The After Wife (9 page)

“So, what are your orders for the day?” I asked. “Apparently, there’s a lot of concern about me.”

“Concern?” Aimee said. “Concern is putting it mildly. I was right there with you when you got knocked up. I was right there when you got hitched. But crazy, I don’t know if I can do.”

“Reassuring,” I said.

“Marriage and babies is bad enough.” Aimee shook her head. “Look how it ends.”

“So … where are we going?”

“To the spa. There’s a new treatment I want to try.”

“There’s a treatment you haven’t done?” I said, in mock horror.

“State of the art,” she said. “Don’t ask questions.”

Aimee is “I don’t know how much over forty.” That number is buried, like Jimmy Hoffa’s body and Vanilla Ice’s career, where it can never be found. She loses her driver’s license whenever the urge to change her birthdate strikes. Usually after a bad audition. The one thing Aimee’s worked for her entire life—The Role: Nicole Kidman in
Dead Calm
. Jessica Lange in
Frances
. Julia Roberts in
Mystic Pizza
—has been denied. She’s put everything aside for that phone call. No boyfriend lasted more than six months, no plant more than three. There’s nothing on her walls in her studio apartment on Ocean. There’s no food in the fridge, just numbing cream and Stoli. She’s never even subscribed to a magazine.

Aimee has been waiting to go on location for twenty years.

“What are you thinking?” Aimee asked me.

“We’re going to have to fit your BMW with cosmetic surgeon
GPS,” I said, looking closely at her. “Did you do something with your …?” I touched my earlobes.

“No,” she said, “Do you think I need to? They belong on an eighty-year-old named Si.”

“Your earlobes are perfection,” I said. “You could be an earlobe model.”

“You were so smart to stay on the kind side of the camera,” she said, looking at herself in the rearview mirror. “I look in the mirror now … it’s not the same, is it?”

“Aim, you are more beautiful now than you ever were,” I said. “Lay off the needles. Pretty soon, I’m going to look like your mother instead of your best friend.”

“I don’t need help,” I said, as we sat in the waiting room in kimonos and slippers surrounded by Brentwood momsters texting like drunken teens. The spa décor was “if a little Asian influence is good, a lot is money”; bamboo meet bonsai meet giant laughing Buddha head. So far, this spa experience was giving stress-inducing yoga a run for its
namaste
.

“Hannah, cut the crap,” Aimee said. “You had an entire conversation with an avocado tree. What’s next? You get engaged to a ficus?”

“Aimee, hi,” a busty, brunette attendant bounced (her hair extensions bouncing a beat behind) into the waiting room. “So good to see you! Come this way, okay?”

“How’d your
Two and a Half Men
audition go?” she asked Aimee, as we followed her bouncy self.

“You went on a
Two and a Half Men
audition?” I said.

“It spoke to me,” Aimee said. “There were a lot of colors to play in the scene.”

“Aimee, I want you to know,” the attendant said, stopping at a door, “this is my last week.”

“Oh … are you going back to Ohio?” Aimee asked. “This town is so tough.”

“No,” the girl said. “Hawaii! I got a part in the new Michael Bay movie. They’re saying I’m the new Megan Fox! I’m sooooo excited!”

This is how I know Aimee’s a great actress. You couldn’t tell she wanted to eat the girl’s liver with a rusty spoon.

“There’s an old Megan Fox?” I asked. “She’s like … twelve, right?”

“I’m so happy for you,” Aimee said.

“Thank you,” the girl said. “Oh, and good luck to you, too!”
God bless the children
, I thought.
Who speak in exclamation points
.

“Your V-Steam attendant will be here in a moment. You’re going to love this! I just had one this morning. My vagina feels brand-new!” she said, then bounced off. I held Aimee’s arm back as her hand formed a fist.

“What’s this about her … stuff?” I asked. “I’m not interested in a brand-new vagina. I like my old, pre-owned one.”

“It’s called a V-Steam. You sit on special stools, they bring in giant bowls with Chinese herbs in hot water—and you steam your vagina.”

“Like a clambake?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Aimee said. “A clam, or a mussel.”

“Aimee, I love you, but I’m not steaming my vagina for you. I don’t even like to say the word ‘vagina.’ I boycotted the
Vagina Monologues
for ten years.” I pulled my kimono around my waist and got up to leave, stepping over the elegant older man who had taken a seat next to Aimee.

“Excuse me,” I said. Then, I realized. He was a man, a man wearing a tailored suit and a hat. He wasn’t here for the vagina steam.

“Who’re you talking to—”

“Sitting next to you,” I said. “That man, there.”

“Hannah. You’re freaking me out. There’s no one here.”

“Look!” I said, pointing. “Look! You can see him! He’s right there!”

“Hannah!” Aimee said. “You’re scaring me.”

“He looks so sad,” I said.

“Hannah, you need help.” She was holding my shoulders. “You need to relax. You need a break. You need a V-Steam. Do it for Ellie.”

“Why is he so sad?” I said, as the man faded from sight.

* * *

Maybe I
was
losing my mind.

“It’s the Ambien,” Jay said later, as day turned to night. “Some people have the Faustino reaction.”

“You shouldn’t be taking Ambien,” Chloe said. “Read my blog. You could wind up in rehab or dead.”

“Or, you know, with a proper night’s sleep,” I said.

“She shouldn’t be drinking so much,” Aimee said, as she poured more vodka into her glass. “Did you drink before the steam?” Aimee had forced me to steam. And no, I don’t feel like I have a new anything down there.

“I survived porn yoga and poached my bits for you guys,” I said. “Can you all just … leave me alone?”

“Leave you alone?” Jay asked. “We’re supposed to go into the studio with an entire season of titillating episodes. Hannah, if we don’t wow them, we could be canceled.”

“Canceled?” I asked. “How is that possible?”

“They’re cutting way back on programming,” Jay said. “Even our cheap little show.”

“I’ll figure out the season. I mean, even though it’s reality.”

“Reality is the greatest fiction, you know that,” Jay said. “Where should I sleep tonight?”

“Jay, you’ve been here every single day—you need to concentrate on your own life. Halloween is around the corner; you’ve got barely a week to get your Katy Perry on. And Chloe—you’ve got kids, dogs, and a sort-of husband—”

“Wasband,” Aimee said.

“You want us out? You like dead people better than us?” Chloe asked.

“Never,” I said.

“I’ll come by in the morning,” Jay said.

“No,” I said, “if it makes you feel better, I won’t talk to any dead people tonight, no matter who drops in.”

“What’s Ellie wearing tomorrow?” Jay asked, as I escorted them
to the front door. “Let me put something aside—fur vest and jeggings?”

“That fur vest made in China?” Aimee said, then winked at Chloe. “Woof.”

“Don’t say that!” Chloe said, as I closed the door and turned to my quiet, empty house. I listened for Ellie’s soft breathing. The truth? I was scared—scared to be without my friends. And scared to be with them, denying what I saw. Times like these called for swift, forceful action.

I headed for the medicine cabinet. And found an expired bottle of NyQuil. I gave myself a shot, and shuffled off to bed.

8

Coyote Ugly

In the fairy-tale land of NoMo, the houses are bigger, the residents are all in training for the imaginary Olympics, the children are blonder, the cars are shinier, and the dogs, even the rescues, are purebred and walked in threes by professionals. The plant life, itself, gives off a richer bouquet—jasmine, pine, rosemary, lavender, olive trees, English roses …

“Landscaping,” Jay has said, “is what separates civilization from ‘Oh, hell no!’ ”

Even NoMo’s crazies are a cut above SoMo crazies. Take the mad movers—or peregrinators, if you will. Rollerblade Bob, a sixtyish hippie in tie-dye T-shirts Rollerblades to Whole Foods, Starbucks, the cliffs, and back; Hazmat Harriet, who basically wears a hazmat suit to run San Vicente every morning; there’s Corkscrew-Loose Lizzy, with a head of blond curls, who forces her hapless shepherd to run for hours on end. Goggles Gus is the old man who jogs so slowly past the date palms on Marguerita at dawn, it looks as though he’s moving backward. SoMo only has the homeless population, which occasionally wanders north from its designated areas south of Wilshire. They might show up on the doorstep of a double-lot Cape Cod, or peeing in the bushes of a regal Spanish Revival.

Coyotes, both two- and four-legged, are another issue. The four-legged
leave bloody tracks on the NoMo streets—Binky’s spine on 15th, Tinkerbell’s ear on 20th …

But the two-legged are more sinister.

After a peaceful night’s Ny-coma, uninterrupted by the living or the dead, I got Ellie off to school, and decided to take Spice for a walk. He and I needed fresh air and a fresh start. Spice is the color of John’s favorite seasoning, cumin, and is not only of indeterminate origin, but indeterminate age (like Brentwood divorcées). Don’t kill me, but Spice is not attractive. His legs are stubby, his body long. His nose smushed, his ears lopsided. Spice is Bert Lahr in my little Oz. He’s the Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything. He must have been traumatized as a puppy, but does he have to run from a floral arrangement? What is it about the guy on the oatmeal box that makes him shiver?

Our relationship has not been smooth. The first night in my house, Spice peed on my brand-new Cosabella panties. What’s the message? How about “I hate you” in Bark.

Now it’s me, the baby … and Spice. And two of the three of us merely tolerate each other.

I put on Spice’s leash and plied him with liver treats. Finally, miracle of miracles, we were walking, moving west toward the beach. The morning was frigid, even for late October; palm trees and blue fingertips. I should have worn gloves. Did I own gloves? I should have worn a hat. Did I own a hat? I’d need more Post-its. I was so busy berating myself as we passed a woman with a tangle of gray hair, tugging at a yellow Lab the size of a linebacker (NoMo’s number two canine, after the omnipresent labradoodle), I didn’t notice her pointing at something in the gutter.

“This is the work of Cheney!” she said, her eyes sending out messages from Planet I Need a Hobby. Her long wrinkled skirt and blouse with no bra set her fashion clock at Woodstock, between the hours of midnight and two
A.M
. The older women in the neighborhood (well, older than I am) were bohemians; they could afford it.
In any other neighborhood, people would be handing them singles and half-eaten sandwiches. I pulled at Spice, who was barking and whining, mirroring my inner life. The huge Labrador paced and sniffed at the ground.

“Poor baby!” she said. “You see what these animals did!”

I peered into the street as Spice wheeled and leapt, pulling me away. I saw a heart pendant, fur, and dried blood. I focused on the nametag. Something had made dessert out of “Cupcake.”

“Coyotes?” I said. “I’ve never seen one.” I’d heard their cries, their staccato, high-pitched yapping—a war party where the prey eats organic, wheat-free dog biscuits. Because it’s a pain when your dog is allergic to wheat.

“They’re right here, on this very street! They’re rampant. They live in abandoned homes, and roam, hunting for victims, just as the sun is fading.”

I had walked into a Gothic novel. I needed to walk out. “I don’t know anything about wildlife,” I said. “I mean, mold won’t even grow in my house.” Just keep talking, Hannah. Keep babbling. You’ll end up like Woodstock Wanda, here.

“There’s a pack,” she said, buoyed by my nonsense. “Dick Cheney, the big one, he’s bold. I’ve seen him wander the streets in broad daylight. He chased my husband and Sammy, here, just last Tuesday—it must have been six o’clock … Cheney tracked him for three blocks—thank God, my husband’s a triathlete—”

“A coyote named Dick Cheney chased your triathlete husband.” Were there any other kinds of husbands in Santa Monica? What was everyone in training for?

I wanted to remember this.

“He’s got Cheney’s eyes—pure evil, cold, heart of darkness.”
(This is the Socialist Republic of Santa Monica, after all. The latest City Council mandate has labeled every third Tuesday “Validate Each Other’s Feelings Day.”)

“I keep Spice in the backyard. It’s fenced in,” I said, as Spice continued to whine and pull.
I am right there with you, buddy
, I thought.

“They’ll hop it. Six, ten feet, they drag off dogs the size of Great Danes—and God help the little ones … I’m glad I don’t have small children,” she said. “Do you have a child?”

“Yes,” I said. “Ellie is three and a half. She’s not allowed to put toys made in China in her mouth.”

“Oh, good Lord!” she said, her eyes bright. “Don’t let her outside. Until she’s nine or ten and can carry a bat.”
NoMo was getting less appealing by the second
.