Notes From the Backseat Read online

  His gray-blue eyes searched my face. There were so many moments like this in our history. I could feel the tower of them teetering inside me, stacked on top of each other like playing cards, until it was hard to tell one from the other. There he was, asking me to forgive him in his own oblique way. And there I was, not knowing how to answer.

  “Seriously,” I said. “It’s fine. See you tomorrow.” I walked away.

  When I got in the car, Ohm said, “You got a thing for older men?”

  “He’s my father,” I said in a flat, tired voice. Then I covered my face with my hands and started to cry.

  Back at FUBAR Ranch, Coop was trying to keep Phil from burning down the house. As per tradition, the groom had imbibed more than his usual quota of beer. Coop had spent the evening babysitting, then had tucked him into bed, but was nervous about the cigarettes on the nightstand. Evidently, Phil’s sort of famous for smoking while unconscious, especially when he’s got a good buzz on. Coop tried to confiscate the smokes, but Phil got so belligerent, he finally gave up. Ten minutes later, Coop smelled something burning, and found Phil snoring while his smoldering cigarette engraved a ragged black hole in the quilt.

  After the twins dropped us off, Dannika and I dragged Joni into the house and slowly made our way toward the spiral staircase. I spotted Coop at the top of the stairs, shaking his head.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “Look at baldy.”

  It was hard work carrying Joni’s dead weight; Coop hurried down to meet us and scooped her up into his arms. He carried her to the top of the stairs, then propped her up against the wall and exhaled heavily.

  Gingerly touching her bald head, he said, “Things got out of hand, I guess.”

  “You guessed right,” I whispered.

  “Long story, huh?” He looked at Dannika, then me. We both nodded. “Wow. You girls sure know how to party.” I’d never seen him look so worn-out. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair looked lank, but he offered a tired grin, anyway.

  “Joni’s drunk,” Dannika told him, “and Gwen’s depressed.”

  I wasn’t depressed, exactly—just emotionally drained. I felt wrung out, depleted, empty.

  Coop put his hand on my shoulder. “You didn’t look too depressed at the Tip Top.” His tone was difficult to decipher; then I saw the sparkle in his eyes and I knew he was teasing me.

  Dannika said, “You’ve got to be kidding. You were there?”

  “I just caught the tail end, so to speak.”

  “Did you see me?” Understandably, she was horrified.

  He laughed. “What—you girls took turns? I guess I missed you.”

  “Joni started it.” Dannika sounded about six. “Then Gwen got her bright idea and dragged me into it.” There was no mistaking the mean edge to her voice. Another wave of exhaustion hit me. Joni mumbled something in her inebriated delirium about Uggs.

  I was too shaky from crying all the way home to trust my voice, so I whispered, “Let’s get Joni to bed.”

  “I don’t think she should sleep with Phil. He’s liable to cremate them. I can’t get him to stop smoking.” Coop explained briefly about his failed attempts to confiscate Phil’s pack of American Spirits.

  “So what do you suggest?” My eyelids were so heavy, I could hardly see straight.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and sleep with Joni in our room? I’ll keep an eye on ole smokey.” He raked a hand through his hair and it stood up in the wake of his fingers.

  “Roger that.” I was disappointed, of course. This was night two of our romantic weekend away, and so far I’d shared a bed with nearly everyone except Coop.

  “Where’s my proud beauty?” Phil stumbled out of the door at the end of the hallway and walked a crooked line toward us. He was wearing a loud paisley bathrobe over striped boxers and a white T-shirt. “Joni? Baby? Is that you?”

  I held my breath. Phil didn’t strike me as the sort of guy who’d get hung up on a haircut, but his bride was looking pretty rough at the moment and I was afraid he might be shocked at the sight of her. He nudged Coop out of the way and gently lifted Joni’s chin with one finger. “Baby,” he said, “you’re bald.”

  Her eyes fluttered open and when she saw his face inches from hers she mumbled, “Do you hate it?”

  He bent down and kissed her sweetly. “How could I hate it, cutie? You look just like me.”

  She smiled a woozy smile and they kissed again. I was just about to go, “Ahhh,” when Joni threw up all over Phil’s T-shirt. Coop, Dannika and I all backed away in disgust, but Phil barely moved. “That’s my girl,” he said, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of his bathrobe. “That’s my party girl.”

  Phil protested a bit when he realized Joni wouldn’t be sleeping in their bed, but Coop convinced him it was bad luck to sleep with the bride the night before the wedding. I finally got Joni tucked in with a bucket beside her in case she had another accident. Heading for the bathroom to brush my teeth, I spotted Dannika in the same filmy green camisole she’d worn to bed last night; tonight she paired it with miniature tap pants that showed off the full length of her radiant, razor-ad legs. She was standing very close to Coop, speaking in whispers. I ducked back into the guestroom and watched them through the crack in the door. Coop was in boxers and a T-shirt, nodding at whatever she said. A slow, queasy feeling came over me. I closed the door again, careful not to make a sound.

  As I crossed the room, stepping through moonlight, I was so cold and depleted all I could think about was burying myself under that thick down comforter. I crawled into bed beside Joni and waited for sleep. When it didn’t come, I decided to write you a quick note and now here I am, many pages later, amazed at everything that’s gone down in a mere eight hours and perplexed at my own willingness to record it. I mean these are the sort of bacchanal nights you’re supposed to be too smashed to recall, let alone document.

  I guess I just needed to tell someone, and I’m finding the blank page is the most forgiving of confidantes.

  Yours truly,

  Gwen

  Saturday, September 20

  11:20 a.m.

  Dear Marla,

  Well, here it is, the wedding day. Unfortunately, most of the occupants of FUBAR Ranch are hardly fit to munch dry toast, let alone participate in a grand rite of passage. The whole stag night concept, along with its scrawny kid sister, the bachelorette party, is starting to seem like a very sadistic tradition. It’s a wonder anyone gets married at all with such hangovers.

  The bride woke with a groan. She opened one eye and I handed her two Advil and a glass of water. She glanced around the room, blinking in bleary confusion, then gobbled the pills I offered and gulped down the water like she’d barely survived a trek through the desert.

  I’d had a hard night myself, and I was running on the fumes of free-floating anxiety. I’d slept fitfully and more than once found myself thrashing about, fighting the sheets, glazed in sweat. My eyes had popped open at 5:00 a.m. and had refused to shut again no matter what I did. Now I was bone tired but trying to rise above it, determined to be of service. One look at the bald girl with the puffy eyes made it clear: she needed me. If ever makeover magic was required, now was the time.

  You know better than anyone how I get when I’ve got a project before me; a neglected face in need of serious transformation helps me focus like nothing else. Of course, I’m not a professional with makeup. Costuming is my bag and I don’t believe in being a generalist. Still, the long hours I’ve spent backstage tending to torn hems and mussed wigs has taught me more about blush, eyeliner and lipstick than most people will learn in a lifetime. I was always fascinated by the art of disguise, even back in high school, and as long as some porky ingenue hadn’t busted a zipper, you’d find me backstage with the hair and makeup people learning to hide a zit, apply a mustache, tease a beehive or (my favorite) create Audrey Hepburn lashes that won’t streak no matter how tragic things get onstage. To me, makeup is magic. It can make old people young, young
people old, men into women and women into men. Today, my job is to make a hungover, depressed, bald bachelorette into a luminous bride.

  I’ve got my work cut out for me.

  I reached over to the nightstand and handed Joni a cup of black tea. She sat up straighter and took it from me. As she blew the steam from the surface and slurped experimentally, I studied her face. Her eyes would definitely be the feature to play up—they were absolutely beautiful, with a color that ranged from cinnamon to butter, depending on Joni’s mood, what she was wearing and the light. She had a mouth that was worth emphasizing, as well. Her lips were just full enough to benefit from a generous blast of color and perhaps a subtle layer of gloss. Obviously, she was a nature girl and I’d have to respect that. This wasn’t a Bel Air clubber I was dealing with, someone used to slathering her face with an inch of foundation. I’d have to proceed with caution, talk her through it, be gentle. But we needed to get some cucumbers on those pink, bloated eyes right away.

  “I look like shit,” Joni said. “Stop staring at me.” Then she went to hide her face in her usual curtain of dreads, but her fingers touched bare scalp and her face went white. “Jesus. I really did that? I thought it was a nightmare.”

  “You gave yourself a bit of a trim,” I said. “No biggie. It’s sexy.”

  She held tight to her teacup with both hands and flashed me an incredulous look. “Sexy? You’ve got to be kidding. I must look like a chemo patient.”

  “You do not! Anyway, there are always wigs if you feel too naked. I know you like wigs—you told me.”

  She put her tea down on the nightstand. “Oh, my God,” she said. “I danced at the Tip Top, didn’t I? Why am I such a skank?”

  “You’re not,” I said. “You’re a complex woman with a past. It’s mysterious. Gives you an edge.”

  “Yeah, well, razor blades have edges. So do butcher knives and sharks’ teeth. Would you want to marry one?”

  I smiled. “I’m guessing your complexity is one of the qualities Phil likes best.”

  This seemed to placate her momentarily. She picked up her cup again and took another sip.

  “So, what’s the plan today?” I asked. It was a dangerous question; I didn’t want to shatter her momentary calm, but if I was electing myself chief beauty consultant, I’d have to know the schedule.

  “Ceremony down at Big River at three, then back here for the after-party—reception—whatever. God, I feel like shit.”

  “Where’s your dress?”

  “It’s in the closet.” Her tone was listless as flat champagne. It didn’t bode well.

  I crossed the room, slid the closet door open, and pulled out the only dress hanging there that wasn’t mine. I’d noticed it earlier, when I’d hung up my things, but hadn’t suspected it was Joni’s wedding dress. Inspecting it now, my heart sank. It was one of those shapeless, empire-waist cotton numbers so popular during the summer of love. The bodice was embroidered with small flowers in piñata hues. The rest of it cascaded in totally formless yards of white cotton. The sleeves were long and a little frayed at the cuffs. There was a small stain near the left seam, a dime-sized circle of red wine. I forced myself to maintain a neutral expression, but it was precisely the sort of vaguely ethnic, totally unflattering hippie-garb I hate most. This dress is the reason I won’t even touch anything created after 1963.

  “Oh, God,” Joni said, “you hate it.”

  “I don’t—I—it’s—”

  “Oh, come on,” she said, “It’s hideous and you know it.”

  I cringed. “It’s not exactly my style, but I’m not the bride, here.”

  She hung her head and started to cry. I dropped the dress at the foot of the bed and sat beside her. Her tears deepened to sobs. I stroked her scalp lightly, mumbling sounds of comfort. When she was able to speak again, she wiped her tears with the back of her hands and said, “It’s all wrong. This whole thing is FUBAR.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sniffed wetly and I dug in my bag until I found a handkerchief. She blew her nose twice, looking miserable. “It was my mom’s wedding dress. She wanted me to wear it. I don’t know why I agreed. It’s totally cursed.”

  “But aren’t your parents still together?”

  She nodded, pulling at the handkerchief absently. “Yeah, and they don’t hate each other or anything. Still, she makes me so sad. You’d never know it now, but she was this really amazing dancer when she was young. She toured with Merce Cunningham for years.” She looked out the window, her expression dreamy and faraway. “Then she fell for Dad and they bought this place, had me. She lost all her edges, got old. Now she’s doughy and soft and doesn’t dance or anything. The closest she gets to art these days is knitting tea cozies at Christmas.” She looked at me, her eyes shining with tears. “I don’t want to do that. But look at me. I’ve already gotten lazy. When I met Phil, what’s the first thing I did? Moved to Santa Barbara and stopped dancing. Not that what I was doing was art, exactly, but it was something….” She gazed at the dress, rumpled at the foot of the bed. “I guess history repeats itself.”

  “It doesn’t have to.” I grabbed her hand and squeezed it harder than I meant to. The urgency in my own voice surprised me. “Why should it?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know why, but it does.”

  “Don’t let it.”

  She shook her head. “Do I really have a choice?”

  “Yes!” I could see from her face that she didn’t believe me. I changed tack. “Do you love Phil?”

  “Yeah, I do.” The simple honesty of her answer gave me courage.

  “So, isn’t it your responsibility—for his sake, if not for yours—to keep all those qualities alive that he fell in love with? I mean, you’re complicated and edgy and sexy—you love art and you’ve got those dancer genes flying through your system. Who says you have to get soft, just because your mom did?”

  She closed her eyes for a second and when she opened them again tears were spilling down her cheeks with fresh force. God, it was going to take a miracle to get the puffiness out if she kept on crying. “I don’t know, Gwen…it’s not that simple.”

  “We’re not our parents,” I said, squeezing her shoulders, looking her right in the eye. “Can you trust me on this?” I repeated it, more slowly this time, emphasizing each syllable. “We are not our parents.”

  Finally, she nodded, the tears started to let up. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re right. I’ve got to stop being such a total wimp about this.”

  “Good girl.” I stood up, lifted the dress from the bed, put it back in the closet. “Now, I don’t want to be bossy here, but in my opinion, a girl should wear something really, truly decadent on her wedding day. It should be something so beautiful, it makes her heart stop. I mean, just for a second. Don’t you think?”

  She looked at her lap. “Gwen, where am I going to find a dress now?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just tell me: am I overstepping my bounds if I make it my mission to transform you into the most beautiful and glamorous bride this town has ever seen?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not bossy, it’s just mission impossible.”

  “Darling,” I said, “you underestimate me.”

  More later,

  Gwen

  Saturday, September 20

  4:33 p.m.

  Dear Marla,

  My God. What is it about a wedding that reduces everyone to weepy old women? Even Phil, who takes pride in his cynical, neo-punk persona, was crying like a girl during the ceremony. Okay, so I shed a few tears myself. Is that a crime? Not enough for extensive mascara damage, so don’t worry yourself.

  Joni’s radiant. Some of it’s the glow of love, some of it’s champagne and some of it’s the thorough exfoliation treatment I subjected her to this morning. Plus, her makeup is exquisite—I used just enough to give her the natural, satiny sheen of a woman filled with bliss.

  At the moment I’m hidden away in a hammock on the hill with a glass of bub
bly, which is nice. Everyone else is frolicking in the meadow, dancing to bluegrass or eating the amazing pan-Asian finger food provided by Joni’s mom. The weather is divine—warm sun, cool shade. There are little mashed potato clouds that float by every now and then, but other than that the sky is one huge, silky swath of vivid blue. It’s a day the gods whipped up in honor of love—not the somber devotion of old people, but the impulsive ardor of fools. Salty breezes play with your hair and the air smells of ocean, pine and redwoods.

  How do you like the new notebook, by the way? That legal pad was way too awkward. Coop bought this in town today, after picking up the tuxes. When he handed it over, he said, “What exactly are you filling these things with, anyway?”

  “My life story,” I said. “Want to be in it?”

  He grinned. “Depends. Am I the hero with huge pecs or the passing-fling dude?”

  “Jury’s still out,” I said, “but you’ve got nice pecs, if that’s the casting criteria.”

  You know what? Forget all this mamby-pamby he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not shit. Who cares what happened in Malibu? Dannika hasn’t said one trustworthy thing since I met her. Why would I let her conniving little stories undermine the only relationship I’ve ever had worth saving? I’m just going to believe in Coop and love him and assume he’s being honest until I’ve got reason—I mean real reason—to think otherwise. Damn the torpedoes, or however that goes. Seeing Joni and Phil today makes me want to be brave and stupendous; they make me want to love with the sort of abandon that can sink ships and scatter stars.

  First things first, though: outfit update.

  Quickly: I’m in my sunflower-yellow rayon faille strapless dress with a thin, rhinestone-studded belt, a fitted jacket with scalloped peplum, a rhinestone choker and matching teardrop earrings, an oval-brimmed hat made of genuine beaver-fur felt and, of course, as usual, my signature leopard-print kitten heels.

  Phil and Coop are in classic tuxes with tails, at my insistence. I sent Coop all over town this morning looking for a place to rent them. I wasn’t going to see my gorgeous bride standing next to a couple of guys in cheap corduroy blazers or velveteen or whatever it is boys put on when left to their own devices.