Deeper Illusions (8 page)

I nodded. “Go on.”

He drew a breath, the let it out slowly. “And, well, you know she’s out.”

I felt the familiar chill and sick feeling. “Yes, go on.”

He was silent for awhile, clutching my hand. Then he said “she’s made threats against you.”

Now my whole body felt the extreme freeze. “What do you mean?”

“Nick said that she’s told him that she wants to kick your ass for getting her first lawyer to withdraw from her case.” He wrapped his arms around me. “But don’t worry, I’m already on hiring a bodyguard for you.”

Good god. A bodyguard. That’s all I fucking need.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I protested.

Ryan glared at me, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, you do. Do you really want a repeat of the last time Rochelle decided to teach you a lesson?”

At that moment, I once again started feeling disconnected from him. My mind started wandering, as I was realizing, perhaps for the first time, what a screwed up situation I had gotten myself into. I was desperate for love before I met him, and, for the longest time after I met him, I felt that I was living some kind of dream. A good dream. Now, it had turned into such a nightmare, and I irrationally felt hatred for him. Hatred for what was going on, for what I was going through because of him and his fucked up life and his problems. I would have been much happier with just some normal guy with normal problems. Instead I was a – what did that newslady say? A dystopian Cinderella. Perfect description for me. Now, on top of having all my dirty laundry aired to the world, I was in need of a bodyguard. Because of him. My life was once again threatened. Because of him. I almost died. Because of him.

And it struck me that there was a naked picture out there of me, in the hands of some random guy I hooked up with on Spring Break all those years ago. That was probably viral on the Internet by now. I hadn’t checked on that, but I would imagine that would be the case. I mean, I was a notorious celebrity, and I did absolutely nothing wrong.

I was a celebrity because of him.

I was lost in all these thoughts, while Ryan continued to just stare at me. He was waiting for my answer on if I would willingly accept a bodyguard, or if he would have to force me to have one. I knew that I really didn’t have a choice in the matter, and that, too, made me angry.

I just shook my head. “No bodyguard. If she finishes me off, she finishes me off. I really don’t care at this point.”

His expression turned icy, like I had never seen it before. The green eyes were like two cold jewels, devoid of life and expression. Then he turned his head, and entire body, and, without a word, went to sleep.

I got up and out of the bed, not wanting to be there with him anymore. I headed down to the kitchen, looking in the fridge for something to eat. I found some hard salami and rolls, and brought them out.

Then was startled by the figure of Sarah sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in hand.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I started, feeling embarrassed that I was just helping myself to food, like I lived there or something.

“What are you apologizing for?” she asked.

“For helping myself to your food. I, I, I will buy some more salami and stuff.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. God, you’re weird sometimes,” she said, but she was smiling, so I figured she said that at least part
ially in jest. Then, looking at me, she said “So, are you going to join me here at the table, or are you going to slink away and eat that stuff on the sly somewhere?”

I didn’t want to join her at the table. I wanted to be alone. But, to be polite, I put the food down on the table where she was, and proceeded to make my sandwich.

As I prepared my sandwich, she was eyeing me interestedly. Then she said “so, what brings you here at this hour?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I said.

“There are problems with you and Ryan, aren’t there?”

I just shook my head. It was none of her business.

“I know better,” she said, as I shot her a look that told her not to go there. But, she persisted. “Listen, I know that my brother has had a pretty weird life. None of which was his fault. Well, the drugs were, but even those weren’t really his fault, because our father drove him to it. Ryan was the victim for many years, and he came through it kinda a half ghost, half person. He was so checked out before he met you. He just went through life mechanically, from day to day, doing his job, dating his bimbos, and, when I called him, he was pretty laconic,” she said, twisting her cloth napkin into a rope. “You know, ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ that sort of thing. When he met you he became, I don’t know…flesh and blood again.”

I sighed. I had heard this before, from him and from some of his friends, like Nate, and from Ryan himself. It’s almost like they all wanted to guilt me into staying, in case I had it in my mind to run.

I looked at her, wondering how much I could really confide about how I was feeling. She was his sister, and would probably tell him everything I said. Her eyebrow was raised at me, as she sipped her coffee through her full lips. Without a stitch of makeup, she still glowed. Her skin was perfect, her eyes a cerulean blue. She casually crossed one of her perfect legs over the other, still watching me behind her powder blue coffee cup with the words “Harvard, Class of ‘98” printed on the front.

Finally, I decided to take the chance and do a few confessionals. “I know that Ryan has been through a lot,” I began. “But I just feel that…”

She was still watching me, not saying a word, her expression very difficult to read.

I began again. “I guess I’m just frustrated that, ever since I met him, my life has been in danger. Well, I mean, ever since the incid
ent with Rochelle. Now it’s even worse. The whole world knows my name. I want to be anonymous, and I never asked for any of this.” My hand involuntarily went to my face, as I rubbed my eyes. “The bodyguard idea is the last straw.”

To my surprise, her expression softened, and she covered my hand with one of hers, and patted it lightly. “I know it’s been hard for you. But remember what I told you. You have been his lifeline, and he would take a bullet for you if it comes to that.”

“I know that. It’s just…” I took a deep breath. “How do I keep from resenting him?”

“Only you know the answer to that. At any rate, there are going to be trials ahead. You guys have to face them together, because they’re going to affect both of you,” she said, as she got up from the table to put her coffee cup in the kitchen sink. “And seeing our father isn’t going to be fun or pretty. You need to have enough strength for all of us, because there is liable to be some kind of break down coming from that. Fair warning.”

I nodded.

“Now, get back up there with my brother. Don’t try to sleep in a different room, or something cute like that. He needs you. I’m not trying to guilt you, I’m just stating a cold, hard fact. So, think long and hard before you have an urge to run. Just sayin.’” She washed her hands in the warm water, and Cori came in. She fed the enormous dog a bone, and he slinked away to enjoy it. “Besides,” she continued. “The damage is done. Leaving him would accomplish nothing, and you wouldn’t have an ally in all this. So, in other words, it would cause more problems for you if you leave than if you stay.”

She made a good point.

I was trapped.

Chapter Eleven

The next day, we drove along in silence in Sarah’s Mercedes SUV, with me in the back, and Sarah and Ryan in the front. I didn’t talk much to Ryan when we woke up this morning, not really knowing what to say. I was trying to get out of my head, and out of my own way, so that I could be there for Ryan for this most difficult task of confronting his father.

We arrived at Ryan’s plane, which would take us the short distance to Newport, Rhode Island, which is where his father had bought his mansion for his retirement. The plane ride was short, but filled with awkward silence. None of us said a word. Ryan and Sarah just stared at the walls of the plane, and I flipped through a book that I brought along with me – a memoir called
The Glass Castle
by Jeannette Walls, about a singularly dysfunctional family riven by alcohol and homelessness.

We got to the Newport State Airport, which was a small general aviation airport, then rented a car. Driving around Newport, I was in awe of the enormous homes that were on the seashore. Most of the mansions were built during the gilded age for everybody from Cornelius Vanderbilt to tobacco heiress Doris Duke to serve as their summer homes. There was “The Breakers,” the 70-room Italian Renaissance style palazzo which echoed the 16
th
Century palaces of Genoa and Turin, commissioned to be built for Cornelius Vanderbilt II in 1893. There was “The Elms,” which served as the summer residence of a coal industry magnate, modeled after the mid-18
th
Century French chateau d’Asnieres outside Paris. The “Marble House” designed for William Vanderbilt, brother of Cornelius II, with a façade that resembled The White House, with classical Greek pillars and arched windows, boasted 500,000 cubic feet of marble. “Rosecliff” was built in 1899 for a silver heiress, and was patterned after garden retreats in Versailles. “Rough Point,” an enormous Tudor-style mansion on an oceanfront cliff, was the home of tobacco heiress Doris Duke.

And then there was Benjamin’s home, which rivaled any of the other homes found in the area. I had no idea how many square feet it was, but was probably at least 50,000. The home was Mediterranean style, with a Spanish-tile roof, and enormous arches that formed the portico. Various windows had terraces and balconies, and the grass was perfectly manicured. An enormous fountain was in front of the house, with the sculpture of a maiden lady pouring water in the middle, and the house itself was on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Like Sarah’s house, there was an enormous terrace that jutted out on the side, paved in marble, with a stone balustrade that enclosed it. This home served as Benjamin's
retirement summer house and weekend retreat house, explained Sarah, as she rang the doorbell that echoed the chimes of Big Ben in London.

A servant opened the door, and I walk
ed in to see two enormous staircases that led to the second floor, and the ceiling was about one hundred feet from the vestibule where we stood. The foyer was paved in marble, with black and white tiles.

“How many rooms is this place?” I asked, looking around, half expecting to see an original Picasso or two on the walls. There weren’t Picassos, at least not in this area, but there were original Titians and Rembrandts in the dining room, which was just off the main foyer area.

Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably 50 or so.”

Turning to the servant, Ryan spoke in perfect Spanish, and the lady nodded her head. Remembering his fluency w
ith the Italians on our honeymoon, I made a mental note that there were at least three languages that Ryan apparently spoke perfectly.

Seeing me staring at him, Ryan said “What? If you know one Romance language, you can learn all of them pretty well.”

“Do you know French, too?”

“Maybe,” he said, putting his arm around me, the first warm gesture from him of the day. “You will just have to find out when I take you to Paris.”

The tension seemed to be easing just a bit, as evidenced by Ryan’s light-hearted joke. But, when the lady came back down, and spoke Spanish, which both Ryan and Sarah understood, I saw Ryan’s face color drain. He nodded to the woman, then grabbed my hand and Sarah’s hand, and the three of us silently ascended the stairs. I could feel him clutching me tightly, and even Sarah looked as if she wanted to be anywhere else but there at that moment. I thought that if Ryan and Sarah had a choice between this home and a POW camp, they would both have eagerly chosen the POW camp.

We got to the top of the stairs, and Ryan politely excused himself and headed towards one of the bathrooms.

I followed him in to make sure he was ok.

He wasn’t, of cour
se. He was crouched by the bowl and dry heaving, because he hadn’t eaten that day yet. I sat down next to him, gently stroking his back. For the moment, all the other issues had receded to the background of my mind. Ryan’s mental health and well-being were all that I was thinking about.

I ran my fingers through his hair, and put my hand under his shirt, touching the bare skin on his back. Ryan loves to be touched, and my touch usually calms him down. His skin was quivering, and his heart was pounding so hard that I could feel his back pulsating rapidly. I put his head on my chest, stroking his hair, while he wrapped his arms around my waist. Both of us were still on the floor. He was crying softly into my chest, and he wrapped his arms tighter around me.

Sarah was soon in the doorway, and she, too, crouched down. “Peanut, we don’t have to do this. I didn’t think this would affect you this much.”

He simply shook his head, which was still buried in my chest. “No, no,” he said. “I have to do this.”

Sarah tousled his hair a little, then said “Ok, when you’re ready, I’ll be right outside the bathroom door waiting for you.”

He nodded silently into my chest.

Sarah looked at me meaningfully. Her look said “see how much he needs you?”

I just nodded to her, while I continued to stroke Ryan’s hair.

After about a half hour, Ryan finally looked at me. His eyes were puffy red on the outside, and the green irises had turned fluorescent. I grabbed a Kleenex, and he blew his nose.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“As I will ever be,” he answered.

At that, the two of us got up from the bathroom floor, met Sarah, who was, as promised, right outside the door, and made our way to Benjamin’s bedroom.