Surviving Valencia (34 page)

The crowd began to thin. The lights dimmed and the announcer told us that the parents were welcome to stay and dance. The students looked at one another with horrified expressions on their faces. Valencia and Rob were moving away from me, zipping up their coats, preparing to leave. Their son had already gone on ahead of them. I had come too far to let this go. I followed them, finding it difficult to keep up with my strappy heels and pregnant belly. As they prepared to slip out a side door of the gymnasium, I reached them and tapped on Valencia’s back. She looked back at me, blankly.

“You must be so proud,” I said. My voice was shaking. “Of your daughter,” I added, when she did not immediately respond.

The three of us stood there in that open doorway, blocking traffic. I smiled, waiting to see what happened next. My eyes were moist and my heart was pounding. I swallowed dryly.

“Thank you,” said Rob McCray, when his wife still made no effort to answer.

“Rob, Val, why don’t you meet us at the bowling alley,” called a man standing down the hall in a small group of parents near the restrooms.

“We sure are proud of her. Thanks,” Valencia finally said to me, a puzzled but not particularly interested look on her face. She clearly had no idea who I was. Then she turned her back to me and continued through the door, out into the hall, not even making an effort to hold it for me. “Sounds good, Todd. We’ll just run home and drop off Mikey, and we’ll meet you over there.”

Rob went into the men’s room and Valencia joined the group. She fumbled through her purse, then her pocket, found her cigarettes and lighter, apparently ready to use them the second she stepped outside. I hung back watching. I buttoned my coat, trying to blend in with the other people leaving. She paid no attention to me. Indelicately she coughed, stepped back from her friends, and went to the water fountain for a drink. A brief, phantom limb memory revealed itself as her hand reflexively moved to hold back the long hair that had once been such a part of her identity, and then fell uselessly to her side when its grasp met the collar of her jacket. She no longer had beautiful hair to hold back out of the way. Every last detail of her had changed.

I realized then that Valencia really had died that night, long ago. This woman who had resigned herself to having an average, forgettable life bore no resemblance to the Valencia I had once known. I suppose I could have seen her as a fighter, a survivor, but the fighting she had done to become, simply, a survivor, was twenty-one years in the past. And no matter what she had gone through, there was no excuse to aspire only to survive.

Is this good enough for you, Valencia?
I wondered. I wanted to shake her. It was not good enough for Valencia, but it was good enough for Val.

Who was there left to believe in? I had never much believed in God. It really was possible, likely even, that we humans were nothing more than very advanced fish. So who could blame us for being such colossal failures? We were all equally meaningless, pointlessly judging one another. Success or failure, what did it matter, anyhow?

As I walked past her, slipped her class ring off my finger (it never had really fit me), and dropped it into her open purse, I knew that if she had recognized me I would have forgiven everything. Even the mom jeans.

When I arrived back in Savannah, my new home was parked a half block down from our house. I stopped myself from checking it out immediately, and instead went right inside as if everything were normal.

“Hello, Adrian,” I said, surprising him in his studio.

“Hey! You’re home,” he said, getting up to pour me some iced tea. We sat down together in the living room. The naked painting of me was finished and was hanging above our couch. The part of the face not covered with hair looked suspiciously like my sister’s senior picture.

“You finished the painting,” I remarked.

“I did.”

“Well how about that.” I sipped my tea and scratched at a bug bite on my ankle.

“Look at the bright blue camper!” Adrian exclaimed, pulling back the curtain and pointing down the street. I hadn’t realized that Bruce was going to paint the outside too.

“It’s really something,” I said. I got up and looked back at it, a little sliver of doubt momentarily eclipsing the sunshine of the open road in my future. There were a few things I hadn’t thought about. Like, how fun would rambling around in that thing be when I was nine months pregnant? And where would I have the baby? My doctor was, of course, here in Savannah, but if I stuck around until then I might as well just keep living with Adrian. And what if someone tried to break in? The walls were
so
thin.

Selling oranges from a motorhome kind of required two people, not counting babies.

“You settle in and relax while I put your stuff away, okay Honey?” said Adrian, heading outside to the pile of luggage the taxi driver had dropped off. I could tell he thought that we were happy again. I got up and wandered around to see what kind of damage Alexa had done to our house.
Adrian’s house
, I corrected myself.

The kennel called and told me to get your mean dog. I did, but then he got away. Sorry!
was written on a scrap of paper towel. Otherwise nothing appeared out of the ordinary. I sat down on the couch, not quite ready to do much else.

“I’m so glad you’re home, Sweetie,” said Adrian, setting down my suitcases. He gave me a kiss on the top of my head and then disappeared into the dining room. A moment later he reappeared. “Where do you want me to put this?” he asked, holding a huge box of French baby clothes.

I shrugged.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, setting down the box.

“Nothing. I’ll put those clothes away.”

“No, this box is really heavy. I’ll just put it away for you.”

“You can take it up to the nursery.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, picking it back up.

“Sure. I’m alright.”

He came over to me and kissed me again on the top of the head. He turned to walk away, but then he stopped and set the box back down. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked.

I nodded.

He sat beside me and took my hand. “All I want is for us to spend the rest of our lives together, and raise this baby, and make each other happy. Can we still have that?”

“It sounds nice,” I said.

“But not nice for you?” he asked, judging from my tone.

“It sounds like a nice life for someone. I’d like it to be mine.”

“So let it.”

“I don’t want to choose it just because it’s easy.”

“Honey, love should be easy.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“So tell me what you mean. Easier than what?”

“Leaving. Leaving you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

I drew in a deep breath. “That’s my motorhome outside,” I told him. “And in that big, flat envelope over there,” I said, pointing to our stack of mail, “are its decals. I’ve been planning to become a fruit vendor. I guess it’s time I told you the truth: I’m leaving you so I can sell oranges.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That blue motorhome – it’s a home, not a camper – is where I’m going to live. I didn’t think it would be ready so soon. But there it is.”

“Very funny, Sweetie.” But he did not look amused.

“I’m serious. I’ve been trying to tell you for months. You just wouldn’t listen.”

He got up and tore open one of the envelopes. From inside it he pulled out a huge, laminated sign.
Delicious Juicy Fruits! We’re Manic about Organic!

“Wow! They did a great job,” I said, taking the sign from his hands and admiring it. “Is there another one in there? Because they were supposed to make one for each side of the cart.”

“Are you kidding me?” yelled Adrian. He tried to tear it in half, but the lamination was so thick and durable that it only twisted.

“Adrian, you’re going to wreck it,” I said, pulling it away from him.

“Who’s
we
? Why does it say ‘
We’re
Manic about Organic?’” he demanded.

“Well, ‘we’ means me and the baby. Plus, I thought it sounded safer. You know, so people would know more than one person was inside the motor home at night when I’m sleeping.”

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” he asked, sitting down and putting his head in his hands.

“You don’t need to swear.”

“What is the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I really am sorry. But this is what I have to do. How can we go on like this, after everything that’s happened? I can’t just sweep stuff like that under the rug. Especially when there is about to be a baby involved. I was planning on January first being the day I left, but it looks like there’s nothing stopping me from taking off a little sooner. I think I’m going to drive to California and get started there.”

“You aren’t leaving with my baby,” he said.

“Well, I can’t leave without it.”

“Why don’t we go out for some ice cream, do a little shopping, and wait until this passes,” said Adrian, soothingly, trying a new tactic.

“No.”

His soothing tone snapped back to angry desperation. “You’re going to walk away from our marriage? No. No, it’s not going to happen.”

I stood there, unsure of what to say to that. Adrian began to cry.

“This is what I have to do,” I whispered. A part of my brain was telling me to say I was kidding.
Turn it around while you still can
, it was warning me.

“I love you, Honey.” He was sobbing.

I began to doubt myself even more. I wanted to hold him.

Stay strong.

You knew this wouldn’t be easy.

Are you sure you want to do this?

I don’t know.

“Adrian, I’m going to leave today, I think.” How could I not? It wasn’t as if I could say all this and then we could go on with our lives for a few more days.

He did not answer me.

I waited for him to say something that would change my mind. I wasn’t sure what it might be. I would know it when I heard it.

He pressed his hands against his face. He did not speak.

I listened to the ticking clock and to the neighbor mowing his lawn. I waited. Neither of us spoke. Finally I stood up and went outside to the motorhome. I opened the little door and went inside. It was tiny inside. Cramped and hot. There was barely room to move, and it was so outrageously decorated that it was like stepping into an overflowing jewelry box. I propped open the door, reality coating me in humid, sticky waves that smelled like new textiles and paint.

Bruce had certainly done his job. It was a virtual paradise on earth, complete with a tiny wine refrigerator with a glass door. Tasseled tie-backs held the velvet curtains in place. A small stretch of marble counter top was laid out with a crusty loaf of peasant bread and some withering grapes.

I stepped back outside, catching my breath, fanning myself with a brochure about taking care of my new upholstery. I looked up and down the street, realizing the blue motorhome and silver trailer were drawing a great deal of attention. Anyone not at work was gardening with sunglasses on, coincidentally facing my way. I wiped some sweat from my temple and stuck my head back inside for another look around. Toward the back there was an adorable, linen-filled crib for the baby and a bigger bed for me.

Needing to escape my watchful neighbors, I climbed back up the steps of my new home and sat down on the bench that doubled as the seat for the dining room table. It was so terribly warm and the scents were so overpowering, that I was becoming nauseous. I looked around, trying to find how to turn on the air conditioning. I didn’t see a thermostat anywhere. Did the engine need to be running for the air conditioning to work? I had no idea. I knew nothing about motorhomes. What was the next step? Where would I buy my oranges? How would I fill my evenings when it was too late to ring strangers’ doorbells? Was there even room for my sewing machine in here?

Adrian appeared in the open doorway and set the box of baby clothes in the opening. It took up the only free space I’d had. He turned around and left without saying a word.

I stood up and opened a window, which created a whisper of breeze. If things got too bad, I could sell all of this on eBay, I reminded myself. The important thing was, I was going to live an honest life. This decked out motor home was a little head start to get me on the right track. It was a little crumb broken off from the cake of the good life.

I avoided looking out the tiny window at our gigantic home. I looked instead at my newly bare hands, both still bearing the faint markings of the rings they’d worn for years. Free and naked now. Gone were the rings that symbolized love and belonging, and being owned.

I could do this. I would do it because I had to.

I went back inside the house to pack up my belongings. Adrian was in his studio with the music turned up. I realized I was halfway packed as it was, since all my bags from the stay at Alexa’s were sitting in the foyer. I took them to the motor home and then went back into the house. I found the old duffel that had held all my money earned a million years ago for watching Grandma Betty, and filled it with my homemade sundresses. I noticed a few of my favorite dresses were missing. Alexa must have taken them. I might never see Alexa again, I realized. Then it occurred to me that I might never again see anyone I didn’t want to see. My parents, my aunts and uncles. It was entirely up to me.

I dumped books, chipped pottery, and shoes in the bag too, and then opened my bathroom drawers and poured my makeup on top. I hauled it all outside and returned for another load. The door to Adrian’s studio was still closed.

I stood outside it, staring at the pattern of the woodgrain, listening to the blaring music. I was half hoping he would come out and stop me. I knocked but he didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t hear me knock. I tried again. I was losing my nerve, doubting myself. My sewing machine and a tote bag of fabric were all that remained. I honestly considered asking him to carry them out for me since I thought they might be heavy and I didn’t want to make two trips. I was
that
dependent on him. I was still
that
far from seeing any of this as being real.

I stood outside his door, listening, waiting.

Was he really going to end it like this? With a closed door. No goodbyes. Nothing.

He doesn’t believe it’s over
, I realized.
He thinks I’m bluffing.

I got a glass of water from the kitchen and drank it, stalling. The music continued to blare.

Well, time to move on out.

But I continued standing there, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the door to open. The momentum was changing. The intensity of the sun was waning. If it got any later, I would not do it today. If I did not do it today, I would never do it.

I wondered what had happened to that spontaneous girl I used to be. That girl who kissed bartenders and fell down drunk, who didn’t mind houses with rats and roommates.

I missed her.

She made a lot of bad decisions, I reminded myself.

But she, unlike every other version of myself I’d ever been, had a lot of fun.

I knocked on the door again, wanting to say goodbye. Believing I could say goodbye and mean it. But Adrian would not open the door.

So I did it. I left. I picked up the tote bag and sewing machine, realized they weren’t
actually
that heavy, and carried them out to the motorhome. I set them on the passenger seat, the only free space left, and found my keys beneath the visor. (They were on a fancy silver keychain. Thank you, Bruce Dash.) And I rolled out of town in a blue, triumphant bullet with a shiny silver cart, hopefully pointed in the direction of California.