Jackie's Week (10 page)

From another world Jackie’s cell phone
twittered.

"Answer that," Black said.

"Jackie, it’s Donna. I’m over here at Vito’s
place on Doheny. He’s just had a cancellation. He can see you at
4."

"I’m too tired to get my hair done. Doctor
Black just shocked the hell out of me."

"You will get your gray frizzy hair to Vito’s
at 4."

"Donna, I need you to come over here and
bring me the limo and let me use that and you drive my car. I can’t
drive. I’m still having flashbacks in broad daylight."

"Okay. I’ll be there shortly."

"Meanwhile, you’ll never believe what me and
Dr. Black are doing right now. She just deliberately triggered
me."

"Yes, I can believe it. I was the one who
introduced you to her, remember? You can tell me all about it
later."

Jackie heaved a sigh and returned the phone
to her purse.

"You lied to me," Black said. "You drove
yourself to the appointment. And Donna is nowhere around."

"Sorry," Dr. Black.

"Jackie, you could have killed yourself, or
somebody else. You could have had a flashback while you were
driving."

"I said I’m sorry. What the hell do you want
from me? What? Do you want me to open a vein?" She looked out upon
the ordinary day at the ordinary parking lot. "I’m sorry. It’s hard
to look at this place. After all, I was clinically dead on this
site for 7 minutes."

"Can you point out exactly where it
happened?" Black said.

"Yeh. There it is—right by that third light
stanchion, where the silver Bentley is parked. Whoever parked there
has no idea they’re parked on top of several pints of my dried
blood."

Black pulled up next to the Bentley. "Jackie,
why don’t you close your eyes for a moment? Good. Rest for a
minute. Now imagine yourself at the beach. It’s a sunny day, with a
gentle offshore breeze. You’re lying on your towel, eyes closed,
listening to the surf. You’re feeling rested and relaxed. You hear
a small plane overhead. You open your eyes. A long banner trails
from the rear of the plane. Can you see it?"

"Yes—I can see it."

"Now I want you to picture children with
happy faces, pointing to the banner and jumping up and down and
clapping with joy."

"They’re clapping. And jumping."

"As the plane gets closer, you can read the
writing on the banner. The writing is in bold red letters. THIS IS
JACKIE’S WEEK."

"Awww, Dr. Black. Nobody’s going to do that
for me." Her voice came out childlike, quivering, her emotions
overwhelmed at the thought of a life where she could be safe for a
week, loved by happy children, with nothing to fear. The tears
began coursing down her cheeks. Jackie opened her eyes and looked
at Dr. Black.

"Then do it for yourself. Even a pervert like
Warhol gives everybody fifteen minutes of fame," Black said. "But I
think a week is better. Part of your recovery is to take back your
world from the enemy. Sometimes a little meditation helps. By
coming here today, you’ll start to understand that what happened to
you was an isolated event in time and space. Things have moved
on."

"I just now realized now why I bought the
race car," Jackie said. "I bought it to show myself I’m still in
the game. When Viktor Bout tried to kill me, he also took my car.
Way deep down, I think I picked the Lexus to show myself he can’t
take away my life."

"Judging by its color, you’re showing the
whole world."

"Maybe I am. It’s funny, though. All this
time, I thought I’d die from fright if I ever came near this place
again. Right now, I feel strangely calm."

"Later this week, we’re going to get out and
stand on the spot."

"I’ll never be able to do that."

"Yes you will."

"If I ever see you again after today."

"Any reason you shouldn’t?"

"Well, for one, you’re a real bitch."

Black laughed.

"That doesn’t offend you?"

"Not at all."

"Why not?"

"I’m proud to be a bitch. And by the time I’m
finished with you, you’ll be a real bitch too. Meanwhile I want you
to change the Ativan to one whole tablet 4 times a day. You need to
keep this up until the Paxil kicks in. I hoped you’d cut down on
your drinking, because I think that is one of the reasons the
Ativan isn’t working. If you can’t cut back on the booze, a couple
of weeks in de-tox is looming on your horizon."

"I’m sorry, Dr. Black. I ignored your advice
about drinking, and Donna, and driving, and everything. From this
point forward, I’ll try to do better. I’ll quit the booze. I know I
can. I did it once for 90 days a long time ago. I’ll just start
back in on the 12 Steps and take it one day at a time."

Chapter 17

"It’s a Pierre Jourdan Brut," the young woman
said.

"It’s very bubbly," Jackie said. "I really
shouldn't. I just promised my doctor I'd quit." She took a sip from
the long stemmed flute. "It tickles the nose."

They stood in the brick-floored kitchen at
Vito’s of Beverly Hills, a 1940’s Tudor-style on Doheny just off
Sunset, with pointy roof lines and a wooden arch door. The interior
of the place had been gutted and remodeled to meet the demands of
business and yet somehow retained a homey feel throughout.

"I’m Scotia. I’ll be working with you this
afternoon. You are Donna’s sister, correct?"

"Yep," Jackie said. "I’m here at my sister’s
insistence."

"Your sister was right," Scotia said. Your
hair is end-stage."

"Donna thinks Vito can fix it."

"You’ll like Vito. More importantly, your
hair will like him. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go draw your
bath."

"My bath? I’m only here for a haircut."

"Honestly dear, not to be mean, I don’t know
if you just came from a workout or what, but you’re more than a
little ripe. Let’s face it. And it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you
to let me take those sweats you’re wearing and just burn them."

"You know, now that I think about it, I
haven’t been in the tub since yesterday. And that wasn’t a real
bath."

Jackie sat down at the oval antique table
beside the kitchen hearth and sipped some more champagne. She
fingered the lilies in the vase on the table. Real, not silk, and
very fresh. Her eyes feasted on the mantle collection of white
ironstone pottery—pitchers and crocks—filled with artichokes and
limes. The air was an olfactory ambrosia, heavy with scents from
bowls on the table brimming with fruit, and a big vanilla candle
mingling its scent with the sweet smell of the lilies.

"Maybe the son of a bitch will give me a new
lease on life," she mused aloud.

"And which son of a bitch is that, dear?" A
brisk man of indeterminate years came through the archway. Jackie
sized him up--smooth shaven, perfect skin, with a full head of
bright, shiny, short-brown curls, slim and quick, in a lemon silk
jersey over jeans and Reeboks.

"I’m Vito."

"Jackie."

"Enchanted. And don’t look embarrassed. I can
be a real son of a bitch at times. And it appears that you are a
bit of a stinker yourself."

"Sorry."

"These lilies on the table are for you.
They’re Casablanca lilies. Donna told me how much you like the
film, so I ordered them special."

"I must say, I’m overwhelmed. As you can see,
however, this is all just a gigantic waste of everybody’s time. My
hair is hopeless."

"That is for me to decide. You’re not the
first person who has managed to achieve the homeless look by her
own hand. By the way, how do you like the champagne? It’s the
latest thing from South Africa."

"It’s perfect. Very creamy."

"I buy it because it has the most bubbles.
Don’t you think the whole point of champagne is bubbles?"

"I’ll tell you what I think," Jackie said. "I
think I’d like a refill. Unless, of course, you have some
vodka."

"Scotia will keep your glass full—of
champagne, not vodka. I think you have had quite enough vodka for a
lifetime. Now let’s get down to business." With probing fingers, he
began exploring her hair and scalp. He gently touched the scar
which ran from her left eye to her ear. "You’re face tightens when
I touch this. Does it hurt?"

"What do you think?"

His fingers began working themselves across
the top of her head towards the back.

"Ouch."

"Sorry."

"So what’s the verdict?"

"What disturbs me is I can tell your scalp
hasn’t been cleaned properly in months. It is scaly, with oily
white flakes and emits a very unpleasant odor. On the positive
side, you’ve got a beautifully shaped head."

"That’s the first time anybody’s ever told me
that."

"I’ll go think some thoughts about this and
see you after you get cleaned up."

Scotia appeared. "Jackie, your bath is ready.
"

"I was afraid you'd say that."

"I know you’re phobic. But your phobia stops
here and now, if I have to wrestle you into the tub. Here’s your
robe. Put those filthy old sweat clothes outside the door. I’m
tossing them. I’ll have something sent over from Neiman’s. Call me
when you’re done with your bath and we’ll do the massage. Oh. And
here’s a razor. After the bath, use the shower to shave. What’s it
been, six months?"

Alone, and with no way out, Jackie eased
herself slowly into the tub, filled to the brim with its heady brew
of scented suds. For awhile, she sat their, rigid, feeling unsafe,
as though the door would fly open and a monster would rush in.
There was something vulnerable about being alone and naked. It was
damned unpleasant. Nonetheless, she closed her eyes and slowly felt
herself begin to relax, aided by the pleasant weight of the heated
water, the crisp crackle from the foam, the soothing smoothness of
polished marble, and more than a little champagne. It almost made
her feel young again.

Here I am, she thought. And why? To be made
pretty again? And for whom? Donna? Bienenfeld? Myself? The World?
Johnson? Oh, I can’t believe I invited him for dinner! What was I
thinking? Me, dating a cop? A cop with a dog, no less. Johnson is a
beast, an anachronism. He probably listens to the Chi-Lites and
shoots pool in some cop bar. Worse yet, he’s the old-fashioned
type. He’ll open doors for me and light my cigarettes—and I don’t
smoke! I can’t imagine his circle of friends. Wait. I can imagine
them! Help! Other old cops with severe smile impairments!

After her tub soak and a good half hour
battle shaving in the shower, she dragged herself out and wrapped
herself in a thick, oversize towel and hit the speed dial on her
phone. "Johnson, it’s Jackie. I’m getting cold feet about tonight.
I’ve had a lot of stress just now and—"

"—It’s only dinner. We’ll be chaperoned.
You’ll have a policeman right at your table."

"Thank you for that. You probably won’t
recognize me. I just shaved my legs for the first time in months.
I’m at Donna’s day spa. They’re knocking themselves out to get me
beautiful. I think they’re burning my sweat pants as we speak."

"And all for me, right?"

"Not."

"Jackie, I hate to bring this up. Bout’s
lawyer is screaming for his release."

"Oh no. Already?"

"Oh yeh. Did you talk to your psychiatrist
about doing the lineup?"

"Sort of. She said she would help me if I
decided to do it. Johnson, what if Bout is released."

"Don’t worry about it."

"Don’t worry about it? I think my stomach is
trying to crawl out of my throat. I don’t think I can handle doing
the lineup. No. Make that I know I can’t handle it. If I have to
see Bout in person, I just might lose my mind completely."

"Hang in there. I’ll see you tonight and we
can talk about it over an Old Fashioned."

"Nobody drinks those anymore."

"I do. I drink the real ones, not the fake
brandy spritzers the bartenders do nowadays. I make them myself
sometimes. I dissolve a small lump of sugar with a little water in
a whiskey-glass; add two dashes Angostura bitters, a small piece of
ice, a piece of lemon-peel, one jigger whiskey, and mix with small
bar-spoon and serve, leaving spoon in glass. I’ve got a cop friend
named Mulroney who owns a bar in Van Nuys. I taught him to make
them."

"Johnson, is there no end to your talents?
I’d feel a whole lot better if I lived on another planet with you.
But maybe having an Old Fashioned at your dog ranch is the same
thing."

She entered the massage cubicle and stretched
out on the table face down. Scotia began applying a soothing
lotion.

"Your fingers are like steel," Jackie
said.

"Too hard?"

"No. I need it hard. I can feel the kinks
coming out of my back. You should become a professional."

"I am a professional," Scotia said. "I’m a
certified massage therapist. But around here, I also do a lot of
other jobs because our team is small. Our clientele is smaller than
a lot of salons, because Vito doesn’t want to sacrifice the quality
of the experience here."

"Whatever it is, it’s working. I feel places
relaxing I didn’t know I had."

"Some of what you’re feeling may be due to
the Oil of Malacia we put in your bath. Relaxation is very
important to Vito. If the bath and massage doesn’t do the trick, he
might put you through some guided imagery to try and cut down on
your internal chatter."

"My internal chatter never stops."

"A big part of why you’re so tense. Did you
know most internal dialogue is negative? We’re always telling
ourselves we could’ve done better, or we can’t stand ourselves.
Vito tries to eliminate some of it so you’ll be more open to his
creativity."

"I can’t stop worrying about my date tonight.
It’s like I’m a condemned woman about to have last meal."

"Stop worrying."

"At my age?"

"Why not? You’re very attractive underneath
this bag lady disguise you created."