3

 

After an hour of work, he Googled her and found some TV series credits, The X-Files among them. He checked the Images search results and found a couple of pictures of her and a YouTube video link to a podcast interview recorded two years ago. He clicked the play button feeling uneasy even though the podcast was public, it still felt like spying. It was audio only. Something else unsettled him, he braced for what he might learn about her, perhaps the reason for her frail voice which he felt must be indicative of something. The podcast was about making new starts in life. She talked about her decision go “all in” as a playwright, something she had edged around for most of her life but had never felt ready, or confident, or supported enough to commit to. The diminutive male interviewer asked what led to the change that enabled her to leap that hurdle, knowing of course what is was. In 2017, Eva had survived a single-engine plane crash. There were two others in the plane, the other passenger, a friend of hers, and the pilot, an acquaintance of her friend’s family. Eva was in the back seat, alone. The pilot had come in too fast for the landing and decided to abort but didn’t have enough thrust to clear the trees at the end of the runway. Eva said it was the most terrifying feeling to suddenly feel the plane’s full weight and nothing holding it up. Spencer winced as he imagined her dropping a heavy cast-iron pot on her toe. They had fallen through thick fir and cedar branches like they were twigs as the wings tore off and the fuselage plummeted. Incredibly, Eva was not hurt except for a small bump on the back of her head. Her friend and the pilot were badly injured and it took months for them to recover.

Eva seemed fine after the initial shock except for some sleepless nights and headaches. But as weeks passed, odd symptoms emerged. Her toes went numb, but only for a day. Another day, she was short of breath and went to the emergency, but they found nothing. One day a rash on her arm appeared but cleared up after a week. As the year progressed various other symptoms came and went, some new, some recurring.

“Eventually they narrowed it down to an autoimmune disorder from shock, shock of the plane crash,” she said in the podcast.

“So let me understand this correctly,” said the interviewer, who was obviously an amateur. “You were in a plane crash…first of all, I’m sorry this happened to you, this is just so terrible.” He seemed to have lost his train of thought so Eva jumped in.

“Thank you – I’m okay, in some ways it’s been a blessing because I really take extra care of my health now, what I eat, regular exercise – all the things I should have been doing before.”

“That’s interesting how it takes a health problem to get us to be…healthy.”

Eva chuckled, “Yeah, it woke me up and I cleared out a whole bunch of things I didn’t want in my life and I wonder if I would have ever done that otherwise.”

“Like what’s an example?”

“Well, my divorce.”

“Wow, yeah. Oh my God. That’s the theme here on this series I’m doing – new starts, so for you a plane crash which has this…effect…on your health…but also your personal life, you know?”

“Yes, I got serious about what I wanted and needed. I feel like I’m living my best life now.”

“Amazing, amazing…”

It went on for another 15 minutes. They digressed into travel, astrology, and Vitamin D.

As before, her autoimmune issues had no diminishing impact on his interest. In fact, the overall effect of her pursuing her authentic self and life was impressive and brave and made her seem superhuman and the notion that he was perhaps in the purview of what she truly wanted and needed in life, deeply honoured him. But maybe he had botched it already.

The next day she texted:

 

Hey, I’m free Sunday after 1 if you want to meet up.

He read the text again, fixated. She wanted to see him? Oh! All was not lost?

 

Him: Hi! That sounds great! I could come to your hood and we could walk then have a tea or bite?

 

Her: Perfect. If you want to meet at my place – then we could walk to the park.

 

He felt lightheaded, his heart pattered like a hummingbird, and the moment of seeing her again could not come soon enough. On Sunday, he took the Broadway bus. From there, it was a ten-minute walk south to her place but, naturally, he was early, he had twenty minutes to kill and thankfully there was a used bookstore at the end of her street. But it was as if all the book covers were blank with blank pages because he was already holding her close, his face buried in her dark curls.

The middle-aged man with the long stringy hair behind the counter looked up for a brief moment and seemed to read Spencer’s mind. Buddy, you’ve got to calm down, you’re way up in the clouds. In Spencer’s hands, each book was heavier than the last, as if begging to be put down, gravity was telling him to leave the store and go see her asap. He exited, impatient, despite plenty of time and turned south on her street, shortening his steps to slow his pace.

It was a typical grey, cool day in February, with rain in the forecast. There was a church on the corner. It felt like it was asking him a question about faith. Not in God, which he had no belief in, but faith as a concept. Did he have faith in something? Spring would come, he thought, and things would grow, but was this faith? No, he supposed not, despite how incredulous nature was, it was rather predictable. Faith was the belief in something you could never know for certain and he’d never allowed himself to believe in such things for it felt like a departure from reality, which was already so beautiful and amazing. Why would he need a belief in something outside of that? Chase and catch what is real! That is how you outrun the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

On arrival, he texted:

 

I’m here

 

Her: Be right down

 

It was a grand house converted into apartments that had retained its architectural beauty and charm, thanks to the Portuguese immigrants who had arrived fifty years earlier and had slowly worked hard, buying homes in the area and setting themselves up as millionaires by now, thanks to the insane housing market and their dedication.

Eva appeared from the side door, the curly tallness adorning a bright, flashy smile and uttering ‘Hey’ and vibing good energy despite the grey day. They walked south on her tree-lined street with catch-up chit chat. How was your morning? Good, how was yours, good, work, writing, yes. It took about 15 minutes to reach Queen Elizabeth Park, then it started to drizzle. She flipped up her hood, but ever prepared, he had an umbrella in his backpack which, to his delight, brought them closer under the small black dome. Her smell was basic, soapy. Others were out walking. It was a large central park with something for everyone: picnic areas, golf, baseball, soccer, a kiddie playground, a dog park, many benches, and open fields for frisbee or soccer, and the indoor pool where Eva came to swim, all amongst hundreds of trees.

“What is it about writing plays that attracts you?”

“Hm, I like that question.” She pondered, which gave him a moment to relax because he’d said the right thing. “It’s the only way to talk about me.”

“Was it always that way or is this something you’ve come upon in the last while?”

“Hm, another good question.” She looked at him and smiled, he returned it softly. “Definitely more about me lately, but when I look back, there are things – by the way, I don’t mean me as a character.” She chuckled. “I mean, well kind of, but I write from what I feel about things.”

“How old were you when you started?”

“Thirteen, my math teacher got me onto it.”

“Math teacher?”

“Yeah, he gave me a notebook one day – a pretty nice one, I still have it. He told me it’s a special notebook to write whatever I wanted and how I felt.”

“Oh, cool. Do you know why he did that, was it out of the blue?”

“I didn’t know why at the time and I’m not a hundred percent certain now but he knew things at home were difficult.”

“Great teacher.”

 

“Yep.”

The rain got heavier. “Time for a coffee you think?”

The café had warm brown walls adorned with Mexican calvera art – friendly skulls grinning amongst bright orange flowers.

“This place is new,” Eva said in a low voice as they stepped inside.

There were only six two-seater tables with modest wooden tops and red cushioned chairs. Four red stools lined a counter that looked out the front window onto Main Street, calmly animated with traffic and bobbing umbrellas. The self-serve counter was at the back, fronted by a stunning yet small mosaic of Mexican Talavera wall tiles.

“It’s gorgeous, I love it,” said Spencer.

The barista, a stocky Latin twenty-something, clean-shaven with two braids that reached the middle of his back, waved off a blond business-attired woman in her forties, taking her latte to go. She smiled at them both on the way out as if she knew them.

“Hola!” said the barista, warmly. Eva and Spencer returned the same with goofy smiles. They peeled off their damp jackets and hung them on chairs. At the counter, Spencer motioned for Eva to order. Black tea with milk, no sugar. Him, an Americano, black. Spencer offered her something to eat but she declined.

“I need to eat something,” he informed her. He could feel his blood sugar had dropped, socializing tended to burn up his calories.

They sat, the steam of their drinks floated up between them, her lovely face directly in view, a genuine smile flashing more often, lighting up her eyes and showing off the full spectrum of her perfectly straight teeth. He tried to understand this amount of attraction to a woman nearly 60. His honest take, she was hot. The lines and sagging didn’t take away, they added, this is what he couldn’t comprehend, having had a very different mindset when young, that wrinkles and sagging were repulsive. He compared her to pretty women in their thirties, which he could certainly appreciate, but they couldn’t hold a candle to Eva, who had age, weathering, cracks, the rich spoils of a journey, women in their thirties had none of that. They were untravelled, mostly ignorant, and overall not interesting or worth his attention.

The barista brought Spencer his artisanal sandwich. “Is everything good?” he asked them, diminutive but warm. They smiled broadly and assured him with warm affirmations. “We just opened two weeks ago,” he said quietly as if it were a secret.

“Beautiful, congratulations,” said Spencer and Eva.

The barista looked down at the sandwich of ham, tomato, and queso fresco. “The bread is baked here, I baked it.”

Spencer had already taken a bite and nodded emphatically, giving him the thumbs up. “Wonderful,” he said, still chewing.

“The place is really beautiful,” said Eva, motioning with her eyes.

“Oh, thank you! That’s all Jerome’s work, mi amor.” He laughed. “I just do the food! He is the artist!” Eva smiled endearingly.

He bowed slightly. “Thank you, buen provecho!”

“Gracias!” said Spencer. The barista retreated behind the counter. Spencer offered Eva the other half of his sandwich. “It’s so good.”

“No thanks.”

“A bite?”

She shook her head. “I have to be careful what I eat.”

He knew that referred to her autoimmune condition and nodded respectfully, without asking further. “So what do you like doing for fun?” he asked.

“Live music, definitely.”

“What kind?”

“If it’s live, almost anything – not country, I have to say. I told my friends the best gift to give me are live music tickets.”

“I haven’t seen much lately. I would love to go.”

She leaned forward. “There are bands doing an 80s tribute night at the Biltmore.”

“Ha, really?” He didn’t know if she was joking.

She raised her eyebrows and nodded, serious. “Would you go?”

With blind exuberance, “Of course I would.”

“But there’s one condition.” Her eyes darted to the side. “You have dance.”

He nodded, game for anything she wanted.

“I mean it. Right at the front, in front of the band – no sitting down at the back.”

“Okay, yeah, for sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“I see that,” he smiled broadly. “I’m actually one of those rare guys who likes to dance.” Indeed, he didn’t want to be sitting at the back bobbing his head either and like her, he wanted to rock, but until now hadn’t met anyone with intent so strong as to make him promise. Am I dreaming?

She leaned back with a curt nod and smiled, approving.

“You’ve got a lovely smile, you know that?”

She gave him one that made her eyes sparkle.

Nothing about her nature would have him guess she was into rocking out, but he knew that was the case with him as well. For her, it seemed more about getting up and moving, let it fly before you die. After the plane crash, she was putting herself up front in all the ways she could think of, and now the effects of that disaster were drawing him up as well. At 57, he was going to shake his booty and thought those days were likely over.