Page 62 of This Is How It Started
Josh did not have a porn problem. I feel I can say this with a hundred percent certainty, though I’m learning that you never really know a person, even one you were with for eight years. And even though I tell myself every day that Josh was never unfaithful to me, I can’t help but wonder whether he was still in touch with Beth Hardesty while he and I were together. So I hold my breath and click. And...there’s nothing there. Not even one message. I don’t know whether to sigh with relief or be skeptical. Does Facebook come through Messenger every couple of years with a digital Zamboni to sweep the place clean? Hide the bodies, so to speak? Mark Zuckerberg lives on the same street in Palo Alto as one of my mother’s dearest friends. Perhaps I could get her to slip the question to him.
For now, though, I’ll have to be satisfied cyberstalking Beth. I jump to her page. Unlike Josh, she appears to be quite active on “The Facebook,” as my mother calls it. The first thing I notice is Beth’s profile picture is of two little clones—a girl and a boy—of herself. That same dark hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. So pretty.
I scroll first through her pictures. There are lots of her and what I presume is her family. A handsome man in his thirties with unruly brown hair and the two mini-mes. They’re at the beach, on a farm, in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, windblown and fabulous. There are also shots of just her and the brown-eyed handsome man. On horseback with what I believe are the Grand Tetons in the foreground. Dressed up in formal attire at what looks like a gallery opening.
Her posts are filled with the kind of crap that’s designed to make everyone else feel bad about their life. Stuff like: “We got the house in St. Helena! Does anyone know a good interior designer? Someone who can make the place feel like a home and not a museum.” Or my personal favorite. “I’m honored and humbled that Les Puces madeSan Franciscomagazine’s best places to shop in the city. Thanks to all our loyal customers for voting. You guys are the best.”
It appears that Beth owns not one but two gift shops (or as my mother calls themchotchkeshops). One on California Street in Laurel Heights and one in, oh, surprise, surprise, St. Helena. Because the Napa Valley needs another store that sells wooden bowls and olive oil decanters.
Oh, would you look at that. Les Puces has its own page. I click over to scroll through posts upon posts of shiny objects and pithy comments like “Isn’t this darling?” when in fact it looks like something you can pick up at Home Goods for half the price.
There’s a photograph of a well-merchandised wall of signs, like the cheeky “Mama needs some wine” and the more subdued “Gather” in festive cursive letters.
There’s a blanket made from giant yarn and the caption “Doesn’t this look cozy?” Pet bowls that cost as much as Royal Copenhagen. And the obligatory collection of wine paraphernalia.
There’s a post with a picture of Beth standing next to a new shipment of bath products, looking California casual in a pair of ripped jeans and a chunky off-the-shoulder sweater reminiscent of the 1980s. The tagline says, “Come and get them before they’re gone.”
I switch back to Beth’s profile page (so much more interesting) and leaf through her life like a peeping tom. I ask myself whether Josh did the same, whether he visited Beth here and yearned for a life that could’ve been.
After I mine everything I can from her posts, I tap on her About page. She’s a business owner, which I’ve already ascertained. She graduated from UC Berkeley. Yep. She’s from Westport, Connecticut. Didn’t know that. She’s married to Jacob Fry. Jacob. Hmm, how about that?
The last thing I think as I close out of the page is,I wonder if Josh knew.
* * * *
That night, I let Brooke drag me to Raj’s. He lives in a lovely old home in the Haight. And everywhere there are traces of a happy marriage. Pictures of Raj’s beautiful family line the wall, including a portrait of him and his late wife, Brinda, on their wedding day, vibrant and so, so in love you can see it shining in their eyes.
“It was an arranged marriage,” Raj tells us as we fan out in his living room, sipping tea and eating fantastic cream puffs from a nearby bakery. So far, the food is really good at these things. “We didn’t want it at first. But our parents pushed. And it turned out that we were perfect for each other.” He looks at Vivian and me. “The moral of the story is listen to your parents. They know what’s good for you.”
Vivian and I plaster on smiles. He’s such a well-meaning sweet man. And so sad you just want to hug him.
Doris starts us off. “I don’t have any friends anymore. Before Elias died, we socialized with a lot of couples. People from our church, from the neighborhood, from the time our kids were in school. But little by little they’ve stopped calling. I don’t know if it’s because they find me pitiful or because there’s no room for a widow at their gatherings. I’ve got a sister in Atlanta, who I talk to on the phone a few times a week. And the kids check in on me, but they’ve got their own lives. It’s doggone lonely. I find I turn the TV loud just so the house doesn’t feel so empty inside.”
I tear up and make a mental note to take Doris to dinner. No one should be lonely.
A woman who I don’t remember from my first meeting says, “Have you thought about joining some clubs? There’s a senior center on Beach Street that I go to and would be happy to introduce you around.”
There’s a few approving nods, and Doris and the woman, Sylvia, exchange phone numbers. By now, I’m a soggy mess. The humanity in this room is more than I can take.
Brooke clears her throat. “Yesterday would’ve been David’s and my ninth wedding anniversary.”
Ah jeez, that’s right. I’d completely forgotten, though it wasn’t a date I was likely to mark on my calendar. The day Dad made it official that he’d chosen Brooke instead of the mother of his children. In protest, none of us went to the wedding. From what I understand, it was a small ceremony with a few close friends followed by a cocktail party at the house. As I recall, Mom took a cruise, and Hannah, Adam and I went to a bar and got drunk.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Brooke blots her eyes with a tissue.
Ordinarily, I would’ve considered her rare show of emotion crocodile tears. But her misery is palpable. I can feel it across the room.
“He was planning to retire, and we were going to take a trip. He’d always wanted to backpack in Alaska and see Denali. But we never made it.”
Backpack? Alaska? Denali? This is news to me. I’d never known my father to be much of an outdoorsman. Except for the med school camping forays in Humboldt, he and my mother preferred five-star resorts, golf courses and fine dining. The last time they got remotely close to roughing it was glamping on an African safari. But then again, I hadn’t known he’d wanted to be a photojournalist.
“I’ve thought of making the trip myself as an homage to him, but I can’t bear the idea of doing it without him.” She sniffles into her tissue. “If the grief is supposed to get better as time goes on, why is it getting worse?”
There are hushed murmurs around the room, and Vivian gives Brooke a hug. I probably should be the one consoling her. We lost him together, after all. My father. Her husband, though it’s only in this moment that I’ve started to think of him that way. Before, he was always my mother’s husband, even in divorce. Even in death. It was always Shana and David Gold. Our family, not hers. She was merely an interloper, a temporary nuisance, who would eventually go away.
Now I’m not so sure. The truth is I’m not so sure about anything anymore.
Chapter 23
