When I was 18 years old, a surprise visit to my boyfriend’s house turned ugly when I found a naked cheerleader hidden in his closet. Experiencing infidelity in all three of my relationships left me wondering what I’d done wrong.
My mother swore that good men were out there. Her advice in securing one was simple. I should be more cautious with the men I offered my heart.
In hope of bringing me out of my broken-hearted funk, she plucked her favorite movie from the collection she kept in the cabinet beneath the television. Although I’d never seen it, I knew the movie all too well. The 1976 version of A Star is Born was as much a part of my mother’s life as Sunday Dinners, decorating for holidays, and feigning excitement each time my father presented his newest hot rod.
She pushed the VHS tape into the machine and reached for the remote. “Anna, I’m telling you,” she said, barely able to contain her excitement, “you’re going to absolutely love it.”
“Mom, I just…I’m,” I stammered. “I’m sad. I don’t need to watch—”
“It’s the best love story of all time,” she argued, gesturing to a massive bowl of fresh popcorn she’d placed on the center couch cushion. “It’s time you see it. Sit down. We’ll watch it together.”
“Is it going to make me cry?” I asked. “You’re in here bawling every time you watch it.”
“Yes,” she replied, placing her hand on my knee. “But the tears will be therapeutic.”
John Norman Howard and Esther Hoffman’s version of the movie did make me cry, but it did little to cause me to believe in anything, especially love. Twenty years later, however, Jackson Maine and Ally Campano changed things.
“They remade A Star is Born,” my mother declared. “It has Bradley Cooper in it. Your father isn’t interested. Do you want to go?”
At the time, I was on the heels of an ugly divorce. Unwilling to believe that men were anything but unfaithful pigs, it was highly unlikely the movie would do anything to convince me otherwise. I was mature enough to enjoy it, regardless.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll go.”
Entering the theater, I had minimal expectations. Lady Gaga could sing, but her ability to act had yet to be seen. So many musicians had tried the big screen, and as many failed. Most did so miserably. I told myself if nothing else, Bradley Cooper’s blue eyes were enough to carry the film.
Although I already knew the story, I rode an emotional rollercoaster throughout the entire film. Lady Gaga did a remarkable job bringing her character, Ally Campano, to life. At the end of the film, her performance of I’ll Never Love Again reduced me to a blubbering wreck. Her contributions, both vocal and acting, transformed me into a different woman. I left the theater believing in my heart of hearts that one day love would find me.
I simply needed to wait until a real-life Jackson Maine stumbled into my life.
Anna
I was the only child in an extremely close-knit Midwestern family. We went to church on Sundays. Please and thank you were second nature. We took vacations as a family, every summer. My father coached my softball team. My mother taught me to cook the same recipes her mother prepared a generation earlier.
She cried the day I left for college.
Although I moved away after completing my education, I didn’t go far. Nevertheless, the fifteen miles that separated us caused her tremendous grief.
It provided me with a sense of self-worth.
After graduating, fifteen years quickly passed. During that time, many things happened. My mother learned to accept my absence. My butt grew. I purchased an affordable building on a corner lot and opened a small exotic car dealership. I got married to a successful man. My father turned sixty-five. My business flourished. Wrinkles became prominent. I got divorced. My father retired.
Immediately following his retirement, my father announced his intention to move away. Not thirty miles or even one hundred. They’d purchased a home 1,443 miles west, in Los Angeles, California.
“You need to come out here,” my mother said. “It’s wonderful. They call it the land of dreams and drought.”
She said it as if the dreams and drought moniker would attract me.
“What does that even mean?” I asked.
“It never rains,” she replied. “Because it doesn’t rain, the sun shines every day. That’s the drought. The streets are lined with palm trees and there are celebrities everywhere. That’s the dream. You should really consider moving here.”
Although it sounded like an interesting enough place to visit, I didn’t go immediately. Life, as always, got in the way. Then, on afternoon before I planned to visit their new home on the palm tree-lined street in the land of dreams and drought, I received a phone call.
The detective gave me a virtual pat on the shoulder.
“At least they died in their sleep,” he said.
The condolences he expressed did little to ease the pain of losing both parents before I gave them grandchildren or even so much as visited their new place of residence.
Deciding what to do with their home wasn’t a simple task. I had two options: stay in Oklahoma and pay a mortgage or move to California and live mortgage free. To many, the decision would be easy. Personally, I couldn’t find many redeeming qualities about Los Angeles. The only one that repeatedly came to mind was the weather.
I meandered through the living room. The furnishings were in complete contrast to what I was accustomed to seeing in my mother’s home. I imagined her explaining how much she enjoyed choosing each thoughtfully positioned contemporary piece that was placed in the room.
I gazed through the window that faced the street. According to my mother, the view was picturesque.
Compared to the one-acre tree-filled lots I was accustomed to seeing, the sight was far from scenic. The view consisted of the neighbor’s two-story home on a postage stamp-sized lot, four unhealthy-looking palm trees, a shallow driveway filled with cars, and a neon green AstroTurf yard.
I couldn’t help but wonder what drew my parents to California. Or, what drew anyone to California for that matter. The sky was hazy and never quite clear, the traffic was horrendous, and everything was overpriced. People didn’t wave, they rarely spoke, and everyone was in a hurry. The streets weren’t lined with palm trees, they were littered with homeless.
Hungry, frustrated, and uncertain of where I was going to call home, I snatched my purse from the end table and sauntered toward the front door. In the ten days I’d been in Los Angeles, eating out had become a guilty pleasure. It saved me from being alone in a home that did nothing but remind me of losing my parents much earlier than I had expected. Eager to beat the morning rush, I locked the front door and turned toward the driveway.
The sun peeked over the top of an adjacent salmon-colored Mediterranean-style home. Positioned midway between Beverly Hills and North Hollywood, along what the locals called the four-oh-five, Sherman Oaks was filled with two-story homes situated on lots barely large enough to encompass them. Many had swimming pools. Very few were fitted with garages. None could be obtained for less than seven figures.
I rolled down my windows and drew a long breath of the cool morning air. After tossing my purse in the passenger seat, I adjusted the rearview mirror and started my playlist. With Lada Gaga’s Shallow my morning’s inspiration, I reached for the gearshift.