My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

7.

The sun hasn’t yet risen on the March morning when I wake feeling fuzzy and sleep-deprived. Five-thirty—ugh. Last night, I labored at the computer until well past midnight, so it’s no wonder I’m exhausted. But I know I won’t fall back to sleep.

I’m scheduled to meet my new pal Sunny at the club around nine. Though Sunny is her real name, it could just as well be one of my pet names, given her long, glossy blond hair. Her personality reminds me of sunshine as well, but not the blazing sun of a hot August day; it’s more subtle and low-key, with a tinge of melancholy, like the muted sunlight of winter. Sunny is not given to false cheer or over-effusive greetings like Whitney, nor is she bossy or negative like Judge Judy. I scroll through emails and then double-check my business voicemail to make sure I haven’t missed anything. There are now two messages from my old neighbor, Mrs. Ostrowski. I meant to get back to her last night, but by the time I remembered, the hour was too late. Maybe today . . .

Nine o’clock is hours away, so I might as well go to the club early. I examine the class schedule on my Seaside Fitness phone app and decide on 7:30 a.m. hatha yoga. I haven’t tried yoga in years, and it’s never been my favorite thing. But it will be good to challenge myself with something different, something I wouldn’t have done in the time of Margaret.

As I enter the yoga studio, Sexy Eyes is walking in front of me, carrying his rolled-up purple yoga mat. Uh-oh. Are we expected to provide our own mats? Then I see an open supply closet. I grab a mat, bolster, strap, and two blocks, mimicking the others who have claimed their places and are sitting or reclining, already engaged in pre-class warmup poses, dedicated yogis all. Sexy Eyes rolls out his mat and settles into a spot in the front row, and I position myself behind him.

Marlene, the teacher, enters a few minutes later. She is easily the oldest instructor at the club – in her mid-sixties, I’d guess – slender and muscular, with a mane of beautiful silver hair tied back with a ribbon. “Namaste, everyone,” she says as she sweeps across the room, all lightness and grace. I thought namaste was something people said at the conclusion of a class, but apparently you can use it to mean hello or goodbye, like aloha or shalom.

She instructs the class to start in a cross-legged seated pose and tells us to place our hands in a position that sounds something like Angelina Jolie. Then she repeats the phrase and I now understand it to be anjali mudra, which describes the simple gesture of pressing your palms together in front of the heart. What follows is a succession of poses that Marlene calls out in rapid-fire Sanskrit. We engage our mula bandha, drop down in Chaturanga, perform a swooping vinyasa, invert ourselves into a V-shaped Adho Mukha Svanasana, find our drishti as we balance one-legged in Vrksasana to resemble a tree, squat down into an imaginary chair in Utkatasana, salute the sun with Surya Namaskar, and so much more.

My comprehension of Sanskrit is about on par with my fluency in Mandarin, but I stumble along, trying to keep up. I find it helpful to watch Sexy Eyes and follow his lead. His long body is agile and lithe, flowing from one pose to another with effortless skill. He has a light winter suntan that suggests an affinity for outdoor activities. His hair is dark on top but graying around the edges, straight and thick, in a boyish cut that tumbles across his face whenever he lowers his head or turns sideways in the twisty poses. His biceps and triceps, thigh muscles, and calves all tauten as he moves from pose to pose. His limbs are well-sculpted, but his is not the bulging physique of a bodybuilder – which is fine by me, since I regard the muscleman look as a major turnoff.

The truth is, I’m not watching Sexy Eyes to guide me through the poses as much as I’m ogling him. And why not? I haven’t been with a man in a long time, and without question, this man is highly ogleable. I reflect with catty pleasure that there’s no way Alice can derive this kind of pleasure from observing Henry, whose pale limbs and long bloated torso have gone soft and fleshy from years of inactivity – though in the bedroom, I guess, he hasn’t exactly been inactive. Stop thinking about Henry, I command myself. I steal another glance at Sexy Eyes for distraction.

Near the end of class, as we execute a recumbent spinal twist, Marlene sits in a serene lotus pose, organizing small towels into a neat pile. I’m all in favor of multi-tasking, but is it appropriate for this woman to be folding her laundry? It isn’t until we assume our final corpse pose, or savasana, and she tiptoes around the room to distribute a warm towel to each of us, that I understand the lavender-scented cloths are to enhance our final relaxation with aromatherapy.

I nearly burst out laughing at my own cluelessness, but Sexy Eyes turns his head toward me as he adjusts his pose, and our brief eye contact stifles my impulse to laugh. As I take in the soothing scent of the lavender, my eyelids grow heavy. The next thing I know, Marlene is summoning the group back to consciousness with a gentle voice to lead us through the final om. I’m so drowsy it takes a massive effort to pry open my eyes.

On our way out of the studio, Sexy Eyes asks me, “Did you enjoy the class?”

I smile up at him. “I did. But all those yoga terms go way over my head. I need a cheat sheet with translations and drawings.”

“You might try Marlene’s Introduction to Yoga class. Only English is spoken there.” He must see my smile fade because he adds, “Kidding. Keep coming back and you’ll catch on in no time.”

Is he being polite, or is that an invitation? I’ve no idea, but I float downstairs to the lobby, my body humming with an unexpected frisson of excitement. I can hardly wait to get back to hatha yoga to work on all those unpronounceable poses.

As I’m pouring myself a cup of java at the free coffee bar in the lobby, Sunny arrives and fixes herself an herbal tea sweetened with two packets of raw sugar. It’s a beautiful morning, unseasonably warm because of the Santa Ana weather that can bring the hottest temperatures of the year to the coastal sections of Los Angeles. Today the mercury is predicted to top out in the mid-eighties. To take advantage of the delightful weather, we stroll out to the deck with our hot beverages, passing Sexy Eyes along the way.

“Hey, Sunny, how’s it going?” he asks, smiling at her.

“I’m good. You?”

“Same.” He and I lock glances for a moment as we cross paths. My cheeks feel hot, and I hope my blush isn’t visible.

Sunny and I settle into adjacent lounge chairs facing the water. The deck is deserted right now, but that will change in another hour when the water aerobics contingent arrives to take over the pool. They are mostly an older group, not the fittest people in the club, but definitely an enthusiastic bunch.

“The man who just walked past us—who is he?” I ask.

Sunny peers back at me, her eyes a tranquil emerald sea. She’s around forty, and though she’s not beautiful, she has an earnest, trustworthy face, with regular features and white teeth that gleam when she smiles. “Charlie,” she replies. “Charles Kittredge.”

“You know his last name?”

“He’s like the rock star of the club.”

“That man is a rock star?”

“Not literally,” she says, laughing. “He’s a novelist, and a pretty famous one.” She emphasizes the word with a tone of hushed respect that one might reserve for a Nobel Prize recipient. “But he doesn’t act like he thinks he’s a rock star. Charlie’s a nice guy. A really nice guy.”

“I haven’t heard of him.”

“You don’t read fiction?”

“Not much. I mostly go for biographies, political books, that sort of thing.” Though I don’t say it, fiction seems a bit like a waste of time to me.

“He’s published a lot of literary fiction. One of his novels even came out as a movie a while back. Bicoastal. Have you heard of it?”

I shake my head, again professing ignorance.

She leans toward me and lowers her voice. “He’s a widower.” Sunny imparts this latest bit of information in the same reverential tone as if to suggest that widowhood is a distinguished and even desirable state.

“That’s so sad. Did his wife die recently?”

“A few years ago. I don’t recall the exact timing; except I heard it was sudden. Why do you ask about him? Are you interested?”

“Oh no. Simply curious. Are you?”

“No, although . . .”

“Although what?” If there is anything between Charlie and Sunny, I will certainly want to back off. I mean that in the hypothetical sense. I would back off if I was interested—which I’m not. Ogling isn’t synonymous with need or desire.

She blinks and looks away from me when she replies. “Nothing,” she says. “We’re friends. I’ve read a few of his books. You should check them out.”

“I’ll go to his Amazon page right now,” I say, pulling out my cellphone. On my screen is a text message from Michael, sent about twenty minutes earlier.

Michael: Call me ASAP. Important.

“Shit,” I say. I silenced my phone at the beginning of yoga class and forgot to check it until now.

“Anything wrong?”

“I’m not sure. I need to call my son.” I stand and walk over to the railing at the front section of the deck, away from Sunny, to speak to Michael in privacy. I can never predict when he might have a bone to pick with me about something.

He answers my call immediately. “Oh good, you’re there. Mom, we’re kind of in a fix. Heather’s come down with a nasty stomach bug and a fever. She’s too sick to take care of Benny, and I’ve got to get to the office. I’m late as it is. Can you watch him?”

Since Heather is a stay-at-home mom, they don’t have a regular daytime sitter. “Sorry she’s sick,” I say. “Won’t Boss Daddy give you the day off?” I regret this question the moment I ask it.

“Boss Daddy needs me in the office. We’ve got an important new business pitch today, and I’m in charge. The presentation starts in an hour.”

I sigh. I made it clear to the kids a long time ago that although I may work from home, I still have a real job and can’t be at their beck and call during the week. But Michael’s voice is fraught with tension, and it occurs to me this might be a good opportunity to mend fences.

“Sure, I’ll watch him. At my place, not yours.”

“But all his stuff is here—”

“Look, I don’t want to catch whatever Heather’s got. Anyway, I’m expecting a few calls later on the business line, and I need to work while he takes his nap. Throw some stuff in a bag, whatever you think he’ll need, and I’ll pick him up in about fifteen minutes.” I walk back to Sunny’s lounge chair and explain the change of plans.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks.

“Thanks, but no. I have no idea what I’m gonna do with a three-year-old all day, but I don’t want to babysit him at their house with my sick daughter-in-law.”

“Why don’t you bring him over to Seaside Kids?” she says, referring to the childcare center here at the club.

“Oh, I don’t know . . .”

“They’ve got that great playground in the back, and the bounce house, and lots of toys. The kids here always look like they’re having a blast.”

I pause, then nod my head. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll take Benny there and we can both check it out. It could be a lot of fun for him.”

For the next couple of hours, all goes well. I collect Benny, who is excited to see me, throwing his arms around me as he shouts “GrandMar” in a joyful little voice. Since he was two, Benny has called me this name, coined by his mother. It’s original, pronounceable, and cute all at the same time – far more memorable than the generic Grandma, Grammy, or (God forbid) Granny. And it has inspired the current abbreviation of my full name to “Mar.”

I bring Benny straight to the club. In the company of a staff member, I escort him hand-in-hand around the childcare center and study his reactions.

“Look, GrandMar.” He points at a ride-on car. “That’s like my car at home, but this one is bigger. And it’s yellow.”

“What color is yours?”

“Blue. I want to go on this one.”

“Soon,” I promise. When we lead him out the back door to view the playground and bounce house area, his eyes light up. “Do you want to play here for a little while? While GrandMar gets some exercise?” I ask.

He nods, and I am satisfied that he will be okay.

The aide ushers us back to the check-in desk, where I complete the required paperwork and hand over a sandwich and snacks that Michael has stowed in the child’s little Spiderman backpack. Benny’s face crumples when I turn to leave him, so I rush back and grab his hand.

“How about a ride on that yellow car you liked?”

Benny nods and I lead him to the car. I help him into the seat, and he pushes the vehicle around as I give him a goodbye wave and turn to leave. His expression turns solemn again, but the aide swoops in and distracts him by showing him how to work the horn, giving me a thumbs-up as she does this. I reconnect with Sunny, who is still lounging on the deck, and we go to a cycle class. I find it a tad boring to sit on a stationary bike pumping my legs for an hour, and my thoughts turn to Benny as I wonder how he’s doing in childcare. The woman at the desk promised to pull me out of class if there were any problems, so I guess everything is all right. I’m pouring down sweat by the end of class, energized by the rigorous if repetitive cardio workout. “Do you want to meet for a drink somewhere later? After I drop Benny at home?” I ask Sunny.

She hesitates. “To be honest, I’m not a big fan of the happy hour crowd.”

I remember she declined a similar invitation last week. “You’re welcome to come to my place instead. I’ve got a balcony with a view, and it should be warm enough tonight to sit outside.”

This time, she breaks into a grin. “That sounds terrific.”

I agree to text her with the time and address as soon as I learn my schedule. Still dripping from the cycle class, I take a shower and go to pick up Benny. To my relief, I find him jumping up and down in the bounce house at the rear of the Seaside Kids area, wispy blond hair flying, a mile-wide grin on his little face. I let him bounce for another ten minutes, figuring he’ll have a good nap this afternoon. He cries when I inform him it’s time to leave.

We run into Charlie again on our way out. When he sees me hand-in-hand with the weepy child, he crouches down to Benny’s level and smiles at the boy. “What’s wrong? Did you lose a thumb?” He shows Benny that trick where you bend both thumbs at the joint and slide one thumb along the side of the opposite hand, creating the illusion that the thumb is in two pieces. Benny’s eyes widen and the sobs turn to giggles.

“Thanks. Great diversion.” I grin at Charlie as we continue on our way.

I turn on my cellphone as we’re climbing into the car, and what comes up is not good. The screen is cluttered with multiple messages and missed calls, the earlier ones from Heather and the rest from Michael.

Where are you? We are very worried is the central theme, expressed in escalating degrees of urgency over a period of nearly two hours.

Crap.

I strap Benny into his car seat, unwrap a stick of string cheese to occupy him, and call Michael at once.

“Is everything all right? Where’s Benny?” he asks, his tone panicky.

“He’s fine. Couldn’t be better.” I shoot the child a pleading look that says whatever you do, don’t start crying. Fortunately, his attention is riveted to the string cheese. “We’re about to drive home from Seaside Fitness,” I say to Michael.

“What are you doing there?” Before I can respond, he says, “Heather and I have been frantic. She tried texting and phoning you, and when you never answered, she called me out of my meeting. She thought something had happened.”

“Nothing happened, I just—”

“I had to leave the new business presentation to drive to your apartment. When you weren’t there, I was at my wit’s end. We were sure you were in a car accident, or Benny got hurt and you took him to the ER—”

“He’s absolutely fine. I brought him to play at the childcare place here at the club.”

“Are you kidding me?” Now Michael is shouting into the phone.

“They have a bounce house. He had the greatest time. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it later.”

“I cannot believe this. We entrust you with your only grandchild for the first time in weeks, and your response is to stick him in daycare with a bunch of strangers?”

“Michael—listen, please,” I say, more apologetic now. “I’m sorry you and Heather were frightened, but let’s all try to calm down. They have a terrific facility here, and the childcare workers are all licensed, or certified, or whatever you call it. It’s not like I left Benny with a band of Hell’s Angels.”

Silence. At least Michael has stopped shouting. After an audible intake of breath, he says, “How soon will you be at the apartment? I think I should pick him up and take him home.”

“Please don’t. Listen—there’s no reason for you to disrupt the rest of your workday. I’ve got this covered. We’ll have a bite to eat, then nap, and then later I’ll take him down to play by the tide pools. He’ll enjoy that.”

“All right,” Michael says, but his tone is grudging.

“Why was Heather trying to reach me?”

“She wanted to tell you Benny doesn’t always nap anymore. If he can’t sleep, give him a few books to occupy him. I put some in his backpack.”

“I keep books for him at my place too. We’ll be fine.”

“Don’t forget, all right? Set a timer for twenty minutes, and if he’s still awake, give him the books then.”

“Twenty minutes. Got it.”

“He’ll be okay as long as he has books, and he understands this is quiet time. You’ll still be able to do your fucking work.”

I chafe at this last comment. My work has always been fucking work as far as Michael is concerned. He has inherited the Schuyler contempt for my career choice. But I let it go. “We’ll be fine,” I say once again.

At the apartment, Benny finishes his partially eaten sandwich from Seaside Kids, followed by a few apple slices and strawberries. I settle him down on my bed, cradling him in my arms as we examine a book about tide pools. “Tell me how many things you can name in the tide pools,” I say, giving him a light kiss above the ear as I take in the innocent scent and soft feel of his silky hair. Michael had exactly the same hair at this age. With this recollection, a lump catches in my throat.

Benny points to the familiar objects one by one. “Snail. Crab. Seashells. Rocks. Seaweed.”

“Very good. Later when we go down to the water, we’ll count how many of these we can find,” I say, feeling a sweet sense of tranquility from sharing such a gentle time together.

He gives me a sleepy smile. “Can I ride on the yellow car again soon?”

“Sure, little lamb.”

Thinking of Michael’s snarky reaction, though, I’m not at all sure – and my serenity dissolves. Why is he so compelled to micromanage every aspect of Benny’s care, even though the boy turned three last fall? Honestly. You’d think I had never put a child down for a nap. Still, I set my cellphone timer for twenty minutes as I’d pledged to do.

. . .

That evening Sunny and I are sitting on my balcony, enjoying the spectacular Santa Ana sunset – the twilight sky a palette splashed with a dozen brilliant shades of orange and pink. We nibble on brie and crackers and enjoy an Italian red blend that Sunny presented on arrival. I’m familiar with the wine – it’s one of those bottles you can purchase for five or six dollars at Trader Joe’s. Despite the bargain-basement price, it’s eminently drinkable, and Sunny’s sharp eye for a good value wine increases my respect for her.

We discuss the book I’m reading, by an Ivy League-educated psychiatrist whose patients report past life experiences in their sessions. “He documents cases in which his patients reveal things they couldn’t have known unless they had lived these past lives,” I say. “It’s pretty compelling. Unless he’s made it all up.” Part of me wants to believe in this phenomenon, while the other part remains a skeptic.

“I believe in reincarnation,” says Sunny.

“In the religious sense—like Hindus or Buddhists?”

“I guess so, though I wouldn’t call myself a follower of any specific faith. But I do think our actions in this life have an impact on future lives. Like good deeds can make for a better life next time, while bad behavior can lead to suffering in the next life.”

“What about fine, upstanding people who suffer tragedy unfairly in this life? Are they paying for previous misdeeds?”

Sunny pauses before answering. “I’ve thought about that a lot. I don’t know, but maybe. It would provide a rationale for why bad things happen to good people.”

“I guess.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“I’m inclined to believe in multiple lives too. But I don’t think they’re connected, or that one life influences the next. It’s all random.”

“Do you think there’s a final destination, a place where you arrive after all these lives?”

“You mean like heaven or nirvana?”

Sunny nods.

“Well, I don’t believe in heaven. I can’t picture myself in some paradise, reconnecting with all the people I’ve ever loved in my life, partying and rejoicing, or whatever the hell you do in heaven. Nirvana is more spiritual, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s a release from human bondage from the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. What happens at the end – if you get there – is peace and happiness and liberation from suffering.”

“Sounds better than heaven to me, but I can’t see a path to nirvana in my random universe.”

“But if events are random, then nothing you ever do as an individual makes a difference,” says Sunny. “I can’t believe our actions don’t influence the future. I believe in cause and effect, and in, I don’t know . . .”

“Consequences?”

“Yes.” She nods fiercely. “I believe in consequences.”

Later, when we’ve emptied the wine bottle and decimated the cheese plate, I offer to prepare something more substantial. “I don’t cook, but I’m a genius with a microwave. I keep a stash of TJ Reduced Guilt meals in the freezer, and I always have fresh veggies on hand.”

“Thanks, but I must’ve scarfed half a pound of cheese. I’m stuffed.” She starts toward the front door. “Are you coming to the club tomorrow?”

“I plan to unless the kids need me to watch Benny again.”

“If I can help, I’m happy to do that,” Sunny says. “I love little kids. And I know you have work to do.”

“I gather you’re not working right now?”

She looks down at her hands. “No. Not for a while now.”

Sensing her discomfort, I don’t ask her to elaborate. After she leaves, since I’m not hungry either, I head straight to the computer to work on a freelance assignment.

My brain is stimulated and I’m ready to sink my teeth into some productive writing.

As I pound away at the keyboard, I reflect on how nice it is to have a new friend with whom I can discuss topics that run a little deeper than weather patterns and restaurant openings.