THE END

“It’s OK,” I told him. “you can go now. I love you.” 

All five kids were now in our big, airy master bedroom with me, on and around the King-sized bed. Amy, my husband Gary’s oldest daughter from his first marriage, had only arrived from upstate New York at midnight. It was now, what, 3 AM? Amy’s preppy, can-do brother Josh had been a champ, schmoozing the airlines so they’d help with flights and not charge us a fortune. Josh knew how to get shit done! His father’s son. Amy and Josh’s middle brother Jax (formerly Katie) had flown in from Minneapolis that morning. Not such a hassle since he worked loading luggage for American Airlines and could fly standby free of charge. He’d shown up unshaven, in rumpled clothes, but sober, and he hadn’t fought with Josh so far, thank God.

Amy had been sprawled on the bed talking to her Dad since she arrived. He was unable to open his eyes or speak anymore, but Amy later told me she knew he’d heard her because he’d been squeezing her hand. The hydraulic bed was propped up to facilitate her Dad’s shallow breathing. The oxygen machine whirred at the bedside. Gary had grown unrecognizable, so thin. He was always freezing now, but could not stand the weight of blankets, so the bedroom fireplace was blasting heat toward his emaciated frame; a linen sheet was pulled up to his chest, a padding of bath towels beneath him. Time had become fluid. In the wee hours, all the lights were still on, and my son Nick, Amy’s half-brother, was across the room on the leather couch under the window, playing his Dad’s favorite music from a laptop, his sister Chloe, just 19, next to him. My sweet red-haired babies. Nick had been in the room for the last 48 hours straight, playing Neil Young, Jackson Browne, The Who, the Beatles, Queen, and all the rest of the artists Gary loved most. 

Music was EVERYTHING to Gary. It had given him a life beyond anything a poor, abused kid from Ft. Wayne, Indiana could ever dare dream of. He’d gone from working in a local record store as a teenager to working WITH all his musical heroes later in life. Some had become close friends. Early this morning one of his rockstar pals BEGGED me to let him come and say goodbye. I’d had to turn him down. I knew Gary would never want to be remembered this way. Yesterday had been the last day visitors were allowed. Today I had phoned a dozen people — some of whom were en route to airports — to tell them not to come, that Gary was unconscious and the end was near. ALL I cared about was keeping him comfortable and getting all 5 kids there. I was too focused on that to worry about how and when my husband would actually die. I’d held onto hope for so long. I had held. I hadn’t broken down. Now the moment had come, the moment he and I had spent almost two years trying to prevent, putting all our energy and resources into keeping him alive.

His once-strong right hand — bony, cold and still, was in my right hand. His wedding ring, now much too large, which had been sitting on the nightstand for months, was in my left hand. He had beautiful, elegant long fingers. He'd been such a big, powerful man. Cancer had devoured him. When the emergency room nurse last weighed him, he’d lost 130 lbs. How could it be that only days ago, we were in the hospital, him sitting up, still sharp, when the doctor answered his question with, “Yes, Gary, you ARE dying. Don’t you want to go home, rather than stay in this hospital?” Gary had immediately said yes, and we’d moved him here. Our room filled up with medical equipment: the breathing apparatus, commode, wheelchair. Hospice nurses around the clock. The bedside table full of morphine vials and high dosage fentanyl patches, which were so potentially lethal the nurses had to wear gloves when applying them. They were needed to keep the excruciating pain at bay. The cancer had moved from his esophagus to his lungs, to his ribs. He was in agony every moment he was conscious those last days. His suffering was unspeakable. Watching him deteriorate was unbearable, so when the soft-spoken Jamaican nurse said it was time to gather, I was relieved. The kids were sobbing, except Chloe, who held everything in. Always. 

“It’s OK,” I told him. “You can go now. I love you.”  I leaned down to kiss my husband’s forehead… and I felt him leave. 

I AM HERE

     So the writing assignment for class today was: Write like you talk. Yeah, OK. Well lately when I talk I use a lot of what my strict Catholic grandma called "foul language." I curse a lot. It may seem lazy and sound angry. I don’t think I’m either of those things, but if looks like I am to other people I don’t fucking care. Grief looks like what it looks like. I’m not lazy, I’m paralyzed. I’m not angry, I’m heartbroken. However I sound or look to other people, I really don’t give a rat's ass. I’m just trying to survive. Actually that’s not true. I am trying to model survival for my son. He’s the one I am concerned about, not me. My daughter is a story for another day. 

     Maybe I should back up. Yeah, I curse a lot. My husband would say to me: “the use of profanity does not enhance your argument.” I’d tell him to fuck off. It was a little schtick we did. Did. Past tense. He’s dead… and I say fuck a lot. I’m not pissed though. I do say Fuck Cancer angrily, but everyone says it that way, don’t they? I have no energy to be angry. I never did. I was too busy trying to keep him alive…  and when all chemo and radiation and surgery and living in a darkened hotel room in Boston, and later running around the country (on what I called our “shopping for hope tour”) didn’t work…  when the cancer came back with a vengeance anyway and we tried a different chemo and then finally immunotherapy… when ALL that was going on, I was never angry. I wasn’t paralyzed then either. I was on a mission. 

     A dear friend helped connect us to the best surgeon in the country for my husband's type of cancer, at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, attached to Harvard. I let those hard-ass Boston Irish nurses taunt me while I tried to learn to operate the pump attached to his feeding tube. “Looks like you’re pretty nervous about this, aren’t you? Squeamish, huh?” I knew they wanted to get a rise out of me, but I was not going to let them make me mad or make me cry, though both seemed appealing. I just bit my own tart Irish tongue and told them “show me again. I’ll get it.” And I did get it. I set my alarm to ring every 4 hours around the clock so I could go into the hotel bathroom, measure out the liquid medications, then cut and grind the pills, pulverizing them, dissolving them in water, pouring the solution through a tea strainer provided by room service so no chunks would clog the feeding tube and send us to the ER (as happened on the first day after my husband came “home” to the hotel from the hospital). He wasn’t happy with me that day or a lot of other days during that month. He was often furious during that November spent living in a suite overlooking Boston Common — even a Ritz Carlton can be a prison — and he took it out on his only available target, me. But I understood. He couldn’t eat. He was scared and suffering. He was fighting for his life. He was determined to live. He really thought if he came at cancer with the same focus and drive that had made him such a success in business, he couldn’t possibly die. But he died. He was diagnosed on July 14, 2015… and he died on March 27, 2017. He went through hell. He fought like hell. They took out 1/3 of his stomach and 2/3 of his esophagus, and he was willing to live a horrible, diminished existence just to stay alive. Just to be here with me and the kids. But the cancer ended up in his lungs and his ribs and God knows where else and he lost 130 lbs. and he wasted away and he fucking died. 

     And now I am back living in L.A. trying to keep my kid going. He’s devastated at the loss of his dad, who was also his best friend. I’m not all that happy to be back in L.A.— I was comfortable living at the beach in Encinitas. Life was easy there. But my son is here. And I knew if I stayed where I was, I would stay where I was. I am trying to move forward, but it’s fucking hard. It’s been almost 2 years, but it might as well have been two weeks. I work at cultivating gratitude. I had a great love for nearly 25 years. My husband arranged to have flowers sent to me all during the year after he died. He was THAT guy. But he’s gone and I have to keep going. I have no idea where I fit in the world anymore. I had a huge, exciting life. Now my life is small and quiet. No whining, just adjustment. So I am here. Trying to prop up my son, who struggled to find his way even before his Dad died. Not uncommon for sons of hugely charismatic, successful fathers… especially if the kid is on the quiet side, a musician who lives in his head. So I am here because I adore my son. I get up every morning and try to show him how to face the unknown. Suit up and show up as we say in sobriety. Together we try to find peace, and even happiness, every. fucking. day. And I am here. 

IN MY CUPS

     Back in my 20s I terrorized this town… I used my short skirts, long legs, and quick wit to get me out of all kinds of jams. It worked for a few years. I thought I was having fun, but I would find myself in bad situations, including being shoved in the hatchback of my own sports car and driven at high speed through the streets of Hollywood by my boyfriend-of-the-moment who believed he was in better shape to drive than I was. I would come to in other towns, with people I did not recognize. I would come to on the floor of my bathroom, where I would curl up on the cold tile, waiting for the spinning to stop… or not. I would come to understand that things were not going to get better with age and maturity. I needed to fucking stop the downward spiral… but I couldn’t. I crashed parties, I crashed film premieres, I crashed cars… I crashed into the neighbors’ garbage cans when leaving my cousin’s house in a drunken stupor in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, knocking them into a ravine where they could not be retrieved… not that I was in any shape to even TRY to retrieve them. I could not retrieve myself. After all the many dangerous, humiliating things I had done, it was the fucking garbage cans that did me in. I had had enough. 

     I crashed. I didn’t actually REMEMBER what I had done at my cousin's. I was in a blackout. The acquaintances (I had no real friends left) who had been only too happy to help themselves to the booze in my vacationing cousin’s guest house filled me in on my antics when my head cleared a bit later that evening back at my apartment. I was furious at them for telling me and made them leave.

Crumpled on the floor of my shower, I shivered under a cold drizzle, the hot water having run out as I tried to wash away the shame and self-loathing… again. I had caused much worse incidents than this thing with the garbage cans dozens of times. But somehow on that day I realized that my wild child drunken behavior was going to lead me to a pathetic, ugly end. What kind of end? I didn’t know, but I felt disaster looming at my shoulder like some sort of horrible demon whenever I was sober… which wasn’t nearly often enough. Something had to give. 

This was in the Spring of 1986. I was working for a hotshot agent at William Morris. My boss was, unsurprisingly, annoyed when I would show up at my desk outside his office wearing the same clothes as the day before, make-up smeared, disheveled, reeking. Many a morning he would walk by me, shaking his head as he briskly entered his office and began barking orders for me to start lining up calls to writers, directors, studio heads. As long as I did my job well — and remarkably, I did — he seemed content to stay out of my personal affairs. 

On the morning after the garbage can debacle, when I was looking particularly rough, he glanced at me longer than usual on his way to his desk. I could hear him put down his briefcase and rummage through a drawer. He exited his office without a word. He came back a few minutes later bearing a styrofoam coffee cup. Odd, he NEVER got his own coffee, and he never drank from lowly styrofoam. As he neared my desk, he stopped and turned the cup to face me. On it in blue ballpoint pen he had drawn the face of a woman with a wild mass of curly hair. He had taken a highlighter and tinted her skin yellow, and with a red pen had rendered her eyes bloodshot. Faking hand tremors, intentionally spilling some of the water he’d put in the cup, he extended it to me and said, “why don’t you try to choke down a few sips of water, little missie?” I accepted the cup in horror, as the other assistants looked on. He stalked into his office, calling out, “Get me Julien Temple right now.” I put the cup down and started dialing. Some assistants snickered, but not too loudly. Many of them behaved as badly as I did. 

I didn’t stop drinking that day, and I didn’t stop to wonder WHY I was so self-destructive, so unconcerned with my own future. But I did stop by the mail slot and throw in a letter to my cousin so it would be waiting for her when she returned to town. I told her about the garbage cans. I told her I needed help. I told her I was in trouble. I TOLD. I was a mess. I had been a mess for years. Long before the drinking started. Maybe even before my best friend’s father began touching me in ways he shouldn't when I was still a child. Maybe since birth. My cousin got me help. I finally faced myself and asked WHY. And everything changed. That was April 16, 1986. I am sober to this day.

                                          EPILOGUE

I moved on to another job after I realized that, sober, I had NO desire to train to be an agent. About 18 months after I left William Morris, that hotshot agent stuck his head into the office at the movie studio where I was then working, saying he’d had a meeting down the hall and seen my name of the door, so he had to stop in. He gave me a big grin. He hardly ever smiled at me when I worked for him. No wonder! I invited him in. The actor I read scripts for was out of town shooting a film, so we were able to sit in the inner office and talk. After awkward pleasantries, I told him that I needed to make an amends to him, that I was now over a year sober, and that I was sorry for not being the best employee I could have been. What an understatement! He was so kind I was taken aback. He told me his own family had been affected by alcoholism, and that he was proud of me for turning my life around when I was still so young. My eyes teared up. I told him that I had taken that styrofoam cup home with me the day he gave it to me and put it in my kitchen cupboard so that every time I opened it, I was faced with myself. The cup was still there. I thanked him for giving me that wake-up call. We chatted for a few more minutes and then he left. I have not seen him since. 

Even after our talk, I kept that styrofoam cup. In January of 1994 it was crushed when a massive earthquake hit L.A. and the contents of my kitchen cupboards came crashing to the floor. I wish I’d taken a photo of it before it got destroyed, but it served its purpose. 

Sober, but still sporting those short skirts. Flaunt it while you've got it! Circa 1990/1991... The Propaganda-Satellite Films gang on the way to the VMAs... Top video director Mark Romanek, Production Coordinator - moi, and Executive Producer Larry Perel... long legs, short skirts, BIG hair, good times! 

TRACES

She walks into the the oversized closet and stares at the 2-tiered racks of all-black clothes. Her husband’s signature look — the big man in black. Custom-made unstructured jackets in a thick black non-wrinkle fabric, easily folded into a black rolling Tumi suitcase for endless business trips. Black pleated, cuffed slacks to match. How many of this same outfit hang there? At least a dozen. Black custom-made shirts in a thinner fabric to wear underneath the jackets, too. $700 a pop for those shirts. Ridiculous, she always thought, but he claimed the price was worth it to get something that looked and felt good on his 6’7” 275 lb. frame. And having garments that traveled well was key. “But I wear $5 Wal-Mart t-shirts underneath it all” [and so he did] “so it balances out,” he would joke. She didn’t counter with the exorbitant cost of the silky black boxers that were really underneath it all. He flew around the country and the world incessantly, he worked incredibly hard, and he certainly deserved to be comfortable and to look the part of the successful entertainment executive he had become. Lord knows it was a far cry from the unemployed long-haired cargo shorts and Converse high tops-wearing newly recovering alcoholic and drug addict he’d been when she met him nearly a quarter century earlier. Those years had flown by so quickly, though the last 2 years had had some excruciatingly long days. 

She takes a few steps forward and buries her face in the upper tier of clothes, the shirts and jackets, knowing that there are bound to be one or two pieces that have not been dry cleaned which will still carry the scent of his cologne: Issaye Miyake L’eau D’Issaye Bleu. She is right. She picks up faint traces of the smell of her husband. Her late husband. How long had it been since they had wheeled his body out of the adjoining bedroom and taken him to the mortuary? Thirty hours? What day was today? What time was it? What did it matter? What did anything matter? What was she going to do now? What was she going to do with the rest of her life? She fingers the thick black fabric as her eyes fill up with tears. She does not turn around when she hears a sound behind her. 

“Mom?”

She does not answer, trying to choke back the tears.

“Mom, are you OK? What are you doing?”

She slowly pivots around to face her 23-year-old son, a young man, but also a boy who has just lost his father, his best friend. She smiles, but does not say anything, instead opening her arms to him. He immediately advances and bends his thin 6’4” frame to give her a deep, tight hug. 

“Are you OK?

“Yes, honey. I was just smelling Daddy’s clothes. His cologne reminds me of him.” 

“Oh, me, too. Dad always smelled so nice. Even my friends would tell me that: "Man, your Dad always smells so good.” 

He releases his embrace and steps over to bury his own face in the garments. “My sense of smell isn’t that good. I can’t really pick it up.” 

Because her husband — her late husband — was so fond of his cologne, there were bottles stashed all over the place, including here in the closet. She turns and reaches over to a shelf behind her son and picks up a bottle of L’eau D’Issaye Bleu. She spritzes the rack of jackets and shirts, and without a word, she and her son, this lovely, brokenhearted man-child, bury their faces together into the clothing side by side. He withdraws his face first: “Should we spray ourselves? Is that weird?”

“No,” she assures him, “It’s not weird. It’s sweet.” 

He sprays a heavy mist of the familiar scent over her, then himself, and they wordlessly join hands and walk out of the closet to face the day. 

AT THE BUS STOP

Today's writing class prompt was: "Write about a woman waiting in the rain for a city bus"...

AT THE BUS STOP

The woman stands in a downpour at the southwest corner of Sunset Blvd. and Barrington in the Brentwood section of West Los Angeles, no umbrella to shelter her from the rain.  She looks so tired that’s it’s doubtful she could hold an umbrella above her head even if she owned one, which she doesn’t.  Her thick, shoulder-length,wavy black hair is beginning to mat and stick to the sides of her face.  She does not reach up to brush it back.  She is young, in her early 20s, though her face shows the fatigue of a much older woman.  Her domestic’s uniform -- the black dress and white apron -- is too large, probably passed down from the previous maid in the mansion up Mandeville Canyon where she works.  She either doesn’t know yet, or is too tired to care, that if she took off her apron, people in passing cars might not immediately peg her as a servant, and therefore invisible. 

She considers herself lucky to have a daily ride from the mansion down to this bus stop.  Some of the other women she lives with in the crowded apartment east of downtown Los Angeles have to walk long distances from their places of employment to the nearest bus.  She knows things could be much worse.  She came here from Sinaloa state. 

The Missus of the house does not yell at her the way she knows some of the other girls’ employers yell at them. It would not really matter if the Missus did say rude things to her, as the young woman does not understand more than a handful of words in English.  Most of her interactions are with the Missus’ longtime housekeeper, Maria, who is fluent in English, and behaves very kindly toward this frightened young woman.  The girl had been sent to Maria by Maria’s niece, who works in the home of a famous Hollywood movie producer, yet still lives in the crowded apartment.  

Because the young woman does not have a long downhill walk to to the bus stop, her white shoes, the kind nurses wear, still have a good deal of tread on them.  She won’t have to buy herself new ones anytime soon.  They gave her the dress and apron, but the shoes she had to buy for herself. It took nearly all of the money she had left after making her way across the border and up to meet her cousin in this alien, bustling city.  She doesn’t like to think of that journey.  At all. 

As dusk falls, the young woman turns her face up to the heavy rain and invites it to wash away the day, to transport her back home to her village, a village, where unbeknownst to the young woman, her mother sits on the dirt floor, stirring a pot of beans over an open fire, silently crying for her oldest daughter so far away. 

BLACK WATER

BLACK WATER 

Every Thursday night during high school, a group of my friends and I would gather at the local Shakey’s Pizza on Gloria Drive in south Sacramento, just a few blocks from our campus. We would end up at the pizza joint after we attended the weekly meeting of Young Life, a rowdy song-and-game-filled gathering of suburban kids, hosted by a minister who soft-pedaled basic Christianity, in the living room of a willing parent’s house.  We’d sing folk rock versions of old hymns, as well as new songs from musicals like Godspell and Jesus Christ Superstar during the meeting, but once we reached the pizza parlor, the juke box reigned supreme. 

The one song we played first every week was “Black Water” by the Doobie Brothers.  It opened quietly, with a jangling noise that sounded like wind chimes made of shards of broken glass.  As soon as I heard that jangling, my pulse would quicken, anticipating the swampy chords and swirling rhythms to come.  We’d all sing along in low voices on the verses, but when the chorus came up, our group of at least a dozen tuneless teenagers would loudly belt out, “Old black water, keep on rollin’, Mississippi moon won’t you keep on shinin’ on me...”  By the end of the song, which repeats over and over, “I’d like to hear some funky Dixieland, pretty mama come and take me by the hand,” some of the other customers would usually be shouting the words along with us. 

The pizza parlor staff and other Thursday night regulars were used to our invasion of their space and the inevitable sing-along that was guaranteed by our presence.  Looking back on it, I think they probably welcomed the influx of clean-cut, paying high-school-aged customers who were inside, singing and playing Pong and Space Invaders  instead of outside, drinking beer in the parking lot, vandalizing cars and the building, or worse.  We were good kids.  

I’m not sure what it was about that song, “Black Water,” that so appealed to us.  Maybe, for a bunch of white kids raised in suburban Sacramento, the setting of the song on the Mississippi delta seemed exotic and intriguing.  Maybe it was the sawing fiddles, the interplay of instruments or the repetitive groove that mesmerized us.  Whatever it was, it pulled us in and got us singing along, week after week.  

Music really does provide the soundtrack of our lives. Every time I hear “Black Water” now, it takes me back to those innocent times when I flirted (ineptly... over root beers) with cute boys while they ate greasy pepperoni pizza... and occasionally flirted back. 

MY TEMPEST

The prompt for the following short story was "write about your first car."

MY TEMPEST

My father located and purchased my first car in my hometown of Sacramento in 1982.  I was 23 years old, living and working in Los Angeles. He paid $1100 for the car, which I was to repay in monthly $100 installments. He was afraid I might not like the 17-year-old automobile, but he knew that I needed a vehicle no matter what it looked like. 

I had been taking the bus to work from the ritzy Brentwood section of Los Angeles, winding along Sunset Blvd. through Westwood, along the edges of Bel Air and Holmby Hills, through Beverly Hills and past the Sunset Strip clubs, so swanky in the 50s, now frequented by safety-pin-pierced punk rockers... winding further and further east all the way into the heart of Hollywood and my job captioning TV for the deaf at Sunset Gower Studios.  The facility where I worked was a bit rundown at that point, but it had been the venerated Columbia Movie Studios back in its glory days.  

The morning wait and ride to my job were not bad, as the bus picked me up at a corner near my apartment in a prosperous part of town. The only other waiting passengers were tired-eyed Hispanic ladies who must have been heading home from jobs as night nurses and overnight nannies. The evening bus journey was not so safe or smooth... 

I needed a car.

I got a ride from Los Angeles to Sacramento with a friend, anxious to see this vehicle my father had bought - which would free me from the discomfort and danger of sitting after leaving work at a bus stop at the corner of Sunset and Gower... perched uneasily on the bus bench in the dark, alone in a seedy part of Hollywood, being approached and propositioned by strange and sometimes truly frightening men.  I HAD to have a car. 

My father’s fears about my reaction to the car were completely unfounded. I fell in love with it at first sight.  It was a 1965 Pontiac Tempest, a great, solid boat of a car... the front of the vehicle slanted forward, as if it could not wait to speed off.  The body was painted a fantastic aquamarine metallic fleck.  The hard top was bright white.  There was plentiful chrome trim, from the shining perforated hubcaps to the fabulous divided front grill. Heavy chrome bumpers front and back were clearly designed for protection, not just aesthetics.  This car looked retro COOL... and it was built like a tank, which turned out to be a very good thing. 

The interior of the car was also shiny aquamarine, from the paint on the metal dash to the vinyl padding on the doors to the brocade-like textured fabric on the seats.  The aquamarine steering wheel was enormous, and in the center was a clear plastic disc with black backing incised in silver with the Pontiac logo, an elongated indented arrowhead design... There were round Jetsons-like chrome bullet vents jutting from the dash. Everything glistened and gleamed... it was all in pristine condition.  The Tempest had only been driven to the grocery store and church by the original owner, a woman who was already elderly when she purchased it.  She must have felt safe, and maybe a little sassy in this huge, snazzy vehicle.  I hope so.  By the time the car came to me, she had passed away.  Her son sold it to my father as he was disposing of her effects. 

When I drove the Tempest around Los Angeles, other cars would often slow down, some would even honk.  Almost every time I pulled into a gas station the mechanics would come out to look at it.  They marveled at the spotless engine and the vehicle's incredible condition. They frequently offered to buy the car then and there.  Many people offered to buy my Tempest, but I always declined.  Thank God. 

Because one night when my 16-year-old sister Annie and her best friend Tena were down in L.A. to visit me and tour the UCLA campus, I agreed to take the two girls for a drive through Beverly Hills to look at movie star houses.  My friend and co-worker, Tim, came along.  He sat up front with me.  Annie sat behind me, with Tena behind Tim.  

The last thing I remember is sitting at the stop sign at the northwest corner of Sunset and Bedford, waiting to cross the busy road.  The next thing I remember is coming to in the Emergency Room at UCLA.  The Tempest, we later learned, had been broad-sided by two men joyriding without permission in their uncle’s Porsche.  Police accident scene investigators determined that they had been going 70 miles an hour and never hit their brakes.  They may not have had their headlights on.

Unlike my little sister Annie (the only one to miraculously escape injury in the crash) I do not remember the horrific sounds of the collision, I do not remember the blood, the wails of pain and terror, the sirens, the crowds of people who spilled out of the nearby mansions and cars along Sunset Blvd.  I do not recall how the police closed down Sunset Blvd. in both directions, because the Porsche had spun my huge solid metal tank of a car and thrown it across the grass median, where it landed on Sunset, facing the opposite direction, my drive shaft flung half a block down. I remember none of this.  I know these things happened only because of what I was later told by my passengers, what I read in police reports, private investigators’ findings, photographs.  

That Pontiac Tempest saved all of our lives, though my passengers and I were not unscathed.  Tena, my sister’s exquisitely beautiful best friend, had her jaw shattered and lost many teeth.  Now seems as good a time as any to mention that not only was Tena a girl I knew well and loved, having babysat her for many years when she was little, before I went away to college, but she was also my orthodontist’s daughter. Her father had straightened my teeth, and now his daughter was on a gurney in an emergency room far from home, bandaged so only her eyes showed, bruised and bloodied, in pain and afraid.  It was unspeakably awful.  

My friend Tim was one curtained bed over from Tena, and I was on his other side.  The doctors had shaved a sizable patch of Tim’s hair away in order to stitch up a large gash in his scalp. I had suffered an injury to my lower back and I had a concussion.  This physical trauma -- along with the horror of the accident scene -- had contributed to temporary hysterical amnesia.  I could not tell the doctors my name or where I was.  I knew I SHOULD know these things, and the panic at not being able to answer such simple questions just made things worse.  

I was agitated and terrified that my memory would not return.  I just kept repeating, “I’m disoriented, I’m disoriented.”  Apparently I had been doing this from the time of the accident on, trying everyone’s patience and adding to the tension of the scene.  The nurses were attempting to calm me, but it was only when Tim started to joke about his new shaved hairstyle in order to make me laugh that I began to settle down and to regain my wits to some degree so that little by little I could answer questions about who I was, where I lived, what day it was... but I could not tell the nurses or doctors what had transpired over the previous couple of hours. That never changed. The memory of the accident has never come back to me, and for that I am deeply grateful. 

The morning after the accident I was taken to a cousin’s house over Coldwater Canyon in Studio City... I needed to be observed to make sure that I didn’t fall asleep until the doctors could be certain that my concussion had improved.  I also could not keep my balance too well.  My lower back and my equilibrium were both faulty at that point.  After a couple of days, my cousin Shawn drove me to the wrecking yard to identify the remains of my beloved Tempest.  When I saw the twisted, mangled mass of steel that had been my car, I could not believe all four of us had survived. The enormity of what had transpired finally sank in. I sobbed for several minutes while Shawn rubbed my back. 

I took Polaroids for the attorneys of what was left of my poor old Tempest, and almost as an afterthought, I pried that plastic disc with the Pontiac logo off the middle of the enormous aqua blue steering wheel.  I still have it in my jewelry box, amidst my other valuables.