refrigerator stood bare except for one last Mountain Dew and a box of leftover Chinese food. I dragged them both out, stuck the square white box filled with vegetable chow mein into the microwave, and then twisted open my last soda and drank, waiting for my food to warm.
As I waited, my thoughts drifted from Jonathan to Annie and the baby. It was amazing how fast life was changing. The beep of the microwave brought me back from my daydreams of Annie becoming huge with child.
I dragged the sweating box of goo out of the microwave and dumped the contents into a Pyrex measuring cup with a handle, my favorite bowl. The noodles were a perfect lukewarm.
The first bite was so salty I could hardly swallow it. Washing it down with my over-sweet soda helped, so I tried another bite. The second was a little more tolerable. The third was downright tasty. I paced around the kitchen until I’d consumed the entire eight ounces, waiting for Rich to make an appearance.
I was brushing the salty grease from my teeth when I heard “Me, Myself and I” playing again. I remembered the eerie message on my machine as I swayed with her sultry voice. Who’d sent that message? Why that song? Jonathan immediately came to mind, but somehow, I knew it wasn’t his style to leave voiceless messages. He was definitely an upfront kind of guy.
Frustration, sexual and every other kind, had built such a hard, steady wall inside of me, I wanted to scream, but I didn’t dare. Bert would just start barking, and Rich would probably break down the door if he showed up at the wrong time.
“Mother, this is all too much for me to deal with. I’m going nutty here. What am I supposed to do?” Instantly, frustration gave way to missing my mother with every fiber of my being. My favorite photo of Silvy and me sat next to the bed. She tilted her head against me, both of us smiling a real, genuine smile for Rich, the photographer, who’d cracked some off-color joke. The light in my mother’s eyes sparkled with life. I missed that so much I just sat down on the edge of my bed and cried.
“What am I supposed to do, Silvy?” I sobbed, hugging the frame in close. It wasn’t two seconds later that the doorbell rang. Rich, I thought to myself, relieved.
I placed the frame back on my nightstand exactly as it was before and ran to the door, wiping my eyes. Rich had enough on his mind without having to take care of me, too.
“Why didn’t you use your key?” I asked, swinging the door open without thinking. My eyes widened in surprise.
“Because you haven’t given me one yet.” Jonathan stood before me all gorgeous and masculine. I was so glad to see him, I nearly jumped into his arms, but I refrained.
“Can I come in?” he asked, smiling as he took in my outfit.
“How did you find out where I lived?” I looked down self- conscious, shuffling one foot in front of the other.
“Did you get a chance to think about what I said the other day?”
I ignored his question, focusing instead on mine. “I asked how you found me?” I blocked the threshold with my outstretched arm.
“First, promise me you won’t get mad.” He reached for me and I stepped back, afraid the electricity of his touch would shock me into submission.
“At whom?” I asked again, getting irritated.
“Candy told me where you live, but she did only because she was worried about you!” This time his hand reached my baggy sweatshirt before I could move away. Slowly, he reeled me in, pulling me out onto the doorstep with him as the rain drizzled through the trellis above our heads. I didn’t even try to stop him.
“She’s a good friend, Becka.” He said the words so quietly I felt them as much as heard them. “She came over to the store and brought me a latte. It was a ruse, of course. She really just wanted to know if I’d seen you this afternoon. She said you were acting a bit strange. Imagine that.”
I felt his breath on my cheek. It smelled of vanilla and coffee, two of the most erotic scents on earth. My first instinct was to turn and kiss him—to taste him, but I knew better.
“She’s quite the little savior, that Candy,” I said, laying my head on his shoulder, forgetting myself to feel safe and warm.
He nuzzled his head down against mine for a few long moments before asking, “Becka, are you all right?” He moved away, running his thumb under my red, swollen eyes. I had to look away to keep fresh tears from forming. “Can we at least go inside out of the rain?”
I stepped backwards through the door to make room for him to follow. He bent to retrieve a damp bag on the porch then stepped inside, trailing his other hand intimately over the contours of my stomach as he passed. My body quivered at his touch.
“This is for you.” He winked and handed me the bag.
“Me?”
“Yep.”
“What is it?
And then he was too distracted to answer. His eyes were filled with curiosity as he took in the ambiance of my apartment. His ears perked to the music and he sniffed at the air for clues. His gaze paused over each item as though committing it to memory.
The appreciative smile on his face told me he liked what he saw. He kneeled to touch the antique rug in front of the couch, whispering, “Oh man, this is so beautiful.” When he spied my game table across the room, he stood slowly and looked at me in amazement, walking slowly toward my most prized possession. “Is that what I think it is?”
I nodded and smiled, secretly excited that he understood the importance of that very special piece.
“May I?”
“Be my guest.”
He lifted the fringed drape and ran his hand over the mahogany and abalone checker board. I was amazed when he revealed the secret drawer where the game pieces were hidden. No one, including Daddy, had known how to get into those without tinkering.
“This piece was made by the same craftsman as my desk. Where did you find it?”
“My father and I got it at an auction down south—a few years before he died.” I shifted the bag from my left to my right hand and walked to him.
His strong hands seemed almost surgeon-like when he moved them over the unicorn head at the top of each table leg.
“Incredible work, isn’t it?” he asked, following the curve.
I wanted to sit and watch him, but instead, I headed to the kitchen to empty the bag. Inside was a family-sized bag of peanut M&M’s and a six-pack of cold Mountain Dew in the twist top plastic bottles—the only kind I buy. I stood at my kitchen sink and stared at the soda, fighting the freaky feeling that this man was inside my head. There was no possible way he could’ve known these two things were staples in my diet. That information was top secret since I was the owner of a health food restaurant. Silvy would never approve.
“Candy thought it might be a good peace offering in case you wouldn’t let me in,” he said from the other room, reading my mind. I blew out a long, relieved breath, dumped the candy in Silvy’s pewter dish, and twisted off a stubborn top, listening for the telltale hiss of acid freshness.
I peered around the corner to see him seated at the foot of my chaise, leafing through one of my “History of” books. “Would you like some?” I offered, holding up the opened bottle.
“No thanks. I never touch the stuff. It’s poison, you know.” His smile disarmed me. No wonder Silvy liked this guy. “I’ll take a glass of water and some of those M&M’s, though.”
After handing him his water and setting the candy on the table between us, I sat on the couch as far away as possible, hoping the distance would help me focus on the conversation.
“Can I sit by you?” he asked hopefully, and then scooted back into my chaise when I shook my head no.
He was so tall for my chair—his hiking boots hung over the end a good foot. The faded jeans outlined the muscles of his legs all the way up to where the blue button-down cotton shirt struggled to untuck itself at the waist. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, showing his sun-darkened forearms peppered with sandy brown hair. As he talked, I noticed the way the muscles of his jaw clenched around his cheekbones, and I started to ache inside.
I ignored the draw of his eyes, knowing they would eat away at my composure. A twitch that started at the bottom of my breasts vibrated down over my stomach and slid between my legs, rendering me momentarily deaf to his words. His hair, moist from the rain, parted naturally to the left, causing the sandy-brown tendrils to stick to his skin around the front of his ears. The way his eyebrows danced and scrunched when he smiled at me was so sensual, it took all my power to refocus.
Finally, mixed with the sound of Billie Holiday, his voice broke through to me. “Becka? Are you listening to me?” He sat up and braced himself to stand.
“Please,” I said in a breathless voice, holding up my hand. “You said you could make me understand this. So, do it.”
Jonathan took in a long, labored breath before starting his story. He struggled to find a beginning, so I decided to help him out.
“Once upon a time . . .” I rolled my hand in a circle, coaxing him to fill in the blanks. He smiled again and blew out another breath.
“Once upon a time,” he repeated without looking up, “there was a confused little boy who felt like no matter what he learned or what he did, something was always missing. His parents worried so much about his depression they took him to a doctor who then referred the distraught young man to a psychologist.”
As Jonathan told his story, he never once looked into my eyes. From this one clue, I knew he was nervous and afraid I would shut him out if he gave me a chance. I did my level best to stay quiet and listen.
“This psychologist spent nearly a year with the little boy, trying different therapeutic methods to bring him out of his depression. Finally, after having no success with any of the conventional methods, he started a series of regressive therapy sessions in hopes they’d somehow bring out the source. The little boy, having reached the ripe old age of twelve, made a miraculous breakthrough while under hypnosis after about the fifth session.”
I grunted involuntarily, my distaste for carnival hypnotists rearing its ugly head. I looked down and away from him, hoping I hadn’t thrown him off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Becka, if it makes any difference to you, I felt the same way you do. I didn’t believe any of this would help me. But it did.” He shifted to sit at the end of the chaise again, a bit closer to me, so I could see the honesty radiating from his handsome face.
“I’m listening. I said I’d do that. Go on.” I pulled one of my butterfly pillows onto my lap and held against my chest for protection.
He hesitated a moment, obviously concerned I wouldn’t believe his story even after he bared his soul. “That day, the day Dr. Grayson took me into the past, I saw something. It was something I hadn’t seen in all the previous sessions. Remember I was a very depressed twelve-year-old boy. I had a supportive family. My parents were wonderful people. My school was great. I fought with my sister, but that was normal kid stuff—there was nothing obvious that could make me stay so sad. They even tried mood-enhancing meds, but that didn’t help. That’s why we went to a therapist in the first place.”
“I understand it’s not natural for a twelve-year-old boy to be depressed, Jonathan. I think your parents did the right thing by seeking professional help for you. You don’t have to justify why your parents did what they did. I just want to know how all this relates to me and to us.” I said this to move him from worrying about my opinion of the therapy on to what was learned.
“I was in the water—the ocean. When he hypnotized me, he asked me to think back and see what was there. All I could see was water, and I started screaming and crying.” Even now, telling the story, his eyes clouded.
“I didn’t know why, but I was frantic, so frantic that the doctor pulled me back right then before I could understand what was really happening.”
I wanted to hold him. He seemed like that twelve-year-old boy with tears running down his face all over again. I understood how it felt to be lost and out of control, feeling disconnected and alone. I scooted to the other end of the couch toward him, our knees touching. “Can I get you something to eat? To drink?”
“I need to get this out before I lose my nerve. You’ve got to understand what I went through to find you.” He looked at me for the first time since the story began, and I wanted to hold him, but this time he held up his hand to keep me at bay.
“My mother wanted to stop the regression therapy immediately, but Dr. Grayson insisted that dealing with a bad past-life experience would relieve my depression.” He reached for his glass and took a swallow before setting it down and starting again.
“The next time was easier for me to regress. It was almost like I wanted to get back into that water, even though it’d frightened me so much before. I was compelled. When I reached the water this time, I felt the cool wetness on my skin as though I was actually swimming in the ocean right then. The moon was bright over the dark water, helping me to search. I was screaming again, but this time I knew I was looking for something—for someone.” He moved his knees on the outside of mine, blocking me between the couch and table. I hadn’t realized what he was doing until he went on.
“Becka, I was searching for someone! Someone I loved! Someone named Rachel!”
That woozy feeling came over me when he said the name, Rachel. The water? The ocean! “I-I can’t do this.” I tried to get past him, but he held me steady with his hands.
“You can, and you will. You can’t keep running from this, Becka.”
My vision blurred. I felt like I might pass out again until I realized my eyes had filled with tears.
He held me there with gentle firmness as he continued, “I couldn’t find her in the water. I lost her! I swam and swam, diving and searching, but I couldn’t save her.” His tears dripped freely down his face now.
The shock I felt couldn’t keep me from taking my hands from his to wipe away his tears. Every neuron in my body vibrated. All I wanted to do was hold him and rock and understand how this could possibly be true.
“She drowned, didn’t she? Rachel drowned?” I whispered, knowing the answer.
“I don’t know. All I know for sure is that I loved her, and I lost her. I couldn’t save her.” I slid in next to him on the chaise, and we held each other for a long time before saying another word.
“So,” I finally broke the silence, “did the little boy ever get over his depression?”
“The moment he saw you,” he said, kissing a tear from my cheek and lingering there until my tears were gone. “I’m not losing you again. I promise you that.”