Page 3 of This Is How It Started
“I don’t know.” It isn’t like Brooke is an ogre. But we haven’t been all that kind to her over the years, starting with the fact that Adam, Hannah and I nicknamed her the child bride behind her back. My mother is less tactful. She calls Brooke thekurveh,Yiddish for prostitute, to her face.
Mom also hasn’t gone unscathed in the name game. Little does she know that long before the divorce, her darling children gave her the moniker of Mommie Dearest. Adam used to run through the house, wearing her lipstick, screaming, “No more wire hangers.”
“I suppose she thought Dad would’ve wanted her to offer up the house. We grew up here after all.”
“Maybe.” Adam takes another bite of my sandwich. “The place looks like shit. You see the walkway out front? I nearly killed myself tripping over the crumbling brickwork.”
It is a big estate to keep up, especially for one person. “She probably hasn’t had a chance to think about it.” Dad had only been gone a year. I know it’ll take me at least that long before I have the wherewithal to think about anything other than Josh and all I’ve lost.
Adam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, she’s too busy counting Dad’s money.”
The general consensus is that Brooke is a “Gold” digger (see what I did there?). The late David Gold was twice her age and one of the most sought-after plastic surgeons in California, maybe even the country.
Adam takes the plate off my lap and rests it on the coffee table, then takes my hands in his. “What are your plans for tonight? You shouldn’t be alone, Rachel.”
All I want is to be alone. Over the last week, I’ve been surrounded by people and feel smothered. Though everyone means well, the platitudes only make me sadder. I’ve never felt this weary, not even when my father died, and plan to spend the foreseeable future curled up in a ball on our king-size bed, clinging to Josh’s pillow.
“Mom will drive you crazy. And Hannah and Stephen...” He trails off but we both know what is being unsaid. My sister and brother-in-law are too wrapped up in their own problems to be of any help to mine.
“Stay with me, Rach,” Adam continues. “We’ll watch old movies and get high.”
It’s a sweet offer, but I don’t want to stay with Adam. First off, I’m pretty sure he has mice. Last time I was there, I saw what looked like droppings. And second of all, I need space to digest everything that has happened. Space to mourn by myself.
“We’ll see,” I say because it’s easier than simply saying no.
Across the parlor, in the hallway, I catch a glimpse of Campbell and Jess in conversation with my sister and my best friend, Josie, and am momentarily distracted. The last thing I want to do is talk to Campbell right now. So, I make an excuse to Adam that I have to use the bathroom and slink away through the dining room, then quickly climb the stairs to my old bedroom. It looks exactly the same as when I left it sixteen years ago. Same lavender walls, same antique iron bed, same appliqué bedspread, same tulle canopy from the Limited Too catalog.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and take in a deep breath, enjoying a modicum of calm for the first time since Saturday, which seems like a lifetime ago. I know it’s only a matter of time before my mother, Hannah or even one of the Ackermanns comes looking for me. In the meantime, I plan to take advantage of the solitude. It’s probably rude because everyone has come to mourn Josh and offer me condolences. But for once in my life, I’m going to ignore protocol and let myself hide for a little while.
I slip off my shoes, lie on the bed and promise myself that I’ll only close my eyes for a few minutes. As I drift, I can almost feel the mattress dip and Josh moving next to me. His warm breath trails my neck like a feather as he wraps his body around me. A combination of his aftershave and soap soothes me like a lullaby. And then he whispers, “Night, Rach,” as sleep claims me and takes me far away from grief and funeral parties.
Part 2
Before Josh Dies
Chapter 2
Seven Years Ago
This is how it started.
I met Josh at a bar. Well, I actually met him on the street in front of the bar. It’s kind of a funny story.
Campbell had called earlier that day and asked to rendezvous at the Round Up, an old-man saloon turned gastropub south of Market. I hadn’t seen him in forever—his fault, not mine—and he wanted to get together. It’s complicated between us, and half the time I don’t know where I stand with him.
It didn’t used to be that way. Before I accidentally got pregnant and lost our baby to a miscarriage ten years ago at the tender age of seventeen, Campbell was my first everything. My first kiss, my first love, my first sexual experience. My first real heartbreak.
I try not to think about our past because what happened, what we lost, can’t be changed. Funny how someone can go from being the center of your world to a casual friend. At least that’s what we’re trying for. Friends.
So, I’m circling the block, hoping it won’t be weird tonight.
But anyone who has ever lived in San Francisco can tell you that parking on Folsom at seven on a Friday night is a bitch. The perfect time to snag a parking space is a skosh past six. That’s when the meters stop running and everyone is headed home from work. The window of opportunity is short, though, as residents in the neighborhood vie for the now-empty spaces and fifteen hours of uninterrupted free street parking.
It used to be that I could wedge my MINI Cooper into the odd miniscule space between driveways. But now the entire city is awash in MINI Coopers.
I circle at least a half dozen more times until finally a BMW pulls away from the curb. It’s only two blocks from the Round Up. Jackpot! I hang a quick U-turn in the middle of the street before anyone can snatch the vacant spot. I’m not an aggressive person by nature, but when I get behind the wheel, I become my mother’s daughter, a raving lunatic.
It’s not until I pull into the space that I realize the curb is marked yellow. A loading zone. Shit! I’m about to pull away and go in search of a real spot when I get lit up by an SFPD motorcycle cop.
