Isa Returns

Isa strolls along the Berkeley Marina with a far-off look and a purple nasturtium stuck in her black curls. Perhaps she gazes at the red sun bobbing over the bay, or the San Francisco skyscrapers, or beyond. I can’t tell, I am flying by in my Subaru.

She is just in town for a few days, she told me over the phone, three or four days to “get my life in order”. She is strolling along the bay’s boardwalk toward the RV and I am speeding toward it. I told her to meet me there at 4:30 — It’s 4:15. I haven’t seen the state of the thing in months, ever since I decided to slam and lock that flimsy door and give someone money for a room that is not smelly and stays put, with a shower that doesn’t require backbends and a fridge that keeps ice cold rather than the other way around.

I skidded into the spot next to the monstrous brown and tan RV, scurried for my keys, flung open the flimsy door and began.

I folded the orange fabric that Isa intended, one day, to use, one day, for curtains. This 70s-orange fabric was constantly unfolding and showing it’s frayed edges — it longed to be hemmed and hung. It would never be hemmed and hung. I was constantly folding this fabric — this would be the last time I folded the orange fabric. But there was no time to luxuriate in that relief.

I put the spice-rack back on the wall from whence it was flung when I turned a corner, my last corner, in that beast. I secured the minuscule succulents back on the kitchen counter with Sticky Tacky, giving quick thanks for their little pots being plastic and not ceramic at the time of impact. There was no time to luxuriate in how glad I was to live in a room that doesn’t required sticky-tacking plants to the counter.

I retrieved the dingy purple rug from the closet and lay it in front of the sink, touching as little of it as possible, never more in love with my laundry machine. But no time for relief. As much as I was maddened by the state of Isa’s mobile home the entire time I lived there, and especially in this moment, I was fueled by and moved furiously toward my vision of seeing Isa exhale and smile.

I located her red nailpolish, her eye-liner, her contact case, her silver-painted toothbrush holder, her Japanese jewelry-case and her beloved skeleton-earrings made of Shrinky Dinks — I arranged the items nicely on the mini, gold-speckled bathroom-counter after wiping every last corner with my own stash of Clorox wipes.

I retrieved Isa’s purple mini-moped (the “dingy” of the RV) from the driver’s seat, and heaved the hulking, unruly toy to the back of the RV where I sent it crashing into the shower. “That’s where I keep my mini-moped,” Isa had told me, guffawing and pointing to where it sprawled in the shower’s basin, as if the moped had insisted on it like a child would insist on wearing plaid and stripes in the same outfit. I moved furiously with great aggravation and great longing to provide a moment of relief for Isa.

I removed the trash from the bathroom, refusing to imagine its contents, banged out of the flimsy fucking door, jumped onto the parkinglot, and recoiling as I released the plastic bag it into a trash can. I jogged back to the RV, jumped up, left the door ajar to get one inhale of Marina-air, and continued.

I leaned the ladder back up against the bunk. I put the batteries back into the radio. I shook out The Chihuahua’s bed and arranged it on the couch next the folded orange fabric. I returned the Hello-Kitty alarm clock to the bunkside. I returned the small paintings to the walls from whence they were flung, blocks of obscure shapes resembling something-intended, I shoved them into the thin fake wood, flattening the Sticky Tacky as Isa strolled along the bay, toward her home.

I flung the now-solid coffee out the door and disappeared inside again as it landed with a moldy thud on the asphalt. I retrieved objects from the closet where I had hidden them from my consciousness: oily bottles of oil, sticky box of sugar, gunk-coated pots. I returned these objects to the cabinet above the sink. And then with frenzy, I swept — sending particles spewing  and flying out the front door to rain down on the parking-lot.

I now see Isa’s bright Nasturtium up close. It is velvety and purple in her black curls. It looks pretty. She is relaxed. Her glasses rest on her nose, enormously encircling her black eyes. Freckles trickle down her nose. She breaths deeply. She exhales audibly. She is home.

“We’re home, Tessa” she tells the Chihuahua, curled in her arms. I apologize for not wiping the Kitchen counters. She looks from the Chihuahua to me. “You don’t understand. Meg. ” she says and looks up at the tan and brown monstrous vehicle that is her home. “I was prepared for it not being here, somehow – somehow being towed — or caved-in,” She ponders more options, “Or burned down. Somehow. No this is — This is great,” says Isa, and then climbs the steps, disappearing with Tessa and yells, “Oh my god this is really great.”

I drive Tessa and Isa across the lots to where I last left Isa’s red Volkswagon, Ruby, three months ago, looking out over the Marina and Mount Tamalpais and few clouds. We both exhale to see it was still there. Isa gets in and I hold Tessa’s leash — the little paws tap-tapping on the asphalt as she adjusts to not being in Isa’s arms.

Ruby starts and Ruby drives. Isa is elated, astounded. “So things are smoothing out, eh?” I say gently and gladly.

I wanted Isa, to nod and say yes and then for us to part ways as the sun sank deeper red and dappled the bay. But she followed up the yes with “…except” … “my mom gave the house to social security to pay off her medical bills. I could have sold it for 150,000 dollars but no, she, not in her right mind, signed off on it.” And I can’t help but get distracted by Isa’s missing molar as she speaks of the house, social security and her mom. I steal glances beyond her at San Francisco floating on the water. My attention returns when Isa uses the verb “ship” to describe what she could possibly do to her mother, who is still alive, if obese.

“If I ship her back to Virginia, she could get Medicaid and then she wouldn’t need to use the house, but that would cost me 300 dollars which I don’t have, only to find out that I might not even get the house.” “Oh” I reply, gathering every ounce of empathy I have, which, I’m ashamed to find, is very little. I spent the last of my energy making her RV a little less awful, and I was done.

My strategy for releasing myself from the troubled Isa was to hand over Tessa’s leash. Isa did not get the hint, but thankfully, the Chihuahua repeatedly jumped and punched its teensy paws at Isa’s shins. As she bent and gathered the dog, as she had done a thousand times before, she was ready to say goodbye. “Best of luck, Isa” I said, genuinely, and welcomed her into a hug. “Thanks” she guffawed into my shoulder, “I’ll need every bit of it.” And then, as if she remembered about her RV not having burnt to the ground and her Volkswagen not having rolled into The Bay, she called out after me with laughter, “Thanks, Meg!”