The Housewife(18)

I bring the appointment book to the window, tilt it into the light.

It’s an address.

2210 Horizon Oak Circle 305. Thousand Oaks





I tell Marie that I have an errand to run, grab my car keys, and take off. I punch the address into my GPS. I have no idea what this place is. All I know is that it’s in Thousand Oaks, and it was important enough to Deb that she wrote it down one day before Roy killed her.

I haven’t been in LA long enough to judge distances, and I don’t even notice until I’m well on my way that Thousand Oaks is an hour from here. It’s now 2:00 p.m., which means I won’t be making that special dish from Better Homes & Gardens after all. Roy won’t mind. I have a freezer full of delicious meals. He won’t know the difference.

An hour later, I’m in the right neighborhood. But this part of town is a lot more spread out than where I live. 2210 Horizon Oak Circle is some kind of business park; it’s not just a building on the street, and I miss the turnoff. It takes me twenty minutes to figure out how to turn back without blocking traffic, and finally I turn into the parking lot. There are two large white buildings at right angles to each other.

I ask a woman getting into her car if she knows where Number 305 is.

“Yes, right there.” She points at the main building, the main entrance. I thank her and walk toward it. The sign above the entrance says “Laurel-Westlake Institute of Plastic Surgery.”

That can’t be right. I mean, Deb didn’t need plastic surgery, and even if she did want a touch-up, would that really be on her mind a day before she died?

But that’s what it is. Number 305.

I walk up to the front desk. The receptionist is on the phone and she signals for me to wait. I look around, drumming my fingers on the counter. I keep thinking of how Deb wrote the address so faintly, like she was unwell, like she could barely hold up the pencil.

“How can I help you?” the receptionist says.

“Yes. I’m Mrs. Davies. Dr. Roy Davies’s wife?”

I wait to see if that rings any bells.

“Mmm?” she says.

No bells. “Well, I’ve been before, and I was wondering if I could make an appointment with the same doctor I saw last time, but I can’t remember his name.”

“I can look that up for you, Mrs. Davies. Let me see…” She types on her keyboard. “When was your last appointment?”

I pretend to think. “Early September last year, I believe. ”

“Mmm…I can’t seem to find you here. What’s your first name, Mrs. Davies?”

“It’s Deborah.”

“Deborah Davies…” she says softly. “No…I can’t find you among our client files. What kind of procedure did you have?”

“Maybe I booked it under my maiden name,” I say. “Deborah Adams?”

She looks up then, with a barely, barely visible frown on her smooth face. “Perhaps if you have some ID, I can check against…”

“Never mind,” I say, tapping the counter. “I think I have the wrong place.”

I walk out, check the suite number by the door. Number 305.

So Deb wrote down this address, but she didn’t have anything done here. I sit in my car for a moment, staring at the front of the building.

I start the car and go home.





12





I didn’t bother to punch my address into the car GPS because I thought I knew how to get home. I was wrong.

I literally go in the opposite direction, end up on the 118 somehow. I backtrack, I do punch my address into the GPS this time and manage to find my way back. I’m about halfway home when I notice the red light blinking on the dashboard. It takes me a full minute to realize I’m running out of gas. In fact, I have a feeling that red blinking symbol has been going on for a while, but I just ignored it. I should say that I’ve only had this car—a Mercedes-Benz SUV—for a month. It was a wedding present from my husband. I hadn’t driven a car in almost six years when he gave it to me, although I didn’t tell him that; he might have wanted to know where I’d been, and where I’d been, you didn’t drive cars.

Anyway, all that to say it’s not an experience I’m familiar with. I have no idea how long I have before I run out of gas, but there’ll be a gas station around here, surely. These long, expansive roads must have a gas station on every corner.

At the light, I try to figure out how to display the closest gas station on my GPS screen. Even that is a challenge. And then, two long blocks later, I see it in the distance: the Shell sign. I mentally do a little jig.

I stop at another set of light. I only need to get across the intersection and I’m there. I fiddle with the GPS again, and the car behind me honks. The light have gone green, and I wave a hand and press the accelerator. The car shudders forward, then stops. I wave a hand again and press the starter button but nothing happens.

The car is dead. I am only fifty feet away from the gas station, and I can’t get there. You’d think that a luxury Mercedes-Benz would have extra gas somewhere for situations like this, and look, maybe it does, but I’ll never find it. All I can do is try the starter button again and again, which does nothing whatsoever.

Someone knocks on my window. I can’t wind the window down so I open the door.