Beyond the Pale Motel (15 page)

 

#10

 

I did take Scott's advice about having a party, though. Without telling Bree, I got Botox from her ex-Vampire, who assured me I wasn't starting too early, that many of his patients were already getting injections in their twenties.

As he prepared to stick the needle in with his long, pale hands, I said, “I have a high tolerance for physical pain but not for emotional.” Too much information.

He looked down at me blankly with his blue-ice eyes that contrasted with his black hair. “Good,” he said. “Because this is going to hurt.”

But he didn't warn me that it was going to bruise. Bree never bruised. Mine were bad—dark smudges. I covered them with thick makeup, but my clients at work kept saying I had something on my face and one lady even tried to rub the bruises off. I wondered if they'd be gone by my party. I had this idea that I had to look good that night, in case Dean showed up.

Because I had stooped low enough to invite him. Yes, I realized he was an asshole who had fucked me and then disappeared. Yes, I was aware that I was moving my pain about being alone around from man to man. No, I couldn't stop.

He had e-mailed me back saying he was sorry he'd been out of touch, he'd been on a book tour and just going through a lot and he would try to make it. I wished I didn't give a shit whether he came or not.

On the night of my party, my bruises still showed under the makeup. I'd prepared lasagna, salad and nonalcoholic tiramisu, hoping to distract everyone from my appearance with my culinary talents. There was also the distraction of organic red wine and rum punch for the folks who drank. I lit candles, hoping to hide in the dim. I played music loud, hoping to hide in the din. It didn't work.

Scott came by early, gave me a quick kiss, said he wasn't feeling great but he loved me and was so glad I'd taken his advice and thrown myself a party—I deserved one. I wanted to tell him what was going on with me but it felt selfish since he wasn't in such great shape himself. So when he left I went to find Shana for some moral support, but Bree said she had a headache and went home early, too.

“She wished you a happy birthday,” Bree told me.

I told Bree that I was freaked out. Ashamed that I'd invited Dean. Ashamed of the bruises on my face. She dragged me into the bathroom and plastered more makeup on me. The foundation was cakey and thick and I stared at the mask in the mirror.

We went back out and I refilled some people's drinks. The alcohol fumes made me a little dizzy. I remembered I hadn't eaten, but then I got busy talking to Todd and Rick and forgot.

I checked my cell phone. Dean hadn't texted—no surprise.

Stu showed. Surprise. He had come back to the salon after our encounter, and Bree forced him to pay and apologize to me. I apologized for nicking him. That was that, except for the surge of nausea I felt whenever I thought of him—much like smelling sausage pizza from which I had once contracted food poisoning as a child.

What the fuck? He told me that he'd overheard us talking about the party and he wanted to come and make a peace offering. Kendra had given him my address. Why would she do that?

“You have something on your face,” Stu said, handing me a plate covered in aluminum foil.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

I turned around and bumped into the chest of a tall man in a pressed white dress shirt; he was holding a large bouquet of roses with gradient petals shaded from white to pink to red. I looked up at his strong jawline. It was Cyan. My chest was full of flowers.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

“Why are you here?”

He smiled with the dark blueness of his eyes. “I came by to surprise you and saw all the activity. I hope you don't mind.”

“No,” I said. “I'm glad you're here.”

“I can't stay long. I'm just passing through. But I wanted to bring you these.” He handed me the flowers and I thanked him.

Bree came up. “Do you want me to put those in water?” She was staring at Cyan. He nodded at her. “They're beautiful,” she said.

He turned back to me. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“I was too excited.”

“You should eat.” He took me over to the table and I took a chocolate chip cookie from a plate someone had set there. It tasted sweet and dense. I thought of Cyan's mouth on mine, his cock touching my cervix. I didn't want him to leave.

“Want to dance?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I don't dance. You go dance.”

Ladytron was blasting something electronic and spacey. I took Bree's hand—she was still watching Cyan intently—and pulled her into the middle of the living room to dance the way we used to in the clubs, close and sexy so the men would notice us. Or, I guess, me, because they would have noticed her anyway. Maybe Cyan would watch me dance. I thought of taking off my heels but decided I'd look better with them on even if my feet hurt. My silk dress—the one I'd worn the night Dash left and not since—was wet with sweat.

We danced a long time. Then Bree wasn't there. I was dancing with Deirdre, the anorexic model. I couldn't remember Deirdre being there before? She looked so thin I wondered how she could stand up, let alone dance. There were bruises all over her bare legs. I thought,
There is a skeleton of pain beneath your flesh and I can see it.

Everyone is in pain.

Where was Cyan? Where was Bree? I stopped dancing and went to find her. Todd and Rick were standing in the hall. They looked hollow eyed like they were discussing the end of the world. I thought,
They're going to break up tonight. And there's nothing I can do about it.
I tried to explain to them that something was terribly wrong but I couldn't articulate.… In fact, I was having trouble speaking.

Where was Bree? Why had Shana left? I wondered if she was mad at me. Maybe she thought I shouldn't have served alcohol. My blood hurt.

I checked my cell phone. Dean had left a message. The pain in my body lessened as if someone had sucked it away with a big straw, or pulled it out with their teeth. Until I read the text:
Got caught up with something. Hope you had a happy birthday.

Pain crashed through me again. I'd more than half expected this from Dean, but I had also really wanted the escape. I texted him back:
U r a manticore.
I thought,
Where's Cyan? Maybe he left. That would be a bad idea anyway. I am falling in love with him; never sleep with a man you are falling in love with. Wait, that doesn't sound right … I should text Jarell.
But I suddenly couldn't figure out how to send a text.

My mouth was so dry it felt like cake mix.

I had to find Bree.

There she was. Looking at me with too-big eyes. I could see every pore, every tiny line in her face. (She was due for her Botox and I had fewer lines than she did for once.) I could feel the pain in her blood, too. It was threatening to take her over. She was angry at me.

“Are you fucked-up?” she shouted.

I backed away.
I'm fucked-up. How did I get fucked-up?
I needed to sit down, but where was the couch? I recognized that I was in my house, but why was that wall there? Where was the front door?

I found a couch and sat. Was it my couch? I was sinking into it as if I weighed three hundred pounds. Where were my shoes? Why was everyone in so much pain? Pain was everywhere in the world. It never stopped.

Toddrick was sitting next to me, asking if I was okay. I wanted to tell them to take me to the hospital but I couldn't make my mouth form words.

“Did you take something?” they said.

I shook my head no. It took all the strength I had. I wanted water but I didn't know how to ask for it.

“Did someone give you something? What did you eat?”

I thought for a long, long time. I'd cooked all day. Cooked, cooked, cooked. I hadn't eaten. Anything. Except. The cookie. I tried to tell Toddrick. Or Ricktodd? But I couldn't speak. There was dry cake-mix powder in the pockets of my cheeks. Or something.

Someone was sitting next to me but I couldn't turn my head to look. Then the person leaned forward. It was Deirdre. Her face was too big. Her lips were like fruit hanging off a tree. She said, “You're high. Just go with it. It can be awesome. Really. You'll look back at this and be like, ‘I want to do that again.'”

I tried to tell her that I was an addict and I couldn't get high. How many years had I been sober? I tried to count them but I kept getting confused and starting over again. Where was Bree? I wanted someone to get her for me.

Then she was yelling, “I can't believe she would do that. She just went and blew eleven fucking years? What the fuck.” Her face loomed out of the darkness at me, raging.

She was talking about me. I was “she.” But it wasn't my fault. I had to explain.

“You need to lie down,” someone said. It was Kendra.

I tried to ask her about Stu. Had she really given him my address? It didn't make any sense. I couldn't speak. She smelled like raw honey and her hands were soft. There wasn't pain hiding in her bones or hanging off her shoulders like a coat. Tenderness. Happiness. She helped me up and walked me to my bedroom. I wondered if she would stay and lie with me. Once she had put her hands between my legs. But that had hurt, too. And it wasn't sex. I wanted my mommy.

I wanted Shana.

I wanted Scott.

I wanted Cyan—
no, I mean Dash
. No, Cyan.

No. The person I really, really wanted was Bree.

But Bree, too, was more gone than I knew.

*   *   *

In the morning she came into the room like the sun, hurting my eyes. Her hair was back in a high, tight ponytail and she had fresh makeup on her face. “You look like shit,” she shouted.

“I'm sorry,” I said, cowering.

“I've been up all night cleaning the mess.” Her eyes flared like gas flames.

“I didn't know,” I said. “There were cookies with something in them.”

“What cookies? You ate cookies?” If her eyes could make a sound, they would have shrieked like sirens. She pulled her hair out of the ponytail, smoothed it, put the ponytail holder back in again. There was a red mark on her wrist where the ponytail band had recently been.

“I think Stu brought them,” I said. Each word was like spitting a cotton ball out of my overstuffed mouth. “There was a plate with foil.”

“If Stu did that, don't you think someone else would have gotten high? And I didn't see any cookies anyway.”

“They were there!”

Bree ignored me and surveyed the room. “The house looks great,” she said. “I was up all night.” Her voice was shrill.

I got out of bed and followed her into the kitchen, shuffling my heavy animal feet. There were trash bags lined up neatly by the door, and the floor had been mopped clean. The only thing she hadn't done was touch the bottles of rum and wine. They stood on the table fermenting. I picked one up to pour it into the sink.

“Don't touch anything,” Bree snapped. “You're still high. You'll make a mess.”

“I'm sure this was kind of triggering,” I said. “I'm really sorry.”

Bree's mom was a complete mess, addicted to the pain pills she took after her many plastic surgeries. So, growing up, Bree kept the house clean and herself looking perfect. She learned how to do hair and makeup, take photos and arrange flowers; she designed and made her clothes. That had been the way she dealt with things. And then she started to drink and use as a way to deal with things, but she still always managed to have a clean house and great hair, makeup, and clothes.

“You must be angry. But I didn't know…”

“I'm not angry,” Bree said. “Don't tell me what I feel, Catt.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Just get back to bed. You'll break something.”

“I'm going to take a shower.” But I just stood there. I felt like I should eat, but the thought of the leftover lasagna and soggy salad Bree had wrapped in plastic and put in the fridge made me sick, and there wasn't much else. I got some water, but Bree seemed to want me out of the kitchen as soon as possible. The hell out. Of my kitchen.

“You'll probably have some flashbacks for a few days,” she said as I slippered my way to my room, head hanging. “You'll lose things, forget things and shit. Good luck at work Tuesday.”

Bree left a few hours later, after she had done the laundry and scrubbed the bathroom with bleach. I kept telling her I was okay and she should go rest but she ignored me. “Go lie down,” Bree kept saying. “You are so still high.”

*   *   *

I hated Sunday nights. Even though I didn't work Mondays, Sunday nights were this blackness encroaching, spreading inside of me. Maybe it was left over from being in school. That night was worse. I was thirty-seven, alone, still fucked-up. I had lost my sobriety. My eleven years. Lost, like a child who had been abducted, taken from me. I would have to start all over again. But how could I start over?

Bree wouldn't listen to my explanation if I had even been able to articulate what had happened—what I
thought
had happened. She didn't pick up anyway so I texted her,
I'm sorry. I didn't know. I don't know what else to say.
I called Shana but she didn't answer. Wondered (paranoid-ly?) if Bree and her had decided to avoid me together. I thought of calling Dash and decided not to. I could not call Cyan. I knew I'd never call Dean again. Dean, saying all that shit about me
being his. If he had come you wouldn't have eaten that cookie.
No, that wasn't true. The getting high was my fault. And maybe Stu's if he'd brought those cookies. Who else would have brought them? There wasnt anyone I could talk to about it. I didn't want to bother Scott. Finally I settled on Jarell. I don't know why. Maybe because he wasn't my best friend, my sponsor, my ex, my ex's brother. (
I'm just passing through.
Cyan, Cyan. Who once told me, “Your face is so full of love.”) But Jarell had never pretended to care. Yet, maybe he did in some way. Just about me as a person, a friend? Could that be? I convinced myself, yes, a little, and hit the contact.