Tomorrow There Will Be Sun Read online

  “I mean . . . I consider myself to be pretty lucky.”

  “I was just saying that I hear you. I hear that it hasn’t been easy.”

  “You heard that? Because I don’t think I said that.”

  Clearly, I’m out of listening and reflecting shape, my training in dire need of a booster class.

  I wander over to the shelf of tapes. I notice that they’ve gone full hog on their collection of Nixon films: All the President’s Men, Oliver Stone’s Nixon, Frost/Nixon, The Assassination of Richard Nixon and even a movie called, simply, Dick. Underneath the tapes is a cabinet with board games. Scrabble is at the top of the pile. I stick it under my arm and start to move toward the door, but then I turn back around and sit on the side of the sofa opposite the one he’s perched on. “So you’re good? Life is good?”

  He shrugs. “Sure.”

  “And your mom? I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

  “She’s great.” There’s that smile again. “And you?” He pauses. “I mean . . . are you feeling better? I heard about your diagnosis. My mom said it was the kind of cancer that, like, isn’t all that serious.”

  “Yes, I’m feeling fine.” I don’t tell him that it felt serious to me and that I don’t understand everyone’s impulse to diminish my experience. But I get it. Cancer is scary, and we want to protect our children from scary things, so I can see why she’d present it this way to her son.

  Maureen called me every week for the first two months to check on me. And she sent a beautiful basket of treats from Zabar’s. We still have a loaf of uneaten rye in the freezer. I told Peter we should save it to eat with the lox we’ll get sent when my cancer comes back. He told me he didn’t think that was funny.

  “Which movie are you going to start with?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to consult Clem.”

  “Maybe I’ll stay and watch with you for a bit.”

  “Seriously?” Clem has appeared in the doorway. “I thought you were going to, like, play games or whatever with Dad. You don’t want to watch stupid movies with us, Mother. Trust me.”

  “You’re right.” She is right. I know an exit line when I hear one. “I’d better go see what your father is up to.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE RAIN LETS UP in the late afternoon. It’s still cloudy with only a smattering of blue. The bay continues to churn up the dregs of its bottom, but the chill is gone and the air is thick and muggy. I’ve spent the day eating too many tortilla chips and finally diving back into my unfinished manuscript, rereading the pages I have, each sentence a reminder of the sharpness of Ingrid’s book.

  Everybody stuck to his or her original plan. Malcolm and Clem settled into their movie marathon. Ingrid and Solly disappeared for a long nap, leaving Ivan to build his LEGOs on the floor of the living room. He let me work on a fortress with him, undoing my contributions only a few times, and nodding his approval of a few others. I think plying him with chips all day has thawed the ice between us.

  At one point I went downstairs to see if Malcolm and Clem wanted me to bring them something to eat and found them sharing the same blanket and corner of the long sofa. They didn’t jump away from each other when I entered, so I don’t think anything untoward was going on, but I did stare at Clem a beat too long while Judy Garland was crooning “The Boy Next Door.” Clem returned my stare with a what’s your problem look.

  “We do not need a snack, Mother,” she informed me. “Because we are not five years old.”

  Back upstairs as Peter was annihilating me in a game of Scrabble, Ingrid appeared in tiny spandex shorts and a cropped tank top.

  “Solly is still napping. I’m going to go do some yoga,” she said. “Wanna join me?”

  “I hate yoga,” Ivan said without looking up from his LEGOs.

  “I was asking Jenna, sweetie.”

  “Jenna is a pro,” Peter said. “Good luck keeping up with her.”

  Peter bought me a twelve-session package of yoga classes at a fancy studio in Santa Monica shortly after my diagnosis. It was something the doctor had mentioned might help with stress and anxiety. With Clem’s guidance he’d even picked out some yoga clothing along with a mat and bag. I was really touched by the gesture and I knew he wanted me to love it, but I didn’t. I haven’t had the heart to tell him I still have nine classes left.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I think I’ll try and do a little more work.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I looked at Ingrid in her getup. I imagined how I would look next to her in downward facing dog.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  After finishing the bloodbath of a Scrabble game with Peter I went back to my book, not adding anything new, just scrolling through what I already had, second-guessing every choice I’d made and beating myself up for each clumsy turn of phrase. I tried convincing myself the path out of this thicket existed somewhere, somehow; I just had to find it. I closed the manuscript. This is my vacation. I shouldn’t have to worry about the thicket on vacation.

  Finally, even though I had no reasonable excuse to do so, I logged on to check Clem’s texts. She sent a message to Sean around noon telling him that we were going on a family outing and that she wouldn’t be able to text again until dinnertime. He responded with a crying face and a heart with an arrow through it.

  I know that kids throw around the word love (or luv) willy-nilly. Clem and her girlfriends are always saying they love/luv each other. Clem and her eighth grade boyfriend Brett told each other they loved/luved each other about twenty times a day. But I believe that Clem does genuinely love/luv Sean and that he genuinely loves/luvs her. Their relationship, what I’ve seen of it, is real. It is true. And I adore Sean, not only because he hasn’t pressured my daughter into having sex but also because he is attentive and sweet and he treats her with respect. Her feelings for him should be stronger than the pull of an older, handsome boy who was once like a brother and is now a stranger. Clem isn’t thinking. She’s developing some kind of Stockholm syndrome born from captivity in this luxury vacation rental where everyday rules don’t apply and time collapses.

  I try talking to Peter about what I saw when we take margaritas to the hot tub on the roof. We’ve sent Ivan back to his parents. Solly is finally up from his nap and Ingrid is slick with yoga sweat and they’re prepping a bath for mother and son in the volcanic tub.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” Peter says. “This right here.” He holds up his margarita. He raises his voice to be heard over the sound of the hot tub jets. “This is vacation.”

  “Clem and Malcolm were sharing a blanket,” I say. “And they were snuggled up together on the couch.”

  “What? They were snuggling? Get my shotgun!”

  “Peter, come on. Be serious.”

  “About what?”

  “Clem has a boyfriend. She has Sean. Sweet Sean. And she’s been lying to him.”

  “Lying to him? How?”

  “Well, for starters, she tells him she’s unavailable to talk when she is available. She tells him that she’s spending time with us when she’s really with Malcolm.”

  Peter puts his head under water, remerges and shakes it out. “Do I want to know how it is that you know this?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is why. Why is she doing that?”

  “Seriously, Jen. You need to mind your own business.”

  “She is my business.”

  “Well, she’s also sixteen. And you can’t control her whims. Following your whims is the very best part of being sixteen, maybe the only decent part. So leave it alone.”

  I take a sip of my margarita. I lean back against the side of the hot tub and look up at the patchy sky. The bubbles are too loud. I reach over to the dial and switch it to OFF.

  Peter pouts.

  “Sorry,” I s
ay. “Did you want them on?”

  “It’s okay.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes.

  “Do you really not know about Malcolm?” I ask him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean about what kind of trouble he’s in. I know you’ve told me you don’t, but I can’t help wondering if this is one of those times where Solly confides in you and you don’t confide in me.”

  “Jenna.”

  “What? I know he’s your friend and I know you keep his secrets. That’s fine, generally. But now our daughter is involved. And I want to know what’s going on.”

  “How is our daughter involved?”

  “Because, Peter. She’s snuggling up to Malcolm on the couch.”

  “Again with the dreaded snuggling.”

  “You aren’t answering my question.” I fix him with a look. “Do you know or not? And please. Don’t lie to me.”

  He takes in a big breath and blows it out into the water, creating bubbles of his own.

  “Yes,” he says. “I know.”

  “So? Tell me.”

  “I don’t want you to freak out.”

  “Peter. If you don’t want me to freak out, don’t tell me not to freak out.”

  “He got busted for drugs.”

  I’d already run through a few scenarios in my head. This was one of them. I figured it must have something to do with drugs or alcohol or cheating at school or maybe getting a girl pregnant. On the scale of bad to horrible, this falls someplace in the middle.

  “For . . . dealing drugs,” Peter says.

  Okay, so maybe this moves the needle in the direction of horrible.

  “Was it weed?” I know from Peter that Solly used to be the weed guy in college. He didn’t sell it, because he didn’t need the money, but he always had tons of it and he was the go-to if you wanted to get high. Maybe Malcolm is just following in his father’s footsteps.

  “No. Not weed. He was selling pills. Opioids.”

  And a brick drops on the scale.

  “Jesus.”

  “He never took the drugs. He’s an athlete. He’s super serious about his martial arts. But somehow he got his hands on some pills and he saw an opportunity with all his rich classmates and he took it. Solly says half the kids in his prep school take drugs and Malcolm is far from the only one who was selling, but he’s the only one who got caught and expelled and Solly thinks it might have something to do with the way Malcolm looks. He wanted to sue, but Maureen talked him out of it. And now he’s in that alternative school and everything is fine.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Solly didn’t want anyone to know.”

  I wouldn’t want anyone to know either.

  “Malcolm is a good kid. Please resist the urge to judge,” Peter says. “And most important, don’t say a word. To anyone. Not Solly. Not Clem. Promise?”

  “Promise,” I say.

  “More margarita?” Roberto has appeared on the roof with a pitcher in his hand, just as my glass goes empty.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’M DRUNK AT DINNER. A lunch of tortilla chips followed by several margaritas consumed in a one-hundred-degree hot tub will do that to you. The food looks delicious but I can’t taste it. My face is warm and flushed. I wonder if anyone notices. What I need is water. I reach for the glass and take big gulps and it runs down my chin as I drink. I wipe the water away. I wonder if anyone notices. Solly is holding court. He’s saying something about a playlist. A death playlist. He’s talking about what songs he wants to listen to on his deathbed. I think that this day can’t come soon enough. I love Solly. I hate Solly. I think I’m glaring at him. I wonder if anyone notices. Enrique is standing next to me. He is offering me more food. He is offering to take my plate away. I do not know what he is offering. I do not know what to say to him so I say thank you. Thank you, Enrique. Muchas gracias. Enrique is Roberto’s brother. He is younger I think. At least he looks younger. But that could be because he is rounder and rounder people don’t show their age the way that thinner people do because rounder faces don’t show wrinkles. I want to touch Enrique’s face but I know I shouldn’t. Ingrid isn’t round and she doesn’t have wrinkles. That is because Ingrid is young. Ingrid is beautiful. Ingrid is talented. Poor Ingrid. I am staring at her now. Solly is still talking. I could suggest some songs for his playlist. There are lots of great songs about people who cheat but I can’t think of any. The only song that comes to mind is Stevie Wonder’s “Part Time Lover” and that’s a terrible song. I love Stevie Wonder. Why did he write such terrible songs? “I Just Called to Say I Love You” is another terrible song. Solly said something to make Malcolm laugh. Malcolm loves his father. You can tell by the way he is looking at him as he laughs. He loves his father even though his father sees him only twice a year. Would Clem love me if I saw her only twice a year? Why do I have to work so hard for her love when Solly does jackshit for Malcolm and gets his love anyway? Why do you do jackshit for your son, Solly? I don’t ask this out loud. If I did, everyone would be looking at me and they aren’t. Nobody notices. I know why Clem wants to be near Malcolm. She probably senses that he’s a little dangerous. Danger is sexy. I should stop staring at Malcolm. I turn and look at Peter. My husband. He isn’t dangerous. He is reliable. He is dependable. He has white hair but he looks younger than fifty. I look older than Peter even though he is three years older than me. Peter is looking at Solly. He is looking at Solly the way Malcolm is looking at Solly. He loves Solly. Everyone loves Solly. Why does everyone love Solly? I hear a sound. It is a screechy unpleasant sound. Now everyone is looking at me. Everyone notices. The sound is my chair on the hard marble floor. I am pushing it back and I am standing up and I am saying something out loud.

  “I’m going to go lie down.” This is what I say. “I’m not feeling well at all.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I WAKE UP AT 10:34. At first I think it’s morning, but then I see that it’s dark out. My mouth is dry and tacky and I go into the bathroom and put my head in the sink and take a long greedy drink right from the faucet. I straighten up and look at myself in the mirror and remember that I am in Mexico and that I shouldn’t drink from the faucet and I try to spit out the water, but it’s too late.

  I’ve probably made myself sick, I think. And then I think: If I get sick from the water I could blame that sickness for my strange behavior at the dinner table.

  Peter hasn’t come to bed yet. Why should he? It’s only 10:34. He’s on vacation. These are the last few hours of the first fifty years of his life.

  I turn the faucet back on and take handfuls of cold water and splash it on my face, careful not to get any of it into my mouth. I look at myself in the mirror again. There are dark purple semicircles under my eyes, but that’s nothing new. I check my roots and think I should use that brown touch-up I brought but I can’t be bothered with that right now. I’m presentable enough, I decide, to venture out and see what everyone else is up to.

  Ingrid and Ivan have gone to bed, of course. Solly and Peter sit in the living room, close but not snuggling. Steely Dan is on the playlist, which probably means Solly wants something from Peter, or maybe he’s just indulging Peter on the eve of his birthday, because I happen to know that though Peter is a huge fan, Solly hates Steely Dan. They stop talking when I enter the room.

  “Hey, party girl,” Solly says. “Up from your power nap?”

  I stretch. “Yeah, I was feeling . . .”

  “I believe the word you’re searching for is wasted.”

  I debate arguing this point, defending myself, but there’s really no use.

  Peter pats the spot on the couch next to him. “Come sit.”

  I do. He puts an arm around me. It’s a little awkward, the three of us sitting so close.

  Solly holds out hi
s glass of tequila. “Little hair of the dog?”

  I shake my head. “Where are the kids?”

  “Ivan is sleeping with his mother,” Solly says. “Sadly, he gets to do much more of that these days than I.”

  “I meant Clem and Malcolm.”

  “Night swim,” Peter says.

  We sit through half a song without saying anything. They obviously don’t want to go back to their prior conversation. I get up from the couch.

  “Heading back to bed?” Peter asks.

  “No, I think I’ll go down to the beach. Check on the kids.”

  Peter fixes me with a look I ignore by avoiding eye contact.

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Solly says. “They don’t need to be checked on.”

  “I can check on my kid if I want to check on my kid,” I say and I think, Maybe if you did more checking on your kid he wouldn’t be a drug dealer who has to finish up his senior year in an alternative school.

  He puts his hands up. “Well, then by all means, check away.”

  I walk downstairs, through the darkened dining room and past the darkened kitchen where Roberto and his family have left everything neat and tidy and ready for tomorrow, and down one more flight to the ground level. The pool lights are on and the kidney glows a not particularly inviting blue-green.

  I unlatch the gate to the beach and step into the sand wet from a day of rain. It is completely silent. The bay has returned to stillness. The sky displays a blanket of stars the likes of which you’d never see even on the clearest, quietest night in Los Angeles.

  I walk into the water until it reaches my ankles and I scan the flat, dark horizon for Clem and Malcolm. All I see is the reflection of the moon. I turn back and look at the villa. It appears even taller, wider, grander, at night. The lights shine from the main floor living room where Solly and Peter will have returned to their conversation, speaking freely now that I am gone.

  Where are Clem and Malcolm?

  I walk down to the end of the beach where the starfish live in the rocks. I am trying to do several things at once. I am searching for my daughter. I am fighting off panic that I don’t see my daughter anywhere. I am trying to appreciate the exquisite beauty of this beach at night. I am battling nausea from the earlier margarita fest.