Contact (4 page)

After closing the door to
Dr. Walsh’s office I step into the waiting room, a claustrophobic space not much bigger than my walk-in closet at home. A half dozen brown faux leather chairs sit against the walls, with an oval glass coffee table in the center covered with old magazines. A massive fish tank overwhelms the far wall. In it, the entire cast of “Finding Nemo” swim around a forest of pink plastic coral. My mind is not on the fish, but on the fact that Jordan is probably outside, waiting impatiently for me.

All of a sudden my right foot catches on something, and I tumble forward, my face careening toward the carpet. But my fall is cut short. I’m suspended midair above the floor by something pressing into my chest. I look down and see five fingers spread out across the front of my hoodie. Five slim, strong fingers. And then it hits me—some guy’s got his hand between my breasts!

I roll away, and as my shoulder hits the floor I see a pair of orange and lime green checkered Vans at the end of a pair of denim clad legs—the culprits responsible for my unladylike entrance. I scramble awkwardly to my feet, preparing to give the owner of those Vans a piece of my mind.

“I am so sorry about that,” he stammers.

The guy is a little older than me, maybe eighteen, with a head of moppy brown curls—the same color as his eyes, which I admit are rather striking.

“Are you all right, Mira?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Fine,” I say, twisting away from him. Then I stop and turn back. “Do I know you?”

Three other patients witness our awkward collision: an old man wearing a U.S. Navy baseball cap, and two middle-aged women, one with blue hair and one without any hair at all.

“This is really embarrassing,” the guy who tripped me says, lowering his eyes to the floor.

“For who?” I ask quietly to avoid even more unwanted attention. “I’m the one who got groped in public.”

For a second, he raises his gaze and looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Then, realization hits, and every drop of blood in his veins races to his cheeks.

His words come quick. “I am so, so sorry. I was trying to break your fall. I didn’t mean to—I really am sorry.”

“You said that.”

“But I am!” He clears his throat—loudly. “I’m David.”

Pausing, he waits for me to respond. He does look a little familiar, but I can’t place him.

“David Valdez?” he adds hopefully. “I used to go to your school. Graduated last year.”

A vague memory coalesces in my mind. I think he was a senior, though I only saw him at a distance from time to time. As a tenth grader last year I was too involved in my own world to pay much attention to the ‘untouchables’.

“Yeah. I remember you.” I smile back to be polite then glance at my watch, certain Jordan’s outside looking at his too. I just want out of here, but the guy, David, stands between me and my escape.

“Anyway, I’m really sorry about tripping you,” he adds, as the color begins to fade from his skin. “I shouldn’t have been on the floor.”

“What
were
you doing on the floor?”

“Looking for Charlie.”

“Who’s Charlie?”

Lifting his hand to eye level, something gray and glossy looks up at me and blinks. I let out a shriek and leap backwards. My legs collide with the coffee table, and once again I lose my war with gravity. Toppling over, I land butt first on the floor.

When I open my eyes, I see the huge gray lizard perched on the guy’s arm peering at me from between my legs, which are sticking straight up like two Florida palm trees. And that guy—THAT GUY—stands over me with his hand out, presumably trying to help me up. Only he’s got this indecisive look in eyes, like he’d rather I didn’t take him up on the offer. He probably thinks with my grasp of balance I could take him
and
his lizard out.

The others in the room steal furtive glances as I somehow manage to untangle myself. Ignoring David’s hand, I get to my feet for the second time in the last two minutes.

David starts to apologize, but I hold up my hand to stop him. “It’s good,” I tell him. “It’s all good.” Then, without another word, I throw open the office door, step out into the hall, and shut it firmly behind me.

So far this day is
not
going well.

“Blue or red?”

In one hand, Mama holds up a blue satin floor-length dress, a sleeveless number with a simple bow at the shoulder. In the other hand, she holds up a burgundy crushed velvet dress, knee length, form hugging, and strapless.

“How about purple flannel?” I flop down on my bed, bunching my favorite PJs under my head for a pillow. “I don’t want to go to some stupid fundraiser.”

“I don’t know,” Mama says, tilting her towel-turbaned head to one side. “I kind of like the blue. It brings out your eyes.”

“Red.” Papa passes by my bedroom door with a cursory glance. “Definitely the red.”

“Papa!” I toss my pillow in his direction. “Dr. Walsh said I should be resting.”

“Getting out of the house will be good for you,” Papa shouts from down the hall.

I wait for the sound of the bathroom door closing before I speak to Mama in a quiet tone.

“I’ve only been home for a couple of days, and Dr. Walsh
did
tell me to rest.”

“Rest, not hibernate,” she corrects with that comical look of hers. “This evening is very important to your father. If you don’t come, it will just confirm the media rumors.”

“What rumors? Oh, you mean the ones about me trying to kill myself?” I pull up my sleeve, revealing my still bandaged arm.

Mama grimaces and turns away, closely examining the stitching on the dresses. It’s too painful for her, I realize. I’ve upset her. I push my sleeve back down to my wrist.

I sigh, defeated. “Okay. I’ll go if you really want me to.”

Mama smiles up at me, gratitude beaming from her face. “You can borrow my cocktail gloves.” She drapes the velvet dress over my arm and brushes the ends of my hair with her fingertips. “It’s just for a few hours, Mira. Just put it on. Make your father happy.”

As she heads out of my room she pauses, as usual, in front of the photo collage hanging beside my bedroom door. It’s got more than a dozen pictures of me when I was little. Christmas, birthdays, any event big or small that Mama thought warranted a permanent record. Mama gazes at it wistfully, then wipes a smudge from the glass with her thumb and exits the room.

Later, standing in front of my full-length mirror with hair straightener in hand, I wonder how Mama managed to talk me into going to this fundraiser. Out in public is the last place I want to be right now, especially in a velvet gown that leaves too much of my skin exposed.

I pop a pair of diamond studs into my earlobes and reach for the matching choker. Mama’s white silk gloves are already on, making it difficult for me to get the clasp open. I hurry down the hall to ask Mama to help.

“That will do nicely.” Papa nods, sending me a smile of appreciation when I enter the room. I do a model’s spin for him, and he turns to his mirror to adjust his tie.

“The gloves are perfect,” Mama says with a grin. “And I’ve got a shawl to drape over your shoulders. That way if anyone should inadvertently bump into you—”

Papa groans. “You’re not serious, are you?” His expression shifts from pleased to irritated in a fraction of a second.

“Beto, you know how she feels about being touched.”

“Yes, but it’s all a bunch of—”

“Beto!”

“Bull,” Papa concludes. “I thought you’re seeing a psychiatrist. Hasn’t that cleared things up?”

Mama shoots me an apologetic look; when Papa sees it, he fumes even more.

“Mama,” I speak quickly, trying to divert the topic of conversation onto some other path. “Would you mind helping me with this choker?”

She takes the diamond-studded chain in her hand and links it at the back of my neck. She’s so careful not to touch my skin, and I silently thank her for that.

“I sure hope the new planner I hired gets everything right. It’s a good thing you called me when you did the other day,” Mama says, her voice cheerful. She’s in good humor tonight. “That florist at the convention center didn’t know squat.”

“Uh-huh,” answers Papa, distracted with trying to straighten his bowtie in the mirror.

“I wish I could have called that one office assistant you had years ago. Her parents were florists, if I remember right. She always had such lovely arrangements on her desk. What was her name? Jackie, wasn’t it?”

“What? I don’t remember.”

“You mean to tell me that you don’t remember your own office assistant?”

“Why should I?” Papa huffs. “I had several during my years at Rawley.”

“Jackie Beitner. That was her name, I think. You don’t remember Jackie? You hired her through the local temp agency. I know it was a long time ago, but even I remember Jackie. She was breathtaking.”

There is a slight pause before Papa responds, “I may recall… Yes, the young blonde from Bakersfield? Parents were florists, huh?”

Mama laughs. She steps over to Papa and fixes his tie. “Do you think there was any chance she might have been involved?”

He leans back, a look of confusion settling on his face. “Involved?”

“In the Gaudium trials.”

“What? Why would you ask that?”

“Mira, could you grab your father’s gold cufflinks from the dresser there?” Mama says to me, sending me across the room.

“She did work there when all that secret testing was supposedly taking place,” Mama continues. “And do you remember the Christmas party that year? I remember seeing her chatting with Gregory Stark on the balcony. Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But with everything that’s been in the press lately—”

“That’s a little far-fetched, Ana, don’t you think?” interrupts Papa. “She only worked for us a short time, if I’m not mistaken. Besides, you saw the list of trial participants when they released it to the public last week. Her name wasn’t on it.”

I drop the cufflinks into Mama’s hand, and she fastens them to Papa’s sleeves.

“You read too much into things, Ana,” his voice sounds like a teacher telling his student to relax. “In any case, I’ve got enough on my mind without worrying about who may or may not have had a conversation at a party more years ago than I can even remember.”

“You’re right, of course,” Mama agrees. “I’m sorry, Beto. Let’s just concentrate on tonight and having a wonderful time.”

Papa turns and gives Mama a quick kiss, then another.

“I think I’ll go finish getting ready in my room,” I say, not wanting to stick around in case things get any kissier. As I turn to leave, I nearly crash into Jordan coming through the door.

“Wow!” His eyes shine. I do a little curtsey for his benefit. “You’re a knockout, Sunshine.”

“You’re not half bad yourself,” I tell him. And he’s not, although in his tails and gloves I can’t decide if he looks like Fred Astaire or a butler.

Papa waves him over, and the two of them start talking about tonight’s event. I hear several names of important people tossed out, and Jordan advises Papa how to approach each one so as to make the best possible impression. That’s my cue to leave.  I still need to find my heels, which are buried somewhere in the back of my closet. It’s been a while since I’ve needed them, and I’m hoping they’re still in decent shape. I’d ask for Mama’s, but she wears a half size larger.

The fundraiser turns out to
be a huge success. Papa struts around like a political peacock, hobnobbing with all the tycoons and government officials who are more than eager to empty their wallets for him. If it weren’t for the stiff, black-suited security guards shadowing his every move, he would have looked like any ordinary guest having a good time.

Mama stands dutifully beside him, her hand elegantly clasping a flute of champagne. I choose to remain cloistered behind a large round table with forest green linens and a copious flower arrangement, a perfect hideaway for someone determined not to make contact in a room packed with several hundred humans—a can of sardines dressed in silk gowns and cumberbuns.

I sit for a while, enjoying the music. I wonder why Papa doesn’t ask Mama to dance, but even from where I’m sitting I can see that his attention has been diverted by Senator Morgan, a stodgy-looking man with a halo of fuzzy white hair and a face webbed with purple veins. Stepping away from them, Mama heads to the bar for a refill.

“Peek-a-boo.”  Jordan slips into the seat across the table. “Having fun?”

I give him a sideways “yeah right” glance.

“I didn’t think so,” he says, laughing. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Take me home?”

“Your dad would hang me. How about a dance? The band’s not bad.”

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

“Oh, c’mon, Mira. Live a little.”

Funny. That’s what I was trying
not
to do. I consider Jordan’s offer, but as luck would have it, nature calls just at that moment. I guess the four empty plastic cups on the table—the ones once filled with cherry cola—have finally hit me.

“Maybe later?” I try to sound like I mean it. Jordan pretends to pout. “Why don’t you dance with one of those foreign heiresses over by the door?”

“You know your father expects me to keep an eye on you tonight,” he says, finishing off the glass of wine in his hand. “Like it or not, Sunshine, I’m yours for the entire evening.”

The pressure mounts. I have no choice but to dodge the social gauntlet and get to the ladies room pronto. “Listen, Jordan, I’ve gotta—you know—go.”

He starts to get up from the table.

“Alone,” I add, over-emphasizing the word. The bathrooms are just on the other side of the room. I slide out from behind the table, taking the flower arrangement with me. The last thing I need is for everyone to notice the candidate’s daughter and start introducing themselves. Just the thought of having to shake a bunch of rich old geezers’ hands makes me ill, let alone the possibility of one of them brushing his wrinkled fingers across my arm. I can’t even begin to imagine what thoughts and emotions would come barreling into my brain.
Ugh!

Making sure my shawl is wound tightly around me, I carry the arrangement high enough to obscure my identity and low enough to see through the sparse greenery near the top. It feels a little like prowling through African grasslands, though my field of vision is rather limited, blocked by a sprawling fern on one side and a sprig of baby’s breath on the other. I keep my back against the wall and make my way toward the restrooms as quickly as I can manage in my heels—not
my
heels, Mama’s. I couldn’t find mine after all. So I’m tottering along trying to keep my ankles from snapping, when all of a sudden something whacks me in the hip and knocks me off balance. The flower arrangement catapults out of my hands, and I hit the floor face-first.

The silence in the room is palpable. Maybe if I lay here sprawled out on the wood parquet someone will call an ambulance, and they’ll wheel me away on a gurney covered from head to toe with a white sheet. …No such luck.

“I am SO sorry!” The apology comes from above me. “Are you okay?”

I glance up to identify the culprit. Moppy brown hair. Dazzling eyes. It’s him! The guy from Dr. Walsh’s office! What was his name?

David. No. This cannot be happening.

“We seem to be making a habit of this.” He smiles, recognizing the girl who keeps falling at his feet.

“What?”

“When you stepped on my foot with your heel, I sort of fell against you.”

“I stepped on
you
?”

Could this be any more embarrassing?

“Yeah. Those flowers. Probably couldn’t see me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” he replies cautiously. “I’m a special events server.”

I realize now that he’s wearing a white waistcoat, bowtie, and the same eye-strain producing Vans from the other day. A tray of scattered hors d’oeuvres lay near the now demolished flower arrangement. Since I’m already on the floor, I start gathering up the mushroom puffs, as David squats down beside me.

“Let me do that.”

Together we scoop up the rest of the puffs and the scraps of greenery. David deposits all of it into the nearest trash bin, and then offers me a hand. I silently thank Mama again for the gloves while I do my best to get on my feet with as little ineptness as possible.