The Red Car by Marcy Dermansky Page B

hangover, if it was jet lag, or if the fuzzy state of my head was simply the fuzzy state of my head. Honestly, I often woke up unclear.
    Coffee in hand, I checked my email. The mechanic had written, asking me to call him right away. I hated that: “right away,” how demanding that sounded, and I decided that he could wait until later. My mother wrote, asking if I wanted to meet for lunch later in the week. I would have to respond, tell her where I was. There were four emails from Hans. Too many emails. He had emailed a scene to read, just like he had told me. A movie review to edit. I couldn’t remember what I had told him the night before. I probably told him that I would read these things, but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t on vacation, exactly, but I was off duty. I had work today. My part-time telecommuting job. I should do that and get it out of the way. I wanted to hang a sign around my neck: Off Duty.
    Off duty.
    That could maybe help explain the day before, Lea on her futon on Castro Street, Diego on the tiled floor of his bathroom. I was in San Francisco. Therefore, it did not count. Off duty. I drank my coffee. I would have to go to Judy’s niece’s bat mitzvah next, because what else could I do? I would follow the wishes of a dead friend. I did not remember the date. I would have to reread her letter.
    â€œDamned straight,” Judy said.
    â€œGo away,” I said, and then immediately regretted it.
    The vigor was too much first thing in the morning. I was getting sick of Judy commenting on my thoughts, and never when I expected her to. Voices. I could call these voices, but schizophrenics heard voices and I did not feel crazy. Maybe I was projecting: this was what Judy would say. Anyway, I had to remember that she was trying to be helpful. She had always wanted to look out for me. It was selfish to think that she had died in order to save me. Judy had died because she had wanted to die. Somehow, she knew that other car was coming. She had wanted to be done with life, but maybe, maybe she wanted to save me, too. Maybe she had thought, Hey, this is worth a shot . She wrote me a letter.
    Was I worth a shot?
    I didn’t think so.
    I wasn’t sure.
    I poured myself more coffee. I read Hans’s scene. I read it right on the screen without bothering to print it out. Using track changes, I fixed sentences, sometimes flat out rewriting them, not concerned about making them sound like his voice. I wrote some new sentences. I was beginning to feel attached to his book, to feel like it was my book. Usually, he would deletemy sentences anyway. “This sounds too Leah,” he would say. Anyway, it was not my book. I would write it differently. I would not write that book. I emailed him back the edited file. Boom. I felt as if I had bought myself some time.
    I did not read his review. That was too much. I simply hit reply, wrote: “This is great.” I hoped there were no typos.
    I did not write my mother after all. Even though I knew I should. I felt restless, wanted to be away from the computer.
    â€œWhat now?” I said to the empty room.
    The fog had lifted. Sunlight was pouring in from the window. It was a beautiful day. Like a gift. I didn’t need Judy to answer me. I had lived in San Francisco for years. I knew what to do.
    T HE SEA LIONS WERE STILL there, still taking over Pier 39, still putting on a wonderful show for the tourists. For me. Come on, they were there for me. I gazed at them, filled with love, filled with longing.
    â€œOh my god, I have missed you,” I told the sea lions.
    In New York, I sometimes went to the Central Park Zoo, just for the sea lions. They had three sea lions in a clear glass tank, where you could watch them swim underwater. It was a wonderful spot, but it was not the same.
    I leaned on the railing and I watched them. I wanted to say that the sea lions had missed me, too, but that was going too far. The sea lions climbed on one