Surviving Valencia (30 page)

I left the living room and lay down on Alexa’s bed. Before I knew it, I was dreaming.

I was driving down a red clay highway, and all around me peacocks flew, swooping down in front of me. I had my windshield wipers flapping on high speed to scare them away; it was impossible to see where I was going. I decided to look out the side window instead.

I leaned out the window like a dog, feeling the wind gushing against my face as the car propelled itself along. The mountains in the distance were made of tidy pyramids of stacked oranges, and from slices in the skin of the oranges blood oozed. The sky was brilliant blue. Far, far in the distance, where the orange mountains’ peaks met that brilliant sky, was heaven.

The next thing I knew, I was up in the mountains, standing on the oranges. They were so large, or I was so small, that each pebbly bit of texture on the orange was like a bump the size of a fist.

Valencia was there: Living, breathing,
real
. I was younger than her, as I will always be. Despite that she was acting like her usual self, I sensed that her presence was a rare, special gift. I ached to touch her and be again, in a world with her in it. The jaded, weary version of myself from real life was leaking into the dream, semi-aware this was a fleeting, temporary encounter. I kept trying to hug her and she kept moving away from me. Longing and desperate, I was ruining it for my innocent self.

“Let’s play tennis,” she said. I noticed she was holding a tennis racquet.

“Sure. Do you have another racquet?”

“Didn’t you bring yours?”

“I forgot.”

“You can use mine.”

“But then you won’t have one.”

“I can find another.”

“Valencia, I miss you,” I told her, but she didn’t understand; she didn’t know she was dead. “Adrian could have saved you,” I told her, weeping now, out of control. She didn’t understand why I was crying.

“Saved me? Trust me, I’m fine.”

“Where’s Van?” I asked her.

“He’s in school.”

“If you keep sleeping now, you’ll be up all night,” said a voice. And before I completely came out of the dream I was caught in that space of still being in the dream, but knowing it’s a dream. Immediately followed by familiar, crushing disappointment. Dreams are the only portal to connect the living with the dead, and it is increasingly rare that they take me there. When they do it’s better than traveling anywhere on Earth.

I opened my eyes to Adrian leaning over me.

“Mind if I sit down?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He sat down beside me and ran his hand through my hair. His fingers smelled of cigarettes. I buried my face in the pillow, trying to recapture the feeling of the dream, unable to do so.

He didn’t say anything; he just ran his fingers through my hair, over and over.

“I don’t think I will have any trouble sleeping tonight,” I said finally.

“How is the baby?” he asked, placing his hand on my stomach. At that, I felt my walls crumbling. I held my breath, trying to keep it back, but I couldn’t do it; I began to cry. Adrian leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me tightly, his lips at my ear. He was crying too. He rarely cried and when he did it broke my heart. I couldn’t help it: I turned and put my arms around him, and the two of us lay holding each other in the dark.

“I know you love me,” he said. “I don’t know why you can’t just let things be.”

I did not respond. He pushed my wet hair out of my face and forced me to look into his eyes. The darkness, the hot tears, the foreignness of Alexa’s bedroom, all felt like earlier times we’d had. I was transported back to my twenties again, to the passion and drama that I had once embraced instead of shunned. I felt his power over me.

“I love you so much,” he said. “I need you.”

Which way are you going to go? I asked myself.

I closed my eyes because I never could think when he was looking at me.

I love you too. I need you too, I thought.

But I was as strong as I could be. I didn’t say a word.

The next day Adrian got up early and drove to Chicago to meet with a client, and I came up with a plan: I was going away. I was really going to do it.

I decided that January 1, 2008 would be the day I started over. That gave me a month and a half to get everything in order. Not much time. As soon as he left I sat down at the computer and started looking at motorhomes. I needed to find one near Savannah, so it would be ready when I got back.

After just an hour I stumbled upon the perfect one. Big enough to live in, but not so large that it would be scary to drive. I called the telephone number and told the owners I would buy it. I knew I needed to act fast: Adrian would be home by late afternoon and I had a lot of work to do.

“Leave it unlocked. I have a friend who will be coming to do some work to it,” I said.

“It don’t need no work, Sugar,” said the lady on the end of the line.

“Oh, I just have a couple little changes in mind,” I told her.

Then I phoned Bruce Dash Design. They are miracle workers. Every year they win the Best of Savannah Award.

“I want Bruce. Not some assistant,” I told the girl who answered. For what would likely be the last time in my life, I said, “Money is no object.”

Bruce suggested Provincial blue walls and cream-colored Irish linen on the little bed.

“When can we meet to look at fabric swatches?” he asked me.

“I’m out of town, so you will have to go crazy without me. The sky’s the limit, Bruce! I want it to feel like a tiny palace on wheels. Just be sure there is room for a baby and plenty of oranges.” To emphasize my point, I sent him ten thousand dollars via Paypal as we spoke. I felt very, very out of control. How would I explain this missing chunk of money to Adrian? A Christmas present he would have to just trust me and wait for? My heart was racing so badly I was afraid I would have a heart attack.

“Oranges?”

“Yes, we will be going on a little road trip, and we will be selling oranges to finance the trip. Please do keep this all to yourself,” I warned him, feeling as crazy as I sounded.

He suggested I get a refrigerated trailer for the oranges, to preserve the precious, limited room in the motorhome. I agreed that was an excellent idea and asked him to arrange it.

“Of course,” he said, expertly hiding his miffed feelings, treating me like the royalty that sharing Adrian’s name still afforded me. Every suggestion he presented, I agreed to. Before ending the call, I again swore him to secrecy, telling him the palace on wheels was an anniversary present for Adrian.

As he described the drawer pulls he had in mind, when I thought our conversation should have already wrapped up at least five times, I removed my wedding band and placed it on one of Alexa’s modern, crystal trays. My story when Adrian asked why I was not wearing it would be that my fingers were becoming too swollen to comfortably keep it on any longer. I felt a bit hollow, realizing I would never again feel its platinum weight on my finger.

When we returned to Savannah in a couple of weeks, everything would be all set for me. The glossy, weatherproof stickers that said
GEORGIA’S BEST CITRUS FRUIT
would be ready to be picked up from the printers and all the baby clothes I ordered from France would be waiting for me.

Now I just needed to carry on as if everything was the same as usual.

The trouble with being back in Wisconsin was that it reminded me of when Adrian and I started seeing each other. All it took was one little stroll down Willy Street and a latte at Mother Fool’s to make me doubt my plan. I realized I had to get out of Madison, because it was making me want to stay with Adrian far too much.

“Let’s go to your family get-together a day early, if your Aunt and Uncle won’t mind us spending an extra day with them,” I told him.

“Seriously?”

“Yes!” I figured that if there was anything that would make me glad I was leaving, it would be spending time with my in-laws.

On the Friday morning following Thanksgiving, having successfully navigated the previous days’ Royal Tennenbaumness of Adrian’s family, made easier by Alexa’s absence, we were driving from Iowa up to my parents’ house. Adrian was under the impression that everything between us was fine. He had his entire collection of John Denver CDs spread out on his lap, and he was singing along to his favorites. He kept looking at me and smiling for no reason. My phone was turned off because Bruce Dash and company kept calling with design emergencies.

“Are you ready for some more green bean casserole, Mountain Momma?” he asked, giving my knee a squeeze.

“Sure.”

“Do you like the kind with crispy onions on top or slivered almonds?”

“Both are great.”

“That’s what I think,” he said, nodding and beaming.

Today marked the twenty-first anniversary of Van and Valencia’s deaths. Twenty-one years. The time it took to go from being born to sitting in Paul’s Club with Dannon and Luna all those years ago, toasting to adulthood. I’d lived two thirds of my life without Van and Valencia. Yet a day had never passed without me thinking of them.

“Your dress looks nice,” said Adrian.

“Thanks.” I had sewn it by hand. It was pearl grey with rich gold trim in a four inch band along the bottom. It came just above my knees. I wore deep grey tights and boots with it. The combination of Alexa’s fashion magazines and my addiction to
Cut-Throat Couture
reruns was turning me into a mad designer. I had cut my hair into a short, swingy bob with choppy layers. Adrian was oblivious to the cliché of a new haircut meaning a woman is starting over.

“What have Roger and Patricia got to say about becoming grandparents?” asked Adrian.

“They haven’t said much. Not many things interest them.”

At Adrian’s aunt and uncle’s house in Cedar Rapids the night before, his family had bombarded us with presents. New clothes, old clothes that had been Adrian’s and Alexa’s, an antique christening gown, passed down over several generations. The backseat was filled with boxes of heirlooms that Adrian was eager to sift through with me. Most women would love to have a man who was so excited to become a father. It was all right here, in front of me, for the taking. I began to suspect that I would never be selling oranges from a trailer.

“Would you mind if I drove awhile?” I asked. Our policy had always been that the driver chooses the music, and John Denver had to go.

“That would be good. I could use a little nap. We can switch at the next exit,” said Adrian.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, I have always meant to ask you, what’s the story with that treehouse in your parents’ backyard?” Adrian asked.

“Story? There is no story. What made you think of that?”

He pointed to a farm up ahead with a big treehouse high in the wide branches of an old oak tree. I looked at it, and craned my neck to continue looking as we went past. The treehouse was old and droopy. Nowadays everyone has sturdy, easy-to-assemble play structures instead.

“There is a story,” I admitted. “It was for my brother and sister. I wasn’t allowed up there much. Even when they got sick of it, it was still their territory. After they went to college I went up there a little, but I felt like I had to be sneaky. It was the kind of thing that would have made my parents mad. When they died my dad cut down the rope ladder so I couldn’t get in. What an asshole. Now I think it’s starting to rot. There was a hole in the roof where the water was getting in and wrecking it.”

“Oh,” said Adrian. “What a rotten treehouse.”

“Yes,” I said. “Rotten in every way.”

“Rotten as the day is long.”

“Rotten, rotten, rotten!”

We both began to laugh. Adrian kept going until he had tears in his eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time we had laughed like that together.

He reached over and took my hand, and kissed it, then held it to his face. His thumb rubbed my knuckle and the spot where my wedding ring had been for the last many years. He drew in a breath, and I thought for a second that he was going to pass judgment on my naked, non-puffy fingers, but he exhaled and kissed my hand again. I bit my lip and looked away, out to the Midwest cornfields and farms, cold and serious, so different from Savannah.

“An exit is coming up,” I reminded him.

He set my hand back in my lap and nodded. “I could use a break,” he said, his eyes weary, his face, a moment earlier laughing, now the face of a tired, middle-aged man.

Welcome to Stewartville. The Future is Bright!
promised the sign by the highway. It was a peeling, weathered statement against the bleak, slategray sky.

Adrian pulled into a gas station and got out to stretch his legs while I went inside to use the restroom. There was a line outside the ladies’ room, so I went over to the magazines, hoping to find something I hadn’t already seen at Alexa’s, something I could take along to my parents’ house. Of course there was nothing but tabloids and the local paper. I glanced over at the line by the restroom door, but it hadn’t budged.

Something propelled me to I pick up the
Stewartville Star
and flip through it. I stood there, tired and devoting only a small bit of my attention to the smalltown stories: A local hairdresser was retiring. A new restaurant was opening in town. Two couples, lifelong friends, had taken an Alaskan cruise to celebrate their fiftieth anniversaries. Pages four and five were devoted to school events and sports.
2007 Winter Formal Court Chosen
read the headline on page five.
December 1 to be One Enchanted Evening
the subhead added, an unprofessionally curly typestyle emphasizing the specialness, the youthfulness, of such an evening.

I examined the students’ faces, momentarily transported back to my own unpopular high school years, that jealous, lonely time. There were ten or twelve couples, some sitting on bleachers, some standing, all with healthy, wholesome smiles. One girl in particular caught my eye, made me catch my breath. She was tall and beautiful with that particular grace I had only ever known one other person to hold: Valencia.

I squinted at the smeary black and white photo, then looked over at the bathroom line again. Finally no one was waiting. My bladder was ready to burst so I shoved the paper back where it had been and hurried over. The door was locked.

“Just a minute,” yelled the old woman inside.

From where I stood I could see the car. Adrian was in the passenger seat, asleep, his head pressed against the steamy window.

Just use the men’s room
, I told myself. I peered inside and saw the seat was covered with urine. So I continued to wait outside the ladies’ room. Minutes ticked by. Finally I couldn’t help myself.

“Are you okay in there, ma’am?”

No answer.

“Ma’am?” I knocked on the door.

“Just a minute, dammit!” she yelled again.

I went back to the magazine rack and picked up the paper again. I flipped to page five to reexamine the photo, to decipher that mystique I thought I’d seen. There she was; I hadn’t been imagining it.

I looked beneath the photo to see her name.
What if her name is Valencia?
I mused.
What if, somehow, I have gone back in time?
But it was definitely 2007. The headline said so.

I skimmed through the names of students on court, keeping one eye on the bathroom door. Then I found her, and I nearly, literally, wet my pants.
Elliott Johnson to escort Coral McCray.

I looked up at the photo of the students, making sure I was matching the correct name to Valencia’s doppelganger. Yes, this name went with this face.

I closed my eyes, thinking I might be dreaming, but when I reopened them I was still me, still standing in a gas station, the smell of hotdogs all around me. I shoved the paper back in its slot and grabbed the one beneath it, irrationally thinking the photo might be clearer. It was the same. This girl still had Valencia’s face, and more than that, she had Valencia’s
presence
. I could
feel
it. And her name was still Coral McCray.

Coral. McCray. Straight from the pages of one of Valencia’s high school notebooks.