Chapter Eight Eric #2
Jane was mortified, but Teddy, god bless him, acted as if entirely oblivious. “Cheers to that! Hey, is it cool if I grab another beer, too?”
Jane’s father raised his glass. “Yes, please do! The more the merrier.”
That was when Jane jumped in.
“Dad, you should barter it for some of Teddy’s weed.”
“Oh, we’ve got plenty in this house. Your brother has a prescription,” her father stated matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, it really helps,” John effused. “I just wish I had a cool bong!”
“Dude, I can hook you up! You need to come see us in LA.” Teddy reached over and fist-bumped John.
Jane’s mother turned to her. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“So am I,” Jane murmured, feeling further estranged from everyone, everything.
Later that night, snuggled in bed with Teddy in her childhood room, Jane thanked him for being so kind and attentive to her brother.
“But I’m not doing anything. Just hanging out with him.”
“He’s never really had people to hang out with.”
Teddy gently brushed a strand of hair off Jane’s face.
“Yeah. I can see it’s been hard for him. And you.”
“No, it’s not so hard for me.”
“Are you serious?” Teddy asked, incredulous.
“I have no right to feel sorry for myself, not compared to what John deals with on a daily basis.”
“It doesn’t have to be about feeling sorry for yourself. It can just be acknowledging that it’s been hard on you and your family.”
Jane pensively twisted that errant lock of hair.
“Yes, obviously. Look at my mom, stewing all the time, lashing out—it’s not pretty.”
“Sure, but do you think she ever imagined changing the diaper of her adult son?” Teddy gently asked.
“Of course not. Sometimes I think—and I hate myself for thinking like this, but—I feel all this pressure to succeed somehow, as if to compensate, but I’m not sure how and I never got a lot of encouragement.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Teddy took her in his arms. “I know this can all be heavy, Jane, but John is a pretty happy guy, and I mean, it’s kind of wonderful to see that.”
“From a distance. We can get on a plane and be thousands of miles away.”
“They’re your family, Jane. You’ll never be able to get away from them.”
“God, you are such a buzzkill.”
He laughed, then gave her a lingering kiss on her cheek. His stubble tickled her. It felt wonderful.
“I’m going to be responsible for him someday.” Jane had never said this out loud.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do, unless...”
“I think you would be great for each other.”
“I’m not sure I could do it.” It felt like a confession.
“I know you could, Jane. I think you could do just about anything.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she fell into them, feeling safe and loved.
These memories unspooled remarkably vividly, like a movie projected in her head.
Maybe her heart, massaged by the mescaline, was cracking open a bit, or perhaps it was just a function of time and distance.
Now she was able to see more clearly how sad and angry her mother was and how detached and cerebral her father was.
How stoic and innocent her brother was. And how sweet and perceptive Teddy was.
Did she usually feel outside looking in, even back then?
She did. She was an observer, a bystander, not a participant.
But Teddy was fully present, and Jane was envious of how he could just be , finding pockets of delight in a miasma of bitterness and dysfunction.
He was so good at opening his heart. She had been nagged by this memory, but now it had moved to the center of her consciousness. It felt monumental.
More time passed. Jane nibbled on the “yummy foods” and felt anchored again.
She was more than ready to go home, but there was a closing ceremony about to take place.
Once again, the stick was passed around the circle.
The mourner said she had communed with her recently deceased father, who told her he loved her.
Sex Addict said he decided love is love, whatever the hell that meant.
Questioning Sexuality said he was pretty sure he was going all in on gayness.
And Patchouli Dude had not found God but had enjoyed a meaningful discussion with Archangel Michael.
When it was Jane’s turn, she said, “I think I’ve been hate-watching my own life.”
Two days post–San Pedro and Jane was still experiencing a novel mental mistiness. Was the feeling evidence of a paradigm shift or a hangover? Did it matter?
It was Monday morning, and she had a job to do.
As Jane backed into a tight parking space, she spotted Esmé leaning against a car a few spaces ahead.
Esmé, her coworker for the day, was half French Canadian, half Chinese American, and all pain in the ass.
The best thing that could be said for Esmé was that she made Jane appreciate Lindsey.
However, Jane was here to stop hate-watching her own life and to open her heart to everything. Even, god help her, to Esmé.
Esmé was almost the exact opposite of Lindsey.
Whereas Lindsey was consistently slovenly, once even showing up for a job in shorts and a tank top, Esmé had appropriated her fashion sensibility from Steve Jobs via Elizabeth Holmes: she always wore jeans with a dark mock turtleneck—usually black, occasionally navy or burgundy if she was feeling especially whimsical—with her glossy black hair pulled into a tight ponytail that jutted aggressively from the back of her head.
She wore no visible makeup; her only frill was pearl earrings, which Jane had to grudgingly concede lent her a kind of elegance in the way they drew attention to the line of her long, graceful neck.
Whereas Lindsey was a constant torrent of verbal effluvia, Esmé was cool and taciturn in a manner that Jane found off-putting, all the more so because she oozed unctuous charm when talking with a client.
Esmé was the teacher’s pet type, bossy yet obsequious, a relentless self-promoter.
The niche that she had laid claim to was being the best Instragrammer of all the women at the company.
After curt greetings, Jane and Esmé approached the house, a charming Spanish colonial, where they noticed a tall, wiry man with shoulder-length dark hair pacing on the lawn.
He was in the midst of a heated phone conversation and becoming increasingly agitated.
Was this an emotionally disturbed person or the client?
Uncertain, Jane and Esmé waited outside the front gate and listened.
“Well thank you ever so much for keeping me on hold for a fucking hour just to tell me that you aren’t going to do a single thing!
I appreciate the care and concern for law-abiding citizens.
.. you really think I’m going to now sink more time into this and come down and wait for an hour to file some paperwork that you’ll throw away?
If you aren’t going to investigate then tell me what the point is?
... What? That’s just great. Listen, I don’t want to be placated, I want someone to do something!
Clearly, I was an idiot to think that when a crime is committed, I should call the police! ”
Jane and Esmé exchanged looks.
“Yeah, thanks, have a super blessed day.”
Jane pressed the doorbell, inciting a riot of barking dogs. The man walked over.
“Hello, sorry, my car was broken into right in front of my house last night and the cops are completely useless. It’s really, really annoying.”
He had swarthy good looks, a slim build, and torrents of wild brown hair. It was hard to pinpoint his age; he was probably in his forties. Before Jane could speak, Esmé jumped in.
“No worries! I’m sorry about that, it’s the worst. Are you Eric?”
The man looked befuddled.
“Yes, I am. Sorry, do I know you?”
“This is Jane, and I’m Esmé. We’re here to organize.”
Eric’s eyes glazed over as he processed this information.
“Oh... that’s today? Honestly I sort of spaced you were coming today. So sorry, but I’m not at all ready.”
“You don’t need to be ready! We can do it all for you.” Esmé loved to pander.
He opened the gate, and they stepped into the yard.
“Are you both comfortable with dogs?” he asked.
“Of course!” Esmé declared. Jane could tell she was faking it.
Eric opened the front door and three large dogs bounded out: a mutt that looked mostly pit bull, a German shepherd, and some sort of Australian cattle dog mix. They took turns warily sniffing the new arrivals.
“They’re all friendly, just very high energy. Come on in. I’ll put them in the backyard.”
Esmé swept ahead into the foyer and Jane resigned herself to hanging back. It wasn’t worth competing to keep up with Esmé. After all, she was working on opening her heart, and anything that might infect it was best kept at a safe distance.
The dogs soon lost interest in them and became caught up in their volatile pack dynamic, barking, growling, and nipping at one another. The cattle dog curled its lips, issuing a guttural warning growl at the German shepherd.
“Betty, NO!” Eric shouted. “Ladies, calm down, behave!” The dogs seemed mildly chastened. “They’re all girls, my girls. They get very excited when they meet new people.” He herded them into the backyard and closed the door.
“Your home is gorgeous!” Esmé exclaimed.
“Yes, lovely,” Jane added as she looked around.
The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with varying kinds of art and posters, some fine paintings, some total kitsch.
The coffee table in the living room was covered with towering stacks of books.
Dog toys were scattered throughout. It wasn’t exactly messy—more stuffed to the gills.
“So, is there a room or particular area you want us to focus on?” Esmé asked.
Eric’s eyes, a deep and soulful mahogany brown, glazed over as he pondered. It was like a computer timing out.
“We can walk through the house and tell you where we think we could be the most helpful,” Jane offered.
Eric came back to life.