A Place In This Life

Chapter 17

Autumn in Southern California was a regional affair, and one that only people who'd lived here could truly detect. The subtle seasonal changes were not indicated by colorful trees or a crisp snap in the air, but more like a minute shift in the lighting, a drying of the air and, most of all, the hot-yet-cold Santa Ana winds that would crustify the lips and crackle the skin. For me, a lot of Chapstick and lotion meant Fall was a'comin.

"Looks like fire weather," said my father, spreading peanut butter over a piece of toast with three quick swipes, two taps into the jar and the careful placement of the knife into the sink, perpendicular to the drain. I knew which side of the family my OCD came from.

"I hope not. The arsonists will love that," said my mom, eating a banana and then tossing the peel into the sink, displacing the knife.

"I've gotta go," I said, heading out the door and hoping nobody would notice that Cara wasn't taking me to school, or that I wasn't going to school at all.

My tennis shoes carried me down the street, around the corner and to the bus stop that butted against the road that my father usually took to work. Just in case, I removed my jacket, revealing a splotch of color that my parents rarely saw, making me unrecognizable.

The last time I took the bus I was a freshman, and I hoped that I remembered what to do when it came time to stop.

I was sandwiched on the bench by an older Latina clutching a large tote bag with Tweety Bird on its side, and a college-aged boy with a maroon hoodie over his head, thumbing through his iPod. We were greeted by several more women on the bus traveling to domestic jobs in Newport Coast, a guy in a wetsuit and high-tops, and an old man in a Mr. Rogers' sweater reading the Orange County Register and clearing his throat every 15 seconds. I seriously considered throwing him a cough drop.

Other than the throat clearing, it was peaceful to sit by myself and watch the stops come and go as the bus traveled up the coast. I made one transfer and joined a whole new group of people, all similar looking to those on the previous bus, anonymous faces going to unknown places.

Did anyone on the ride wonder where I was going? Probably not. Even I didn't know where I was headed, except for the physical location known as Todd's apartment. After my arrival, who knew what my ultimate destination would be?

I had played out various scenarios of how the day would go — everything from tending to a very drained and sick Todd, to sitting on the couch with him and watching television, to a place I felt embarrassed to think about. Each time my mind would go there, I stopped and started over, ultimately never reaching where I thought things would go.

The walk from the bus stop to Todd's was just a few blocks, but it gave me time to think more about what loomed in the distance. Dark purple clouds were blowing in from the Pacific, bringing humidity to the thirsty air and my parched skin. And then the building appeared, a lonely boxed figure overlooking the cloudy harbor. The curtains were open, as was the front door when I reached for the knob.

"Hello?"

I heard a series of coughs from the back bedroom. Following the sound lead me to the one room that was lit by a dim light and where the curtains were closed. Todd was laying on the bed, covered with blankets, a white bucket on the nightstand along a Gatorade, crumpled tissues and an ashtray.

"Natalie, you're here," he said, lifting his head.

"Sorry it took so long. You know the bus," I said, sitting on the bed. He reached and took my hand, squeezing it.

"Have you been alone long?"

"I don't know. I've been sleeping a lot."

"I made good on my promise," I said, smoothing my hand over his warm forehead.