My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

23.

Over the next couple of days, determined as I am to shake off the trauma of the accident, my aching body won’t let me forget the physical punishment it’s undergone. My neck is stiff and sore from whiplash, and I have three enormous and tender bruises: two on the inner sides of my knees from the violent knocking, the other along my left hip, which I must have banged against the car door from the impact of the collision. Two mornings after the crash, I break down and belatedly follow Grace’s advice. I pay a visit to my doctor, who prescribes high doses of ibuprofen and a muscle relaxant at night.

Back home, my phone buzzes with a call from Grace. “Just wanted to ask how it went with the doctor yesterday.”

“Good.” I don’t bother mentioning I waited until today to seek help. “I hope the meds will do the job.”

“They will. You’ll feel a little better each day,” she assures me.

I’m touched by her continued attention and concern. “Thanks for checking in again. How are things with you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m at work right now.”

“I won’t keep you, then.”

“It’s okay. The man I take care of is resting, so I have a few minutes.”

“You said you’re a home health aide, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you spend nights there too?”

“Oh no. My husband wouldn’t care for that.” We both laugh. “He retired a couple of years ago—my husband, I mean—so I’ve cut back to morning shifts so Mike and I can play golf in the afternoons.”

“Sounds nice. Michael is my son’s name too,” I add. This leads to a discussion of children. Grace also has a grown son, just out of college. We talk about kids, and what we do in our leisure time, and how we feel about our jobs.

“The man I work for is such a sweetheart. He’s widowed and has esophageal cancer.”

“That’s rough. How sick is he?”

“He’s actually been doing pretty well the last few months since he stopped chemo, but I’m afraid the cancer will catch up with him before long. Hold on—he’s calling for me.”

I can hear Grace’s footsteps as she walks away from the phone. In the background, I overhear her cheerful voice as she ministers to her patient. “You okay, Frank? Here, let me adjust those pillows. Better, right? I’m just going to hang up the phone and I’ll fix you a nice snack. Then how about a foot massage?” I’m struck, once again, by her kindness and compassion. She comes back to the phone. “You heard that? I’ve gotta run.”

“Of course. Thanks for checking in, Grace. I enjoyed talking with you.”

. . .

There’s endless busywork in the accident’s aftermath: forms to be filled out, phone calls to the insurance companies, a trip to the car rental place to pick up the blue Camry that will serve as my transportation until the car issues are sorted out. I’m fortunate the cost of a loaner will be covered by the other driver’s insurance. In a conversation with the woman at the rental counter, however, I learn I might’ve missed out on a bigger insurance windfall by refusing emergency medical treatment.

“When you have a report from the hospital documenting your injuries, you stand to collect more money,” she informs me.

“Like, hundreds more?” I ask.

“Even thousands.”

I guess I should’ve listened to Grace and the paramedics after all.

Once I’ve caught up on the accident follow-up and I’ve got wheels again, what to do? I’m too sore for any serious exercise. In more hospitable weather I could manage a stroll on the esplanade, but the record-breaking heat has persisted. Besides, the beach is packed with families trying to escape the even hotter inland temperatures, and I’m in no mood to fight the crowds and the noise. I call Mrs. Ostrowski. “How are you?” I ask.

“Not too good.”

“Colds are the worst,” I say.

“How did you know I had a cold?”

“We talked on Friday.”

“We did?” She coughs like a maniac at the other end of the line before she’s able to continue. “I think it’s gone to my sinuses,” she says. “I’ve got the worst post-nasal drip. It’s annoying.”

“You should get yourself to a doctor right away.” Do as I say, not as I do.

“Oh, I will, hon, first thing tomorrow.”

You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know she’s not seeing any doctor tomorrow morning. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh no, dear. Thank you for asking.” She dissolves into another round of coughing, and we both sign off.

Twice rebuffed by Mrs. O., my next action reveals the full extent of my growing desperation. I call Mum and invite her to visit me in California.

“Visit you? In that terrible heat?”

“Not right now. In the fall—maybe October. When it gets chilly in New York.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Margy. I thought you lived in a small place. Where would I sleep?”

“You can have my bedroom. I’ll use the futon in my office.”

“Sounds like cramped quarters.”

“I’ve told you, it’s nice. You can watch the sailboats go by and smell the salt air. You can even hear the sea lions barking.” It’s pathetic how hard I’m selling it. There’s a long pause during which I imagine she’s framing the best way to make her excuses.

Sure enough, she says, “Could be tricky, darling. I’ve got a lot of plans with my friend Nina and tickets to several shows. Also, I’m helping the new crowd organize an end-of-summer party over Labor Day, and a wine-tasting event in the middle of October.”

Parties, plays, wine tastings . . . Mum excels at living a carefree life. Why can’t I be like that? “How are Mary and Jeanette?” I ask, referring to her two oldest friends. “You haven’t mentioned them lately.”

Mum sighs. “Those two are like a couple of miserable old crones. Mary’s always begging off because of some imagined ailment or another. One day it’s a sinus headache, the next day it’s a touch of diarrhea. Jeanette is recovering from a hip replacement, and she’s hired a caregiver to help her get around, so if I go anywhere with her, the aide has to tag along. It’s dreadfully inconvenient.”

That’s my Mum. The soul of compassion.

“Anything else, honey? Because I’m running late.”

“Well, I thought you’d want to know I was in a bad collision a couple of days ago. The other driver ran a red light.”

“Oh no. You sound normal, so it couldn’t have been too terrible.”

“Actually, it was. The Prius was totaled.”

“But you’re okay? Did you go to hospital?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Oh good. I’m glad it wasn’t anything serious.”

I nearly break down and tell her how serious it really was, but I know this will trigger a “stiff upper lip, darling” lecture. So I just say, “Right.”

“Thanks for calling, sweet pea. Talk soon.”

“Sure, Mum.” Her nonchalance burrows under my skin like a stinging insect bite. But everything has always been about her. God forbid she should waste any precious time on sympathy for another human soul. Then again, that’s probably what Michael thinks about me.

Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all.

. . .

A few nights later I drive up to Santa Monica for a concert. It’s a musical revue with a small ensemble of performers doing numbers from shows by Sondheim, Kander and Ebb, and other Broadway luminaries. Instead of old chestnuts like “Send in the Clowns,” the playlist features lesser-known titles, combined into clever thematic mashups. My enjoyment would be complete if it weren’t for the nagging pain in the back of my neck. I forgot to take my anti-inflammatory before leaving home. Later, in the theater parking lot, I start the rental Camry and am about to put it in reverse when the whole car shakes with a loud thud. Someone has backed into me.

Seriously? Another accident? I would laugh if my neck didn’t ache so much. I move stiffly out of the car to confront the other driver. She’s a young woman, though not as young as the girl who piloted the black SUV.

“I’m so sorry. So sorry,” she says.

I examine the rear of my loaner car. The right bumper has a bad dent and the plastic taillight cover is broken, but at least the car is drivable. Still, I’ll have to contact the rental company right away, exchange the car, fill out another pile of paperwork, and lord knows what else.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

I turn to her. “You’re sorry. Sure, you’re sorry. Everybody’s sorry. The teenager who ran a light and almost killed me last week, she’s sorry. Really, really sorry. Her father, who’s paying for the whole thing with his insurance, is sorry too, mostly because his rates will go up. Oh, and my ex-husband Henry, who fell in love with another woman . . . he decided he wanted a divorce, and he was really sorry about that.” My voice is rising, and some of the other concert patrons have stopped to eavesdrop on my rant. I look around at the gathering crowd. “Everybody is sorry,” I inform them, windmilling my arms in a fierce gesture. “Except my son Michael, who’s never sorry because as far as he’s concerned, everything that happens is all my fault!”

The woman who rear-ended my car is taking cautious steps backward in the same way I retreated from the dreaded rattlesnake on the hiking trail. Though I’m sure she regrets hitting me, I expect she’s sorrier still to discover that she’ll now be forced to engage with a lunatic.

Back at my place, I pop a much-needed ibuprofen, pour myself a glass of white wine, and discover—to my bewilderment—that I’m not in the mood to drink. I’m in the mood to cry.

Though I can tear up in a heartbeat watching some schlocky commercial for life insurance or animal shelters, real crying has never come readily to me. It’s a product of my upbringing. While my friends’ parents obliged them to stifle farts and belches, at our house Mum greeted tears with the same stern condemnation. A sobbing child was neither attractive nor genteel in her unsentimental world. So as I try to let go, the first sounds I produce emerge more like strangled hiccups than sobs. I scrunch up my face to summon emotion, but my eyes remain dry. And then, when I’m about to give up, the waterworks start. I cry and cry, and then cry some more, until I worry the tears will never cease.

I can’t stop replaying Grace’s question when she ran up to help me. Who can I call for you? Not having anyone else I dare to speak to, I’m tempted to phone Grace right now and tell her what happened tonight. But bothering her with this would be inappropriate. Besides, I doubt I could utter an intelligible sentence in my current state.

Who can I call for you?

Here’s the thing. During happy times, it’s all well and good to be fancy-free and independent. But when you’re confronted with the tough stuff, when the bottomless well of tears leaves your eyes stinging and your head pounding, self-reliance loses its allure. When life surprises you with the collisions and the fender-benders and the near misses; with the heatstroke on a hike, or the aches and chills and flus of winter; with the friend who unexpectedly drops dead, or the parent who starts acting forgetful; with the biblical rainstorm that springs holes in your roof, or the earthquake that shatters every breakable item in your house; with your cousin’s/sibling’s/friend’s kid who dies from a drug overdose/suicide/freak sports injury . . . when life deals you a shitty hand of any kind (and given the almost infinite combination of cards, there are many, many shitty hands to be dealt), you want to have someone to call.

Not a Good Samaritan like Grace, but someone you hold close to your heart. And suddenly, I have a realization that seems so important, so obvious, so necessary, I don’t know how it eluded me until now. The next time a stranger asks, “Who can I call for you?” I want that name to be right on my lips, with no hesitation and no doubt that the person at the receiving end of the call will be there for me and will have my back.