Goodbye, Old Girl

Dorie had just dropped off Simon. It was early, around 7, and the sun peeked from behind the palm-lined hill to the south of the school. Simon liked to be dropped off early on Tuesdays so that he could practice with the jazz band. So talented, that boy. She and Marcus had been in plenty of jazz clubs in their day, and Simon was just about better than anyone she had ever heard play. So, she’d tell him as often as she could, that he played like Louis or like Dizzy, his reaction always the same, a little smile as he shook his head, an unsuccessful attempt at hiding how good it felt to be praised.

“I don’t play anything like them, Mom. Haven’t you ever heard of Clifford Brown or Art Farmer? They’re much better. Farmer went to Jefferson, you know.”

“Huh, well I don’t know about all of that,” she would say, turning toward him, hands on hips. “But I don’t care who you play like, you’re better than them all.” Simon could only shake his head harder, his smile a little bigger.

Pulling away from the school, Dorie glanced back and watched Simon slink away across the gravel parking lot, back hunched, eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him. He had been stoic when she broke the news of the divorce, his face still, his nods of acknowledgement full of a great sincerity. It seemed that he was much older than seventeen. But Simon was seventeen, and she figured that, like most teenagers, the indifference was an act. Something he wore the same way soldiers wear helmets – not because there wasn’t anything that could hurt him, but because way too much that could. Yesterday, she had walked into his bedroom unannounced, laundry in arm, and watched him turn away, hoping she wouldn’t notice him cry.

On the drive this morning Dorie had tried to put it out of her mind, Simon’s face, ruddy and tear-soaked face, buried in his pillow, back rising and falling with racking breaths. Impossible for a mother. She had to do something, anything, to take away his pain. And so, at the last light before Jefferson High, she found herself turning to him, asking whether he thought she was making a mistake, to finalize things in this way. They could go on living separately, her and Marcus, married in the legal sense. Reconciliation was always a possibility. She knew she shouldn’t have asked. It was too much. But asking was the only thing she could think to do.

Simon’s eyebrows had lifted, lip curled, as he turned toward her.

“Well,” he paused, his eyes now fixed squarely on Dorie. “Do you want to be married to the guy?”

She sighed. What were the right words? “I have loved your father very much. I mean, I still do. Without him you wouldn’t be here and…”

“Just answer the question.”

“No, I don’t.” She hadn’t meant to smile.

Simon had smiled with her. “Well then I think sometimes you gotta say fuck it and do what you want to do.” His had face opened, his eyes bright, the skin of his forehead folding in on itself, as he laughed at the stupid look on her face.

***

As she pulled out from the parking lot, gravel popped rhythmically underneath the tires, kicking up a small plume of dust that hung lazily in the dry spring air. Work was out in the valley, and she’d need to hurry to make her 8:30 meeting. The new campaign rollout was around the corner and Justin, her boss, would make sure she’d hear about it if she were even five minutes late. No time to stop for a ritualistic morning coffee, which was fine; caffeine would only make her nerves worse.

“We all have personal issues, Dorie,” Justin liked to tell her, his tall and wiry frame blocking the entrance to her cubicle. “But that can’t always be an excuse for poor productivity.” His face twisted, nearly apologetic. “Remember, we’re all behind you. We’re a team here. Just please let us know if there is anything I or Chelsea can do to help.”

Dorie gripped the steering wheel, pressing her palms hard into the faux leather, her knuckles growing a pale cream color. What kind of personal issues could Justin possibly have, anyway? Trouble finding the best e-mail sign off? Worried that ‘Thanks’ might sound too abrupt? She chuckled to herself. Her right leg hovered over the gas and her left bounced off the floor mat. Caffeine was definitely not needed.

As she rounded the curve of the entry ramp and approached the freeway, she was greeted by a sprawl of taillights. There was always traffic, even at 7:30 in the morning, but the amount was unusual. Only one way through.

On the freeway, she watched the clock tick as she crawled north. Her leg bounced more quickly now, her knee occasionally bumping the wheel. It seemed certain that she wouldn’t make the meeting. The mass of cars was unnerving, seeming to go on for miles. There must be an accident up ahead. Some inconsiderate oaf had gone and wrecked themselves trying to change lanes and now it was her problem to deal with; their mistake would become an indictment on her character. She imagined Justin smiling as she rushed into the conference room. Her apologizing and him responding with a warm greeting, ever the gentleman in front of the client. What a nice guy, an understanding boss, they’d think. Someone we’d like to work with. And then later, an e-mail, her co-workers cc’ed.

“The client was waiting, Dorie. Let’s talk about timing going forward. We need to be aligned on this.”

Dorie moved in sync with her fellow commuters, a group of fledgling fish moving upstream. To her right, an older man in a rusted Volkswagen hatchback, half-coated in a dull eggshell paint, pressed long and hard on his horn, seemingly unaware of his own futility. Dorie watched him, his eyes squinted and brow furrowed, gesticulating wildly to no one in particular. He seemed to ponder an escape, before sighing and pulling his wheel hard toward the exit lane which had become momentarily free. Like young salmon leaping from the banks of its stream, he slipped into the empty lane and disappeared below light gray barrier separating Dorie – and a thousand other hapless commuters – from freedom. She watched as he went, almost terrified that something would drop from the sky, scooping him back onto the freeway; that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave. But away the little Volkswagen went.

Before she knew it, she was following. Into the exit lane and below the pale green signing directing traffic onto Highland Avenue. She knew that only the freeway could get her to the meeting on time. But she wasn’t going to her meeting. Dorie continued, past Hollywood, past Sunset, the sound of the freeway softening as she went. Just a block to her left was the Catalina Jazz Club. She had half a mind to stop although there would be no one around at eight in the morning.

Soon, Dorie found herself heading west. For ten years she had followed the freeway into the valley, parked in the back lot, and wandered mindlessly into her building, pulled unhappily toward her cubicle by the magnetic force of responsibility. But today, her destination was the beach.

Trying to relax, she rolled back her shoulders and let her eyes drift to the billboards that lined the street. An older couple in his and hers bathtubs. Kiera Knightly wielding a pair of pirates’ swords. Promises and escapes. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander.

When the driver to her left sounded their horn, Dorie swerved back into her lane. Her stomach flipped. Maybe I should turn around, she thought. Justin wouldn’t fire her for being late, but he might if she skipped altogether. And there was Simon to worry about. What would they do if she lost her job?

The worry clung to everything she did, soaking her, making her feel heavy. Sometimes Simon would catch her watching him, her eyes wide and unblinking, creases forming deep ruts on her forehead. Most often, he would bury his nose back into his sheet music. But certain times, when he was feeling more playful, he’d look up at her, a twinkle in his eye, wearing a sardonic grin that reminded Dorie so much of Marcus.

“Mom, you gotta stop worrying about me. It’s probably miserable for you but more importantly it’s really annoying for me.”

She let out a sharp laugh that caught in her throat.

“Like what’s the worst that can happen.” He paused, wanting to be careful. It was best not to spark her imagination with talk of the worst-case scenario. “It’s going to be ok, Mom. Trust me.”

Dorie had always been struck by Simon’s self-assuredness, as though the future lay bare before him. Still, he was only seventeen. The story of his life had not yet begun in earnest; it would start next year, when, properly incubated, he stepped into the world as an adult. Everything that came before – his successes, transgressions, fears, and struggles – would be washed away into the primordial soup of “childhood.” Even his wounds would lie dormant, unnamed, until some well-intentioned therapist unearthed them a decade from now. He could not possibly know that everything would be all right. He had never felt how quickly things could change.

And yet, Dorie could not escape the thought that Simon knew something she didn’t. He’d be sitting in jazz band right now, her all-knowing boy fluttering his fingers over the keys of his trumpet.

The car was too quiet. Her thumb hovered over the phone, then withdrew. Justin might have texted already, even though the meeting was still another half hour away. Just checking in, he might write, want to make sure you’re actually going to show up this time, adding a colon and parentheses to the end of his message to soften the tone, forgetting she had never failed to show up. Not once in ten years.

The blackberry stayed in the console. She reached for the dial instead, clicking softly. She didn’t realize how tightly she’d been gripping the steering wheel. Her hand felt light and fuzzy.

Her mind went back to Simon. Jazz. She searched for a station. No luck. Perhaps ads, though jazz stations rarely bothered. Real connoisseurs of art can’t be bought, she imagined Simon telling her, pleased with himself. Dorie grew tired of scrolling. Two middle-aged disk jockeys bantered, a ping-pong of morning show drivel she couldn’t follow. She wondered what Simon might say about it. Just doing their job. We don’t have to listen.

Dorie clicked off the radio and rolled down the window, letting the world rush in. She welcomed the breeze as it rolled across her face, blowing the messy, brown curls off of her forehead. She stuck her hand out the window, flattening and rotating it parallel with ground, slicing it through the air like a wing. She felt lighter, like her cells had suddenly been filled with air, made into a trillion tiny balloons. Everything non-essential had been sucked out of her. She expected to begin floating away. Around her colors melted into each other, buildings, trees, and pavement abstracting themselves into one another. She felt untethered, flying west toward the coast.

***

As Dorie descended the bluff overlooking the ocean, she felt that she was entering another world. Damp air wafted through the open window. The salt of the seawater burned her nostrils. A good burn, full of life. She glanced at the clock, then, instinctively, down at her phone. It was just after 8:40. There was a notification, a text from Justin. Not right now. Actually, not ever, she thought, swiping the message to delete it and opening the music player instead, trying to remember the artists Simon liked to tell her about. One was named Art Something. Went to Jefferson. Grew up on a farm maybe.

Scrolling through one of the playlists Simon had curated for her, she drifted between lanes, as if she were alone on the PCH, before finding something that looked familiar. “Goodbye, Old Girl,” by Art Farmer. She pressed her thumb to the keypad and listened as soft piano, followed by sweet muted trumpet melody, escaped from the speaker, a sound warm and familiar, like a children’s blanket. Dorie felt herself drift. It was 1988 back at the Catalina.

Eighteen years ago, she had seen Marcus across the club. Watched him through smoke hanging in a dim light. It was something she thought of often, one of those moments in your life that would never escape you. Marcus’s chin in the air; mouth curled upward in a knowing grin. He wore a heavy grey sweater stretched thin around his broad shoulders. He had caught Dorie staring, and waved her over.

A year later they had Simon. And everything went as it should, to the extent everyone could agree on how things should go. But, even then, she knew it wouldn’t last. Dorie saw herself now – a single, improvised note, escaped from a trumpet, drifting skyward, left to its own devices, searching for a waiting ear.

Before Dorie could understand what had happened, her car was spinning. The tires loosened their grip on the road and the vehicle lifted, cutting across oncoming traffic, toward the metal barrier that separated the southbound lane and the ocean. Her hands lifted from the wheel, helpless. In the right lane, the other car had rolled to a stop.

The barrier arrived, and Dorie’s body jerked to the left, her head snapping hard toward the open window. Her muscles seized. An awful noise came from all directions. The sound of metal groaning and folding swallowed the trumpet still playing through the speakers. Soon, she was airborne. Things quieted, a watery mix of pastel and deep, ocean blue surrounding her. She felt her organs slide inside of her and then drop out. She was light again – a different type of weightlessness now. Suspended in the air, there was so much time to think and so little to think about. It all seemed so silly – Marcus, Justin, the man in the Volkswagen. They had led her here, but anyone could have. Anyone at all.

At last, she thought of Simon, imagined him sitting next to her, looking the way he always did, his head fixed forward, face placid and content. He didn’t say anything, only hummed along to the music, tapping his fingers on the dash. She turned to watch him, and it felt as though he were really there, rocking in his seat, waiting for whatever came next.

A pillowy white gathered and Dorie allowed herself to slump back into it. Simon lay beside her. Upside down, she felt herself begin to drop back to Earth, a cement gray rushing up to meet her. That’s when she saw it – what she always felt Simon could see – things forming far in front of her. She smiled as she watched, listening to the soft sound of the trumpet fade away.