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22
It wasstrange driving through the gates at Malibu Bay and saying hi to Sanchez, this time as a resident. Though he didn’t know that, he’d certainly done a double take at the contents of Maeve’s Prius—me, my mom, Dixie, and of course, Maeve.
“Whoa. You’re either having a party, Miss Lewis, or smuggling people over the border.” He laughed at himself. “Just kidding.”
She exhaled a half laugh. “My new roomies.” She hitched her thumb to the backseat where my mom and I sat together. “Drake, you know, and Nora Jackson, his mom. No more guest list for these two.”
Sanchez bent down further to see us in the backseat through Maeve’s open window. “Drake, this your moms? Hey, Mom. Ey, he looks just like you.”
I thought he’d say just kidding, but the one time something he said hadn’t made sense, he didn’t. He gazed at Maeve with that unblinking, wide-eyed look that people had when a million thoughts crossed their minds but not one made it to their mouth.
Finally, he simply asked, “You serious? About the guest list thing?”
“I am. Nora will probably drive some of our vehicles around, though, so you shouldn’t have to make a note of it unless they walk through the gate.”
“Okay. All right.” He pressed a button to open the gate. “Don’t be giving me any grief with noise violations. You all look like a raucous bunch. And I especially know Mrs. Lewis likes to blast that music.”
Maeve laughed again and rolled up her window.
My mom’s eyes were wide as we drove through the Spanish-inspired arches. I was pretty sure, unless there was a whole other life she’d led I didn’t know about, that she’d never have been in place like Malibu Bay. It was the level of rich you only saw on TV and could never believe truly existed until you saw it.
Now she saw it.
She silently mouthed, “Is this where they live?”
I nodded.
An unspoken “wow” reached me.
This was all absurd. I half expected the arches to start dripping onto the car like a Dali painting and for me to wake up. Still, moving in with my mom, my girlfriend, and her mom, who technically still despised me, wasn’t anything near the strangeness of being diagnosed with a fatal illness.
I’d tried really hard to act normal, though anyone who knew me could tell that my extreme silence and wordlessness in the situation was not typical. I couldn’t find anything positive to say so I mostly said nothing at all. I listened. Listened to as many words as I could, hoping that somewhere in the doctor’s well-rehearsed speech there was a clue to get me out of this.
I’d been in bad situations before and gotten out. There was the time I’d agreed to TP the principal’s back yard with some of the football guys and had to tame a dog into not getting us caught. There was the time El and I went to Uyu with too little water, and I had to go around serenading couples for us to drink. There was the time I couldn’t pay my rent and I wrote a poem to the landlord about why they should let me have a month off.
I wasn’t a bad guy. I couldn’t think of many more times I’d tried to get off the hook. When I reflected on my life and how little I tried to lie and cheat… it actually pissed me off how a guy like me could be in a situation like this. How on earth could karma be real? How could fucking God be real? How could any of this be fair? After treating people with respect and love and offering my best into everyone around me, how could I be the one who was going to die before my book was written?
I tried not to be negative. You heard about people getting a cancer diagnosis and being really “brave.” They went on to raise money for some organization, they puked their guts out then beat it and got a tattoo to celebrate, all supposedly with a smile on their faces. I didn’t feel that way right now.
I had a burning rage inside me that was only contained by the love I had for Maeve. The wanting inside to be with her, to pick up the pieces yet again and make a real life for us was the only thing keeping me from letting out a scream of full-blown rage. None of this made sense. Rock stars didn’t die like this. A fucking terminal illness wasn’t it. Not that I wanted to shoot heroin and jump out of a plane. I guessed, if I’d actually ever thought about it, I’d hoped I’d get old enough for everyone to forget me or joke about how wrinkled and shitty I looked. Everyone but Maeve. And maybe those kids we’d talked about.
I’d have to figure out a way to not sulk and not to pour my anger into our new little life. Like Dr. Chidozie had said. One day at a time.
Maeve ledme by the hand toward the pool house. It was a small building at the furthermost boundary of the property. Beyond the pool. As we approached, I smelled nag champa burning.
“When did you have time to light incense?” I smirked.
She turned from leading me, her face glowing in the sunset. “I asked the housekeeper to light it before she left. I wanted you to feel relaxed. Is it the one you had on in Seattle? That was what I was going for.”
“I had patchouli but I like this better.”
It was so thoughtful, for some reason I felt guilty. I was supposed to be taking care of her. Not the other way around.
She squeezed my hand, and when we entered the building, I saw Maeve had had the housekeeper put together more than that. I’d been in the pool house before. Inside was a large double-height, open-plan living area with a kitchen, sofas, a dining table, and a feature fireplace. A door led you to a bedroom with a California King and some simple clothing storage. I’d always thought the place was nicer than most people’s everyday houses, and now it was even more magical that ever. Maeve had had fairy lights put everywhere, and they twinkled with warmth and welcome.
“Aw, babe…” I tugged her hand and pulled her into me. “Love the little lights everywhere. Nothing says relaxation like incense and Christmas lights.”
“I agree.” She smiled to herself, satisfied.
