San Diego Noir

Before, she and David had lived in a rented condo in Escondido, and it was funny, because when she was a kid she’d loved coming here, but as an adult, Before, she’d felt more like David felt now: that it was run-down, not clean, not nice.

Finally David turned to her. “I’m sick of being panhandled every block. Did you see that kid who’s parked himself in front of the house? Two days running now! That’s the kind of neighborhood we’re living in, with fucking bums puking on the sidewalks. We can afford something better than this.”

“You mean, I can afford it,” she said.

Something dark crossed his face. He slammed the glass down on the counter and stalked out.

She hadn’t meant to make him mad. She was just stating a fact.

When she went out into the living room, he was sitting on the couch, flipping through channels with the remote.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to, to …” She thought about what she wanted to say. Sometimes it took her awhile to turn the feelings in her head into words. “Insult you.”

“I know.” He put down the control and leaned back against the couch, his body still rigid as a plank. “Things are turning around,” he said. “The market’s coming back up. Probably better to wait and sell this place then.”

“But I don’t want to sell it.” She sat down on the couch next to him. “I like it here.”

“Great. With the hippies and drunks and stoners.”

“Why don’t you like it?”

“Jesus. Because it’s a dump. Because nothing ever changes. Other parts of town, they build nice houses. Have new businesses. Improve things. Not here.”

She thought about it. She liked that Ocean Beach didn’t change. “Why do you like me?” she asked.

“What?”

“I mean … you liked me before, but I’m different now. You liked someone else. Who isn’t here anymore. So why do you like me?”

“I don’t like you,” he said. His voice was dark, like his face had been. “I love you.”

“Why?”

“How can you even ask that?” He let out a sigh. “It’s not your fault. I know it’s not your fault.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “If it’s my fault or not. I don’t … I don’t expect you to …” She stopped there, puzzled. What was it that she didn’t expect?

“I promised to always take care of you. Remember?”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I know I make mistakes, but … I’m doing all right. I can take care of myself.”

“I want to,” he replied, his jaw tight, then sighed again. “Take care of yourself? You probably don’t even remember what day it is tomorrow.”

She thought about it. “It’s Wednesday.”

He closed his eyes. “It’s our anniversary.”

Oh.

It was not on her list for the day, but it was on the San Diego Zoological Society calendar in the kitchen, noted there beneath the photo of the cheetah cubs in David’s blocky print: Our Third Anniversary.

David had changed into sweats and a T-shirt. He sat on the couch, watching some financial news show. She couldn’t really follow those now, or maybe it was just that she wasn’t really interested in them anymore. The market this. The market that. Who cared?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I forgot.”

“That’s okay.” He tried to smile. That is, he did smile, but she didn’t think he meant it.

She wasn’t good at remembering where she put things, or what she was supposed to do, or a lot of facts and figures. But she was good, she realized, at judging emotions, whether people’s words and expressions matched their feelings.

“How do you want to celebrate?” he asked. “Or do you even want to?”

She thought about it. Our Third Anniversary. Underneath the photo of the cheetah cubs.

“Let’s go to the zoo.”

On Wednesday mornings she had her appointment with Helen, her therapist. It was nice, because Helen’s office was just off Newport Avenue, and she could walk to it. She hadn’t driven since the accident. She didn’t have seizures or anything like that; she probably could drive. She just didn’t think she wanted to.

“I don’t know why he likes me,” she told Helen.

The therapist leaned back in her chair. She was fluffy. Cloudy, in Kari’s way of picturing her, but with sharp beams of light that refracted through the clouds: a mass of graying brown hair, hornrimmed glasses, chunky jewelry and layers of gauzy clothing, and a penetrating gaze, a way of pinning down feelings with sharp words, like the feelings were dead butterflies.

“You’re a very likable person, Kari.”

“Maybe. But I’m not the same person. I’m not …” She struggled to find the words. “We used to want the same things. I was quick, like he was. I was … ambitious. We were going to, to make a lot of money. Live well. Have nice things.” She shrugged. “I don’t care about that stuff now. But he still does. And he says that he loves me, but I don’t know why.”

“Because you’re lovable.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re kind. You’re caring. You’re pretty …”

“So is it about how I look?”

Helen sighed. “It’s about a lot of things. Have you asked him?”

“I tried. But he won’t tell me.”