Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (7 page)

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jen sat up straight. “Go on, say what you mean.”

“You know damned well what I mean, Jen. Your biological clock is ticking. You’re afraid time is running out but you’re focusing on the surface instead of facing what’s really bothering you: Norm’s issues about having kids.”

“Okay, whoa—” Becky raised her hands. “Let’s take a breather.”

“This is not about kids, Susan,” Jen hissed.

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

“It’s not about kids.” She crossed her arms, glaring.

“Fine.” Susan flipped kabobs in the broiler. “Except I’m pretty sure it is.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Jen was on her feet. “I invited you guys to come down here so we could have some fun while I got my work done. I didn’t invite your opinions. But since you feel free to judge me and label me superficial and impulsive, let me say,
in the spirit of friendship and fellowship: Shut the fuck up. Leave me the fuck alone. Go ahead, Susan. Age gracefully. Get as wrinkled and shriveled as you want. But I am not going that route. I’m going to fight every step of the way. For as long as I can, I’m going to look the way I did when Norm married me—no, I’m going to look even better than that. He deserves it.”

“Wait, so now it’s not about you anymore? You’re doing this for Norm?” I swallowed sangria.

“If you’re doing it for Norm, you might be smart,” Becky chirped. “Think about it—lots of guys like Norm ditch their middle-aged wives and trade them in for young trophies.”

“Seriously, Becky?” Jen was sputtering, her bejeweled hands on her hips. “You’re going there? Norm would never—”

“No,” Susan cut her off. “He wouldn’t. That was stupid, Becky.”

Becky’s mouth opened. She looked slapped.

“Anyway,” I tried to ease the mood, “the point is that we all love you, Jen. We’re just worried about you going under the knife.”

“That’s right.” Becky stood beside Jen and hugged her. “You’re already stunning. And the most beautiful part about you is something that no surgeon can change. It’s not the beauty that shows on the outside; it’s the beauty that comes from within. That’s what we love most about you. That’s what Norm loves, too.”

Becky’s eyes were moist. She’d made up for her trophy wife comment.

“Becky’s right.” Susan came out of the kitchenette with a platter of skewered chicken and vegetables. She placed it on the table beside a bowl of beans and rice, put her hands on the back of a chair. “Look. We’re all a bit on edge about tomorrow. After all, we’re far from home.”

Jen opened her mouth to respond, but Susan put a hand up. “Hold on, Jen. Let me finish. See, even though these procedures aren’t my choice for you—bottom line? It’s your body, your life.
If surgery is what you want, then we’re all with you. Right?” She looked at Becky, then me.

We nodded obediently.

As she sat down, Susan added, “Besides, if the surgery goes south, I don’t want to remember our last night together as a fight.”

Before anyone could react, I lifted a glass. “To our friendship and Jen’s recovery.”

Everyone toasted, and then we ate, avoiding anything related to beauty, age, reproduction, or cosmetic surgery.

I opened my eyes in pitch darkness. Had someone touched me? Talked to me? Wait, this wasn’t my bedroom. Where was I? Oh, right. The hotel, in Mexico. I lay still, alert, watching for movement. Seeing none.

“Becky?”

No answer. Of course she didn’t answer. Becky wasn’t in our room; she was off with Chichi.

I reached out and turned on the lamp. Saw the dresser, the television. Becky’s empty bed. No one.

“Susan? Jen?” Maybe one of them had come into the room, hoping I’d be awake.

But no one answered. Susan and Jen had gone to bed early to be rested for Jen’s surgery. Susan was planning to go with her and stay at the hospital.

So what had awakened me?

I sat up, unsettled. The ceiling fan whirred overhead. An indifferent, inanimate sound. Nothing that would have startled me. I got out of bed, stepped into the living room. Shadows draped the furniture. Jen’s hospital bag sat packed and ready on the sofa. Susan’s computer on the kitchenette counter. Dishes on the rack by the sink. Everything as we’d left it. Undisturbed.

Probably I’d been roused by an uneasy dream. I got back into bed, but couldn’t get comfortable. The pillows were too thick; I punched one, trying to make a dent, but the filling was
dense, refused to give way. Who would make such fat, firm pillows? Could people really sleep on them? Never mind. I shoved the pillows aside, lay flat on the mattress. But that was no good either. Finally, I piled them into a stack, reclining in a half-lying half-sitting position, but it was no use. I couldn’t fall asleep. Couldn’t shake the sense that it hadn’t been a dream, that something else had interrupted my sleep. I half-lay half-sat in bed, leaning on sore, sunburned shoulders and watched the ceiling fan, trying to hypnotize myself into slumber. Empty your mind, I told myself. Watch the blades spin. Do not think.

Of course, the more I tried not to think, the more I thought. Images twirled through my head, doing tortured pirouettes. I pictured Jen wrapped mummy-like in bandages. Becky salsa dancing with Chichi. Susan typing angrily on her computer. Claudia Madison reaching for my hand.

And falling.

Stop, I told myself. Watch the blades go around. I watched, and then I was in the ocean, bobbing on a boogie board. Rocking with the water, beginning to relax. Except then that annoying Melanie swam over with her hollow cheeks and bony frame, glomming onto me. Who was she? Was Luis really stalking her? Why had she picked me to come to with her problems? Damn, I was thinking again. I closed my eyes, and Melanie faded, became a woman hidden behind a scarf. A breeze lifted it, revealed her swollen ravaged face—and then Charlie led her away. Oh Lord. Charlie? Really?

Oh God. Was it Charlie who’d awakened me?

“Charlie?” I said his name. “Are you here?”

The hairs stood up on my arms, but that was the only response. The blades of the fan whirred quietly. The room was still. Of course, it was. I was talking to air.

Enough. I needed to turn my mind off.

I got out of bed again, went to the balcony door, and stared at the darkness, the star-dotted sky. The unsettled black ocean.

Damn. Why had I seen Charlie on the beach? At first, after
his murder, I’d seen him everywhere. I’d smelled his aftershave, talked to him, kept him alive in my mind. The shrink had called it a “coping mechanism,” my way of dealing with the loss. But I hadn’t seen or imagined Charlie for almost a year, not since his murder had been solved.

So why had he appeared that morning?

Madam Therese popped to mind, bringing fragrances of jasmine and roasting meat. “I told you why,” she smiled, jangling her bracelets. “The dead are drawn to you.”

“Bullshit.” I answered her out loud.

I did not attract the dead—no one did. The dead were dead. They didn’t go on vacations to Mexico or walk on beaches. So why had I seen Charlie there? Why had my mind brought him back—and paired him with the ghastly image of Claudia Madison? What did Charlie have to do with her?

Nothing.

Except that they were both dead. And both their deaths had involved me.

Gooseflesh rippled on my neck. I wished Susan or Jen would wake up and keep me company. But they didn’t, so I went to the kitchen and downed a shot of tequila. Brought another with me and drank it after I’d climbed into bed. Turned the lamp off. Watched shadows for the rest of the night, but saw no sign of anyone, even Charlie.

My plan had been to get to the beach early, before most of the lounge chairs had been claimed, but as I walked across the lobby, Juan Alonzo, the hotel manager, gestured to me from the front desk and hurried to meet me. Damn. I didn’t want to talk to him. I just wanted to sit by the ocean. But I was trapped. Probably he just wanted to make sure I was all right. Just a formality. A matter of professionalism. Hell, maybe he’d comp a few drinks.

“Señora,” his tone was hushed as he approached. “
Buenos dias.
I hope you are recovered from your experience?”

“Thank you.” I didn’t engage. I was holding a beach bag and a hat, kept moving slowly toward the door to the water.

“Señora, please. I am sorry to bother you. But I have a small request to make of you. It will take just a moment of your time.”

Wait. He wasn’t giving me free drinks. He wanted me to do something for him? “I really just want to relax this morning.”

“I understand. Of course. It is my wish for you to relax as well. And you will have all morning to relax. But Sergeant Perez is in my office now with the family of Claudia Madison.”

Oh God. I gazed out the door at the sunshine. Felt trapped.

“And they have asked to talk with you.”

“With me?”

“As you were the last person to see her alive.”

I saw her again, reaching for me. Her eyes. I looked at the door, wanted to run.

“I was just about to call your room, but I saw you in the lobby—”

“Of course.” I let him lead me across the lobby, away from the air and the water into a small windowless conference room behind the front desk.

Inside, the walls were dotted with framed photographs of Mayan ruins. Sergeant Perez introduced me to Claudia Madison’s two sisters, who sat red-eyed, holding hands. They looked alike, solid women with thin lips and long, narrow noses, didn’t resemble Claudia much. But then, they wouldn’t; Claudia had had plastic surgery.

Juan Alonzo sat me across the table from them. Emily and Rose. They each wore crumpled pastel clothing and wedding bands; had come as soon as they’d heard. Had taken two flights each and hadn’t slept. They wanted to find out what had happened to Claudia. What she’d said. They watched me, four urgent eyes, starving for answers.

I wanted to help them. I didn’t know how.

Sergeant Perez helped me along, guided me through the
events of the night.

“Señora Harrison is the hero I told you about,” he told them. “She is the woman who tried to save your sister and risked her own life.”

They thanked me, rushed over, and hugged me, as if grabbing onto a remnant of their sister. Finally, we all sat down.

“Did she say anything?” Rose asked.

“Before she fell?” Emily completed her question.

I saw Claudia clinging to the railing, felt unsteady. “No. She just tried to hang on.”

“But how did she get out there?”

“We don’t understand what happened.”

I looked at Sergeant Perez. How was I supposed to deal with these questions, this grief? I felt set up. Cornered. Perez watched me, said nothing. Was he testing to see if I knew more than I’d told him? Should I call Susan?

“I don’t know what happened.” I clutched my beach bag, took a deep breath. The air felt thick. “When I first saw her, she was already hanging onto the railing.”

“But didn’t you see anyone with her?” Rose leaned closer, sounded bereft.

“You didn’t hear anything?” Emily sounded doubtful.

“As I’ve told Sergeant Perez,” I looked at him again, “I’d heard voices earlier. A man and a woman. But I don’t know what they were saying or who the man was. Really, I’m sorry. I wish I could have saved her. It’s a terrible tragedy, but I have no idea how it happened.” I thought about how to excuse myself and escape. What should I say? Certainly not, “nice to meet you.” Or “enjoy your stay.” What should I say? Why couldn’t I think of anything?