Same/Difference (The Depth of Emotion #4) (4 page)

Must be a sign.

Memories of his mom’s
signs
of fate made him chuckle to himself.
What the hell? A sign?
It was staring him right in the face. Fate was intervening and was giving him a license to get her personal information.
After all, what good was it to be a resourceful man if you couldn’t use your resources?

As time went by he thought he’d never see her again and here she was. Heaven was giving him a second chance to be a nice guy and, maybe, get to know this woman. Who knew? She might be a good influence on his sorry ass. She sure as hell couldn’t make him any worse.

Must be a sign.

S
pending time with Liz was always fun, but my feet were killing me. I couldn’t wait to stand under a hot shower. Although I was still relaxed as I strolled through the lobby of my hotel I wasn’t sure if the buzz in my head was from the noise of the machines or the residual effect of the Mojitos. Unlike the quiet of home, the Vegas environment was nothing but activity. Bells rang, machines chirped and whooped, and music played everywhere. It was exactly what I needed; a welcome change from my overextended existence. I loved my work but sometimes it could really be a pain in the ass. The pressure mounted when twenty-some contracts were going on at the same time. To say that it was chaotic would be an understatement and stress was not my friend. The headaches I got as a result always felt like a vise was around my head—and when I was doing too much and not getting enough sleep it became overwhelming, and it got nasty. A caustic pattern would emerge. My focus turned inward and I started mentally checking off boxes of self-incrimination. It wasn’t healthy, mentally or physically. It would graduate from perfectionism with my work and trickle all the way down to berating my personal life. Most of the time the professional part of my introspection was much more forgiving than the personal one. That part started as innocently as making sure my outfit was well put together. Unfortunately, it would end with me belittling myself for every flaw I thought I had. It could be very uncharitable tightrope to walk because, in my case, the balance between being fussy or self-abusive was a fragile one. At least it was a pit I recognized and, when I felt completely overwhelmed, the best thing I could do was kick my way out of the analytical darkness until I could see light again. So I went to the place where the lights shined the brightest.

Vegas.

I’d always been able to lose myself in this city. I have a tendency to get lost in my own head and the Vegas vibe always took me to a place where the mundane fell away and the magnificent shined. You’d think that all the commotion would have create pandemonium, but when I’m in the midst of it I hear the words of an old hymn that my mother would sing when she was besieged with things she couldn’t control;
it is well with my soul.
I was nowhere near having the amount of faith that my parents did, but when so much was happening that I would become dazed an airplane became a church. I’d feel the decompression begin and my confusion would become crystal clear. I’d get rid of the muddled thoughts by confessing in the tabernacles of Prada, Tiffany and Dior where my penance was done in dollar amounts. By the time I returned home, my veneer was bulletproof. I’m recharged and ready to stand my ground against anyone and anything, especially the bitch that tried to kill me both physically and professionally.

Marisol Franzi.

Her profession is very unlike my own. She’s an international model known for a flawless physical form. But she’s proof that beauty really
is
skin deep. Her soul is a dark pit where happiness goes to die. Her kind of nasty creeps through the cracks of her beautiful face. She’s possessed by psychotic manipulations that have threatened the lives of my friends. Her madness has created an illusion of aesthetic normalcy but it disguises an evil web of deception. She’s a human black widow. She sucks the lifeblood of any poor soul who shows vulnerability. I was once among them and felt the effects of her venom firsthand.

Never again.

I closed my eyes and erased the mental pictures. I had to stop marinating in what was behind me. My thoughts had to be purged of all the negativity, and the only one who could do that was me. If I wanted to enjoy my trip I had to enjoy what was right in front of me and leave the stressful things behind for the next few weeks. For now, all I could think about was getting a hot shower and a good night of sleep. Exhaustion was not my friend. The shadows of my self-critical nature have a tendency to take control when I’m not well rested, and travel days had a tendency to be the worst. All I had to do was grab the key to my room from my purse.

Room 1022 was calling my name.

O
nce I was inside I closed the door behind me. I leaned against the backside of it and took a deep breath. I wasn’t able to enjoy much solitude before meeting Liz for drinks and now I couldn’t wait to get settled in. My bags were brought to the room upon my arrival. The valet humored me as he brought my luggage in but I saw him strain when he lifted the largest suitcase. The problem? Shoes and accessories—but mainly, my shoes.

I had to stifle a laugh. He was so polite when I tipped him but I knew he suspected that’s what was in there. I didn’t try to explain because I didn’t have to. Men would never understand how or why women were obsessed with footwear, but to the female species they were an unspoken language—not to mention they really made our legs look good!

I laid my clothes out on the bed and arranged my outfits. I had my mother to thank for my love of clothes and accessories. Some people would think what I was doing to be odd, but I loved it! My mom has always been beautiful and stylish. I inherited her fair skin and deep brown eyes. I grew up in an upper, middle class family and my parents lived on a budget, but my mom dressed us so well that people thought we had more money than we did. Even after my accident. That was when her true talent came into play. She was creative when it came to hair and make-up and, when I became a teenager, my mom taught me her skills of illusion.

Most of my memories of the accident were jumbled. I was such a little girl that I barely remembered much about it, but for years I’d heard the details. I knew more than I remembered but what I did remember was that there was a lot of pain. Of course I couldn’t remember the actual pain, but I remember how it made me scream. While I recovered my mom diverted attention from IV drips, bandages, and pain medication with hairstyles and fashion magazines. In the days after I was discharged from the hospital my mom would page through them as she sat with me in bed, often until I fell asleep from the painkillers. It was just a diversion to pass the time and I liked having my momma nearby. I never dreamed that the distraction of pretty things could be a lifeline.

Like most children, I was resilient. I healed, but the scarred skin hurt and itched. My mom would apply cream and would gently massage the soreness away. She later told me that every day in the hospital she was planning how special my first shopping trip would be. I honestly don’t know how she did it. I mean, how do you console your child when you are hurting for them? Her way was to spend some girl time with me. Just mom, pretty clothes, and me. I was little and she thought a big girl lunch would right my world to its former, happy axis. I guess it sounded silly, but unless you’ve been in that situation you couldn’t possibly know what you would do. What I do know is that my mom tried to prepare me for what was to come and how I could fight it.

“Sweetie, one day, people may not be nice to you. You mustn’t pay attention to them.” Her momma’s expression was tender. Paige carefully put her little cup of hot chocolate on the saucer. Her nose wrinkled up and her forehead furrowed in confusion.

“Why would they be mean to me, momma? You always say I’m nice with my friends.” She reached across the table and held Paige’s little fingers in her palm.

“Baby, they might not see you the same way that daddy, Ricky, and I do. We think you’re a brave girl, and we think you’re beautiful, but some people…they only look at the outside. They shouldn’t, but they do.”

Paige touched the edges of her bandages, her little fingernails sparkling from the polish her momma applied.

“Momma? If you kiss the booboo’s, will they go away?” Kyla swallowed the lump in her throat. She only wished she had that power! She moved a tendril of Paige’s silky hair, pushing it behind her shoulder.

“Baby, if I thought that would work I’d give you a million kisses—no, a billion kisses. Dr. Dylan said it would take time. Then we’ll see how you heal.” Paige reached up and placed her hand on Kyla’s cheek.

“I want to be pretty like you, momma. Daddy says you’re boo-ti-ful.”

She noticed tears against her mother’s lashes, and wanted to console her. Laying her head against her mother’s chest, she coiled her little legs around her waist and hugged her.

“I love you, momma,” she whispered.

It was one of my first memories of being in the hospital. I had revisited it so many times but I wished it hadn’t surfaced now. I was tired. Bad things happened when I was tired. When What usually was a sweet recollection could become a nightmare. Remembrances of helplessness, both mine and mom’s could put me in a bad funk.

I exhaled the unconscious breath I’d been holding and placed the last outfit in the closet. My shoes were tight and I sat down on the bed to pry them off of my swollen feet. It didn’t matter how high they were or how uncomfortable I felt after wearing them for ten hours, the Vince Camuto’s were one of my favorite pairs. I’m sure some psychologist would have analyzed how accessories camouflaged my insecurities but I didn’t care. For years the pretty things I bought and wore were my magic. They cancelled out hospital smells, painful bandage changes, and pitiful stares. I placed them in the dark recesses of my mind but they could resurface at any time.

Like now.

I could still hear the name-calling, the taunts, and see the ugly facial expressions. They made me feel like I didn’t measure up and never would. Although my mother was an angel she learned the hard way that she couldn’t protect her little girl from a broken heart. The worst offenders were children with cherubic faces that became devils when they weren’t monitored. Mean girls.

I stretched, flexed, and pointing my toes while I tried to put the sad thoughts back into their box in my mind. I had many boxes there. All were childhood memories, some pleasant, some not, but neatly catalogued nonetheless. As I grew up part of my healing was through counseling. They taught me to concentrate on the present in order to avoid the pain of the past, but I wasn’t always successful. It was a work in progress and I was still working on it.

Although it was necessary for me to live in the “now”, relaxing my body couldn’t hurt. The flight had cramped me but the drinks relaxed me. Volleying the two was a perfect mental health cocktail—and not a good one. An exhaustion that was physically and emotionally draining was creeping in. My internal clock wasn’t cooperating well and, now that everything was put away, a hot shower sounded pretty good. I grabbed a tee shirt and some clean panties. The need for sleep was threatening to push me over the edge of rationale. My thoughts were beginning to get muddled and I felt scuzzy from the recirculated air on the plane. Shower. Sleep. Now. It was an easy formula. All I had to do was follow it.

I picked out my outfit for the next day, a little business, and a little pleasure. Liz and I had registered for the conference but we also were planning to look at a few properties. I was thinking of buying a condo for my Vegas visits. Of course, the absence of hotel pampering could greatly hinder my decision. I l
oved
room service.

As I closed the closet door and placed my clothes on a hook I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Just like Narcissus, I was drawn to it, but there was one, big difference between us; I wasn’t in love with myself. Not at all.

Quite the opposite in fact.

As I looked in the mirror
she
stood before me. The girl that never measured up. The one that everyone hated. The one they brought to life because they hated
her
imperfection. In my sleep- deprived, maudlin state, I looked at
her
through their eyes. I pushed the dress off my shoulders but it was
she
that looked back at me.
Her
eyes watched it flutter to the floor, but it puddled at my feet. The girl in the mirror was the object of their cruelty.
She
fixated on the lacy bra and panties that I wore beneath, but
she
was disgusted by something so pretty against something so foul. I saw
her
as a conqueror, but all
she
saw was a freak.