Helen of Pasadena (12 page)

“Super-sellable,” Rita repeated over and over again, as if just saying the word made it so, despite the dismal market and unattainable credit. The new spa-blue living room with dark gray trim? Super-sellable! The outdoor fireplace and retreat area re-planted with lavender and rosemary? Super-sellable! The family game area refreshed with ‘blackboard” paint and new curtains from Target? Super-sellable! Rita assured me that the lifestyle my house offered some lucky family was recession-proof. I would make money and I would rise again; that’s what Rita the Armenian promised.

I wanted to believe her.

But I didn’t really feel like talking to her right now.

I had to deal with Aiden and his homework issues at some point. And then there was that large glass of meritage I’d been thinking about since my meeting with Adele Arnett. But both would have to wait as Rita flagged me down with her wild gesturing, flashing a giant aquamarine ring and multiple gold bangles. Wow, that was some cheetah print blouse.

The open house would be this weekend and, thankfully, Aiden and I would be in Orange County at a water polo tournament. Youth sports can suck the lifeblood out of your family, but for this weekend’s excuse to leave town, I was grateful. I didn't think I could be there to watch the hordes of curious neighbors and tire kickers traipsing through my house, speculating on what would become of me. Off to the Courtyard Marriott in Mission Viejo we’d go, pretending that water polo was the only thing that mattered.

Aiden and I hopped out of the car. “Okay, do what you need to do, and then get ready for practice,” I instructed. Five nights a week from 8 to 10, Aiden was in the pool. Two mornings a week from 6 to 7, he was in the weight room. Usually, two weekends a month, his team played in a two-day tournament somewhere that required an overnight stay or long drives. I liked the water polo scene, but I didn’t love that our entire life seemed to revolve around it.

Club water polo had been Merritt’s idea. He’d been a swimmer all his life, disciplined and fit. Merritt dreamed of water polo glory for Aiden at Ignatius; we both knew he’d never be big enough or good enough to play in college. Of all the tasks that Merritt had left me to face alone, shuttling Aiden back and forth to the pool was the most tedious.

“Do I have to go to practice?” Aiden asked, for the third straight night. Merritt never allowed him to skip practice unless the sky was falling or he had floor seats at the Lakers game. Tonight, all I wanted to do was drink the wine and read the pages of the notebooks I’d scanned. The last thing I wanted to do was make the water polo run.

Aiden formed the prayer sign with his hands, “Please, can’t I just skip it this once?”

Of course he could. We both could.

“Sure, but make sure that homework gets done. I will be checking.” Aiden gave me the double thumbs up and headed into the house.

Juan tooted his horn as he pulled out of the driveway. I noticed Emilia popped her head out of the back door and gave Juan a special send-off. Was something happening between the two of them? I walked across the gravel to meet Rita. She gave me her usual two-cheek kiss and started right in on her plan.

“We are in great shape. Everything is set for this Sunday. Juan has done an amazing job. It looks wonderful. Super-sellable. So…” Rita hesitated dramatically, “There is just one thing I need to ask you. Please understand that I think this is for the best.”

“Okay,” I answered cautiously.

“I think you should remove Merritt’s things from the closet and the bathroom. I think your late husband was very well known, and I don’t want people to come here to disrespect your privacy,” Rita said in a heavier-than-usual accent. “I want potential buyers to see this house as a new start, not something … cursed or haunted. Please understand this is hard for me to ask.”

Oh my God, of course she was right! It hadn’t even occurred to me that people might come to look at the house because of Merritt’s notorious death, out of sheer morbid curiosity. For weeks, I’d only been thinking of the house as mine. But it was Merritt’s, too. And that was its own macabre draw.

And then, there was Roshelle Simms. The thought of her walking through my house, my life.…

“Umm.…”

That’s when the sobbing started. The honest-to-goodness heaving and sobbing that had eluded me since New Year’s Day. Until that moment, I’d kidded myself that I was just dandy, fueled by anger, fear and huge amounts of caffeine. But the thought of removing Merritt’s possessions so that real estate looky-loos didn’t paw through our closets looking for evidence of how I was coping sent me over the edge. The affair, the house, the money, the new job, Aiden’s grades, the scene at the school, Mitsy—it all came rushing at me in a giant White Diamonds wave as Rita squashed me toward her cheetah-printed chest.

“You poor thing. I am so sorry. I should not have asked.”

“No, no, you’re right,” I said between sobs, and then gasps, as Rita’s ample bosom closed in around my nose and mouth. I managed to pull away and free an airway before suffocation, but the crying continued. “I hadn’t even thought of it. There are so many things I’ve had to do, so many hard things. I haven’t actually taken the time to miss him.”

More sobbing.

Rita the Cheetah pounced again, wrapping me in silk and sympathy. “You are strong, like an Armenian woman. Tough, so tough. Usually, you American girls can’t take care of yourselves. But you can. You can do this.”

“Umm.…” The sobbing was subsiding now, but not quickly enough for a coherent answer.

“But … if you want, Juan can clear out the closets.” That Juan can do everything! God bless Juan.

I pulled away again. The crying had ended and the frantic wiping away of mascara had begun. That’s what I get for wearing makeup to work. I breathed deeply. “That’s okay. I can get it done by the open house.”

Rita looked pleased and relieved as she patted her sopping shirt with a tissue. “It’s a good decision. Good for you and for your son. And for the house.” Rita checked her watch and opened the door of her car. Time to go! More homes to sell. “We’ll talk before Sunday. And don’t worry. It’s super-sellable.”

Aiden was lying on the couch, laptop open, earplugs in,
The Simpsons
on the TV in the background. The contents of his backpack, which included gym shorts and a Nerf gun, had spilled out all over the couch. I doubted that a lot of homework was getting done; more likely he was IMing his classmates with important messages like “S’up?”

Or maybe something more suspicious, because he quickly got out of the screen he was studying when I tapped on his shoulder.

“Aiden,” I called out, making the international hand signal for Remove Your Earplugs While You Talk to Your Mother. He did. “Do you want anything else to eat? I have some phone calls to make.”

Aiden’s recent growth spurt required what seemed like an extra million calories a day in any form, healthy or otherwise. Entire frozen lasagnas as a snack before dinner, four packets of instant oatmeal for breakfast, gallons of Gatorade after practice.
Just keep the calories coming
had become my nutritional strategy.

“Hold up, Lydia,” he said to the microphone on his laptop, before looking up hopefully from the screen. “Chocolate ice cream?” I could hear a girl’s voice coming out of his earplugs. Was she reciting poetry? How cute.

“Who’s Lydia?”

“My friend from camp? You know, the girl who’s a really good dancer? We did that skit together on parents’ night?”

Oh, right. The skit Merritt said was like an unfunny version of an already unfunny SNL bit. “She was very talented. Say hi.”

I took this moment of attention to go over my plans. I tended to speak loudly and slowly when he was engaged in multiple digital activities at once, like he was hard of hearing and a non-native speaker. “I’m going upstairs to call your aunts. I need their help with something.”

I got my third thumbs up of the hour.

He can never know.

Merritt’s sisters had never been anything but nice to me. We’d never be giggling girlfriends or spinning buddies, well, because I didn’t giggle or spin and they did, but we had a fine relationship. They were younger, thinner and blonder than me, but they never made an issue out of that. Their lifelong ties to Pasadena had provided them deep friendships and vast community connections, as well as two very good marriages and a bunch of fair-haired Fairchild grandchildren.

Mary Claire Fairchild Bellweather, a.k.a. Mimi, and Madeleine Grace Fairchild Purcell, a.k.a. Mikki, were very close. They were best friends, charity co-chairs, on the phone with each other a half dozen times a day. I’d never seen sisters like Mimi and Mikki, without any issues or rivalry. Their husbands, Lawyer Bart and Broker Ben, had become best friends, golf buddies and soccer coaches. It was a tight, tight circle, and sometimes I felt like I was standing on the outside, looking in at the prom kings and queens of Pasadena Privileged Class of ’95.

But, as Candy had once advised, “That is
your
issue, not
their
behavior. They’re nice girls.”

The Candy Seal of Approval.

They adored their big brother Merritt. Merritt was six years older than Mimi and eight years older than Mikki. He stepped up when his own father had died so young and was the father figure the Fairchild sisters, then teens, had needed to get through high school, college and their careers before marriage. Merritt had walked both sisters down the aisle of St. Perpetua’s on their respective wedding days. They missed him tremendously, which was obvious from their frequent phone calls and visits to me since his death.

To them, Merritt was a hero, not a philandering husband or a failed money manager, which is why I asked them to meet me. Over the course of the last month, the sisters had offered dozens of time to do anything, anything I needed.

I needed them to clear out Merritt’s closets and drawers.

I didn’t want to ask over the phone, that seemed so tacky, so unFairchild. Instead, I asked them to meet me for coffee before work because I needed a favor. Of course, both sisters had agreed without hesitation. There was no mention of having to clear schedules or arrange sitters. Just a simple yes from both Mimi and Mikki.

When I walked into Petit Petals Patisserie, Mimi and Mikki were already there, drinking coffee from large white ceramic cups and wearing almost identical workout clothes and one-carat diamond earrings. They had inherited the long, lean physique of their mother and the ability to keep full-time help from their husbands. Mimi had three girls under the age of eight (Maddie, Mayson and Merri) and Mikki had a kindergarten boy (J.B.) and a pre-K girl (Callie), but you’d never know they had procreated by their bodies.

Mikki’s blond head looked up as I walked in, and she waved. Mimi turned and waved, too. I teared up a little. How could I ask them to do something I couldn’t possibly do myself?
Pull yourself together. This has to get done.

”Look at you! In your work clothes! You’re amazing, Helen,” Mimi gushed as she popped up and gave me a hug. Tina had put together seven days’ worth of work outfits, using my existing wardrobe and some fresh accessories. Like Garanimals for adults. I was in Work Outfit #3: J. Jill chinos with a fashion-forward boot cut, black turtleneck and black boots with low heel. “Classic but contemporary,” Tina had said as she threw some long gold necklaces, courtesy of the sale rack at Forever 21, around my neck. (“From a distance, these look like Chanel!” she’d lied.)

Mimi voiced her approval, too, making the same lunging hug and kiss motion. “Helen, you look great. We ordered you a latte. Nonfat, right?”

That was very thoughtful. Now I felt really horrible.

“Yes,” I sunk into one of the groovy mismatched chairs covered in Marimekko fabric and took a deep breath. My patience for chitchat was limited these days.

“I am just going to ask what I need to ask and you can say “no” without any hard feelings. My real estate agent thinks I should clean out Merritt’s belongings from the bedroom and such. She doesn’t want any gossips coming through the house for sport. And I think she’s right. It’s just that…I can’t do it. Not by Sunday, maybe not for a long time. I thought maybe you could.…”