High Desert, Low Desert

(an excerpt from a current WIP)

I don’t know much about trains. I’ve never lived somewhere that relied on them for daily commutes nor been interested in the type of travel that would trap me inside a giant, claustrophobic vessel full of strangers without the benefit of airline miles.

My attention is drawn to the one running parallel with my car - the BMW that my Brentwood friends remind me, daily – is in desperate need of replacement. Each train’s car is a different color and littered with graffiti. Behind the train, tall above swinging windmills, dusty mountains are capped in white. I smile. Snow in May: a California wonder that I’ve loved since I was a kid.

Soon, the train is gone. I want to know where it’s headed. And who spray-painted it. And why – mere vandalism, artistic expression, on a dare?

Uptown Palm Springs is both quiet and empty, as is typical once festival season ends. With another twenty miles to go, I’m desperate for some caffeine and a bathroom. I address both needs at Koffi, the local chain. I buy a ridiculous kaftan at Trina Turk. The fellas working the Mr. Turk side of the store are wearing them and mistaking me for a cheerful person – one who might parade around in bright pinks and yellows and a dozen shades of aquamarine - convince me that if they can pull it off, so can I.

When I arrive at the house, I don’t unpack. I don’t hang up clothes or organize the refrigerator. I grab the first bikini I see in my top dresser drawer – black, of course – and walk barefoot out to the pool.

The inner tube I float on is covered with painted lemon slices and I place a bottle of water in a floating pink flamingo-shaped drink holder. I usually embrace the optimism of this house. Today I do my best not to poke the inflatables open with a kitchen knife. I can’t seem to shake my unexplained dismal mood. A sense of pending doom, almost. But, when I hear the ice cream truck - the one that plays Christmas music all year - making its way down my quiet La Quinta street, I let out a chuckle. The comfort of the bizarre familiar. I consider what I should wear tomorrow to have lunch with Melissa - my best friend, my soul sister, my lifeline.

Unsurprisingly, the menu at Joshua Tree Saloon is still very meat forward – an entire page dedicated to burgers, with lots of smoked and barbeque options like racks of ribs and pulled pork sandwiches. Dare I ask if there are vegetarian entrees beyond the Caesar salad listed in small print at the bottom of the last page?

I’m filthy from the short time spent outside, poking my head in and out of shops and art galleries. White knuckling it on the 10, the windmills spinning furiously, I anticipated the muddy air. God, I hate it up here, 3,000 feet above civilization.

I avoid touching my bare legs that are no doubt grimy with a film made from sand mixed with my moisturizing lotion. Melissa won’t notice or care. She knows the disadvantages of the high desert, yet she only travels south of the 10 when she needs to stock up on more art supplies. She’s usually covered head to toe in beige flowing fabrics, complimented by sterling silver and turquoise jewelry. A particular Southwest aesthetic she inherited from her mother, MaryLou.

Rolling my neck out after the tense drive through the windstorm, I notice that the ceiling is covered with metal beer signs. “Yuengling!” I almost shouted, remembering taking a tour of the Pennsylvania brewery with a guy who took me home from LA for the wedding of a high school pal. A million years ago. Brad, Matt, Jim? What was his name? Dave! That’s right, Dave. The blind date turned year-long romance. I can’t imagine such décor is earthquake compliant. Wouldn’t take much for all that tin to rain down on our heads.

The group of bros shooting pool seems louder and drunker than they should for noon on a Thursday. They don’t look like they’re made for hiking let alone camping. Maybe they’re just passing through, like yesterday’s train. Their game is distracted by girls, far too young for any of them, who pose in front of clichéd western antiques – wagon wheels, cowboy boots, silver spurs. I wonder if these young women make an income posting photos on Instagram and TikTok. I look away quickly when one of a group of potbellied men in black tshirts and trucker caps winks at me then grab my phone out of my purse. I need something and somewhere to focus my attention.

The U2 music coming through the speakers doesn’t align with the atmosphere but I’m grateful for it. Country music (one would assume indicative of this place) makes my ears bleed.

A tired-looking waitress, one with blue eyeliner and smoker’s lines around her mouth, puts a vodka soda down in front of me while I scroll through my routine apps: weather (temp is a comfortable 80’); mail (249 new messages which I will not begin to attack here); and NYT games (74-day streak on Wordle). Her name tag reads Kimberly. I’m starving, having pushed the limits of my Ozempic and skipping breakfast. I hope Melissa gets here soon.

The screech from the chair being pulled along the dark, splintered floor startles me out of my third round of Words With Friends, the app I move on to once I’ve completed Wordle, Connections, and Spelling Bee. I look up, ready for a tight Melissa hug.

My mouth falls open. It’s not Melissa, explaining why she’s late. It’s not Kimberly, here to refill my empty water glass. It’s my dad, a man I haven’t seen in twenty years.

I reach over to the chair next to mine to grab my bag and flee past the bros, out the door. I’ll knock them all over if I have to.

“Sit down April,” he commands.

After all this time, he still looks and sounds like he did as a Marine Sergeant. And I’m stunned in place, glued to my chair, feeling fifteen years old again.

“How the hell did you find me?”

Sarge says nothing, then with a huff, “nice to see you too.”

He sits down across from me. We lock eyes. He won’t intimidate me into looking away. Not anymore. I’m not one of his underlings. Fuck him.

“You’re mother is sick.”

Right to the point. No easing into it. Sarge staying on brand.

“Fucking Melissa. You tracked her down. She told you where I was meeting her. Traitor.”

“Your mother is dying.”

It’s my turn to say nothing.

I’d prepared for this. Not today, not here among tourists and local rednecks with the smell of grilled meats piping out of a greasy kitchen. But I knew that one day I’d have to face my parents aging, getting sick, dying. That’s what happens. Because that’s life. Whether they’re part of it or not.

“Pancreatic Cancer.”

I fight the warm salty liquid pooling in my eyes. Don’t you dare, April, do not show this man emotion.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. I think I mean it.

“You should come with me. Today. You should see her. It might be time to say goodbye.”

I swallow hard when he looks to the door to follow the bright light of the sun coming in when the saloon doors swing open.

“Look dad.” I correct myself as he doesn’t deserve that title, “Sarge, I’m sorry she’s sick. I’m sorry if she doesn’t have much time left. But she has had - you both have had - all the time in the world to contact me. Plenty of time to apologize, be part of my life in some way - and neither one of you have. I said goodbye a long time ago. To you. To her. To what was once my family. And neither one of you gave a shit.”

He inhales deeply through his nose, mouth terse. Not much has changed about him besides the number of lines around his eyes, his mouth. His hair, still buzzed but less severe.

“Oh my god,” I hear Melissa say when she arrives to our table in the whirlwind that Melissa arrives anywhere – her hair, a mess on top of her head pulled together with what looks like a piece of yarn, one sleeve drooping down her sun-freckled arm, Birkenstocks in need of a deep clean – or better still – a trash

can.

Her surprise tells me I’m wrong. She didn’t send Sarge to find me. Ok, so she’s off the shit list. One less person to be disappointed with.

“I’ll, um, I’ll come back,” she says, backing away, still terrified of my father the way all the kids were, back in our Carlsbad youth.

I stand up, one hand out to pull her towards me, reaching for my lifeline once again.

“No!” I say, loud enough to gain an audience, “don’t go. Sarge was just leaving.”