Santa Monica Page 11

  Lettie became a recycler. She was helping the environment, she told herself, working to stop “climate change”—a phrase she now saw in the headlines of newspaper articles, and heard on the lips of her employers, even though it was Lettie who sorted through their stinking garbage, putting aside cans and bottles she could trade in.

  Most of the women she cleaned for passed on to Lettie valuable items they no longer wanted. Everything from rice cookers still in Styrofoam packing to designer shoes with scuff-free soles. Regina gave her a plastic bag stuffed with clothes every few months—thin silk button-down shirts and size-two fitted trousers, pretending Lettie was not a size ten going on twelve. It was Melissa’s hand-me-downs Lettie looked forward to the most, and she had a bag ready for Lettie nearly every week. Toys and books and video games. Designer dresses (in Lettie’s size!) and handbags still wearing tags.

  Her bosses also gave her an endless supply of beauty samples that arrived in pretty cardboard boxes in the mail once a month. Makeup, face creams, and masques made with chemicals whose names were so long Lettie wondered if it wasn’t a big science experiment. She had spent hours cleaning wealthy women’s bathrooms, making sure the sink tops were spotless, free of the bottles and tubes and tiny wands her bosses used to turn back time, transform their faces into those that belonged on much younger women.

  She began selling the hand-me-down beauty products of her bosses (were they not just as vain as that evil queen in Blanca Flor?) at her auntie Corrina’s flea market table. Placing two or three bottles in shimmery sachet bags she found at the dollar store, even offering a discount—three beauty bags for ten dollars. She sold out in one weekend, bringing home a pile of bills (eighty-seven dollars!) to add to the money she hid in her own nearly empty bathroom cabinet under her package of dollar-store maxi-pads.

  Still, the money was not enough. The fines on the overdue medical bills doubled. Then tripled.

  There are always other ways, Lettie had spat at spoiled Zacarias in Melissa’s kitchen the day of the exercise party, and she’d meant it.

  She knew she must, as she’d heard Regina say, get creative.

  She began buying cleaning products at the dollar store on Pico—nice-smelling but not organic, as her bosses demanded. She’d been saving empty organic bottles for weeks in the trunk of her car. Products with names like Common Good, Better Life, Puracy, which were, Lettie guessed, a way for her wealthy bosses to feel as if they were the saviors of the environment the scientist lady at the school assembly had spoken of. Lettie filled the empty bottles with the dollar-store solutions and used that to clean. A few of her bosses, like Lindsey Leyner, bought their own cleaning supplies but most of Lettie’s bosses, like Melissa, trusted Lettie to buy the products and then paid her back, adding the cost to her monthly check. Lettie always made sure to show them the receipts. Only Melissa waved the long pieces of paper away. I trust you, Leticia!

  Lettie knew she should not be trusted. She mourned the good Lettie that Melissa believed in but she and Andres were in danger.

  As the court date neared, she inched dangerously close to Blanca Flor’s legendary thieves. She bought brand-new furniture on credit (thanks to Melissa, who cosigned on a Sears card), then sold the furniture on her beloved Craigslist. When she cleaned the grand houses north of Montana Avenue, she found change under the sofa cushions, behind a child’s desk, even tossed in the garbage pail, and slipped the coins into her pocket. What did it matter to these people who had jars and bowls overflowing with change as if any bill smaller than a twenty was too much of a bother?

  She was proud of her projects (she was an entrepreneur, yes?—a fancy word she heard the wealthy Santa Monicans use often). She was also ashamed. Some days, she was sure she’d be willing to sell her body; maybe even her soul had El Diablo himself knocked on her front door.

  Tuesday, October 16, 2018

  9

  Mel

  “SLOANIE, YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE FOR SOCCER!”

  Adam’s voice carried through the second floor of the Goldberg house as Mel, holding an armful of clean sheets, reached the top of the stairs, her sore thighs burning (damn that stupid exercise party). Adam was at the end of the hall, rapping intently on the door of Sloane’s bathroom, clad in his thick black gi. Mel’s bitterness surged at the sight of the uniform; how could she be sure he actually went to the jiu-jitsu class he claimed to attend on afternoons he wasn’t needed on a set, or at a meeting, or in an editing room, or however the hell he spent his days?

  How could she know he wasn’t banging a hot young actress instead of pinning sweaty guys to the mat?

  She thought of the texts and felt sick.

  Sloane yelled back, “Privacy, dude! I’m constipated!”

  Mel almost laughed. Instead, she called down the hall to Adam, “Give her time.”

  “Oh, hey, hon.” Adam looked away from the door and smiled. “I didn’t see you there.” He tipped his head toward the bathroom. “Maybe we should still be giving her MiraLAX?”

  “I heard that!” yelled Sloane.

  “I thought you blamed her diet,” said Mel to Adam, walking away from him toward the guest room at the far end of the hall.

  She dropped the bedding on the chair in the guest room and stood still for a minute, catching her breath. She’d been racing around as she did every Tuesday afternoon, up and down the stairs, transporting piles of crap—clothes, books, and toys—to stash deep in the closets so Lettie wouldn’t have to bother with them when she came to clean tomorrow. Mel thought the ritual—pre-cleaning before Lettie came to clean-clean—might burn off some of her rage, help her ignore Adam and Sloane who, it seemed, were taking their sweet time leaving for soccer practice and “jiu-jitsu class.”

  But instead, the pre-cleaning (okay, rearranging) was making Mel feel more worked up than ever.

  Every one of Adam’s belongings had taken on an ominous glow since she’d discovered those repulsive texts, and as her arms filled with her cheating husband’s things, she had the wild urge to stuff all of it down the kitchen sink and flip the switch to the InSinkErator, the restaurant-grade garbage disposal Adam had been so excited about when they’d first moved in. She imagined the sound of the grinder shredding Adam’s silly patterned socks (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, really?), devouring the cotton man-scarf he wrapped around his muscled neck in the mild West Coast winters, the Viagra he ordered online, those pastel V-neck tees he wore now that he’d had his chest hair lasered. All solid proof he was showing off for someone, Mel thought. Maybe that new production assistant with the frayed jean shorts and tattooed mandala peeking out from between her high breasts. Miss PA had risen to the top of the list Mel had been compiling and then revising nonstop since she’d found those texts on Adam’s phone. It was easy to imagine that skanky little bitch’s perpetually glossed lips sliding down Adam’s . . . No! Mel stopped herself.

  In just a few days, Mel’s entire view of her marriage had upended. All of Adam’s goodness, his perfect-husband-and-father act, seemed a front for the double life he was apparently living. How many clues had she missed since he’d transformed from Brooklyn peon to LA mogul? How many late nights had he claimed to be working, or wining and dining some movie star or power-agent at the Sunset Room or Soho House, seducing them into his next movie?

  How, Mel asked herself, as she scrolled over the vulgar texts again and again, had she been so naïve as to believe he was different than other men? That precious Adam was somehow immune to the temptations delivered by power and prestige? Hadn’t he told her, more than once, that women were better than men? She had actually believed him. He was that good.

  What sort of la-la land version of her life had she been inhabiting all these years, as her husband became hotter and richer, and Mel fatter and further removed from her past accomplishments, maintaining the delusion that Adam would never cheat? She’d allowed herself to drift toward obsolescence, while Adam’s star kept rising, fast and bright, his net worth and pec muscles continually g
rowing. Duh, of course he could now have his pick of hot, eager mistresses.

  In the past three days, she’d imagined a romance novel’s worth of sex scenes involving Adam and every single woman in his life. Even those on the periphery. Like the freshly divorced mom who’d moved in a few doors down and who Mel had caught flirting with Adam out on the sidewalk, leaning over to stroke Sloane’s red-brown curls, the neck of the neighbor’s loose tank top revealing A-plus fake boobs. Had Adam stared? Mel had been unsure. She was now unsure of everything, and hated herself for ever thinking otherwise. What a fool she’d been. She’d never be that gullible again. The first thing she did each morning was reach for her phone. Force herself to look at the proof of Adam’s philandering, a screenshot of those texts stored in her Google Photos.

  To make her loss even more cruel, Mel was losing her husband to someone who used UR twice in the same text thread. Someone probably born in the nineties, she thought. How many gorgeous twentysomethings had traipsed in and out of Adam’s office that past year—interns and PAs and script-readers, the office manager who looked just like Jennifer Lawrence, whom Adam had claimed was a lesbian. They came fresh out of midwestern colleges, or from godforsaken places like Kissimmee and Toledo, smiles sparkling, though Mel knew lavalike ambition flowed beneath their wholesome American sweetness.

  Mel had spent every morning since she’d found the texts crying her face puffy in the shower after Adam and Sloane had left for work and school. There wasn’t enough eye gel in all of Santa Monica’s bathroom cabinets to erase the swollen bags under her eyes.

  Today, Mel had no time for a tear-filled pity party. She wanted the house to be extra ready for Lettie, who’d been complaining of pain in her heels, and who, despite Mel’s urging, refused to go to the doctor. Plus, Mel was feeling extra guilty about having Lettie clean tomorrow. Early that morning, Lettie had texted, asking if she could clean Saturday instead of her usual Wednesday.

  Something come up. Is ok if I clean Saturday?

  The text had nearly retriggered Mel’s tears. She’d been looking forward to having Lettie clean, needed her to scrub away the scent of Adam, especially the fuggy scent of his jiu-jitsu gi.

  Mel had texted Lettie back with the extra-sad emoji face, the one with tears streaming down the emoji’s fat yellow cheeks. Hoping Lettie got her not-so-subtle hint.

  Oh no! I was REALLY looking forward to it. And we are having guests over both days this weekend.

  This was, of course, a lie. Mel hated herself for telling it, but she hated the thought of not seeing Lettie even more.

  She sent Lettie one more text. This time, going all out, including the prayer hands emoji, a kissing-face emoji, plus that cute angel-face emoji, all the while trying not to think of those emojis she’d seen on Adam’s phone.

  So sorry to be pushy but I REALLY hope you can make it tomorrow!

  Usually, Lettie texted back right away. This time, twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

  The unease had morphed into a smothering dread that had Mel wanting to lock herself in her bedroom, toss back two Ambien, and call it a day. Then Lettie had texted.

  Ok. I be there tomorrow. Just had to move a few appointments.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you! Mel had texted back. You are a lifesaver. What would I do without you?! She made a mental note to give Lettie an extra twenty dollars to make up for the scheduling change. It was the least she could do. Who knew how difficult the life of an undocumented Mexican single mother was these days?

  “Boo-boo!” Mel heard Adam call to Sloane again. “The clock’s a-ticking! Daddy’s going to miss his class.”

  “God forbid,” Mel mumbled to herself as she headed back down the hallway toward the stairs.

  “It’s my body!” Sloane yelled to Adam, a line Mel knew her daughter had learned at the doctor’s office last year. “And right now, my body is pooping!”

  “Stop hovering,” Mel said to Adam. “And why are you talking about yourself in the third person? You know who you sound like.” Certain he’d think instantly of the Big Cheeto—they joked often about Trump’s habit.

  There it was—the look of surprised hurt she’d hoped her jab would accomplish. Serves him right.

  “Um, I’m sorry,” Adam began. “But why are you—”

  Mel cut him off. “Not right now. I’m prepping for Lettie.”

  “Why are you so worked up about the cleaning situation? You’re beet-red, honey. And sweating. Go take a walk. It’s gorgeous outside.”

  “It’s always gorgeous out,” snapped Mel, thinking, It’s not the cleaning situation, you asshole. It’s your slut-screwing situation.

  “I just want you to take care of yourself.”

  Just. She nearly snorted at the ludicrous suggestion that her care was all he wanted.

  “You know I hate it when you say that.”

  Adam shrugged. “What did the doctor tell you at your last visit?”

  She felt the momentum in her anger, like a train barreling forward.

  But then—no. She gripped the banister tightly, forcing herself to hold back. Let him wonder.

  She’d resolved to wait to confront Adam about the texts on date night / couples’ therapy night, when Sloane would be off at a sleepover and Mel would have the soothing presence of Janet, there in the room for what would certainly be the worst conversation of Mel’s life. In the meantime, she’d have a full three weeks of bottled rage to contain, as she and Adam had cut down to a monthly “maintenance” (ha!) session. They’d begun making an evening of it—the six P.M. appointment at Janet’s home office, followed by Paprika, the vegan restaurant Adam insisted on going to even though he knew Mel loathed the cauliflower-heavy cuisine.

  “Why are you so sweaty, Mom?”

  Sloane emerged from the bathroom and stood next to Adam, crossing her arms across the chest of her white-and-black tracksuit in silent judgment. A matching headband was tugged over her bowl cut. “Like extra sweaty.”

  Mel heard the silent ew in her daughter’s voice.

  Ten going on forty! Mel joked to mom-acquaintances.

  She felt the sweat—dampening the crotch of her thin black palazzo pants, trickling down her back, the side of her face, caught in the clutch of her weighty breasts, and thought suddenly of Pokémon. How, at the height of Sloane’s obsession with the never-ending Japanese franchise, she’d begun calling Mel and Adam by the names of Pokémon characters. Mel had been assigned Jigglypuff, a round, pink blob of a creature. Adam got to be Xerneas, a majestic elk-like thing with antlers, while Sloane herself was Zigzagoon, a fur ball with a sweet raccoon face.

  Fucking Jigglypuff, thought Mel. She’d laughed when Sloane had announced the name—they’d all laughed, but it had hurt.

  “I’m sweaty,” said Mel, hearing the tightness in her own voice, “because I’m doing some cleaning. And this is a big house.” She took one step down the stairs, feeling her extra weight shimmy and roll around her.

  “We do actually pay Lettie to clean,” said Adam. “A lot.”

  “Yeah, Mom,” Sloane said, her head cocked in confusion, “if maids are supposed to clean, like, why are you cleaning?”

  Mel bolted back to the landing and strode toward her daughter. “Don’t ever—ever—call Leticia a maid, Sloane Ruby Goldberg!”

  Sloane flinched.

  “Lower your voice,” hissed Adam.

  “But look at what you’re teaching her!”

  “Are you in a mood, Mom?” asked Sloane.

  “What?” said Mel. “No! I’m just trying to get things done!”

  Adam gave an exaggerated sigh. “Maybe Mommy should rest first,” he said, hardening his eyes on Mel. “Does she need a nap? Or maybe some medicine?”

  The words hit Mel like a slap, and she blinked to hold back tears of disbelief. Just last week, he’d promised he’d never say those words again, after she’d wept while explaining to him how demeaning it was to be dismissed like that. Especially in front of Sloane. Nap time, Mommy! Medicine
time, Mommy! Meaning, Go to your room, Mel. Smoke some pot. Get lost.

  Oh, no, Mel thought, he wasn’t going to break her. Not today.

  She summoned the biggest artificial smile she could muster.

  “Actually,” she said to Adam and Sloane brightly. “I’m signed up for a class. An exercise class.”

  The lie had left her lips without a thought.

  “Really?” Adam asked, not trying to hide his surprise.

  “For real?” Sloane’s head peered out from under Adam’s elbow.

  “Yep!” Mel tried to imitate the endless chirpy positivity she heard from the Santa Monica moms. “And I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to make it to class on time. You know how Regina is—she’s meeting me and probably expecting me to be late.”

  Now she was telling lies on top of lies, adding Regina into the mix.

  “’Cause you are kinda always late,” Sloane said quietly. Mel pretended not to hear.

  “Wow, Mel, I’m so proud of you,” Adam said. As if she was a feeble child, Mel thought. But she kept smiling.

  “Way to go, Mom!” Sloane ducked under Adam’s arm, raising her hand for a high five.

  “Go get your cleats on and meet me in the garage,” said Adam to Sloane. “Two minutes.”

  “Why?” Sloane arched a brow. “Because you and Mommy need to have a private talk? Are you getting a divorce?”

  “No!” said Adam and Mel together.

  “Sloane. Go.” Adam pointed to the stairs.

  Mel grabbed her daughter and planted a kiss on her cheek, letting her lips linger. “I miss you already, my super soccer star. And you haven’t even left yet.”

  “Alrighty then,” said Sloane, detangling herself and bounding for the stairs.

  “Sweetheart,” Adam said to Mel when Sloane was out of earshot. “We can’t keep going like this.”

  “That’s for sure,” Mel mumbled.