When the Santa Ana winds finally stop sliding across the mountains and down over the desert of San Diego, the heat rises up out of the dry earth in shimmering waves. The pale-brown dirt, so different from the fertile black soil in the farmlands of Illinois, gets more cracked and parched from the ongoing drought that is part of Southern California’s norm. I had expected the clear skies to continue on through the summer, but as soon as the wind stopped blowing, the clouds converged and hung low from the coastline to the mountains. The girls at Annabelle call it June Gloom, and I can only hope that it won’t last the whole month.
The Dillard’s ad is due out in today’s Sunday paper, and I head out early for my run with enough change in my fist to buy the paper on my way back. I’ve dropped eight pounds in the last month and am leaner than I have ever been, even when I was living on peanut butter out of the jar.
John helped me to choose pictures for my comp sheet. We chose four images. One is a headshot from the front, with my hair curving around my face. It’s a great shot. My name, Ali Hayes, is printed along the bottom with my shoe size, dress size, hip, waist, and chest measurements. It was John’s idea to use “Ali,” and when I saw the cards I knew it was right. The back has three images. The middle one is a full-length photo, with me looking over my shoulder, turning toward the camera. My hair is in motion, and it looks like I am getting ready to walk away. The two images on either side are both above the waist—one with me wearing a pair of fake glasses, looking thoughtful the, and in the other, I’m dressed in white and softly lit. John has already sent the cards out to several talent agents across the state.
The girls are awake when I get back to the condo. Bacon is coming out of the skillet, and eggs are going in. My stomach contracts at the aroma, and an audible groan escapes me.
“Still boycotting meat?” Darla asks, and then she sees the paper in my hand and her eyebrows raise. “Is that it?”
“Should be.” She reaches for the paper, and I let her take it. Now that I’ve stopped running and stepped into the warm kitchen, perspiration is streaming down my face, and the print where my fingers have held the paper is smeared, the paper darkened and damp.
Sybil leans in, looking over Darla’s shoulder, and Cici leaves the stove to come look. The glossy ad folds out, and there I am, then again, and over on the flip side three more times. I am featured in five images, more than anybody else in the ad. We erupt around the table with hugs and squeals. I have tried to be low key about it, afraid that I’d get pulled out at the last minute, but there I am, represented five times.
Cici squeezes me and returns to scrape the eggs out of the skillet into a bowl. I grab the ad before she puts the bowl down on top of it and refold it, giving her a look. “Gonna eat?” she asks.
“No.” I shake my head, stepping away from the table. “I’m gonna shower. What’s on for today?” There are shrugs around the table. Only Connie is missing, as she is out on her long run this morning: twenty miles.
“We’re going to help Eddie move some stuff out of the condo,” Sybil says, and Darla nods.
“I thought you were letting him stay in the condo.” That was the last thing I had heard.
“I was going to, but my attorney said we should sell the condo and split the money. Eddie can’t buy me out.”
“Oh. That’s too bad,” I say, and Sybil shrugs. I’ve grown used to these women, all of us living together, and it feels safe somehow.
“It’s okay. He wants to move to LA anyway. It’s probably better.” Silence rolls down over us, and they continue eating,
“How about you, Ceece?” I ask, and she shakes her head. “Want to go to the beach?” She wrinkles her nose and puts a slice of bacon to her lips. “Come on, you’re not doing anything else.”
Cici rolls her eyes. “There’s a bar down there that makes a really good Hurricane,” she says, sticking her tongue between her teeth.
“We can stop,” I cajole.
“All right, I’ll go. I just hate the sand.”
“It’s more than just sand.” I want her to love it the way I do.
She rolls her eyes and does not look excited.
“It’s the sound,” I say, remembering the roar of the water crashing against the sand, the echo of it against the facing buildings. “It’s the spray, too,” because to be at the beach is to be covered by the salt that hangs in the air.
“It smells like dead fish,” she says, nonplussed, wrinkling her nose. “You’re not going to make me change my mind.”
“There are good-looking men.” I flash a smile.
“Cici only likes men if they have a credit card without a limit.” Darla says, and Cici grins, nodding.
“That’s crazy.” I leave the kitchen and head up to shower and change. I take the Dillard’s ad with me and pull down the box of my mother’s stuff and lay it on top. I reach under the top envelope and pull out the second one, my little stash of money. I pull out two twenties and replace the box on the closet shelf. I feel like I can spend a little money today. I made a hundred fifty dollars for the ad, and John has another one lined up for Target already. Dillard’s does a Look Book twice a year, and Sean has already asked if I’d do some work for it. If anybody had told me that a simple change of scenery would change my life the way it has, I wouldn’t have believed them. It’s hard to remember how hopeless I felt that year before my mother died. It’s like it all happened to somebody else, and now that door is closed.
We reach the sand, flip our shoes off, carrying them as we head down the beach. We struggle through the soft sand, sinking with each step until we get to the packed sand near the water. We walk, me looking out at the waves rushing in, letting my feet disappear under the small crush, her staring down the beach, looking at the people, and commenting on this hat or that bikini as things worthy of notice, almost unaware of the ocean beside her. The beach is crowded with blankets and towels and people rushing in and out of the surf. Several people are on the water, waiting for the perfect wave on a calm sea. We pass a couple of boys throwing a football back and forth, and I think about the beautiful, golden boy named Trey. I watch as we get closer to see if he is one of them. He isn’t, and I feel more than a little silly for hoping he was.
When our brisk walk lands us in front of the bar, the one that makes a mean Hurricane, I realize that Cici has been on a mission. She swings open the door, and I follow her in. We don’t even bother putting our shoes on as the hostess leads us to the patio area.
“You seriously need to have John make you a new ID,” she says.
I shake my head. At least we’re sitting outside, and I can still hear the surf crashing and smell the salt.
“I’m okay with being eighteen. I don’t need to drink.”
It is the wrong thing to say, and Cici’s eyes flash. “I don’t need to drink,” she says. “I like to drink. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Of course not,” I say, looking through the menu. “I didn’t mean anything by that, you know. I just don’t really like to drink, that’s all. I don’t like feeling out of control.” I try to soften the judgment she feels, because there is judgment. The fact that she has an illegal ID is a clear indicator that there is something wrong with her drinking. Cici’s destination of choice always has a good bar.
“I like it,” she says, snapping the last word like a cat snapping at a fish. Her teeth are white against the red of her glossed lips.
I can’t help but laugh. “I know.” The tension breaks, and I lean back in my seat, letting my spine curve and my hips slide forward. I wonder if my mother once “liked it” that way, with fierce ownership, until it owned her. A low growl rolls through my stomach, and Cici chuckles.
Cici orders two Hurricanes when the waitress comes, and her fake ID isn’t even necessary. “Chopped Asian salad? We can split it, since you don’t eat anymore.”
“Great.” I order when the waitress bring the drinks. “Can I have water, too, no ice?”
Cici puts her straw into the glass and takes a happy draw, letting her arms rise up over her head. “You should always drink with a straw.”
“Why is that?” I ask, waiting for the wisdom of Cici.
“It cuts down on the air, and you get a better buzz.” She unwraps a second straw and tucks it into the other drink. “Come on, try it.”
I wrinkle my nose, and she pushes the glass a little farther across the table.
I lean forward. “You understand my mother was an alcoholic, right?” I say it quietly, almost a whisper, and feel guilty saying it. My mother was an alcoholic, and even a year after she died, I still feel like I’m spreading lies when I say it.
“Yeah, so?” She nods at the drink. “You’re not your mother.”
“No, I’m not.” I don’t want the drink, but I don’t know that ruining the day is worth not having it.
“Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes and looking disgusted. “Don’t drink it then. You old woman.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Whatever. I don’t even care. I’m just trying to make you stop acting like you’re freaking eighty. Mildred. I thought we were celebrating your ad.” She puckers her lip out and looks so ridiculous that I smile.
I take a long drink and set the glass back down with a thunk. I am not my mother, and this one drink is not going to make me my mother. “There, are you happy?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling her most radiant smile. She leans forward, taking my hands in hers. “Nobody likes to drink alone.” She blows me a kiss, and my irritation slips down my shoulders and falls onto the floor. The alcohol sets a small fire in my stomach.
Cici hasn’t had an easy life, either. We have been through a lot together, and neither of us are perfect. It’s hard because she won’t talk about the past. She lives for the present moment only. Once in a blue moon, she’ll mention somebody in passing, but never with an intention of talking. Especially not about Life House. She doesn’t want to talk about it; I don’t either. I’m jealous that she just seems to have walked past it, like none of it phased her. My heart is still sore and empty from the whole experience, and every day I catch myself locking gazes with babies, as if they are all somehow connected, and in doing so, I feel like it is me seeing her. I know it’s crazy. I know I’m crazy, but it is a crazy I am just going to live with. It would be so much easier if Cici, who was there with me and understands, could talk through it with me. I thought when I came here, Cici and I would help each other grieve and heal, but she is just spinning like a top.
When the salad comes, the waitress sets down two plates along with the salad that she puts in the center of the table. When she is gone, I ask Cici what she has been up to. “I feel like I never see you.”
“I know, right? We are just so busy.”
She’s right. This has been my first real day off since I started working at the hospital. I’ve enrolled for classes starting in August, and I feel like I’m always running, trying to fit everything. I’m always hungry, too. I scoop out half the salad onto a plate, and Cici motions for the waitress to bring her another drink. I want to tell her she can just have mine, but I hold my tongue.
“How is the hospital going?”
“Good, I really like it.” I made the mistake once of telling her that part of my job was washing patients and helping them dress. For a week after that, she would call me from the bathroom and ask if I could help wipe her butt. She has a dark sense of humor. “What about you, though?”Cici never talks about her job, but she always seems to have plenty of cash and never comes up short for her part of the rent.
She takes a long drink from her straw and narrows her eyes, assessing me. I lift my eyebrows in question. “All right,” she says, a decision made. “You can’t be all ‘old woman’ on me, you hear? Promise?”
“I promise.” She puts out her pinkie across the table, and I link mine with hers in a solemn vow to not be all “old woman.”
“Okay. So, like, you know Amber . . . you remember her?” I nod and swallow; here it comes. “Okay, well she works at The Club downtown.” When my face doesn’t register recognition, she leans in to clarify. “It’s a strip club.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to keep any hint of “old woman” out of my voice. I wasn’t prepared for this.
“Well, she works there, and it’s pretty tough to get in. I mean, it’s not like some of these other clubs around. It’s classy.” She takes another sip, leaning in, sending the alcohol vapor to wash over me. “So she does parties on the side, you know, and she’s been teaching me, so when I’m ready, she’s going to help me get on.”
“Wow. And you like that?” I try very hard to keep my voice neutral. I thought she was just going to tell me she was gay, or at least dating Amber, in love maybe. I wasn’t prepared for this.
“Well, yeah.” She makes a face, like there should be no question. “There is serious money.” I nod, my mouth full of salad. “The guys have, like, never even seen a boob.” She laughs. “They’re all new recruits for the Navy, ya know? It’s like, the first time they’ve ever been away from home.” She goes on, telling me how much she likes the money, how it’s just a party, how the guys are all so stupid. I keep eating my salad so I don’t have to say anything. I need time to process. I need time to know how to respond.