My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

3.

The trendy new place in the Village Shops is inexplicably called The Kitchen – not La Cocina, the Spanish translation that would better suit a Mexican restaurant. The Kitchen does not accept reservations, and when I arrive, I discover that there is a long wait for tables. I hadn’t expected this on a January weeknight. Surveying the dining room and adjacent bar, attractively furnished with big armchairs and banquettes upholstered in turquoise-and-beige Southwestern print fabrics, I conclude this is a much more upscale establishment than the touristy waterfront resto where Whitney and I met earlier in the week. This new place is aimed at the foodies and the hipsters who like to see and be seen.

Though I invited Whitney tonight, she takes over the role of host. Whatever was bothering her at the gym yesterday seems to be forgotten. She ushers me to a small table in the crowded bar, perusing the drinks menu and insisting we both order the signature cocktail of the week, cutely billed as a “Marvelita.” It’s a creative mix of high-end tequila, agave syrup, lime, blood orange liqueur, and three other foreign-sounding ingredients I’ve never heard of.

“I prefer to order wine,” I say.

“Oh, but I don’t want to drink alone.”

“Wine is a drink.”

Her lower lip juts out in pouty defiance.

The bar is filled with patrons imbibing either conventional salt-rimmed margaritas or the blood-orange-colored specialty version, all served up in oversized stemmed martini glasses. Not a wine drinker in sight. “Oh, what the hell,” I say. “All right.”

When the cocktails arrive, I take an exploratory sip. The Marvelita is sweet, but not in a cloying way. I taste the mingled flavors of fruit and tequila, something peppery, something flowery. As I continue to drink, now with greater enthusiasm, I realize I am not only thirsty but also ravenous. I glance around the tabletops for bowls of salsa and chips, but there is no sign anywhere of the Mexican restaurant staple. For once, lowbrow munchies would be a welcome addition to the table; I ate a small cup of yogurt this morning and have not had a bite since. I drink faster, figuring the fruit and sugar will provide at least a small measure of nutritional value to tide me over until dinnertime. I suck greedily on the slender blood orange wedge that garnishes my drink, although I doubt it supplies more than six calories.

Whitney orders a second round. “Been to any good movies lately?” she asks, and then she sings the praises of the new chick flick showing at the Regal. “It’s about four twentysomething women who book themselves into a dude ranch on accident.”

“How do you go to a dude ranch by accident?” The editor in me can’t resist correcting Whitney’s English. Why do millennials persist in mangling their prepositional phrases?

“So . . . they confuse the ranch with a famous spa that has a similar-sounding name. But they still think they’re in a spa – like, when they practice riding on a mechanical horse, they mistake it for some kind of special massage – there’s a lot of stuff like that. It’s fricking hilarious,” Whitney says, though I find the assertion improbable. “I thought I’d pee my pants.”

I know this is a movie I will never watch, even if it is the only entertainment available on a fourteen-hour airline flight. Nor will I tune into any of the favorite TV shows she then reels off, mostly police procedurals and reality programs. Whitney displays a similar lack of interest in the news, documentary, and history programs that top my TV watch list.

Midway through round two of our cocktails, I’m feeling buzzed from the pleasurable yet dangerous sensation one gets from too much strong alcohol consumed too fast on a stomach too empty. I regret having opted for tequila over wine. As if by magic, two more Marvelitas appear. “Did we order these?” I ask Whitney.

“I signaled the waiter a couple of minutes ago. Guess you didn’t notice. You’re good with having one more, right?”

You might have consulted me before you ordered, I think, but I nod and flash her a dopey smile, wondering if it’s a dead giveaway that I’m already hammered. I can’t stop thinking about how hungry I am, so I keep slurping away at my cocktail to satisfy this insatiable craving to funnel any form of sustenance into my stomach.

Whitney resumes her edgy critique of television and film. “I’ll never understand why that Quentin Tortorino is so popular. His movies are so creepy and gory.”

“Tarantino. Not Tortorino.” My voice sounds echoing and inhuman to my ears. I think my figurative buzz has devolved into a literal one, like I’ve contracted some sort of alcoholic tinnitus. I stand and say, “I need to find the women’s room.” I lurch in the direction of a long corridor that holds the promise of restrooms at the end, praying I will make it there without calling attention to myself. I slow my pace down to keep from ricocheting into a wall.

The restroom has cobalt blue and white tiles on the countertops and curved wall alcoves decorated with flickering LED candles. I zigzag into the nearest stall and unleash a torrent of pee. When I come out, I view myself in the mirror with a mix of curiosity and horror. The face peering back is dimly familiar, but my skin is a pasty grayish green, my forehead glistens with sweat, and my eyes are bloodshot and filmy. Frozen in place at the counter, I grip my face with both hands, resting my elbows on the cool hard tiles.

After a few seconds (minutes? hours?), a gentle voice beckons me. “Are you all, right? Can I help you?”

I revolve my head an inch at a time (no fast movements, please) to face the woman who addressed me. I calculate she’s around my age—no, probably a few years older. “Earth mother” is the description that comes to mind. She is bulky and bosomy, her long graying hair thick but not fashionably cut or styled. She wears a multi-colored patchwork sweater coat, the kind they sell at street fairs, over a formless black dress. You would not say this woman has a single attractive facial feature, but I warm to her endearing smile, deep dimples etched in both cheeks. Her eyes smile, too, and they sparkle with compassion. She is so toasty-warm and cheerful, I can’t help but like her. Maybe this kindly woman can replace Whitney as my new best friend.

She grabs a couple of paper towels from a stack on the counter and wets them with cold water. As she hands them to me, I notice her fingers look stubby, the nails bitten down to the quick. “Here. Use these to wipe your face and neck.” Her voice is likable as well. It has a musical tone, sweet and reassuring. I nod and follow her instructions like an obedient child.

“Did that help?” she asks.

“A little. I think I’ll go back to my friend now.” As I turn to leave, I wobble on my feet.

She folds her arm around mine with a firm but gentle touch. “I’ll help you back to your seat.”

Grateful for the help, I let her guide me back into the bar, where I sink onto the upholstered chair. “Your friend could use something to eat, I think, if she can manage it,” she says to Whitney. “Better still, maybe you should take her home.” The woman gives me a comforting pat on the shoulder before strolling back to the dining room.

Her melodious voice reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who. I can’t think too coherently about anything right now. I observe her as she walks back to her table, where she is greeted by a man who rises with his back to me. He turns far enough for me to recognize the familiar profile – the beer belly straining against the golf shirt, the roundish cheeks and jutting mouth, the dark, deep-set eyes – and he greets her with an embrace followed by a warm kiss on the lips.

It’s Henry Schuyler. My Henry. My once-upon-a-time-in-suburbia Henry. Which means this woman must be Alice. Alice Hanley, the other woman, my nemesis. No wonder she sounded familiar. I should have recognized that voice from when she answered my phone call to the office.

I cannot believe my eyes. This is the woman Henry has left me for? During all these lonely months, I have been convinced she is young, sexy, and gorgeous, the quintessential trophy girlfriend. The revelation that I’ve missed the mark by a thousand miles has an instant sobering effect as if I’ve been doused with a bucket of ice water. I gulp down the remainder of my third cocktail in an ill-advised attempt to escape this harsh new reality. How could I be so clueless about my husband of twenty-eight years?

What else have I gotten wrong?

I peek at them once more, then avert my gaze, staring into my empty cocktail glass. The only saving grace of this whole encounter is that Henry doesn’t know I’m here. If he should spot me in the bar, his new partner will have total justification in saying, “Who can blame poor Henry for walking out on that falling-down drunk?”

I try to steady myself, but the shock to my system has been too great. My heart races, my cheeks burn with heat, and my stomach sloshes with all the liquid refreshment. I need to get out of this place, and fast. “I—I have to get some air,” I say to Whitney in an urgent whisper. I run out of the main entrance and hang a sharp left towards the adjacent parking lot. There, I bend over and “blow my lunch,” as the expression goes . . . except I have no lunch to blow. With nothing in my stomach but the contents of three generous Marvelitas, what emerges is mostly bile and spit.

When I straighten up and wipe one sleeve across my mouth to catch a final trail of saliva, Whitney is standing beside me. She stares at me with a stunned expression I’ve seen on her face once before, when she—well—when was it?

I remember. This is how she looked when we heard the report about the mall shooting on the locker room television. She freaks out. “Omigod, I knew you looked familiar. Omigod, omigod, omigod—”

“What is it?”

“The woman in the Vegas shooting.”

“What are you talking about?”

Now tears stream down her cheeks, and her body trembles violently. “You know the shooting at that music festival in Las Vegas? The one where hundreds of people were killed and wounded?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“I was at the festival and . . . and . . . these people next to me . . .” She is sobbing now, crying so hard I can tell she is struggling to speak.

I coax the story out of her. “What about the people next to you? Tell me what happened to them.” I dread the answer, though I can’t imagine what it has to do with me dry heaving in a restaurant parking lot.

“The man—the man next to me was shot in the arm, and he fell to the ground screaming. The woman with him crouched down and put her arms around him. Then she stood, and when she found his blood all over herself, she clutched her stomach just like you were doing and threw up. She looked exactly like you . . . the same hair, the same height and build. Why didn’t I realize this before?” She raises her voice, almost screaming. “Was that you, Mar? Were you the woman in Vegas?”

I wonder if this is a serious question. “Oh, Whitney, of courshhh not.” The two of us are quite the pair – Whitney hysterical, me slurring my words. I guess her liquor-laced quest for “fun, fun, fun” is rooted in unhappiness, the same as mine. So much for my labeling this young woman as baggage-free. We may be toting different brands of luggage, but both of us are burdened by a heavy load.

The rest of the evening is a blur. But as I remember it, Whitney stops crying and grows calm enough to say, “You said you’d treat tonight. Okay if I grab a few bills from your purse?” I nod and she does so, then she says, “Wait right here. I’m going inside to pay the tab and ask the bartender to call you a taxi.”

I retreat into the shadows to avoid recognition if Henry and Alice should emerge from the restaurant. Whitney comes back out to wait by my side. The taxi pulls up – an old-school yellow cab – and as it inches along in the valet parking and pickup lane, Whitney breaks up with me.

“So . . .” she begins, “I’m so sorry, Mar, but I don’t think I can hang out with you anymore. You know, Vegas was—it was, like, a huge trauma for me, and I’m still working through it. It’s not your fault, but, like, you remind me so much of that woman at the shooting, I don’t think I can get away from that. Every time I look at you from now on, I’ll think of that horrible night.”

“Wow. Okay, I get it.”

Relief washes over her face. “So . . . you’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad. I promishhh.” The fact is, Whitney is doing me a huge favor. I need to find a new acquaintance who is closer to my age, or at least more like-minded.

As I pile into the back seat of the cab, shit-faced and shaky, the weirdness of the situation strikes me. Whitney is ditching me because I remind her of a traumatic event in her past, but I, in turn, associate her with a trauma of my own. Because in my mind’s eye, whenever I pictured Henry with Alice, the woman I saw in my tortured imagination was . . . Whitney. Not literally her, of course, but a woman who looked and acted a lot like Whitney, a doppelg?nger of sorts.

How ironic that Whitney and I are both doing such a piss-poor job of running away from the past. Only a short time after seeking each other out in friendship, we’ve come face to face with the very demons we’re trying to escape – and the demons are each other. And it is Whitney, not me, who understands that we can never continue as friends because of that.

The girl has a lot more brains than I gave her credit for.