Chapter Eleven
ELEVEN
On the way back from Yumi’s, I start to feel lightheaded. As a pulsing sensation squeezes my temples, I stop at the corner and lean against a wooden fence post, trying to steady myself while Kugel buries his nose in a patch of liriope.
Maybe I did too much, walking all the way to Yumi’s. It didn’t seem like an exertion, but there’s no getting around it: I am wiped out and a headache is coming on.
The post I am leaning on is part of a white picket fence, and even in my dizzy state I can’t help but note the irony.
Since we moved into this picture-perfect neighborhood close to twenty years ago, I’ve learned the hard way that money cannot solve all the problems life throws at you.
These perfect houses behind picket fences often hide ugly realties.
Chronic illness, infidelity, substance abuse.
I thought I had seen it all in my two decades living in Eastbrook.
Now I can add my own strange experience.
“Caren, you okay?” I look up to see Shawn walking toward me.
I’ve known Shawn for years, had dinner with him and Kenya dozens of times, attended the same neighborhood parties, but we’ve never really connected past a surface-level friendship.
He’s smooth and fluid, both in his professional life as a successful architect and in the neighborhood, where he’s seemingly everywhere—at pickup basketball games, fixing up the pool on handyman day, running the grill at the Labor Day cookout.
He’s smart and witty, but he suffers from a common DC syndrome—his intense eyes perpetually scan the room for someone more interesting than me to talk to.
“Do you need some water?” he asks, homing in on me with an intensity that makes me uneasy.
“I’m okay.” I straighten up. “Just felt dizzy there for a moment.”
“That can happen after a concussion.”
I blink. “How did you know about the concussion?”
“Oh, I saw Miguel this morning on his way to work. He told me you fell and hit your head after the party Saturday night.”
I nod, taking this in. Normally the close-knit atmosphere is one of my favorite things about this neighborhood, but this makes me feel strangely suffocated.
Although Eastbrook is right outside the nation’s capital, it often feels like a small English village where everyone is connected in some way and news travels fast. Washington is a transient city, but many people move into Eastbrook and stay.
If someone is diagnosed with cancer, it is only a matter of hours until a meal train is established.
But this feels different, like my story is being rushed to press without all the facts.
“I’d better get home.” I tug at Kugel’s leash, suddenly so exhausted I feel I might have to lie down right here in the liriope.
“Did Kenya call you?” Shawn asks, ignoring all my cues that I want to get going. “She wants to make sure you know she’s here and that you don’t let the whole yard sale thing get in the way of your recovery.”
I bet she does, I think. It’s an ungenerous thought, but I know that Kenya’s probably worried my health issues will throw our timeline off track. Kenya’s not the type to let a little concussion get in the way of the Eastbrook Annual Summer Yard Sale. “Not yet. But I’m sure we’ll talk later today.”
“We can’t drink like we used to, am I right?” He smiles, his deep dimple appearing in his cheek.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” But I do know what he means. The same thing the police officer meant. I feel powerless to stop this narrative from spinning around. “Is that what people are saying?”
“It’s cool, Caren. We’ve all been there.” His response contains a multitude of meanings. The casual, intimate tone hints that we are close enough to be honest. The word choice tells me he thinks I drank too much and can’t face that.
I bristle. “I wasn’t drunk.”
“All right, calm down. Don’t shoot the messenger.” He holds up his hands, his tone teasing and light.
“I am calm,” I say, but I am seething. We say our goodbyes and part, heading in different directions.
Back at the house, I feel like it’s all I can do to get to the sofa and lie down.
I’m not normally a napper, but I fall into a deep sleep.
It’s almost two hours later when I am dragged out of sleep by the buzzing of my phone.
I roll over, ignoring it, but a moment later it rings again.
I see it is Miguel calling and answer. If I don’t, he might get worried.
“Hey,” I say, my voice groggy with sleep.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “Are you okay? You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I was napping.”
“Have you been outside yet today?”
“Yup. I took Kugel to Yumi’s this morning, but I got dizzy, so I came home to rest.”
“I’ve been reading up on concussions and what to do.
The most up-to-date studies show that rest lasting longer than two days can actually hinder recovery.
Listen to this.” He clears his throat. “‘Moderate physical activity within the first week of a concussion, even on the first or second day, actually speeds recovery time and lessens the chances of developing post-concussion syndrome.’”
“Oh great, another syndrome.”
“Did you hear what it said about activity?”
“What do you want me to do? Go play pickleball?”
“No, I’m just saying don’t lay on the couch all day. At least walk around the house, the yard. Keep on your feet. Maybe try another walk this afternoon. Don’t go far but don’t be sedentary.”
“Got it.” I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling, my eyes focusing in on a tiny bit of Blu Tack left over from when I hung a paper moon and stars for Rachel’s tenth birthday.
“I’m worried about you.” Miguel sighs loudly. I can picture him at the office, seated at his desk, the watercolor of Nats Park I gave him for his birthday hanging on the wall behind him. And I can picture the creases of concern on his face.
“I’m getting up now.” I sit up. “I’m going to do some burpees.”
“Funny.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll grab something for dinner on the way home.”
I drag myself to the kitchen. It’s almost one thirty, and even though I’m not hungry, I make a turkey sandwich.
I nibble at it while walking through the dining room surveying the evidence of the half-finished yard sale preparations.
There’s still so much to do. Shawn said that Kenya would be reaching out.
It would be the obvious move, to turn it all over to Kenya.
But I don’t want to. Is it so bad, as Yumi always points out, that I get meaning from doing these types of events?
What else am I supposed to derive meaning from now that I no longer have the same career, and now that my kids are gone?
No, I’m not giving up the yard sale. Even with a head injury, I’ll figure it out.
I sit at the dining room table, open my laptop, and go straight to the neighborhood Facebook page.
Just thirty minutes of screens, I tell myself.
That’s allowed. I can almost hear the voices of Miguel, Yumi, Kenya, all telling me this is a bad idea.
That I should rest and recover, that it’s time to let go.
An alert buzzes in the corner of my screen, and for a moment I panic that Yumi or Miguel has magically divined I’m on screens and is calling to yell at me.
My cursor hovers over the notification as I read it.
It’s the screening call for the job at the Asher Museum in DC.
I panic. I have forgotten completely about this appointment with the director of operations, Mara Perez.
In my nervousness, my finger jumps. I click Join and before I can undo it, a woman’s face fills the screen.
“Caren, hi. Good to see you. I was hoping we had the time right.”
I glance at the time on my screen. The call was supposed to start eight minutes ago. My own image stares back at me, disheveled, no makeup, dark circles and sallow skin, my hair in a messy bun.
“Oh, hi, Mara,” I say, shifting the laptop slightly so the boxes from the yard sale are not in the background. I want this job. I need this job. It’s the first real bite I’ve had in eight months.
“Is this a bad time?” she asks, her irritation shimmering through her professional veneer. “I thought we agreed on one thirty.”
“No, this is perfect.” I contemplate trying to reschedule, but I don’t dare. The hundreds of résumés and emails I’ve sent out over the past year are testament to how hard it is to get even a screening interview at my age. I can’t blow this. I take a deep breath and smile. I can do this.
“So, tell me your story, Caren. What brought you to the events planner position at the Asher Museum?”
“My story?” I repeat, playing for time.
“Yes, what made you interested in this world?”
“Well, I’ve been in events planning since right out of college. My first job was—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I have your résumé in front of me. Can you give me the high-level summary of your work experience?”
“Sure, of course.” Sweat breaks out on my back.
I am blowing this in real time. I know how to do this, but I didn’t prepare, and I can’t seem to access the part of my brain where this language is stored.
“I’ve learned in my last three roles doing the business development piece of event planning that it’s really my sweet spot.
” I continue on this track for a few minutes, offering up gibberish sprinkled with jargon while saying absolutely nothing, watching as her eyes glaze over.
“Are you working right now?” Mara asks in a steely voice.
The question pierces me, embarrassing me. I feel shame for not working, even though I know it’s not my fault. “I’m freelancing at the moment.”
“How many clients do you have?”
One. I have one. But I can’t bring myself to say that.
“Several.” My eyes flit to my emails, unread since Saturday. One in particular catches my eye, an email from Sunday with the subject line URGENT.
I click on it. The sender is Holly Stone, a name I recognize from the neighborhood.
It takes a second, but then I place her as a young mom who lives a few blocks over.
I feel nauseated when I see the ALL CAPS message, as if Holly is in my dining room, screaming at me.
I remember her clearly now. I once witnessed her yelling at some workmen who were replacing the water main on her street.
Their digging was preventing her from parking her Yukon directly in front of her house.
Now she is yelling at me across the internet. The back of my skull begins to throb. I don’t need this, not now.
“Caren, can you hear me?” Mara asks.
“Yes, yes, sorry. Can you repeat the question?”
Mara squeezes out a grim smile. “I was asking about the nature of the clients you have now. Corporate? Nonprofit? Private?”
But I’m too swept up in the email to answer.
THAT’S MY brACELET!!
IT WAS STOLEN LAST YEAR IN A BURGLARY AND I WANT IT BACK!!!!!
Below that is a photograph of a gold bangle with a small gold heart affixed to it.
I close the email, my pulse racing. I recognize the bracelet.
It’s one of the pretty gold bangles I posted to the Facebook yard sale page the other night.
Apparently, it was stolen. But that’s not what makes my heart pound.
It’s how that particular bracelet ended up in the yard sale.
I had found it at the bottom of a plastic bag of Rachel’s items destined for Goodwill.
Before donating the bag, I decided to search through it in case there might be a few items that would be good for the yard sale.
I remember being pleased when I pulled out the bracelet.
Quality. Worth something, not a fortune, but certainly yard sale material.
“So I really want to thank you for your time today,” Mara says, her crisp voice slicing through my thoughts.
“What? Oh yes, thank you.”
“We’ll be in touch about the next steps,” she says. “Should there be any.”
The call goes black. There won’t be any next steps.
I blew it. Weeks of angling for this interview blown in a few minutes.
I had planned to spend Sunday prepping for the interview, but the concussion scuttled that.
I’ll deal with the fallout later. Right now, all I can think about is the gold bracelet.
I grab my phone, trembling.
Maybe I’m remembering wrong. Maybe I have things mixed up. I pray this is a misfiring of my brain, a scrambling due to the concussion.
I open my photos app and begin scrolling through the thousands of pictures on my camera roll. One day I plan to cull them, to create organized albums and thematic photo books, but I never seem to find the time. I slow down my scrolling when I get to last December’s photos.
There it is, the one I was thinking of.
A picture of Rachel looking radiant at the Kennedy Center last winter when we went to see The Nutcracker, as is our yearly ritual.
She’s smiling, arms crossed in front of her body.
And dangling on my daughter’s wrist is the gold bangle.