A love story.

Sundays are my least favorite day of the week. There is ample evidence I’m not alone in this opinion. Hospital workers are reported to dread Sundays; it’s the day most home accidents occur and statistically the day, you’re most likely to be murdered by someone close to you.

This Sunday begins the third week of my new life.

Last month I had my seventieth birthday and with it came the revelation that I wasn’t going to live forever, no matter what new gene therapy is discovered.

I took a personal inventory: I’m a single woman in relatively vigorous health, still have my original parts and mental capacity, have no close family.  

I asked myself. “When are you going to live in a country where a person your age isn’t considered a nuisance, or a number in a bed at a no-frills, corporate-owned, assisted living facility?   And answered, “If not now, when?”

It’s amazing how fast things fall into line once a decision is made. Leasing the house I’d bought thirty years ago in Santa Monica, California, to a young tech couple, who considered three thousand dollars a month rent a steal, was the first step. Packing the Jeep and my dog, Red, I drove south to Mexico where I rented a small, casita in Puesto Del Sol, a gate-guarded community on the North Pacific Coast of Mexico, surrounded by untouched, natural beauty.

Though I’ve only been here a short time, I’ve have a feeling of freedom that I last experienced in my twenties when I lived in Greenwich Village, New York and worked as a waitress at a Chess and Folk music café, while hoping The New Yorker Magazine would accept one of my stories about my friends and the below Fourteenth Street theater and music scene.

This morning I took Red for a nice walk on the beach, returned and made a fresh cup of coffee. I can see the ocean from my kitchen window. I took my coffee and a large yellowing, hard-covered book about Mexico’s colonial cities that I’d found at the bottom of a stack of ancient TIME magazines, to the front patio and got comfortable in the chaise.

I awoke after a nice nap. A lovely, boring Sunday.

This was my frame of mind when my neighbor Bryan appeared at the edge of the short wall that surrounds the patio. He is a slightly pudgy man with white, curly-hair who favors Rolling Stones T-shirt, baggy cargo shorts and sandals. To me he resembles the character of Doc Brown in the movie classic, “Back To The Future.”

On my initial morning here I found him seated at a three-legged round patio table when I opened the door to let Red out for a pee. He was surprised to see me. He thought the house was empty, though the lights were on and my Jeep parked in the driveway…but, never mind.  Bryan introduced himself, explained that he lived across the road with his wife, Vicki, and that he’d taken a microdose of mescaline the night before and would leave as soon as he saw the sunrise. I have a high tolerance for eccentrics and Bryan kept his word.

His reason for stopping by this afternoon is to invite me to dinner with him and his wife, Vicki.

I guess I paused a half-second too long before my response, because Bryan added that in addition to dinner there’s a rerun of 60 Minutes about seventies soap opera stars that features Vicki’s mom, an actress who played the legendary villainess everyone loved to hate. He’d heard I was a writer, so he thought I’d be interested.

I’m not that kind of a writer, but I don’t clarify because a foot doctor and a brain surgeon are both doctors, they just work different corners. And I don’t ask who was gossiping about me because, like my dog, I’m grateful for attention.

Also, it’s a chance to meet his wife, Vicki.

At 6:30 p.m. I’m showered, washed, wrestled my hair into a semblance of order, applied mascara, am wearing clean jeans, a yellow cotton sweater, comfortable sandals, and standing in front of the massive, hand carved wooden door of Bryan and Vicki’s imposing house.

I knock. From inside I hear their Labradoodle rescues barking an alert and Bryan’s voice calling, “Come in!”

Pushing open the door I’m greeted by the dogs nosing my privates as I enter.

Their house has a big Wow! factor as they say in real estate.  It’s gigantic. Cathedral ceilings, a vast Great Room, walls covered in art. I spy a fireplace at the far end of the room and beyond that a glass enclosed terrace.

Bryan stands at a stainless-steel counter slicing a cucumber. He’s dwarfed by the size of his surroundings. Within his reach is an open bottle of German beer and a Vape pipe.Their kitchen is equipped with restaurant quality appliances.

I see his wife seated at the kitchen bar. She has earbuds in and is looking at her laptop. She glances up as I enter and recognize her. We’d chatted a few days ago on the beach while our dogs stopped for a bit of sniff and wrestle and we did the human version, asking “Where are you from? What’s your name? Turns out we’re both originally from New York City. We’d grown up ten blocks, and worlds, apart.

Vicki is a small woman spread at the middle. She has boyishly short grey hair and skin like an aging English actress who’s proud she’s never had cosmetic surgery.

By comparison, I’m slightly taller than average for my generation, slim and, so far, lucky in the gene lottery, having inherited my Italian grandmother’s olive skin tone and my father’s metabolism.  My face has been sanded, heated, massaged, hydrated and not touched by sunlight in forty years and I will probably have a chin and neck lift in the near future because the person I see in the mirror every morning is me. I believe visual aids help.

And here I am in her house to have dinner and to watch a TV rerun about Vicki’s mother the soap opera star. And does Vicki even know I was invited by her husband?

She is dressed exactly as she was the day we met on the beach: navy sweater and green pants, red Merrill walking shoes. She looks at the laptop. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t recognize me.

Bryan says, she’s on a Zoom call with their son in India.

I ask about his son; what he does in India? But Bryan’s more interested in telling me what he’s planned for dinner: Butter lettuce salad with plant-based sausages, sugarless ice cream for dessert because Vicki’s diabetic. He tells me like it was a mild allergy and not life threatening.

He reaches for his vape pipe, takes a toke and offers it to me. I wave it off. My days of doping are done.

I’m wondering if it’s just us three for dinner here in this huge house?

Bryan points to several wine bottles he’d opened a few days earlier that he says are still good. The red wine has a milky film, the white wine is cloudy. The Rose looks possible. He pours me a glass; I take a sip and spit it back.

“Bad? Really?” He seems genuinely shocked.

Vicki’s finishes her call, wipes her eyes with a tissue and blows her nose. Bryan asks about their son.

She ignores him and looks at me. “He had Malaria but he’s recovered.”

She apologizes for being distracted when I arrived Bryan hadn’t told her I was coming,r but she’s glad I did. She asks about my dog, Red. So, she does remember our meeting.

I compliment their house and she offers me a tour. Among the art on the Great Room walls is a Warhol painting of a raven-haired beauty, Loretta Barrett. “My mother,” Vicki says. “She was against my marriage.”

Bryan in the kitchen must have Superman’s hearing because he calls out. “Your mother loved and trusted me. She bought the Santa Barbara house for us to get you out of New York far away for your Coke dealer

“Like there were no drug dealers in California,” Vicki snarls.

“I promised her I wouldn’t let you die and I’ve kept that promise,” Bryan responds.

“Why do you say things like that?” She demands, then turns to me with a long-suffering look, “Ignore him he’s an alcoholic.”

“That’s true. I’m an alcoholic who gave up his law practice to bring up our children while their mother…”

“Shut up.” Vicki screams.

And I’m thinking, okay, my neighbors are slightly crazy. I should do the sensible thing and say I have stomach cramps or epilepsy and get the fuck out of here, but at the same time my writer’s mind clicks “ON” like a tape recorder and I’m sucked in. Reminder: addictions take many forms.

“I hate my husband,” Vicki tells me, though I didn’t ask.

Vicki shows me the views from their terrace is built out overlooking a canyon and their history: how hardly any people or homes were there when she and Bryan built their house and that she rode her horse every day until it died. She had him buried on the adjacent lot and that people were always asking to buy it. Vicki gives me a pointed glance and says,”I’ll never sell it.” 

Buying her horse’s grave never entered my mind.

Our tour ends back at the kitchen, the coziest, warmest space in the house. The dogs rest on floor mats near the oven.

“We eat here most of the time,” Bryan says indicating the granite topped breakfast bar. He moves Vicki’s laptop to a corner. Their TV is attached to the wall at a neck-wrecking angle over the counter.

“Sit on the end,” he says, “It has a better view”

Vicki picks up the remote, turns the TV on and presses Mute. The TV displays advertisements for erectile dysfunctions, and commercials for heart attack medications confirming my decision to get rid of television when I moved was a good one.

Bryan, our Lord of the kitchen, places salad dishes and a bowl of assorted cheeses and a plate of crackers on the counter between me and his wife. I taste a piece. “Parmesan mixed with a Gouda,” he says.

“Wine?” asks Vicki.

“You have your choice of wines we’re experimenting tonight. I found these in the Valle de Guadalupe. You have a choice or red or white organic or regular.”

The sour wine foisted on me at arrival makes me cautious.

They have no sulfites,” he adds.

“Less sulfites. All wine has some sulfites,” Vicki corrects him.

“We built this house so we could grow old here.”

Vicki narrows her eyes. “We built it to die in.”

It was like being at a Punch and Judy puppet show. Only Vicki and Bryan were human and used words, not sticks to pummel each other.

I wonder their age as I reach for a pretzel. Surely, we’re all in the same range.

“Are you ready for salad?”

Vicki moves her head slowly as if an answer takes too much energy.

“Vicki,” Bryan sounded alarmed.

I glance at Vicki. She’s staring down at the granite counter.

“Vicki,” Bryan repeats. No response. He leans across the counter, grabs her wrist to see the Apple watch. He presses medical alert. The word LOW appears and a warning ding.

“A little late,” he murmurs, letting go and dashes to a kitchen shelf, grabs a bag of chocolates tearing it open as he returns and pushes a piece to Vicki and commands, “Eat it.”

I’m bewildered. What the hell is happening? What should I do? I don’t know.

Vicki like a robot with a low battery, picks up the chocolate and puts it in her mouth, but doesn’t swallow.

Bryan holds out a second chocolate and her tells to swallow the one in her mouth. Vicki is like a statue.

My mind races. When did I take my last CPR refresher? Six years ago.

I’m like, shouldn’t we call 911? But Bryan acts like he knows what to do. Then again, he’s a man who favors microdoses of mescaline.

Bryan races to the giant refrigerator, opens it, grabs a container of lemonade, pours a glass, comes to Vicki’s side, holds her head and attempts to tip lemonade into her mouth.

“Swallow!” he shouts.

Vicki presses her lips together and shaking her head, refuses.

“Swallow, Vicki,” Bryan no longer commands, he pleads.

It’s Sunday. I know I should’ve stayed home. “Should I call 911?”

“No,” Bryan is firm. Then, amazingly, because he’s neither young, nor physically imposing, he pulls Vicki from her seat, turns her toward his chest as like they are about to ballroom dance and shuffles his semi-comatose wife to their bedroom off the main entry.

Seconds later Bryan reappears, hurries into the pantry and comes out waving a green plastic container.

“Can I help? Should I leave?” I ask

“Want to see?” he asks brightly.

I think: Do I? I’m an innocent bystander. But what if he needs my help? I follow him.

Twilight filters into their bedroom. Vicki is sprawled unconscious, face-up on the bed. One of the dogs beside her

Bryan shooes the dog off the bed. “Down,” he orders as he unzips Vicki’s Cargo pants and exposes one white thigh.

He unwraps the container. “This happens all the time,” he says. “This is injectable glucagon. It’s a hormone that releases glucose into the body.”

The Goldendoodle catches sight of the syringe, jumps off the bed and leaves in a hurry. Apparently, he’s been to the Vet and is acquainted with injections.

“She won’t remember any of this when she wakes up,” Bryan says preparing the syringe.

Vicki looks so helpless that I lean over to pat her other leg as one would sooth a baby.

Bryan stands next to the bed, looking worried. There is a slight tremor of his hand as he prepares to inject his wife. The injection will bring her back from the edge, but if he’s made a mistake and air bubbles are in the solution she will die. He holds the syringe up, presses the plunger. We both see a dribble of fluid from the needle. Then Bryan bends and jabs it into her exposed thigh, emptying the syringe.

Vicki doesn’t move.

I realize I’m holding my breath.

“She’s the love of my life,”Bryan says, “and she hates me, but if I give her a divorce, if I leave her, she’ll die.”

I breathe.

He puts the syringe on a bedside table. “I won’t let her die.” He pulls up her cargo pants, zips them closed, then rubs the spot where he injected her.

These guys play a high stakes gamble.

Vicki opens her eyes, sits up straight and swallows.

Bryan uses his index finger to push her back on the mattress. “If she did that earlier she might have gagged and choked.”

Vicki pops up again. I admire her spinal strength.

“Hi,” he greets her.

Vicki doesn’t reply. Instead, she butt-walks to the end of the bed, stands, looks around slightly dazed.

“Are you going to walk in circles?” Bryan teases and I hear his relief.

Vicki walks out of the bedroom.

“She, okay?” I ask.

“Sure, we’re fine,” Bryan says, following his wife.

He has a loose definition of, “fine.”

The used syringe and box are on the bedside table. 

Feeling slightly rubber-kneed, I pause to calm myself.

The dogs look up from their mats as I enter the hall but stay quiet.

Bryan and Vicki snuggle like honeymooners as they watch 60 Minutes. Vicki’s mother is on screen. Bryan asks if she remembers that they were in the studio booth at the taping of that episode. Vicki’s voice sounds soft and warm as she answers him.

There’s nothing like confronting death to rejuvenate a relationship.

I quietly let myself out and cross the street to my place; the chorus from John Lennon’s, “Whatever Gets You Through The Night,” playing in my head.

ⒸCarol Roper 2024

Copyright 2024 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivatives 4.0 International License. Under the following terms: Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses you or your use.NonCommercial — You may not use the material for commercial purposes. NoDerivatives — If you remix, transform, or build upon the material, you may not distribute the modified material.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Carol Roper: I am a published and award-winning playwright, produced television, screenwriter, blogger and YouTuber.

https://carolroper.com.mx/

Hand Made stories: Humorous tales of friendship, comity, community, anxiety, love and hope among older, American expats in Baja California, Mexico.

https://www.youtube.com/@Carol_Roper