Sunday School

By Danielle Mires

Oceanside, Carlsbad, Solana Beach, Del Mar. When I first moved to Southern California those names were music to my ears, a siren song of the vague, lush promise of life in paradise. Names that sparkled like fool's gold, names that glimmered and winked like so many luminous mirages. I moved blindly to this corner of the United States and was promptly hypnotized by the gentle sway of the palm trees, stunned by the surreal warmth, mesmerized by the comings and goings of so many beautiful people. Beautiful people on bicycles, beautiful people with surfboards, beautiful people lounging in coffee shops, beautiful people in Mercedes and BMWs and Mustang convertibles.

I somehow fooled myself into believing that by simply being near such perfection, I was a part of it, I was one of them. Once I moved in I tanned my skin and highlighted my hair, spent my money on clothes and adorned myself with an array of glittery silver jewelry.

But my clothes, my rent, my car, and my leisurely lunches were all a noose around my neck, a noose that was slowly, so slowly, beginning to tighten. Unable to relinquish the fantasy, unable to live within the meager confines of my paltry paycheck, I was forced to turn to a second job, and thus began my time with Whitneys, a small but exclusive catering company.

A strange kind of shame would overcome me when I tied on my white apron and carried my silver tray around the lavish homes of Rancho Santa Fe or Del Mar or La Jolla, the opulent homes of society princesses, publishing magnates, plastic surgeons, and drug company barons. I would run my trembling fingers over the spotless grand pianos, the Picassos, the Dalis; I would stand next to the swimming pools that overlooked the vast, yawning depth of the Pacific Ocean and swoon, near drunk on jealousy and sweet summer air.

As I moved silently through the magnificent rooms, collecting dirty cocktail napkins and empty champagne flutes, I would watch the women in their perfectly tailored suits chatter mindlessly to one another, enormous diamonds adorning their hands and stylish hair cascading over their impossibly slim shoulders. I wanted to talk to them, to show them that I was as well traveled and as well educated, show them that I was more than a waitress, more than a hired hand. I wanted to move with their easy grace, laugh with their silvery voices, and gaze absentmindedly across the room with their gorgeous, jaded eyes.

But those women looked right through me, stopping their vapid conversations only long enough to ask for another glass of mineral water or a morsel of seared tuna. The bile would rise in my throat at these commands, always uttered without so much as a please or a thank-you, always accompanied by a dismissive flick of the wrist. I hated myself for envying those women, envying them because they could ignore me, because they didn't have to care, because to them compassion and empathy were thousand dollar cheques written to one charity or another. With every credit card statement that lay unpaid on my desk, with every tiny paycheck that I deposited into my ever-dwindling account, with every mile that I squeezed out of my old car, I yearned for a chance to be just like them. And then one day, it happened.

It was a Sunday morning, and my catering company had asked me to drive to a home on Moonridge Avenue in La Jolla to pick up a bag of forgotten linens, left from a function they had held the previous week. I rose early to shower and dress appropriately, in my second hand Ann Taylor suit and black pumps, and I started the long drive from my apartment in Oceanside long before I was due to arrive at the house. As I moved south along the Coast Highway the sultry summer scenes slid past the movie screen of my car window. The waves crashed effortlessly on the pristine beaches, sinewy cyclists pedaled serenely along the edge of the roadway, and idle patrons languished in the myriad of cafes that litter the hearts of coastal towns.

As I drove in silence, I felt that familiar tug in my heart, the aching desire to be in someone else's place, whether it be a man piloting his Jaguar XJS or a woman lazily reading the Sunday Union-Tribune over coffee. I drove slowly, savoring these sights, making myself sick with envy, wondering why I couldn't be someone else, someone who belonged in a boutique or a Lexus or a million dollar home, someone with an easy, perfect life. I wondered myself into a blue funk, and soon enough found myself on Moonridge Avenue, walking up to an enormous white house and knocking on an enormous white door.

Slowly the door swung open, and in halting English a small Spanish woman asked, "Are you here for Jasmine?"

I began to explain why I was there, that I was only from the catering company, that my only purpose was to collect a bag of soiled linens, but when her eyes began to harden, I smiled graciously, took fate by the hand, and responded in a strong voice, "Yes, I am."

With a curt nod of acceptance she ushered me into the house, "Come in, come in!" My heart fluttered and I stepped proudly across the threshold, brushing lint from my faded black suit as if it were made from the finest of linen. I threw back my shoulders and assumed an air of indifference, an air that I had watched so many other women master.

What had struck me about the exterior of the house was its plain austerity: for a moment I had wondered if anyone lived there at all. The interior was not much different. Pristine white walls, white tiles in the entrance way, and soft white carpeting in what I guessed was the living room where the maid and I now stood. The old woman smiled, "Sit, sit!" and disappeared, leaving me to consider the path I had just taken. There was still time to back out: all I had to do was find the garage, grab the bag of linen, and be on my way. Nobody would be the wiser. But then I imagined what I would do afterwards. Nothing. The rest of the day stretched before me in a mind-numbing string of empty minutes and hours, a void, a vacuum. So I sat gingerly down on the edge of the clean white sofa, humming softly to calm my nerves. I had a delicious thrill at the thought of meeting Jasmine and seeing either shock or acceptance in her eyes. I wondered how far I could take this game.

Soon the maid returned with a flustered woman, probably in her late 40's, with impeccably coifed bleached blonde hair and wearing a well-cut, conservative black pantsuit. She reached out to shake my hand with her limp grip, and said, in a quivering voice, "Monica, so nice of you to come. We were so afraid that you wouldn't be able to make it. I only wish that Jasmine were here to see you now." Tears came to the woman's eyes. My heart nearly stopped and suddenly I had the feeling that my playful game had taken a shameful twist.

"She had so few friends, you know, that we worried nobody would come to say a final word. I can't tell you how much it means to Greg and me that you are here." She looked at me with shining eyes, a feeble smile playing on her lips. "The limousine will be leaving in about fifteen minutes. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"No thank you, I'm fine." Final words? I should have revealed my identity. Final words?

"Would you like to see her room?" Mrs. Whoever looked so hopeful and so pathetic that I couldn't refuse. I should have revealed my identity right then, but I couldn't. I wanted to keep going. I was Monica now, I was a guest in this home, and I was a friend of the family. I belonged.

"I would love to," I responded, in a lilting, feminine voice that I barely recognized, as I reached for the woman's hand and patted it reassuringly. She looked relieved.

"Follow me."

We walked towards an imposing wooden staircase, dark polished wood with the same soft white carpeting running up to meet the second floor. So far every wall that I had seen was the same eerie perfect white, with the occasional conservative, nondescript painting hanging in isolation here or there on a wall, like cacti in a desert. Mrs. Whoever (I would have to figure out her name) glided effortlessly up the stairs like a ghost, chattering to me about Jasmine's room and how it hadn't been touched since the "unfortunate incident." My heart began to pound. This lady was leading me to the mysterious girl's bedroom like an executioner leading a prisoner to her fate.

"Here we are," Mrs. Whoever said proudly of the room. The walls were still the same maddening white, with the same soft white carpeting spread across the floor, and more depressingly plain décor. Dark wooden furniture, a dark green bedspread, and more uninspired art clinging desperately to the smooth, white walls. The room, and indeed the whole house, had the antiseptic air of a hospital or mental institution. I was beginning to feel a bit mental myself. What would Monica say?

"I love the paintings," said my unfamiliar voice again. I scanned the room for a photograph of Jasmine, but the dresser stood stubbornly, naked of any personal effects, and the bedside table was home only to an alarm clock and a tube of Chap Stick.

"She chose them herself. She has such good taste. Oh God, had such good taste." Her voice faltered, and I put my arm around her, praying that she wouldn't start to cry. She seemed to appreciate my touch, and we stood there together for a moment, her thin shoulders and soft hair pressed against me, her Chanel perfume enveloping us both.

"Maybe we should go downstairs and wait for the limo," I offered hopefully.

"You're right, dear. Let's go." She hurried out of the room and I followed her back downstairs to the living room. One damn family picture. That's all I wanted to see. Did these people live in this house or was it just for show? Mrs. Whoever was dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. Her appearance was about as nondescript and perfectly maintained as that of her home. For some reason this bothered me. A boring Sunday didn't seem like such a curse after all. But the limo arrived just as I was mustering the courage to reveal my identity. Then Mr. Whoever walked brusquely into the room.

"Let's go, Cassandra," he barked without looking at us, "the service is at noon."

Mrs. Whoever stepped quickly towards him and gently lay a hand on his arm. "Oh Greg, dear, Monica is here." She smiled weakly at him.

"Hello Monica. We're so glad that you could make it. Jasmine would be pleased." He spoke as if this were a business arrangement, and I accepted his hearty handshake and bit my tongue when his gaze rested a moment too long on my bustline. Once inside the limo, Mrs. Whoever - Cassandra - sniffled and toyed with her Kleenex while Mr. Whoever - Greg - barked orders on his cell-phone. I gazed out of the window and marveled at my stupidity. This was, I thought, the height of insensitivity, but I couldn't admit my true identity. I nestled back into the leather seat and watched the scenery slide by the polished, tinted glass, saying my new name under my breath - MoniCA - with an assertive kick at the end.

We arrived at a small church about 10 minutes away. There weren't many mourners, and I was unnerved to see an open casket yawning ominously at the end of the aisle. A blue-haired old woman turned to look as we walked towards the front of the church, but the handful of other people just sat and stared at whatever people stare at when they're trapped in a pew. The organist was playing something appropriately melancholy. Cassandra grasped Greg's arm, sniveled loudly, and with a weary sigh Greg patted her hand and glanced quickly at his watch. He seemed to be thinking about football or lunch, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was Jasmine's birth father.

The three of us sat together in the foremost row; somehow Greg ended up between Cassandra and me, and he put one arm around each of us, squeezing my shoulder with a beefy hand. I swear he kept sneaking glances at my crotch. I crossed my legs away from him and tried to shrug his hand off of my shoulder, which only seemed to tighten his grip.

After what seemed like an eternity, a Priest made his way to the podium. The organist laid off the melodrama, and Father Somebody began his tired speech about ashes to ashes and how we will all miss Dear Sweet Jasmine. Between the canned eulogy and Greg's lecherous grip, I was having a hard time mourning my dead friend. I reckoned that Monica wouldn't have stood for such manhandling, but just as I leaned forward to disengage myself from the octopus by pretending to scratch my ankle, I heard the Priest say, "And now I would like to invite the friends and family of Jasmine Crestwell to say a few words in her memory."

Cassandra leaned over and whispered, "Monica, please go up and say a few words. You knew her better than anyone. I just can't bring myself to go up there right now. Please."

She looked so pathetic, so trusting. Her promiscuous husband moved his paw from my shoulder to my leg, licked his dry lips, patted my thigh, and said, "Yes Monica, please say a few words." A siren was sounding in my mind: I was being asked to be the last person to speak for the lost life of a human being, a human being whom I had never even met! The absurdity of the situation floored me - not so much my illicit participation, but the fact that even if I weren't here Cassandra would still be sniffling, Greg would still be staring off into the distance, and nobody outside of the Crestwell's perfect lives would give a damn about the untimely passing of their only daughter.

I stood up, slightly dizzy, but instead of heading straight to the podium, I made my way over to the casket, as if drawn by an invisible rope. I had to get at least one good look at the girl in whose memory I was about to speak.

I took a deep breath and stared down into the casket. I don't know what I expected, but with such a fragrant and beautiful name I was shocked to see such an awkward and horsy looking girl laying so uncomfortably in the smooth satin lining. She was dressed in a pink linen suit, which clashed violently with her bright red hair and pale freckled skin. Her large features and fleshy limbs unnerved me, and I could imagine this oafish girl lurking in that maddeningly perfect house, every smooth white wall and spotless acre of carpet an insult to her gawky body and violent coloring. I could see her perfect mother watching her bumble through the house, trying not to be disappointed that her only child was so cumbersome and displeasing to the eye, and I could see her arrogant father watching the same girl and wanting to hurt her for being so ugly. I remembered my own father's rage when I brought home bad grades or forgot to take out the garbage, how my mother would cry and implore him to stop, how they would fight into the small hours of the morning and then fall into bed amid the creak of bedsprings and groan of floorboards.

Staring down at the dead girl, I felt my own childhood flooding back, and I reached out and grabbed the side of the casket to steady myself. I continued to stare into her expressionless face, wishing that I could talk to her, wishing that I knew why she couldn't take it anymore. It's arrogant and presumptuous for me to say, but part of me was glad that Jasmine was safely resting in that wooden box. Whatever her discomfort in life, whatever her mistakes or misgivings, it was all over. She had nothing to worry about anymore, and for a moment, for a few minutes, I was actually jealous.

I don't know how long I stood in front of that yawning casket, but I soon realized that I had to say goodbye to this strange girl, as much for me as for her. I wondered if things would be different if I had met her a week or two sooner, if I or Monica or somebody could have made a difference. But I knew that was just sentimentality. I would have looked at her the same way that I looked at all the people swarming the streets of Carlsbad and Encinitas and Solana Beach and Del Mar. Perfect people living perfect lives, without so much as a care in the world. I was so caught up in my own petty jealousy and my own insecurity that I would never have been able to see the desperate look of loneliness on Jasmine's or anyone else's face. All I could see were the flawless facades, the beautiful faces, the glossy exteriors hiding the frightened humans within.

The tiny congregation was getting restless. I was taking too long. I spun around, delirious, and announced in a clear, loud voice, "She was the best friend that I could ever have hoped for. Loyal to the end and always there when I needed her. I can't believe that she's gone. I just can't believe it."

Cassandra wailed, Greg licked his lips, and the congregation sighed. I hated myself right then, hated myself for carelessly intruding into these people's lives, for passing judgment like some kind of holier-than-thou princess, for wanting to spice up my own dreary life by altering theirs. I covered my eyes as if to hide tears of mourning, and slunk back to the pew to sit down, ashamed. Cassandra reached over and grasped my hand, and I squeezed it hard in response. Greg again had his arms around both of us, and we sat there, a triumvirate of awkward grief, clutching one another for solace.