Seeing Me Naked

  “Yes, Chef,” Julie spits out. Samuel rounds the corner with an armful of ingredients.

  “Now go throw those leftover pears away,” I say.

  I drive home that night after stopping at the twenty-four-hour grocery store for the supplies I’ll need for the desserts I’m bringing to Thanksgiving. I’m doing the usual apple and pumpkin pies. I’ll also bring a bread pudding from the restaurant: Dad’s favorite. I drop my keys in the designated bowl and head into the kitchen, overloaded with grocery bags. My apartment stayed clean while I was at Daniel’s. I’m actually happy to be home for a while. I got a parking ticket every night I spent at his place, and I’m pretty sure I have some horrible creepy-crawly fungus from his slaughterhouse hallway. But I also sleep on the left side of the bed and wear his Kansas T-shirt as pajamas. It’s so easy to get used to someone. Dangerous, I suppose. I pick up the mail that’s strewn on the floor, where it’s been pushed through the mail slot.

  I’m dead tired. Daniel has been gone for a full week at the Maui Invitational. Somehow his trip to a basketball tournament in Maui doesn’t quite pack the same punch as Will’s dodging bullets in Iraq and/or Lebanon. He’s due back late tomorrow night. He says he’ll come over to my apartment after he gets settled. I’ll leave the key under the mat. He’ll be waiting for me. I’ll get to come home to someone tomorrow night. We’ll have a few hours together before I drive up to Montecito. Then I’m off to New York, and he’ll fly to Oakland for another exhibition tournament.

  My BlackBerry rings from the key bowl. Apparently the key bowl is multitasking. I walk over to the phone. A late-night phone call: now one of three people.

  “Hello?” I head back into the kitchen.

  “I Googled Daniel Sullivan,” Rascal announces.

  I tuck the phone into the crook of my neck. “And what, the entire country of Ireland came up?” I say. I find the large envelope that was messengered over by Paul, containing all the travel documents for New York. Now that we’re into the production phase of the show, I am dealing with Paul only. Donna’s expertise is development.

  “Yeah, just about,” Rascal says.

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning,” I say.

  “I’m hiding in the guest cottage. When are you getting here?” he asks.

  “Sunday morning. Early. I got the tickets for the New York trip. Paul hired a car to pick us up at six in the morning,” I say.

  “So you’ll just spend the night at my place?” Rascal asks.

  “It’s going to be a hassle, but it should work. What did you find on Daniel?” I ask.

  “Well, he coaches for UCLA, right?”

  “Wow, you remembered,” I say.

  “I am a writer. I get paid to remember things,” he says, dripping with sarcasm.

  “I thought you got paid for being a Page,” I taunt.

  “Ba-dum-bum,” Rascal parries.

  I laugh. “I had to.”

  “Your little Daniel blew out his knee right after he was recruited by the Chicago Bulls from the Jayhawks. He started coaching about two years later at some Podunk high school in Kansas and then on to the city college,” Rascal says. I knew about the knee injury, but not what it cost him. He did say it was a career ender—I just figured it was his college career, not his professional basketball career. I’m not the only one with secrets.

  “Ummm, I’ve gotta go,” Rascal says quickly.

  “Oh, okay,” I say.

  “Dinah’s on the other line. We’re working on the adaptation,” Rascal says.

  “Is someone in the kitchen with Dinah?” I tease.

  “Stop. That fucking song haunts me. I’ll see you Sunday when you get here,” Rascal says, quickly signing off. I beep the BlackBerry off and ready the house for tomorrow night, when Daniel gets back from Hawaii. I can’t wait to see him. I also can’t, or won’t, deal with how much I’ve missed him. My chest tightens as I search my brain for something else to think about. Something less terrifying. My mind drifts to Rascal. I wonder why he’s working on his adaptation at two o’clock in the morning. A little late for anyone to be in the kitchen with Dinah, if you ask me.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Will called for you,” Daniel says as soon as I walk in the door of my apartment. I’m holding a bottle of wine and leftovers from the restaurant. I haven’t seen Daniel in over a week, and these are the first words out of his mouth? There’s a definite edge to his voice. My entire body deflates.

  I’m not ready for this conversation. I know where my heart is. It’s with Daniel. I also know that I can’t completely erase Will from my life. He’s gone from all the important parts of my heart, but those faded images replaying in the pantheon still haunt me. He’s like the Where’s Waldo? of my life—he’s in every picture, you just have to look for him. Being with Will defined my whole life, and that’s not— Wait, that’s it.

  “He got to me, you know. He spelled his name for me, real slow. Like I wouldn’t know how to spell ‘Will.’ I’m not stupid. And this . . . I’m sick of not knowing shit about you.”

  I think that’s the first time I’ve heard Daniel cuss. Am I a bad influence? But then I think about the Chicago Bulls and those two years. I look up. I can’t lie anymore. Omission is lying. “He was my . . . my everything. Was,” I whisper. Honesty. Trust. New frontiers. Cliffs. Plummeting. Forgetting. Leaving. Grab the words, stuff them back in. Grab ’em before they get to Daniel. My arms are at my sides; I’m still holding the wine and leftovers. Did I think they could stop the chickens from coming home to roost? How clueless and oblivious am I?

  “Oh?” Daniel asks, walking over to me, pushing the front door closed. He stands over me—so big. Most of the time I forget how big he is.

  “I don’t want to sound— I feel stupid,” I say.

  “Why?” Daniel says, taking the wine and leftovers and setting them on the floor next to the couch.

  “I think I didn’t know how fucked up it was with Will until I met you,” I say, rubbing my face.

  “Really?” Daniel’s voice is lighter.

  “I had gotten so used to it—I didn’t even see it. Will would travel for months and years at a time following these stories. At first I thought it must be hard for him to leave me, because it hurts not to be around the ones you love. Then a couple months ago, I realized he didn’t love me at all. Not the . . . not this kind of . . .” I’m unable to finish the sentence. I dodge the left-out word and continue, “I do care for Will. I want him to be happy. But I realize now that you alter your life to be around the person you really . . .” I trail off once again, still unable to say the word. I think for a moment. How deeply do I want to get into this? Fuck. It.

  “Elisabeth?” Daniel asks.

  “It’s not just Will,” I say.

  Daniel looks like he’s afraid I’m about to recite a laundry list of lovers he can look forward to meeting at breakfast cafés all across the L.A. basin. “It’s not?” His voice wavers.

  “Will was just copying my brother, who was copying my dad. I pretty much thought that’s what love looked like: Don’t get too attached. Be indifferent. And be ready for them to leave if something more compelling comes up,” I say, tears burning my throat.

  “Your dad?” Daniel asks.

  “Yeah.” Daniel is quiet. I continue, “Ben Page is my dad.” I’ve been dancing around this information for over two months.

  “I know who your dad is,” Daniel says quietly.

  “You do?” I ask, honestly caught off guard.

  “My dad has every one of his books. He was in Vietnam, too—said your dad really nailed it,” Daniel offers.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” I ask.

  “Because it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter,” he says without missing a beat.

  “Right, right,” I say, letting out the first sneaking tears.

  “I understand. I really do. I thought the same . . . I thought I knew what was important.” Daniel stops. Our words are coming fast. Obviously, both
of us are anxious to let our cats out of the bag.

  “And?” I ask.

  “Ever since I could walk, I had a basketball in my hand. There was a basketball in every picture of me. All-state. Scholarships. I got drafted to the Chicago Bulls right out of college—I never told you that. Thirty-ninth-round draft pick. That’s pretty good, by the way,” Daniel adds with the trace of a smile. I step closer to him. He rubs his jaw and looks off in the distance. I want to reach out to him, but I don’t want to pressure him or make him uncomfortable. I keep my hands at my sides. “I was going up for this rebound. Stupid, really. It was a scrimmage, not even a game, and it was the weirdest feeling. It was more of a sound—just this pop. It didn’t even hurt right away, and nothing in the rebound made me think it was as bad as it was. I mean, I’d landed on much worse.” Daniel runs his hands through his hair and sits on the couch.

  I sit next to him and put my hand on his leg. “You don’t have to,” I offer.

  “No, it’s good. I sat on the bench for the rest of the season in my suit and tie. In the beginning, the rest of the team tolerated me—kept me in the loop. I mean, I thought these guys were my family. It was everything I’d ever wanted. When the news came down that the injury was a career-ender . . .” Daniel pauses and lets out a small laugh. “They didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, bending toward him to make eye contact. I need him to look at me. Daniel takes my hand, squeezes it tight, and swipes at his eyes. He takes in a deep breath, collecting himself.

  “I went home, and my parents—I’d kind of left them behind while I was in Chicago—well, they . . . My mom drove me to every physical therapy session. Dad installed all these ramps all over the house.” Daniel laughs, sniffling a bit. He wipes at his eyes again, taking an even deeper breath; it’s obviously getting harder and harder for him to collect himself. The tears are clogging in my own throat. Daniel looks directly at me, his eyes moist. “I found out the hard way what was important—what is important.”

  I’m silent. My whole body is leaning in to him. I’ve never said “I love you” to anyone outside of my family; and we usually say it with a smirk or an eye roll. “So banal,” we quip. I don’t think I know what love is. Not in that Foreigner, huge-eighties-hair-band kind of way. I mean the amazing scope of it. How one word can define everything from the absolute love I have for Mom and the caramel/molasses look she gives Rascal and me, threading through my soldier-like loyalty to my brother and on to the more complicated love I have for Dad, all the way to this. Where I am right now.

  “I love you.” I barely whisper it. Daniel looks at me. He’s wearing that smirk. Is this funny? Is it cheesy and all after-school-special-like? A Lesson in Love for Sally Anne, probably starring some now-aging Beverly Hills 90210 alum. Oh, shit. Well, goddamn. How are you supposed to tell someone that and really mean it without sounding absolutely ridiculous? I feel like I want to ooze away in this self-made puddle of cheese.

  “I love you,” Daniel says. I like how he doesn’t say “too.” His smile is broadening, and a giggle is erupting just under the surface.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I know how much you hated to say that. And not because you didn’t mean it or anything. I know you mean it.” Daniel gently kisses me. “But the pained look you had on your face was priceless.” He almost can’t contain himself.

  “Well, I try,” I say, breathing easier.

  “Yes, you do,” he concedes.

  “Thanks for telling me that stuff,” I say, looking directly at him.

  “Thanks for letting me,” he says.

  I wake up the next morning bright and early. Daniel is on his side of the bed, fast asleep. It’s nearly impossible to get up. I should be able to be in Montecito by ten and then drive right back tonight with Rascal. I’ll spend the night at his place so we can meet the car that’ll take us to the airport in the morning. Daniel’s hair is sticking up everywhere, and the blankets are around his ass. I’ve got quite the good view from where I’m standing. I lean over and give him a gentle kiss on the forehead. He smiles and sinks back into the bed.

  “Happy belated Thanksgiving,” I whisper.

  “Drive safe, fly safe, and call me when you get there,” Daniel says, his mouth full of pillow.

  “I will. Have fun in Oakland,” I say.

  “I will. And why don’t you take a picture, it lasts longer,” he says, pulling the blankets tight over his shoulders.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Can you pass the rolls?” I ask Rascal. The table is smaller than it’s ever been. No added leaves to accommodate the many guests we usually entertain. Just the four of us. Iris and Robert took the week off. The Pages. Giving thanks.

  “They’re one inch from your hand,” he answers.

  “It’s impolite to reach,” Mom corrects.

  “See? It’s impolite to reach,” I chide.

  “Jesus H. Christ, will someone just pass the girl the goddamn rolls?” Dad asks. Rascal pushes the basket of rolls over to me with great effort.

  “Why, thank you, sir,” I say, placing the tongs back in the basket after serving myself.

  We’ve been eating Thanksgiving dinner for over an hour now. Rascal and I spent most of the afternoon in the guest cottage, just staying out of the way, passing the time as we usually do: arguing, laughing, playing Scrabble, and drinking good wine. I made a point of telling Rascal that being in the kitchen with Dinah at two o’clock in the morning brought a far more lascivious angle to the song. He assured me it was just business. I asked how large her lollipop head was. He revealed that she was not the proud owner of the requisite lollipop head. I nearly fainted.

  I have to admit that being here without Will feels a bit unsafe. He has always been my sanctuary during these tense family gatherings. Someone to look to when it all seemed insurmountably crazy. I’ve found myself relying more and more on Rascal this Thanksgiving. I’m sure he’s already annoyed by the role.

  “Are we all on board for the Children of the Homeless fund-raiser in December at the Mayers’?” Mom announces. We all drone that we are, as usual, on board for yet another charity event.

  “I’ll e-mail you the details,” Mom says. This means she would like us to e-mail back what it is we’re donating. “So, when do you two leave for New York?”

  “Tomorrow,” I announce.

  “What’s in New York?” Dad asks.

  “Empire State Building,” Rascal answers.

  “Carnegie Hall,” I add, digging into the mashed potatoes. Dad lets out a long sigh. So, who’s going first? I ask myself. Rascal and the adaptation that’s going far better than we ever thought possible, or the fact that I’m not just going Hollywood. I’m doing television.

  “More wine?” Mom asks Dad. Nice dodge, Ballard. Nice.

  “Sure, sweetie. Thanks,” Dad answers. “So, what’s in New York?” he asks again. Why don’t we just offer him some Ambien? Maybe a crack over the head that’ll render him not only unconscious but with a touch of amnesia. Rascal is quiet. No Will to look to. Mom has done what she could for us.

  It’s all me.

  “I got an offer to do a pilot for my own television show, Dad. I’m going to New York to meet with the executives.” I choke out the words that are undoubtedly going to be my last.

  “You’re doing television?” Dad echoes, shaking his head slightly.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “What kind of television show?” Dad asks. No question is just a question with Dad. Every conversation is a chess game, and he’s always ten moves ahead.

  “It’d be on the Food Network. Me in and around L.A.,” I recite. Rascal sips his wine. Mom watches Dad. It’s not computing. It’s more horrible than he ever could have imagined.

  “You’re leaving the restaurant, then, I assume,” Dad clarifies.

  “If the meetings in New York work out, yes,” I answer, feeling like I’m on the stand defending my life.

  “So, no J
ames Beard Award,” Dad points out.

  “They have a cookbook category, so there’s still hope,” I answer.

  “Five-year plan?” Dad asks.

  “Was actually the eleven-year plan and was in need of an overhaul,” I answer.

  “Television,” Dad ruminates.

  “Yep,” I answer.

  “What the fuck happened?” His voice is quiet.

  “These people came into the restaurant—” I begin.

  Dad cuts me off. “No, I mean what the fuck happened? How did this happen?” he asks no one in particular. The entire table is quiet. “Answer me, Elisabeth.” Dad’s eyes bore into me.

  “What do you want me to say, Pop? Anything I say at this point will just piss you off more,” I say, finding words I didn’t know still lived in my throat.

  “You’re right about that,” Dad says, slamming his fork down.

  “I’ve made my decision,” I say, the words barely crawling out of my mouth.

  “What? To be a fucking sellout?” Dad says, flashing that smile.

  “Yes, Dad, to be a fucking sellout.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass,” Dad warns.

  “Okay, I’ll be a dumb-ass,” I respond. Dad bends forward over his plate. I sit still.

  “Ben, I think it’s a great opportunity,” Mom offers.

  He turns to her, and it clearly takes everything he has to eke out a smile for her. He’s never yelled at Mom. “Sweetie, please don’t. Our kids . . . what the fuck happened to our kids?” Dad says to her.

  “I think they turned out rather great,” Mom says, giving me and Rascal that caramel look of hers. Unconditional. Rascal and I shrink down in our chairs.

  “For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good decision, too,” Rascal adds.

  Dad zeroes in on him. “Of course you would,” he says, sarcasm dripping.