Notes From the Backseat

  Jody Gehrman

  Notes from the Backseat

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Thursday, September 18, 7:10 a.m.

  Thursday, September 18, 8:45 a.m.

  Thursday, September 18, 10:23 a.m.

  Thursday, September 18, 11:20 a.m.

  Thursday, September 18, 12:45 p.m.

  Thursday, September 18, 10:10 p.m.

  Friday, September 19, 5:24 a.m.

  Friday, September 19, 9:04 a.m.

  September 19, 11:11 a.m.

  September 19, 1:46 p.m.

  September 19, 3:10 p.m.

  Still the same (very long) Friday, 6:50 p.m.

  Friday (Christ, will this day never end?), 8:00 p.m.

  Saturday, Sept. 20, 4:12 a.m.

  Saturday, September 20, 11:20 a.m.

  Saturday, September 20, 4:33 p.m.

  Saturday, September 20, 6:00 p.m.

  Saturday, September 20, Midnight

  Sunday, September 21, 2:30 a.m.

  Monday, September 22, 12:10 p.m.

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my agent, Dorian Karchmar, and my editor, Margaret Marbury, for their hard work on my behalf. Thanks to their assistants, too, Adam Schear and Adam Wilson, who never failed to get back to me and were always on top of their game. My lovely comrade Terena Scott read endless drafts of Gwen’s adventures and continually believed in her, even when I had my doubts. My web designer and good friend, Rosey Larson, is an endless source of encouragement and support. Tommy Zurhellen trained his keen eye on early incarnations and lent his usual priceless feedback to the mix (complete with bad jokes and adorable sketches). Bart Rawlinson offered a steady stream of advice, inspiration and delicious meals to get me through the long haul. Thanks to my family for their continual love and support, especially my mom and dad, who read my rough drafts with an enthusiasm only parents can sustain. As usual, my biggest thanks goes to David Wolf, who put up with more tantrums and freak-outs over this manuscript than any man should ever have to bear.

  PROLOGUE

  My best friend, Gwen, talks like an auctioneer when she’s excited. Her hands flit about and her mouth moves so rapidly she’s already halfway through the story by the time you can say, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Start at the beginning.” Her mind has a tendency to race ahead, and getting her to explain anything in a simple, chronological sequence is almost impossible. This time, though, she spelled it all out pretty clearly, with only occasional lapses into stream-of-consciousness neuroses peppered with expletives. Who could blame her for those little slips though, when the Creature from Planet Blonde was treating her like the gassy old family dog, making her ride in the backseat for thirteen hours on twisty coastal roads, filling her head with suspicions about Coop, who’s probably the only man in the western hemisphere with the body of a rock star but the heart of a—

  Oh, wait. I’m doing it now, too, aren’t I? Okay, let me back up a little.

  I was packing for Paris when I realized I had absolutely nothing to wear. It was one of those dry-mouthed, cold-sweat moments that sometimes hit you when you’re leaving the country in less than twenty-four hours with your very French fiancé to meet his upper-crust Parisian parents. We were staying for a month and so far I’d packed my favorite pair of threadbare plaid pajamas, the oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt I’ve been wearing since I was twelve, a pair of ancient Levi’s with four patches sewn into the butt and my toothbrush. I’m not very schooled in the art of fashion, but even I knew I couldn’t very well make a glamorous impression with that wardrobe—at least, not without accessorizing heavily.

  There was no question. I had to see Gwen, stat.

  A little background: I met Gwen twelve years ago, during our sophomore year at Analy High. I was the new kid, walking around with that dazed, I’m-never-going-to-survive-until-three-o’clock catatonic stare. The minute I stepped foot in the Home Ec room I spotted her and my listless I-don’t-care-if-you-talk-to-me-or-not mask slipped away just like that. The morning sunlight through the dirty windows lit her like a starlet waiting for her close-up. She was wearing leopard-print kitten heels and a boxy 1950’s pink wool suit. At her throat was a strand of pearls, matching earrings shone from the dark, meticulously arranged sweep of her shoulder-length bob. But here was the touch that rendered her truly surreal—the over-the-top Gwenism that made me wonder if I’d stumbled through a metaphysical portal and come out in 1957: on her head was a pillbox hat. It sat at just the right, casually precise, slightly flirtatious angle, and I could tell by her smirk that she knew the effect was dazzling.

  Gwen Matson’s reputation at Analy High could be summed up in two words: total freak. Everyone there considered her a tragic example of what could happen if you were just a little too weird to be cool. She was cuter, smarter and better dressed than anyone at that small town school—she was even valedictorian and yearbook editor—but the popular kids treated her like a leper because she insisted on walking around in pillbox hats, patent leather shoes and kid gloves. This was the nineties and Grunge was King. Gwen was the anti-Grunge; she’d sooner set her own hair on fire than don a flannel shirt.

  In sharp contrast to Gwen’s stubborn eccentricity, I was a die-hard conformist. Gwen’s willingness to stand out terrified me, so much so that I was afraid, in those first few seconds, to befriend her. I hesitated there in the doorway of that stuffy Home Ec room, hovering between my just-try-not-to-be-noticed past and the bright pink future of a friendship with Gwen. I guess her allure was more powerful than my fear, because I stepped forward and said in a small, trembling voice, “Hi. My name’s Marla.” She seized my pale fingers and we shook hands like the wives of ambassadors meeting on the steps of the White House. “Gwen Matson,” she said. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  As soon as we finished high school we ditched that northern California hippie town and headed off to UCLA together. I studied modern dance—a useless degree, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m very impractical. It’s one of the few things Gwen and I have in common, though for me it manifests in a rather crippling inability to make a decent living. Gwen’s impractical in a different way; she’ll pack four mink stoles, three pairs of stilettos, a satin gown and a cigarette holder for a trip to my Colorado hunting cabin in December. She doesn’t even smoke. On the career front, though, Gwen’s impressively together. She double majored in business and costume design. Now, at twenty-eight, she owns a beautiful little vintage clothing store in Los Feliz and she designs for a handful of little theatre and indie film companies scattered throughout L.A. It’s widely understood that Gwen only designs for period pieces, and only when the period is somewhere between 1952 and 1963. Everyone’s learned not to even call her unless their show falls between those dates; otherwise, their Juliets always end up looking suspiciously like Jackie O.

  Determined to solicit Gwen’s professional advice, I left my barely packed suitcase gaping open on my bed and drove east from Santa Monica toward Los Feliz. On the way, I stopped at a Rite Aid and bought a few things I’d need for the trip: Visine, mascara, ear plugs, a French manicure kit (when in Rome…). On my way to the register I passed through the stationary aisle and a small leather-bound book caught my eye. It looked completely out of place there amidst the juvenile primary-colored spiral-bound notebooks and plastic neon pencil boxes. It had a soft, buttery cover and the pages felt substantial as I flipped through them. I couldn’t find a price tag, but I stuck it in my plastic shopping basket anyway. It was an impulse buy, like the Snickers bar or Cosmo you snag just before you reach the checkout—it had the same reckless, slightly sinful flavor, even though I wouldn’t normally classify a blank book as indulgent.
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br />   When I got to the register, the girl rang up everything else, her long, clawlike fingernails flying over the keys with practiced ease. When she got to the journal, though, she stood snapping her gum, flipping it this way and that with a puzzled look. “Where’d you get this?” She had a thick accent, maybe Puerto Rican.

  “Um—stationary aisle,” I said.

  “This is not a product we carry.”

  I furrowed my brow. “But…it was there. On the shelf.”

  “I don’t know what this is.” She snapped her gum some more, then called out to a short, acne-ridden boy at the next register. “Hey, Tom, you know what this is?”

  The boy glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like some kind of book.” He went back to ringing up an endless pile of Huggies for a sad-eyed mother.

  All at once I could see they weren’t going to sell it to me, and the thought made me feel oddly bereaved—even a little desperate. “You know what? I just realized. That’s my journal. I bought it at a bookstore down the street.” I reached out and yanked it from her, laughing my most convincing vapid laugh.

  She looked suspicious, but only shook her head in a way that communicated her thoughts on the subject perfectly (“Why didn’t you say so in the first place, bitch?”). She announced my total and handed me my receipt. I escaped with the mysterious book tucked safely inside the white plastic sack, feeling as if I’d gotten away with something.

  I’m not religiously inclined, but I do believe in fate and omens and mysterious forces pulsing just under the surface of our painfully normal lives. Looking back on it, I see myself as a messenger that day, a delivery girl, probably one of millions, transporting a necessary object from one place to another. I was like an ant, clutching a crumb in my pincers, following my instincts blindly, all the while working for the good of the colony.

  I had no way of knowing that little leather-bound journal would save my friend’s life. Well, her love life, at least—which maybe, in the end, is the same thing.

  I pushed the glass door open and the bells jangled brightly, drawing Gwen’s attention. She was at the counter in a bold black-and-white spiral-print sheath. In one gloved hand she gripped her phone—the retro kind that makes you think immediately of Marlene Dietrich in a feather boa, lounging on satin sheets. Her lips were painted that old-fashioned cherry red that no one under the age of eighty can pull off. Except Gwen, of course.

  “So, tomorrow, then?” she was saying into the phone as her eyes followed me around the store. I was browsing, but without much intent. I knew I would have to surrender to her superior taste if I was going to pack a suitcase filled with Paris-worthy ensembles. “Eight o’clock? You think she can get here from San Diego that early?” There was a pause. Gwen played with the rhinestone earring in her hand. She considers pierced ears gauche and always removes her right clip-on before answering the phone, just like the women of film noir. “Okay, great. I guess I’ll see you then. Can’t wait. Bye.”

  “Was that Coop?” I asked as she hung up.

  She nodded, looking dazed. “Oh my God, Marla. What am I going to do?”

  “About what?”

  She let out a gusty sigh and adjusted the white scarf at her throat as if she found it suddenly constricting. “We’re leaving for our trip tomorrow.”

  “Oh, right—to Mendocino?”

  She nodded, and I noticed then that she’d gone utterly pale. I let go of the wool blazer I’d been examining and went to the counter. “What is it, G? I thought you were really looking forward to that.”

  “Was looking forward to it, yes. Not now.”

  I folded my arms. “Uh-oh. What month is this?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, we’ve been dating three months, but—”

  “Gwen, don’t do this. You always do this.”

  She slapped the counter and her gloved palm made a hollow thudding sound against the glass. “I’m not doing anything! Guess whose retreat got canceled because the swami kicked it?”

  “What?” She was losing me, here.

  “Oh, God.” She yanked at her scarf again, this time more violently. “I’m going to have a panic attack. I can feel it.”

  “No, you won’t. Just breathe. Come on, in and out—you remember. Innn…ooouut. There you go. That’s right.” I spoke in soft, placating tones like a Lamaze coach. “Here, let’s just get that scarf off, okay?” I reached over and untied it with considerable effort; in tugging at it, she’d worked it into a tight little fist of a knot, but I managed to get it off her and a faint wash of pink started to bloom in her cheeks again.

  “So, let’s just start at the beginning,” I said when I was confident she wouldn’t hyperventilate. “Whose retreat got canceled?”

  “Dannika’s,” she croaked.

  “And who’s Dannika?”

  “Coop’s best friend from college.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So, she’s going to Mendocino with you?”

  She nodded, her face the picture of misery. “She’s driving us. Coop’s car is too small.”

  “And why is this freaking you out? Because she’s female?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Female, I could handle. In spite of your insinuation, I’ve come a long way. Coop has no idea of my unstable past. Unfortunately, this particular female friend—his best friend,” she enunciated the words and raised her voice slightly, imbuing the phrase with ominous significance, “happens to be a statuesque, blond, stunningly beautiful, world-class yoga goddess.”

  My eyes widened. “Wait a minute. You’re not talking about Dannika Winters, are you? The Dannika Winters?”

  She slapped the counter again and this time the glass rattled, sending a display of sparkly chokers sprawling across the floor. “Yes! I’m talking about the Dannika Winters!”

  “Oh my God. That is so cool. I’ve got like four of her DVDs.”

  Gwen’s jaw dropped in indignant shock. “Is this what I need to hear right now?”

  I put my hand on hers. “I’m sorry, G, you’re right. That was totally insensitive. I mean, no wonder you’re freaking out. She’s like Uma Thurman, Grace Kelly and Cameron Diaz all wrapped up into one incredibly flexible, probably totally vegan body.”

  “Marla,” she said, her voice a warning.

  “But I’m sure she’s unbelievably shallow with no real substance.” I saw Gwen’s brown eyes regain some of their sparkle when I said this, so I pressed on, ad-libbing bravely. “I bet her poses are done by stunt doubles. When she’s supposed to be meditating, she’s actually doing her nails.”

  “You’re so right.” Gwen’s mouth curved into a wicked smile. “I bet she’s got the IQ of a hamster.”

  “Oh, totally. You think anyone who looks that good can conjugate verbs?”

  A shadow of doubt passed over her features. “She did go to college, though…”

  “So what? Anyone can go to college these days. She’s the Vanna White of yoga. She’ll be a has-been before her time. Sad, really.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Who cares about stupid old Dannika Winters? She’s no threat to me.”

  I clapped my hands. “Exactly! She’s Coop’s friend, you’re his girlfriend. Period.”

  Her face fell. “Wait a minute. What if he’s leaving something out? Suppose they’re more like…friends with benefits?”

  “Right. Because he’d definitely want to be trapped in a car for sixteen hours with his girlfriend and the chick he’s doing it with on the side.”

  She cocked her head. “I guess you’re right. That would be pretty masochistic of him.”

  I reached down and gathered the chokers up, then tried to return them to a display shaped like a woman’s throat and shoulders, sculpted in soft, sensual lines out of some sort of pale, opalescent material that made me think of the inner sheen of abalone shells. She took the necklaces from me when she saw my inept attempts to arrange them on the display and, with expert fingers, draped them in provocative shapes across the throat and clavicle, setting off the
imitation rubies and sapphires so that they looked like they belonged in Tiffany’s.

  “I like Coop a lot,” I said, looking her in the eye. “More importantly, I think you like him a lot. This is no time to pull your classic three-month guy freak-out thing.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not doing that. I swear.”

  For as long as I’d known her, Gwen had been living out the same pattern with men, repeating her mistakes over and over like a scratched record. She’d date a guy, get to know him, start to like him, then as soon as they hit the three-month mark, she’d dump him. Like clockwork. And always for the same reason: she was convinced he would, if given the chance, cheat on her. A couple years ago she dumped this incredibly hunky USC sociology professor when she saw the line of perky little coeds loitering outside his office. Another time she gave a Swedish chiropractor the boot because he kept unused toothbrushes in his bathroom for overnight guests. Sometimes, all a guy had to do was glance over her shoulder at an attractive woman walking in the door and Gwen would instantly relegate him to the Tomb of Boyfriends Past.

  What it came down to, really, was that Gwen had serious jealousy issues. She knew it, I knew it, every guy she’d ever gone out with knew it. The thought that Coop might end up as another casualty in Gwen’s mysterious war against potential infidelity made me ache with sadness. It wasn’t just because I’d seen her pull the same old trick so many times it was dizzying. No, it was more than that. If Gwen dumped Coop or drove him away with her compulsive suspicions, it would be more than just annoying this time. It would be tragic. Because I knew, in that weird, bone-deep way that best friends sometimes do, that Gwen and Coop were made for each other.

  Just like Gwen and I, Gwen and Coop were opposites on the surface. He was a big guy; that was what you noticed about him first. Next to Gwen’s petite, five-foot-two frame, his six-feet-and-then-some looked even more hulking by contrast. He wore old, ratty T-shirts and paint-splattered jeans. His hair was long and usually looked neither washed nor combed. He was a carpenter—a woodworker. He made furniture in his basement that was rough and solid and vaguely bohemian, like him. But the thing I liked best about Coop was the warmth in his rich, hazel eyes. When you looked into his face, you could sense the vast, sun-drenched landscape that lived inside him and all the room he had in there for lost souls. I feared he might be the only man on the planet capable of handling my best friend’s fragile, skittish little heart.