Sarah’s Departure

Sarah is leaving. We noticed the UHaul parked in the driveway when we got back from Mexico. I was startled, but didn’t take the time to formulate any thoughts about it. Nina said, “Maybe they’re moving.” That didn’t seem right. The UHaul was small. She and Carlos couldn’t fit everything into that. And the house hadn’t been for sale. And besides, where would they go in the middle of a pandemic?

Returning from my walk, I saw a guy half-hidden behind the open back door of the UHaul. I thought it might be Sarah’s husband Carlos, so I approached. The guy wasn’t Carlos. It was a stout, bald, 30-something mover, lugging stuff to the maw of the truck.

At the back of the garage, in the corner, I glimpsed Sarah. I called, “Hi Sarah.” She didn’t move. Her head was down, as if she was going over a list placed atop a box. Unsure now, I hesitated, then said again, “Hey, Sarah!” Again she made no move. There was no sense she’d heard me. But, I was pretty sure she had.

Neighbors sitting on their front porch across the street spotted me and called, “Hi, Janey!” I returned their greeting. Now I was certain Sarah knew I was there. I wasn’t sure if I should retreat, or even how, quite. I tried one more time, “Hey Sarah!”

This time, she raised her head and came out, and I knew from her slightly pinched face that she’d been hoping I’d go away. She looked quizzically at me. I said, “It’s Janey; maybe you don’t recognize me with all this gear on!” I laughed, indicating my face mask, sunglasses, and baseball cap.

“No. I recognize you,” she said. She stopped just outside the open garage door and stepped to the side, keeping the requisite six feet between us. She blurted, “I’m moving back to L.A. I meant to send the neighbors an email… I just can’t stay. We’re not getting along. I need some space. I’ve been crying non-stop. Carlos refuses to go to couples counseling.” Her voice was high and pressured.

I said, “Oh, Sarah! I get it, I know. Don’t worry. We all know how hard relationships are. I had the same thing with B. I told him I’d stay if he’d at least look into his mental health issues, but he just wouldn’t. I would have stayed 110% if he had.”

Sarah laughed ruefully. “Yeah. These Latin men.”

I continued, “And you don’t need to write everyone. Only do that if and when you want to. I’m sorry. I know this is hard.”

She said, “Carlos is really upset. Take care of him for me, okay? Check in on him?”

I said I would, and remembered all of the other times she’s asked me to check in on Carlos, take care of Carlos. The time she went to Europe for six weeks a couple of years ago, the first time she left him four or five years ago, the time she was gone for Christmas. That was just last year.

Carlos had been sick with a bad flu, and he was all alone over there. I made chicken soup for him on Christmas morning. My daughter Nina helped me. It took a while, as it always does. It became the day’s production. We made the broth from the whole chicken and aromatics, then we let the chicken cool and stripped it, removing all the meat from the bones. We put the chicken meat in a bowl and returned the bones to the pot.

We simmered that double broth a good three hours, strained it, and added new aromatics: carrots, celery, parsley, thyme, and garlic. Also, chard, salt, pepper, potatoes. Finally, the soup was ready. Somehow, Carlos managed to hobble to our door to collect it. I told him we’d bring it by, but he texted back he didn’t want us to catch this flu.

He looked awful, teetering on the threshold to my door. Exhausted, pale, splotchy, puffy, and none too clean. He seemed embarrassed by the soup, albeit grateful, which made me feel strange.

B. was jealous, I knew that. “I don’t understand why you have to make him soup,” he said sullenly.

He disliked the idea — or the reality, in this case — of me making a sick male neighbor a pot of chicken soup on Christmas morning. He felt neglected and threatened.

Of course, I ignored it. It was no surprise, though disappointing and tiresome, considering we hadn’t been together romantically for more than 16 years. I felt a little unsure and ashamed too though. Why was I rushing to make Carlos soup when he was sick? Well, why not? I was his neighbor and friend, and who else was going to do it?

Of course, I’d had a crush on Carlos for years, one that had waxed and waned. At first, I was fairly enamored of him. An animator for Pixar, he was larger than life, fiendishly smart, strong, handsome, funny, and oafish. He reminded me of Gerard Depardieu, with whom I’d been smitten. And his heavy European accent (Carlos was Spanish) only deepened that association.

Over time, though, I noticed how much he drank, the many references he and Sarah made to psychedelics when we’d chat in the street or at parties, and also, how it wasn’t actually easy for me to speak with him. Conversation didn’t flow between us. We didn’t quite click. I preferred his company when in the company of others. Then, he was fun and funny, charming, handsome. But one-on-one, we lost our footing with each other. I also, over time, began to recognize the guy was fairly manic.

Leave it to me to be attracted to another bi-polar guy, I thought ruefully. My son Bo said the same thing. I’d delivered the news I’d heard from Sarah.

Bo said, “Now’s your chance, Mom.”

I said, “Very funny. No, he’s a little touched, I’m afraid.”

“What’s touched?” Nina asked.

“Coo-coo, Coo-coo,” I said, imitating a bird popping out of a box.

Bo said, “But you have a history of dating crackpots. He’s perfect for you.”

That’s exactly what I was afraid of.

No, Carlos and I won’t be a thing, I thought. It’s impossible. And it would hurt B. terribly.

Because, of course, we still have B., my children’s father, here as well.

One day, I said, “Guys! I found Yucatecan food in Oakland, and they have outdoor seating, and they’re open. Let’s go for lunch!”

We did, Nina, her father, and myself. B. sat across from me and Nina.

Nina said, “Papi, it’s pretty clear you’re not going back to the corner house. Those people are evil. But, you qualify for low-income housing with your disability pay now. Are you ready to look at some places?”

Her papi, the master of evasion, sidestepped the question.

Nina tried again. “Papi, it’s not fair to Mom that you refuse to discuss this, and the months just keep passing. You’ve lived with us for a year this time!”

“It hasn’t been a year,” B. said weakly.

Nina counted on her hands. “You got sick in September of last year. You lived with us until after Christmas. You went back briefly, and then the pandemic came, and we picked you up on March 14th, and you’ve been here ever since. So, ten months, and then before that, you were here too, from the last time.”

She continued, “Do you realize Mom has no choice in the matter? She can’t get on with her life! It’s a form of manipulation.”

B. began to retract and pale before my very eyes.

“Papi, it’s okay,” I began.

“Mom, he’s not your dad,” said Nina.

“B., everything is okay. We love you. We will stand by you always and forever. Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

Nina doggedly continued, “Papi, you must have thoughts about this. What are they?”

B. said, “I feel sick. I have a headache.”

Nina and I looked at each other. She was exasperated, but also amused. Her eyes danced. I know mine did too. The truth was, we were delighted to have Papi back. B., her father, my ex-partner, had been desperately ill for most of the year. It was his fourth mental breakdown in five years, and the worst yet.

We had arrived at a new realization, the kids and I. We understood now that this was for real and permanent, that B. would never be okay, would always be vulnerable, and need care. And without really discussing it, we’d all committed in our own ways to care for him, always and forever.

At dinner recently, Bo said, “Mom, Papi went to the dentist on his own when you were in Mexico. Remember when he would run out of the room if we even mentioned the dentist? He made the appointment and drove himself there.” He shook his head in amazement. The truth is, we are all happy and relieved, grateful to have B. back. Modified, sure, but back.

For the first time ever, he was taking his Lithium. We’ve never known this version of B. Neither terrifically manic nor catatonic, but something in the middle. He was gentle, tentative, timid, and kind. Quiet, helpful, caring — and fragile.

Suddenly, looking across the table at B. and our daughter, I felt light, and light-hearted. I was happy to be home in Oakland, California, where the dry, dark-green leaves of two giant Sycamores rustled against one another in the fresh breeze sweeping down the street. After the sickeningly hot, wet air of Yucatan, the air felt positively medicinal.

I gazed up at the apartment building above the restaurant. “Mentone Arms” declared the plaque on the building. The paned windows were painted a Mediterranean green, pretty against the weathered brick.

Yes, I was happy, and I had to note this, to be honest with myself. I was no longer annoyed to be caring for B.

Did I even actually want him to leave? Ostensibly, yes, of course I did. But, as said, the gravity of the situation had hit home. B. was really ill, and we wanted nothing me than to keep him safe. He did well with us.

Without us, he went off the rails. He holed himself up in his bedroom at the corner house, the hippy co-op room he rented in Berkeley, and stopped eating.

He was Latin, for Christ’s sake. He needed his family. That’s what his sister said each time she called, He is sola, he is alone, too alone, he needs his family. I spent months trying to get him to Venezuela, but he dug his heels in, terrified to fly, terrified of the situation in Venezuela, and terrified he’d get stuck there and never be able to return.

And, even though the Lithium made him nauseous, he took it, every day. It was a first. I found this valiant. It moved me. Some of my friends thought he was manipulating me. I disagreed.

The truth is, I love B. We all do. But, the thought of caring for him for the remainder of his — and my — life appalls me.

The kids will take him for intervals, I believe. Bo is already looking into buying a duplex so he can bring his father along. We will figure it out. It’s our cross to bear, but we bear it willingly. In fact, if I’m honest, I would say it gives my life purpose. Now that the kids are flying the nest and my dad is gone, what else would I do? Whom would I care for?

“But, what about you?” my friends ask. “Don’t you want a real relationship? It’s not too late.”

It’s true that B. is like a child. I would never have a relationship with him where I could discuss much of anything at all. He is simple and child-like. And the idea of being intimate again? I won’t even entertain it. It scares me to the bone. I don’t want the responsibility it implies. I don’t want to be his everything, though it’s clear I already am. “Mama!” he calls me, every day. “She’s not your mother,” my daughter intones, every day.

One day, the UHaul was gone. Carlos was alone. Sarah was gone, again. I thought of the time my friend Laura came for dinner, and Carlos dropped by for a glass of wine. This was pre-pandemic, of course, when we could gather together, even push each other playfully on the arm. When life was relaxed and less fraught.

I was titillated and crushy. With Laura in our midst, Carlos and I could banter, even flirt. He ran across the street and returned with a box of chocolates. “These are for Sarah!” he said joyfully. “But you can have one. Only one!” I was moved at how he protected Sarah’s chocolates. I remember thinking, “He loves her more than she loves him.” I remember thinking, “Why?”

We’d never been terribly impressed by Sarah. Laura couldn’t stand her. Nina didn’t like her much either. She was beautiful, sure, in that L.A. blonde bombshell kind of way. Cerulean eyes, shapely body, spangled clothes. She was a DJ, sexy, partial to dance parties and other DJs, especially those that skewed younger, and male.

At a party at their house one year, there was a young DJ who led some kind of trance-dance party where people would just merge and coalesce, letting their limbs entangle and skim sensuously within and along the others’. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Sarah all night. It was clear they had a thing going.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He was impossibly young and beatific-looking, a little like you might imagine a particularly sexy Jesus. All along, Carlos hobnobbed among us, massive, almost brutish, with his broad, rounded shoulders and thick torso, his booming voice, his shaggy hair. He was a little like a friendly monster.

I wasn’t sure how long to wait to reach out to Carlos. I remembered the times he’d invited B. over when everyone else was afraid to. He’d done this more than once, reached out when B. was at his worst, at his most terrified, when he was like a deer in a clearing, goggle-eyed, legs splayed, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. My heart melted each time Carlos did this. He’d look searchingly at B. and say, softly, “Hey, man, how you doing?” when all of our other neighbors ignored him. When no one, not even my closest friends and family, bothered to ask how he was doing because they didn’t want to hear the answer.

The day after Sarah’s departure, I texted Carlos. I knew I shouldn’t, I knew it was too soon, but I also thought, what if he’s desperate over there, really wretched? I said, “Hey, Carlos, I’m having a margarita in the driveway tonight, if you want to come by. I can make you one.” He texted back, “Hi Janey. Thank you for the invite, but I am not feeling well today with an upset stomach and called in sick. Hopefully next time.”

For three days, I watched the house. I listened for Carlos’ red car. I began to note where and how it was parked so I could tell if it had been moved. There was no movement at all. No sign of life. I wasn’t even certain he was there. But in these pandemic days, that’s not unusual. No one goes to work anymore. And if you have groceries delivered like I do, you can stay holed up for the duration.

Two more days passed. I wanted to respect Carlos’ pain and privacy. But Sarah’s request rang in my mind. “Check in on him for me, will you?”

When she’d asked this before, I’d been amused, wondering if she was actually trying to foist her husband upon me. She must have seen I liked him. I thought of his kindness with B. I thought of the fact that he was Spanish, European. I thought about how cold North Americans could be, how ridiculously we guard our boundaries, how poor we are at checking in on one another. How tattered the concept of community is here, how dangerous our concept of rugged independence and individuality.

One evening, I steeled myself and went to his door. The last rays of the mid-October sun straggled through the narrow, sword-like leaves of the ancient olive tree in front of Carlos’ house, casting a web of shadows onto the carved wood door.

I took a breath and rang the doorbell. After a few seconds, I heard movement, and the door opened. Carlos swayed in the doorway. His hair stood on end. His face was puffy. His eyes, flat.

“Carlos, I came to check on you. How are you doing?”

“I feel like shit,” he said.

“You don’t look so good either,” I said.

“She’s gone,” he said. “Sarah. She’s gone.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

On top of everything else, of course, we had the pandemic. I couldn’t step forward to hug him, or touch his arm, especially since it had been less than two weeks since we’d returned from Mexico. A pesky mask covered half my face.

Carlos’ eyes were glassy.

“Are you eating?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m okay,” he sighed.

“Can I bring you dinner tonight,” I asked. “No, scratch that, I’m bringing you dinner tonight,” I said.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Carlos. I know this is hard, as hard as it gets. Hang in there.”

He murmured something and kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

That night, I brought Enrique quiche Lorraine and a salad. The next, half a spiced, spatchcocked chicken. He accepted the food with a wan smile and kept conversation to a minimum.

B. was hurt and jealous.

He saw me wrapping half our dinner and delivering it across the street to Carlos.

I said, “He’s been very kind to you, B. You might check on him yourself, you know.”

I knew he wouldn’t.

One night, about three weeks after Sarah’s departure, Carlos appeared at my door. He looked better. He’d cleaned up. A royal blue button-down shirt, “sailcloth blue” I’ve heard it called, stretched across his bulky shoulders. His hair, though recently combed, stuck up in the back Alfalfa-style, which made me smile. He shifted his weight as he stood awkwardly at my door.

“Carlos, please come in,” I said, “I know we’re not in the same pod or whatever, but…” my voice trailed off.

“Sure, that would be great,” he said.

I poured him a glass of Croatian white wine, delivered by my wine club.

“This is nice,” he said.

B. emerged from the back bedroom.

“My man!” Carlos said, clapping B. on the back.

B. smiled timidly.

Carlos said, “How are you?” He looked into B.’s eyes. My heart expanded. I realized it was true. I had a thing for Carlos. I might even be in love with him.

The two men stood in my kitchen. Both massive in their own ways, B., at 6’5” and willowy, just beginning to put back the weight he’d lost during the last breakdown. Carlos with his massive shoulders, his Depardieu-like barrel chest.

They both had dark hair, brown eyes. They both had Spanish mothers. They began speaking in Spanish. Carlos drank wine. His voice boomed. He injected life into the room. B. stood a little straighter. His eyes brightened. He revivified before my very eyes.

I thought, This is what we’ll do. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought this. We can be a unit. Maybe not here, not on Guido Street, not with my pastor’s-daughter neighbor, but in Europe, on the north coast of Spain, the coast Carlos told me about last Christmas when he and Sarah had arrived late to our party, after all the other guests had left.

They had sat together on our couch, in front of the fire. Carlos had described the stormy sea, the seafood, the rocky coast, the cheap real estate, the authentic people. The rain. He wanted to retire there. He said Sarah wasn’t interested. I remember thinking, I am.

I’m getting ready to retire. My kids are flying the coop. B. would stay with me. Carlos could join us. It could happen. I could do this. We would be all right. I knew it.