I thought back to how weird I had acted when Nathan had given me that tour. Did he like weirdos? Or could he see through my nervousness to the adorably dorky gal underneath? We definitely had “chemistry,” whatever that was. In acting, creating chemistry with another actor was all about listening. We practiced studying our scene partners’ faces when they talked, holding their gaze, hanging on their every word. One acting coach made us switch the order of our lines so that the other actor had to pay attention to know what to say next. Improv was another way we practiced listening, because when you’re making it up as you go along, you can’t tune the other person out. So yeah, in acting, chemistry is all about listening. Which is strange, because in real life, when I have chemistry with a guy, I’m too busy tripping over my own tongue to let him get a word in.
“The place is in West LA, near the golf course,” he said.
“And where are you?”
“Manhattan Beach.”
Manhattan Beach was on the other side of the world from Encino, and not on the way to West LA. So I told him I would meet him at the bar, because God forbid I let a man pick me up. I told myself I was being liberated . . . generous, even. But the truth is I was just insecure. I still didn’t believe I was desirable enough for a man to go out of his way for me, and I didn’t dare test my hypothesis. So I offered to drive myself before he could suggest it.
We set the meeting time for five. To get there on time I would have to leave by four thirty, which meant I had a little over an hour to finish bathing my dog and scrub myself clean. As I contemplated what to wear—Jeans and sneakers? Leggings and boots?—Brando finally lost his patience and unleashed a swirling spindrift of soapy water all over everything: the walls, the cabinets, the fridge, me.
“Brando!” I shouted, and then burst out laughing. I wasn’t upset. Because, after years of struggle, things were finally all falling into place, and I’d be damned if I didn’t enjoy it.
CHAPTER 49
* * *
LOUISA
Silvia, my nurse, arrived as she always does at 6:00 p.m. on the dot.
“Good evening, Miss Louisa,” she said as she handed me a bouquet of yellow peonies. She often brought flowers. It used to irritate me. I didn’t like being treated like I was sick; her arrival was reminder enough. “You don’t need to bring me flowers,” I’d said. But she just kept bringing them, so now I just said thank you.
“Hello, Silvia,” I said as I let her in the front door. She had a key but always rang the bell first. She was nothing if not courteous.
“How are you feeling today?” she asked.
“Like a bag of rocks.”
“Well, you look radiant.” She rolled her r to show off her spicy Spanish accent. She was from Argentina, with pale skin and carrot-red hair—not the typical coloring of someone with that accent. It was a good thing she hadn’t tried to be an actress—she would have been impossible to cast.
“Shall we get started?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer she breezed by me into the kitchen. After three years of visiting me twice a week, she knew where to find a vase for those flowers, and I heard the cupboard open and close and the sound of running water.
“I got it,” I said as I joined her in the kitchen and put the peonies in the vase.
“Let’s get some of those rocks out.” That twirly r again. She was a sturdy woman, short and squat with a voice like a bulldozer. I thought it incongruous that a person who devoted her life to healing would be a smoker, but her rasp was undeniable, as were the yellow rims around her front teeth. We all have our coping mechanisms, I suppose, and being my nurse was probably no picnic.
She followed me into the treatment room and took out her notebook. I stepped on the scale all nerves and prerace jitters like a jockey before the Kentucky Derby. My weight was up four pounds since her visit last Thursday, and she shook her head and tsk-tsk’d me.
“Too many tea parties,” she admonished, then winked to telegraph it was going to be OK. It was expected that my weight would be up, but four pounds was a lot for me.
I sat in my chair and she plugged me in like a Christmas tree, then took out her knitting. We would sit in silence for the next two hours, alone in our heads but physically together. I guess some people liked to talk or listen to music during their treatments, but I preferred to use the time as a meditation. I couldn’t turn the pages of a book with the serpent in my arm, but it was just as well. I had sorted through many a predicament in this chair, including my current one. After my children turned me down, I vowed to do whatever it took to get my chance at freedom. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how it would all play out. What would my children do when they found out they weren’t getting my money? And more interestingly, what would they do when I came back from the dead? Would they grovel for forgiveness? Turn their back on me forever? Or finally give me the one thing I ever asked for so I could live the rest of my days in dignity?