Rebecca Handler

My daughter and I sat facing each other on the couch, comparing feet sizes. We played word-at-a-time story. One day, a television tried to eat a banana but could not eat the banana because the world was not working.

On the way to Oakland, I drove past a billboard advertising a memorial dedicated to sex slaves during World War II. Then I passed an ad for a brand of marijuana with the words Best Buds written over two women’s bare butt cheeks.

The day a child brought a gun to school in San Francisco, I could have bought weed for my pet. The man at the pet store said it might help our cat relax when we trim his nails. I did not buy the weed but thought of something that happened many years ago. My husband and I were eating dinner at home and arguing about something stupid. As we yelled at each other, the cat ran outside and threw himself off the deck. We sprinted downstairs and found him stuck in a bush, two stories down. We apologized to each other, and to the cat, who was fine.

A friend from Perth visited last week. She is a fish scientist. This is not the only fact that makes her interesting but it is the thing I think about most often, when I think of her. When I tell my children about all the jobs that we don’t even know about, I think of my friend who used to work at a company that makes clothing tags, and also my Perth friend, a vegetarian, who dissects fish for a living.

I took the fish scientist swimming in the bay. I warned her the water was cold but she has swum in the Atlantic and isn’t easily put off. She walked in and said this is nothing and floated on her back like a starfish. I noticed how pretty she is, and how at home in the water she seems, and there I go again, thinking about how she’s a fish scientist.

The water has been saving me lately, the way it always does. Twice a week I swim with my friend who has a new baby and she tells me what her baby is chewing on now, and how he is moving from two naps to one. I tell her I am looking at high schools for my daughter and neither of us can believe that babies become older. Recently I asked my friend if she secured childcare for the baby. She breathed a sigh of relief and said, “The German doula is back from Burning Man.” I told her that should be the name of a story, a story that makes no sense. She told me to write it.

I am at a sushi bar with my husband. We are watching the man with the black spectacles make the rolls. He lays out a rectangular piece of seaweed on a wooden board and scoops and swipes a thick line of rice in the center. Seven slices of bright pink fish dusted with black specks. He carefully forms a roll and squeezes it with a small bamboo mat.

There is a woman sitting on the other side of my husband. She is alone and orders a beautifully arranged bowl of sashimi. “I think that’s the chef’s special,” my husband whispers before popping a slice of fried sweet potato in his mouth. The woman takes a picture of her bowl. She is beautiful. Long slim fingers, perfect black eyeliner, long black hair and a blue wrap dress made of a very thin material. Excellent posture. She could be a finance director or a flight attendant. After she finishes her dinner, the sushi chef reaches over the counter and hands her a complementary panna cotta in a glass tumbler. She claps with excitement and takes a picture of it. After her dish is cleared, a waiter offers her a bowl of red bean ice cream. This woman’s beauty merits two desserts.

I say to my husband, “I guess I’m not pretty enough.” He laughs and tells me to go use the bathroom while he pays for dinner. We are in a hurry. David Byrne is performing at Bill Graham Civic Auditorium. Earlier I asked my husband if he knew that’s where I graduated high school and he reminded me I’ve told him this many times. I am becoming someone who repeats herself. I keep saying to him, “You’ll never guess who Chelsea Peretti is married to.” 

I return from the bathroom and my husband is grinning. He says, “I guess you are pretty enough,” and points to a bowl in front of us. It is a dessert made up of two red glutinous balls. I hate to describe anything other than testicles as testicles but I cannot think of another comparison. Wrinkly red ping-pong balls? My husband eats one with his chopsticks and I watch his face. “It’s unusual but good,” he says, “Some sort of tomato.”

I am pretty enough for the dessert tomato.

It has been a hard few weeks. My family and I moved back to San Francisco after living in Perth for three and a half years. I can say we are adjusting and I can say it will get better, because both of those things are true. But one hour before we got to the sushi restaurant, I was in bed, crying. This is not something that is happening often, but I offer this fact to illustrate an overall state of mind. This is something only time can fix.

We meet up with friends at the concert and wait in line at the bar. I am thinking about a question my daughter asked me last night. We were both reading on the couch and sipping drinks, vodka soda for me, rooibos tea for her. Our cat jumped up and sat between us. My daughter asked me what book our cat would read, if it could read. We tossed ideas back and forth (love stories, mythology) but never settled on anything and then the timer went off because the rice was ready. All these hours later, I am still thinking about a book for my cat.

The concert is exquisite. David Byrne’s voice is like a friendly uncle’s, and his dance moves are less jerky now with age, sexier. Of course he sings Once In A Lifetime. 

And you may find yourself in another part of the world. And you may ask yourself, well how did I get here?

I begin dancing in a room where, nearly thirty years ago, I graduated from high school. Have I told you that?

My friend procured a box of fireworks from a guy in a church basement. Two free cupcakes with each purchase. The fireworks have pornographic names: Golden Shower, Combustion Chamber, Flashing Fountain. My friend tells me he is going to set them off at the end of his street. “Or maybe at Baker Beach,” his wife calls out from the kitchen, where she is making a cherry-almond cafloutis.

He invites me back that night. “Let’s blow shit up,” he says when he opens the door, a cheeky grin peeking out from behind his bushy beard. The wife is now in on the plan, as are two fearless children. The boy wants to try lighting all the sparklers at once. “Yeah, right,” his mom says, pulling a beanie over his head. The girl holds up one of the fireworks. It is called Unglued and has a picture of a gorilla pounding its chest. “This one looks cool,” she says, flipping her shoulder-length strawberry blond hair.

My friend tells me I will be the getaway driver and loads the fireworks into my trunk. I have a new Honda with no license plate. Perfect, he says, tucking two lighters into the front pocket of his jeans. He fills a bucket with water and holds it between his knees as I back out of the driveway.

I remind myself to drive on the right side of the road. Two days ago, I moved back to San Francisco from Australia. My husband and children are at home sleeping while I am across the park, heading into the Presidio at nightfall, with a trunk full of explosives. Welcome to America.

My dad also used to set off fireworks on the fourth of July. Neighbors gathered in the back alley behind our house and sat on folding chairs, wool blankets on their laps. We kids wrote our names in the air with sparklers and tried unsuccessfully to convince Dad to let us light some of the loot. My favorites were the spinning flowers. Sometimes he’d do three or four at a time and we’d shriek, pretending they were chasing us. Little spastic firebombs.

Tonight, we review our options and decide on a deserted parking lot. Once the arsenal is unloaded, we get started. It is pitch black now and we use a phone as a flashlight. We start small with something called Sparkling Glory. The boy wants to light it but his parents tell him no way and to step back.

I peel back the plastic outer layer to expose the wick and hand it to my friend solemnly. “Let’s do this thing,” I say, in my most Dwayne Johnson voice. He walks ten steps ahead, lights it, places it on the ground and jumps back. His wife keeps her hands on the boy’s shoulders. The girl is jumping in anticipation. We are prepared for a big explosion.

Sparkling Glory is more like Overflowing Milk Container. The three adults cock their heads and stare at the neon box, shooting out the smallest, safest, most delicate gold and silver sparks.

“Cool,” the kids exclaim, without a hint of irony. “That’s amazing!”

Their excitement is contagious, and suddenly we can’t light them fast enough, one after the other. Then two or three at once. Soon the kids are lighting them. The kids feel brave and jittery and all of us are laughing and writing our names in the air with sparklers. It’s a blast. 

Is that a siren?

Two police cars are flying down the hill towards us. “Wait,” we say to the girl who is about to light a hot pink box called Starfire. “It’s the police,” we scream at each other. “The police!” We throw the used fireworks in the bucket and conspicuously position ourselves in front of the remaining pile, a Scooby Doo tactic. My friend pulls his son close and says, “Don’t say a word.”

The cops are not here for us. They have pulled over a car and we watch the episode unfold from behind the trees. “Sir, step out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them,” the policeman instructs through a megaphone. My friend’s boy looks scared. “Don’t worry,” I tell him, realizing I am still holding Combustion Chamber, “It’ll be ok.”

We decide it’s best to not light any fireworks in front of the police, so we gather up our empty boxes, discarded plastic wrap and dirty bucket and drive out of the woods. Back at my friend’s house, we light Golden Shower in his driveway. We were saving this one for last, in honor of our president. It was disappointing. “That’s one small bladder,” my friend says, and hugs me goodbye.

It is close to midnight when I crawl into bed next to my sleeping husband. I hear fireworks in the distance. I think of my friends in Perth and wonder what they are up to on a Thursday afternoon. I smell like a bonfire.

I’ve got two hours to kill in the Sydney Airport. I am staring at people and the woman in the coral shirt eating toast just moved her tote bag two inches closer to her chair. Now she is poking at her phone and shaking her foot nervously. The foot is wrapped in Nike, a striped neon design that stings my tired eyes. Her shirt has a zipper down the front and a hood in the back. She is dressed for an all-day outdoor volunteer activity.

I am thinking about a strange occurrence, several weeks old at this point. I dreamed that my husband and I flew into space, but instead of a rocket, we sat on a couch and cradled large melons in our arms. As we ascended, passing spaceships and floating garbage, the melons exploded all over our shirts and helmets. My husband turned to me and said, “I don’t want to have to teach classes to aliens,” and then we both laughed.

When I awoke I called Dave to tell him about the dream. He was fifteen hours behind me, in San Francisco, and I could hear he was on a busy street. “I just left a store,” he said loudly. “I was looking at couches.” I couldn’t believe the coincidence, given my dream about a space couch, but he told me to keep listening, to wait for the weird part.

As he was leaving the furniture store, a couple of backpackers walking past asked my husband he knew anything about quantum mechanics. Dave said yes, and then they asked if he could answer a question for them. My husband replied, “Sorry, I don’t know that much,” and continued walking. Dave could not explain why he did not allow this couple to ask their question, and now, his refusal bugged him. He wanted to know what they were talking about, and regretted this missed opportunity.  

Two people in two different cities, simultaneously having encounters with couches and physics, and one of them avoiding a teaching moment. This coincidence has been floating around in my mind like a satellite, and now, staring at the woman in the coral shirt, I want to tell her this story. She will toss her phone in her tote bag and lean forward, elbows resting on her knees, captivated. This will be a nice way to pass the time.

My daughter’s digital watch lives on her crafts table in the dining room, surrounded by jars of slime, broken markers and gluesticks. The plastic purple watch beeps at 6:08 every night. The alarm is stuck. I half-tried to fix it but eventually became accustomed to the sound. As far as alarms go, this one is pretty mild. The tone sounds like a toy truck backing up. Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep. The whole production lasts about ten seconds.

These days we read during dinner. With my husband across the world, by the time we scoop pasta into bowls, my kids and I have already caught up on the day’s events. There’s no need to talk about a hard test or a mean kid. We’ve done this already. We just want to eat and read. I’m usually scrolling through the news, which means I occasionally groan and say something about the state of the world. One daughter is currently reading Beverly Cleary and the other, something about a soul collector. Sometimes one of us will ask the meaning of a word or if anyone needs a salad plate, but in general we keep to ourselves.

The broken watch often goes off just as we are getting started on dinner. Between bites of bean stew topped with avocado, we look up from our reading. Happy 6:08, we say, and smile. It is a smile of relief. The alarm is a tiny beeping call to prayer, our collective exhale after an emotional day.

We have a lot on our minds. Very soon, after three and a half years in Perth, we will move back to San Francisco. Every day someone asks how we feel about this, and every day our feelings are different. Some days I am excited about Ocean Beach and burritos, and other times the grief sits heavy on my shoulders like a toddler. Being available for my children’s varied emotions, acknowledging my own, plus handling ten thousand logistics is exhausting.

Books are in piles all over the house because we gave away our bookcases. The big gray couch is gone, as is the rug. Artwork is propped up against the wall and large plastic bins are labeled Go Through and Donate? Some evenings, a neighbor will pop by to pick up a side table or a lamp. Recently, a painter was here to repair holes in the wall. He was originally from North Carolina and said Trump is the greatest president we’ve ever had.

Happy 6:08.

The best days are the ones where I forget. But it is getting harder to forget we’re moving when the bedroom dresser is gone and my underwear is in a basket on the floor.

I stare at the birds. The sighing ravens, the kookaburras, cockatoos, the adorable willy wagtails, and of course, the black and white magpies. Some magpies can remember faces for up to twenty years. Hey there, I said to one perched on my car’s side mirror. Remember me.

Last night, after the alarm went off, my older daughter looked up from her book and asked if we can keep the watch for San Francisco. It’ll be fun to hear it beeping there, she said. Of course, I told her. I didn’t add that 6:08 p.m. is the middle of the night in California.

This is the hardest part, I tell my children. The time right before we leave. The goodbyes.

The hardest part for me is wondering if I did the right thing by bringing them here, and if I’m doing the right thing by leaving. Of course there are no answers to impossible questions, so I will cross my fingers and break their hearts to make them stronger.