Book of Jo: Parts 22 & 23
A celebration of life
Start with Part 1. Or read a quick, spoiler-free synopsis.
September 22, 2016
Thursday, 6:30 pm
Cedar, Kat and Lulu are sitting together at a table in the back of Lucinda’s Bar. They are sharing a pitcher of margaritas and waiting for me, so we can laugh and relax before moving onto Jenna’s memorial dinner. They look beautiful — and conspiratorial.
“Hey guys,” I say.
“You poor thing,” says Cedar, touching her own lip to create a mirror image of my affliction. “That must sting. You should try Valtrex.”
“I tested negative for herpes just a few months ago,” I say. “I’m going to see a dermatologist.”
After a chorus of greetings and perfumed hugs, I sit down between Cedar and Kat. I pour myself a margarita from the pitcher and wash down half a Xanax. I brought the pills with me, hoping they will help me float through the sadness and hysteria that threaten to make me a very bad dinner guest, indeed.
I already feel lighter and more self contained when I notice that Lulu is crouching beside the table, fiddling with a large brown box.
“What’s she doing?” I ask.
Cedar and Kat answer in unison. “Nothing,” they say, exchanging meaningful glances. Lulu stands with a flourish, waving a sequined wand. I wonder if it’s one of the props from her dominatrix gig. If so, I hope it’s been sterilized, because she taps it on my shoulder.
“Dear, sweet Jo,” she says, smiling. “The girls and I have been talking about how unspeakably bad your luck has been these last few days. We can’t even pretend to know what you’re going through.” She pauses and wipes her eyes. Cedar and Kat take my hands. “But we can give you a silly tiara and declare you Queen for a Day.”
Lulu takes a crazy-looking tiara from her box and places it on my head. She then piles three wrapped gifts on the table.
“These are for you, from all of us,” she says.
I am touched. My eyes, already swollen and raw from days of crying, threaten to well up. “Thank you so much,” I say, not trusting myself to say anymore.
“Don’t thank us until you’ve seen the gifts,” says Kat.
I pick a box at random. Inside is a collection of scented massage oils and a gift certificate for a Swedish massage with one of Lulu’s friends who just received her certification.
“Wow. Thanks, Lulu. That sounds wonderful.”
The next box I select contains sachets of herbs along with instructions for making various calming teas. There’s also a coupon for a free consultation with Dr. Max Chen, Kat’s acupuncturist.
“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but he’s also great with fertility issues. He’s really helped me,” says Kat. She talks even faster than normal, almost like she’s trying to hide something.
“I really appreciate it,” I say, knowing that Kat is probably the only person in my circle of friends who really understands the awfulness of miscarriage. Intellectually, I know it’s a random event. But part of me believes it’s somehow connected to Mom and Jenna and the unbearable stress of the past few days. I feel irrationally culpable, like I should have gotten more sleep or drunk less coffee.
I take another sip of my drink and smile at Kat. She raises a glass of water and then it hits me: she’s pregnant. I think about congratulating her, and then I remember her many miscarriages. I decide to keep my mouth shut.
“You’re forgetting something,” says Cedar, with a mischievous gleam in her eye. She hands me what is obviously a bottle of wine wrapped in tissue paper. I tear off the tissue and find myself holding a bottle of wine. The label reads ACCURSED RED in bold, Gothic letters. I feel my heart race and my stomach cramp.
“Why?” I ask. My shock must be obvious. Kat and Lulu regard me with puzzled concern. Cedar has a dark and twisted sense of humor, and I’m usually the first one to appreciate it.
“It’s hilarious,” says Cedar. “I mean, in a sick and absurd kind of way. You’re obviously not accursed. Your father was clearly out of his mind when he said that.”
“We just had my father committed last night,” I say. Cedar’s face falls. Kat and Lulu seem on the verge of tears. I know they want to make me feel better, and I’m not cooperating. I wonder if I should break down and share my feelings.
But I’m afraid that if I start crying, I won’t be able to stop. Jenna wanted a celebration of her life. I can’t turn up at her memorial dinner with swollen eyes and ruined makeup.
“Well, Cedar, that wine better be insanely delicious,” say, pasting a big, fake smile on my face. The girls look at me with wide, sad eyes. I know that I’m trying too hard, and that no one knows what to say. I scan my friends’ faces for signs of understanding. All I see is confusion and sadness. I fear I have infected them.
September 22, 2016
Thursday, 9:30 pm
I’m choking down a pepper stuffed with wild rice at Verde, one of the city’s most prominent vegan restaurants. The food is delicious, but my throat is constricted from what can only be shock and grief. I try to keep my eyes on my plate. If I look up, I will see the large projection screen displaying random images from Jenna’s life. The last time my eyes wandered, I saw a heart-wrenching photo of seven-year-old Jenna holding Frisco, her first puppy. I had to spend ten minutes in the Ladies room while I stopped sobbing.
Kat, Lulu, and Cedar stayed for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Their murmured goodbyes seemed strangely impersonal.
Take care of yourself.
It just takes time.
Let me know if you need anything.
It was clear that they wanted to get away from me and the impenetrable sadness that colors everything I do or say. My attempts at small talk with Jenna’s friends have been just slightly awkward, and my voice veers from hoarse to screechy. Now I’m sitting with Brad, Berry, Lon, and Ashley who are, if anything, in even worse shape than I am.
Ashley is making loud comments about the vegan food, causing people at the tables around us to gasp and whisper. Melinda, one of Jenna’s friends from the Animal Rights Collective, raises a glass of organic wine to Jenna’s memory. “She was committed to a cruelty-free lifestyle. She was healthy, spiritual and whole,” she says. As Melinda tells the room about how she first met Jenna at a protest in front of a WalMart in the East Bay, Ashley snorts and says, “If vegan food is so fucking healthy, why is Jenna dead?” A woman at the table next to us chokes on her wine.
I shush Ashley, and she rolls her eyes. Brad shrugs his shoulders and takes a large gulp from a small — and nearly empty — bottle of Jim Beam, and then washes it down with wine. His eyes are ringed with black circles, and the flesh hangs loosely from his cheekbones. He looks haunted. Berry, meanwhile, is in her own world, sending and receiving text messages at a blistering pace.
“Brad, are you OK?” I ask.
“I can’t sleep,” he says.
“None of us can.”
“No. I mean I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept for three days.” I notice he is scratching a place on his hand, over and over and again. I immediately think of the Xanax in my purse.
“Here,” I say, putting the bottle of Xanax in his hand. “You may need this more than I do.”
“What is it?”
“Xanax,” I say. “It’ll knock you out. But don’t take it with a lot of alcohol.”
The slack, intoxicated look in his eyes makes me nervous. I remove the bottle from his hand and take out two pills. I wrap them in a tissue and stick them in his shirt pocket.
“I’ve given you two pills,” I say. “Take one when you go to bed.” I put the bottle of pills back into my purse. Brad is staring at the projection screen. It’s a family portrait. Jenna is looking shyly into the camera and holding Brad’s hand. Brad covers his face and starts to sob. Berry is still texting and Ashley is picking at her food.
“Guys,” I say softly. “I have to go. Does anyone want to come with me.”
“No. You can leave, but I’m going to stick it out,” says Ashley. I can tell that she thinks I’m weak.
Berry looks up from her texting and glances at Brad and then at me.
“Go on,” she says. “I’ll look after everybody.”
I glance again at the screen. Thirteen-year-old Jenna is licking an ice cream cone in front of the primate exhibit at the San Diego zoo. My eyes are blurring with tears as I turn to go.
Book of Jo is a homeless novella that is going to crash on Medium for a few months. I will release new parts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, until the whole story has been posted. Enjoy!
Read Part 1.
Read Part 2.
Read Parts 3 & 4.
Read Parts 5 & 6.
Read Parts 7 & 8.
Read Parts 9 & 10.
Read Part 11.
Read Parts 12 & 13.
Read Parts 14 & 15.
Read Parts 16 & 17.
Read Parts 18 & 19.
Read Parts 20 & 21.
Read Parts 24 & 25.
