| |
“James! Get out here right this minute!” Although the voice is female, it’s powerfully piercing the closed door.
I open it quickly. You can see her, right? A perfectly dressed, perfectly postured woman wearing a sparkly designer N95 face mask. She’s older than I am; I’m guessing she’s in her mid-to-late forties. Her dyed blonde hair is styled to the point it wouldn’t dare move thanks to all the hairspray. A couple of wrinkles are visible on the skin that shows around her mask. Her neatly creased, white capri pants, probably Ann Taylor or J. Crew, match well with her navy-blue-and-white-striped crepe sleeveless shirt. She’s wearing an oversized blue marble-designed necklace with matching earrings and a bracelet.
Now, don’t you start thinking I’m jealous of her; I’m only giving you my graphic description of her opulent attire—an outfit I could never pull off correctly. She’s the essence of fashion. A size two or smaller—what I’m clearly not. No judging me by my perception of her, as it’s merely facts. Look for yourself and see what I mean.
“James!” she demands again in a loud squeal. “What are you thinking being in a stranger’s house? Haven’t I told you before that you have no clue if people we don’t know can contaminate us? Get out here this minute.”
As fast as possible, I grab the bohemian mask that I had tucked in my pocket when cleaning the drawer and fasten its loops on my ears. Without speaking, I point to the box of unused medical masks on the nearby table; James rushes to retrieve one and puts it on. Avoiding entering the townhouse, the woman backs up five feet and stands on the patio near the table and chairs, expecting us to join her.
With the government’s mask mandates no longer in effect, it’s a free-choice issue. I understand where this woman is coming from and why. She doesn’t know me; she’s protecting her son and herself from possible viruses and germs. No, I don’t fault her thinking. Denny and I still wear masks when we know someone has the flu, a stomach bug, or a cold, or when we’re put in a precarious situation around those who are coughing or sneezing constantly, especially if it’s a closed-in area like a crowded stadium or sports arena. I get it. COVID was horrible and killed many; it’s still a problem worldwide, with one after another variant continually taunting us. Aunt Amy, of course unvaxed, almost died of it when she was in the hospital on a ventilator. She pulled through. If it’s not one virus, it’ll be another. Look what’s happening with polio, smallpox, and monkeypox. Be smart and be safe. Please, we don’t want to go through another pandemic.
As if needing time to restore her decorum, the woman clears her throat, then looks down at her large platinum wedding ring with an oversized diamond that shows off her French-tipped nails. She looks back up, asking, “Sarah Colton?”
“Yes,” I reply, trying to inflect compassion in my voice. “I’m glad you came so fast.” I join her on the patio, James following me. “Gee, your son sure had a scare today.”
She rushes around me to her son and awkwardly hugs him. He appears embarrassed; his eyes do not meet hers, but he puts a hand loosely around her diminutive frame.
“Jimmy, I’m so happy you didn’t get hurt! What a nightmare you must’ve been through, my poor baby.” The fake-and-bake woman stiffly tries to comfort him, probably not wanting to mess up her clothes or hair.
He isn’t allowed time to respond.
“I would’ve been here earlier except for the traffic. I was driving down Zelzah Avenue by Cal State Northridge, and it’s down to one lane each way. At least twenty or thirty college students were standing in the street. At first, I thought there was a protest or march or even a riot again, but there was a car stalled out, and it must’ve backed up traffic to Devonshire Street. The guys were rocking a green Suburban back and forth to move it out of the way. Broke down right there on the spot, I guess.”
She switches her silver-studded purse that could hold my camera bag and all the contents of our dreaded junk drawer to her other shoulder and steps back from James. She inspects him, trying to spot any bruises or marks on his body without making contact. “Don’t know where the driver was or why no one thought to get in the car. When I finally drove by it, I heard one boy say the car was locked, abandoned right in the middle of the road. People these days, thinking only of themselves.”
James and I can’t get an “oh” in edgewise as she prattles on. “Then, right before I got to the elementary school, there was a school bus flipped on its side by that strip mall near Rinaldi Street. It looked like there were no children around; hope it was empty before it crashed.”
She’s still not finished.
“My car radio said there’re big traffic problems everywhere. Even had one of those broadcast emergency warnings on my cellphone seconds ago as I stood waiting by your gate. Planes crashing, boats sinking, people gone—I wonder what happened. We’ll have to turn on the news when we get you home, dear.”
Even though she’s mentioning interesting stuff, are you getting tired of her monologue? I keep myself occupied by inspecting her perfect pedicure peeping out from her silver-and-blue-stone sandals.
She takes a closer look at her son. “James, where’d you get this T-shirt?” She pinches the clothing. “Did your father give it to you? Couldn’t he pick out a smaller size, one that fits you?”
“No, Mom. It’s Sarah’s—I mean Ms. Colton’s—husband’s. She said I could have it. I still have the orange polo, the one you gave me. Probably ruined, it’s pretty dirty.” He looks at me, eyebrows raised, like asking for permission to venture back inside to retrieve it.
“I’ll get it.” Welcoming any excuse to escape their conversation, I go into the house, grab the bagged shirt from the stool, retrace my steps, and hand it off to the woman. She pulls the garment out for inspection.
“Well, that’s too bad. I’ll see if Juanita can remove the stains.” She casts her gaze on me and speaks woman-to-woman. “Our housekeeper knows so many cleaning tricks. And you know how hard it’s to get good help these days.”
She considers her son again. “And where exactly is your backpack, Jimmy?”
“Mom, it’s gone. I-I lost it during the crash. And my iWatch is busted.” He holds up his wrist to confirm the timepiece’s destruction.
“Oh, right,” the woman says with an exasperated sigh. “We’ll have to file an insurance claim for your clothes, watch, and electronics. I’m sure that’ll get us nowhere, but we should try as soon as possible. These things are all rather pricey, after all, especially those Nordstrom pants and Ray-Ban sunglasses. Why aren’t you wearing them? The glasses were from your stepfather.”
James ignores her, bringing her back to the present. “Mom, Ms. Colton works for the newspaper. Since she took pictures of the crash, they may be in the news.”
“That’s nice. I’m so glad you didn’t get injured,” she repeats. She tries to push a wayward hair out of her son’s face, but he winces and retreats a few feet, brushing against one of the patio chairs. He runs his fingers through his hair nervously; he cringes a bit when they touch the goose egg on the back of his head.
She recovers from the slight by continuing her soliloquy. “I called your father but had to leave a voice message again. You know he’s never around, probably out selling his blasted roofs after he dropped you off at the airport. He just can’t make enough money, can he? Anyway, I told him that you’re unharmed.”
James puts his hands in his pockets and doesn’t react to the criticism of his dad. With an unresponsive audience, she seems to run out of things to say, don’t you think?
Finally, James turns to me, “Ma’am—I mean Sarah—thanks again for the drink and someplace to clean up. It was nice of you.”
The mother turns the conversation back to herself. “Art would’ve come, James.” She lays her hand on his forearm. “You know how hard he’s trying to get used to having a son. He really wanted to come. He sends his love.”
James disregards her words but allows his mother’s touch.
“He was getting the Tesla out of the garage so we could drive over together, but the hospital paged him.”
She looks to me again, for confirmation or to impress me—I don’t know which. “You know how OB/GYN doctors’ schedules are,” she tells me. “He oversees the department so must be on call 24/7. I’m so proud of what he does.”
Our eyes meet. Did you spot a tinge of insecurity as she quickly glanced away? Now it makes sense to me—James’s mother is a trophy wife and recently “upgraded” her husband, as Zoey would describe it. I surmise that a doctor is much better suited for her lifestyle than a roofing salesperson. Right?
“He called back while I was on my way here. There were several emergencies all at the same time. Dr. Abraham is upset, something about a baby disappearing from his hands in the delivery room. And how the entire newborn floor is empty, no babies.” Her words register, but she says them without restraint as if she’s at the salon getting pampered, bragging about her latest adventures. At least that’s how I interpret the tone of her voice.
I know you want me to ask more, but James beats me to the punch, “Yeah, been there, done that, Mom. There’s something to all these missing people, and I’m going to find out what it is.”
“Jimmy, you’re a kid.” She shakes her head at his confidence. “What can you do?”
He repeats his words slowly and emphatically. “I’m going to find out.”
“Fine, son. But first, let’s get home. I left a bunch of groceries on the counter and need to put them away as I couldn’t find Juanita.”
After grabbing the pen and the same envelope I used for Denny’s note from the hall table, I have James write down his phone number on the back of the paper in case I need to contact him. He thanks me once again, but his mind seems to be on other things—otherworldly things, perhaps.
We bid our goodbyes, and when they leave, I’m relieved the woman is gone. I hope James will be able to deal with the crash, Eddie, and his family situation in a healthy manner. A grief counselor might do him some good rather than that “reading the Bible” nonsense, wouldn’t you think?
Finally, you and I are alone with my thoughts and can concentrate on the questions of the day: Why hasn’t Denny returned, and what’s all this about people missing? And babies? No newborns? Surely that hasn’t happened. It couldn’t be true if there are no children alive on the planet.
I flinch, aware that I may have been pregnant less than an hour ago. Is that what could’ve happened to me?
Determined to stave off any panic wanting to detonate inside me, I center on being circumspect and having common sense.
What do you think?