“No,” comes out hard and fast because Cruella is her codename for her evil boss, and I know a trap when I hear one.
“I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“Whatever it is––the answer is no.”
“Twisted sisters,” she says forcefully if not a little desperately.
And shit.
Jess and I have been friends since the day her family moved to the San Fernando Valley and into the apartment next door to the one I shared with my dad. I was an only child hungry for someone to bond with, and Jess was one in practice since her older brother Robert had enlisted in the Marines.
We quickly bonded over our general grievances of our parents––my singular one parent being largely absent and her still-married parents being overbearing. That and our mutual love of adventure.
We made a pact all those years ago to look out for one another. This pact included a safe word: twisted sisters. Were it ever invoked, the other person would have to agree to the request, no questions asked. The one stipulation was that it had to be something important––a life-changing event.
“You’re calling it?” I ask, forced to double check my disbelieving ears.
“I’m calling it.” She glances up into the scorching sun, face pinched, and pulls her shades back down over her eyes. “Can we do this inside? My recently-lasered skin is hating me right now.”
Granting mercy, I head for the farmhouse. “Follow me in the car,” I tell her.
The black pencil skirt she’s wearing won’t allow for more than an inchworm step. It would take her twenty minutes to cover the hundred feet from the paddock to the farmhouse, and I’m anxious to get this over with.
The main house is everything you’d expect a hundred-year-old California farmhouse to look like. The ivory-painted concrete exterior is marred with chips and cracks. The red, clay-tiled roof has a number of busted and missing tiles, and the oak, wraparound porch has seen better days. There’s a lot of wear and tear, but there’s also plenty of charm. When I moved in three years ago, it was falling apart. Some elbow grease and a lot of help from a talented local handyman has transformed it into something special. A place I’m lucky to call home.
On the porch, I kick off my muck boots and push the screen door open. Headed straight to the kitchen, I motion for Jess to follow. One of the largest rooms in the house, it was built big enough to feed all the men working the ranch over the years. Close to fifty at one point. Now it only feeds two.
I hand Jess a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator and pull out the pitcher of lemonade for myself.
“How’s Irma?” I ask.
For years, her parents served as my de facto adopted ones, acting more parental than my own at times. With my dad working long hours and late nights as an LAPD detective, I spent many a nights eating and sleeping over at the Martinez house. I could go weeks without seeing my dad for more than an hour or two a day.
“Good,” she says nonchalantly while an elephant runs rampant in the room.
“Your dad?”
Shrugging, she looks away and back. A year and a half ago, Juan had a massive heart attack, and although she’d never admit it, not even to me, I know she’s been worried about him ever since.
Jess has always had a tough shell, an innate ability to let everything roll off her back without allowing it to leave a lasting impression, so this comes as no surprise. But after working in Hollywood for years, that shell had transformed into an impenetrable armor, and I’m fairly certain it’s not a good thing.
“She’s got him on a low carb, low fat, no salt, no sugar diet and it’s making him bitchy as fuck.”
“That’s tough,” I say, wincing in solidarity.
“Hold the sympathy.” She takes a long drag of her soda. “She found a burrito in a brown paper bag taped to the back of the toilet bowl tank the other day.” Pausing, she looks me over, scrutinizing my face. “My mother keeps asking when your bony white ass is coming over for dinner.”
We’ve officially hit the third rail of the conversation. There’s no easy answer to that. The incident, as I like to call it, changed everything.
While on my way home from working a late shift four years ago, I was assaulted in the parking lot of our old building. Thankfully, my dad has now moved into a new place down the street. But the Martinezes still live there, just off Victory Blvd in Van Nuys.
Sympathy fills Jess’ brown eyes. “Never mind. I know what you’re going to say.”
That I can’t. That I’m too busy when it’s only partly true. Rationally, I know the man who attacked me can’t ever hurt me again, but the experience changed me forever. Fear can’t be reasoned with. It’s got its own set of rules, and rule number one is you either conquer it or submit to its crippling power. It’s taken me four years to accept that I’ll never be the same again.
“Are you seeing a therapist?”
I was seeing a therapist when I was living in L.A. But after a while, rehashing the past didn’t feel productive anymore. It was time to move on and move forward. Starting over somewhere new, without all those memories, felt good instead of constantly talking about what had been.
“Too busy right now.”
The concern on her face makes me uncomfortable. Like I’m failing somehow.
“You’re gonna have to face those demons sooner or later.”
I’m not entirely sure that’s true. First, they’ve gotten way smaller and more manageable. And second, I’m very comfortable with where they are right now––out of the way, nicely tucked in the back of my mind where I tend to them as assiduously as I do the animals in my care but otherwise don’t have to deal with them.
“Thanks, Dr. Drew. I’ll work on it.”
Besides, what’s wrong with ignoring your issues? Is there a rule that says issues need to be dealt with at all? Do they have rights? Is the ACLU calling for issues’ representation? Until then, like the saying goes, keep your friends close and your issues closer, or something like that.
“Hi, y’all,” comes from down the hall. Mona waltzes into the kitchen, followed closely by a man who could be Sam Elliot’s ugly cousin.
How to describe Mona Harris…
Mona’s a plus-sized, fifties pin-up girl with black hair and bright blue eyes, fond of tight-fitting shirts and jeans and dirty jokes. She’s somewhere around her late sixties. I’m guesstimating because who the heck knows. There’s no way Mona would ever admit her true age. She’s even blacked out the year on all her IDs with a Sharpie marker.
“This is Darby,” she says, motioning to the silver-ponytailed man making rude eyes at her body.
None of us miss the fact that Mona looks worked over, her hair sticking up in all the wrong places. She’d either run through a car wash or spent the morning riding Darby. My money’s on Darby. He’s got the glassy look in his eyes to prove it.
Mona’s bright blue gaze shifts between me and Jess. “What are y’all up to today?”
A point of clarification: Mona was born and raised in Southern California. There’s absolutely no reason for her to speak with a southern accent yet that obvious fact does not seem to stop her. She falls somewhere between Blanche Devereaux and Rose Nyland on The Golden Girls scale. Weird fake accent and shenanigans aside, she’s one of the kindest, most generous people I’ve ever met. The minute I sat down on her beat-up leather couch for my interview, I knew immediately that I wanted to work for her.