Coda (Songs of Submission #9) (11 page)

“I’m bound to you wherever you are. You know that, right?”

She opened her eyes and looked at me through the web of hair. “Come with me.”

“No. I have things to do here.”

“Like what?”

“Hush.” I moved the hair away and kissed her cheek, then I grabbed the lotion and moved to the end of the bed. “You need to make your life happen. If I hadn’t been sick, you’d come and go as you pleased. As
we
pleased. That’s what I want for you.”

The insides and backs of her thighs couldn’t be touched. Her ass either. What a gorgeous mess. I’d planted that bamboo thinking I might use it, but I had no idea how effective it was. I gave her feet and calves attention, rubbing away her worry and stress.

“We need to live fully, goddess. We both need to live as if we could die tomorrow, and we have to plan for a future where you’re a hundred and ten.”

She moaned. I’d promised her my mouth, and my dick wanted hers, but when I finished rubbing her feet, she was fast asleep.

MONICA

I
 called Eddie from the back deck while Jonathan had his run, and I told him I was going to New York. Laurelin dropped into the lounge chair next to me in her sensible little sneakers and zip-up purple fleece.

“You’re going again?” she asked.

“Yeah. New York. It’s a big deal, kind of. Why?”

“I have a week away coming. Jerry is taking me to—”

“You can’t!” I sat up straight in my chair, tingling with adrenaline. “No, I mean. You can but not now. Please!”

“Don’t worry.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I’ll set him up. He’ll be fine.”

I wanted to support her, and I wanted her to have a nice time. I wanted Jonathan to be fine. But the reality of him being alone wasn’t making it from my brain to my mouth. No, worry was taking a detour through my heart instead.

“You know what?” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I’ll just stay home. It’s not that big a deal.”

Laurelin leaned back and put her foot on the little glass-and-metal table. She must have thought I was schizophrenic. “You know, if this was my house, I’d never want to leave either. I’d just sit here and gestate all day.”

I laughed, and she smiled at me.

“I think you can go,” she said after a minute.

“Nah.”

“I think you
should
go.” I didn’t answer, just tilted my head a little, and she continued. “I’m not going to be here forever, and you all need to learn how to function. I mean, these issues? The pills and the way he has to log everything? They aren’t going anywhere. It’ll always be this way. And you hovering over him because you’re scared, I get it. But at some point, you have to let go.”

I set my jaw. “I’m not letting him go.”

“You know what I mean.”

I did. I knew she meant I had to stop mothering him, but I’d taken it the exact wrong way because it served my immediate purpose. If I acknowledged that I knew what she meant and that I’d heard it, I’d have to admit she was right.

JONATHAN

I
 ran far away. Far enough to be out of Monica’s earshot and then some. I made it to the crowded part of the beach and trotted to the street, trying to shake a feeling that if Monica went to New York, things would get disorganized and neglected.

I’d had a mitt when I was about eleven. It was a Rawlings Gold. The best. And I wore it in just the way I liked it. One spring afternoon, I was dicking around with my cousins in the yard, tossing the ball around and trying out new curse words. We went inside to play video games, and I left my glove in the grass as I’d done dozens of times.

It never rains in Los Angeles, unless you leave your glove out. Then it pours, and the leather hardens. Stupid negligence can turn into disaster. I got another glove, but it was never the same. My hand grew before I could wear it in right, and I always felt an acute loss I couldn’t explain.

I didn’t want to treat Monica like a baseball glove. I didn’t want it to rain on her while my back was turned.

“Quentin?” I said when I got through to my friend. A dozen seagulls screamed at me when I interrupted them on a bench.

Quentin Marshall answered in his Aussie clip. He was a rock star specializing in charity work, and I’d written his foundation a few checks over the years. “Drazen! How are you doing? I heard about the heart, mate. That’s tough stuff.”

“It keeps life interesting.”

“Bet it does.”

He paused, and I heard a siren in the distance and the belch of a city bus. Typical New York ambient noise.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked.

“You invited my wife to sing with you for something?”

“Yeah, I hope that’s all right? She’s got a great set of pipes. And the cause could use your help as well. There are kids dying of dehydration every day.”

“You can always count on my help. But if Monica decides to go, I want you to do something for me.”

“Just say it, and you got it.”

How was I supposed to phrase this without sounding like a sicko stalker? I meant no harm by it, of course, and it wasn’t as though she hadn’t traveled before, but I felt differently than I did months ago, even weeks ago. “If there’s anything she needs, or if there’s something special you think she might need, even if she doesn’t know what it is—can you make sure she gets it? I want her taken care of.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Mate, I will treat her like a precious flower. On my honor.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

We hung up. The ocean pounded the edges of the rocks into smooth stones, a millennias-long process I witnessed for a few minutes before I got up and continued my run.

MONICA

I
’d been away from post-surgery Jonathan before. I’d flown to places I’d never been to and experienced them through hollow eyes and a worn-down heart. I couldn’t say my trip to New York was any different. I was still worn out; I was still dragged home by tight-twisted strands. I was still worried. But something had changed. The worry wasn’t colored a dark grey, and my thoughts of Jonathan weren’t painful. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt alive, vibrating, humming with potential, and I missed him. I missed his company, his laugh, his touch. I missed his enfolding presence beside me. The guilt left a vacuum in its absence, and nature, in its abhorrence, filled it with hope.

I flew commercial. I wanted to be surrounded by people. I wanted to feel the hum of life in the comings and goings of people: the babies crying; the pilots and stewardesses in their neat little packs, rolling suitcases whirring behind; the bright colors of the snack stand in the artificial lights; and the carpets worn where people walked.

I didn’t make up a story when I told Jonathan I didn’t need his plane. Instead of saying something facile about scheduling, I tried to express my need, as intangible as it was, and he understood, and agreed, and asked if I was going to fly coach.

That didn’t seem necessary. Marrying a Drazen had its privileges.

He’d laughed and held me, offering his team to set up the flights. As close as we’d been in bed, or at play, or when he was rubbing my back and telling me how much he loved me, when I explained why I wanted to fly commercial and he understood, I felt truly married. He understood me. I could tell him even the worst nonsense, and he did more than agree. He became a part of me, tapped into my thoughts, a partner.

I’d thought I knew what that meant, but I didn’t.

I was so high, I chatted incessantly with the guy next to me about music and dance. He was a French choreographer, and of course he gave me a definite “I’d be happy to fuck you” vibe even after seeing my ring. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t sleeping with him. I could still enjoy the conversation. I was married to a king, after all. I didn’t have to concern myself with what other people wanted from me.

A bodybuilder in a suit waited for me at the gate with a handwritten sign that said “Mrs. O’Drassen.”

“Hi,” I said. “Are you Dean?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took my bag. “I’ll drive you to the hotel to drop your things. I’m hired out for as long as you need me, so you can call any time.”

“Great. There’s a dinner tonight. In Hell’s Kitchen. Can you take me there?”

“Absolutely.”

I’d never been to New York, and I couldn’t believe how crowded, tight, old, and yet shiny, spacious, and vibrant it was. And this was just from the window of a silver Rolls Royce.

Jonathan had set me up at the Stock New York, the sister hotel of the one I used to work at, citing the hotel he’d just sold as “too grubby.” Everything was perfect. The room was huge, slick, with precisely designed proportions and windows that let onto a little patio that I wanted to sit on with my husband.

Jonathan was in the process of transferring his hotel on the Lower East Side. Hotel D, on Avenue D. His fourth and a huge risk. He shook his head whenever he talked about it. He’d said it was too small for me. Too old, too trendy, too loud—he had a million reasons why I should stay at the Stock. After few minutes of listening to him, I knew why he was keeping me away from D. He didn’t think it was safe. Who even knew why. He’d been known for putting beautiful hotels in up-and-coming neighborhoods like canaries in a coal mine. Maybe this little bird hadn’t gotten out.

The Stock had every imaginable trend-forward trapping. Wool rugs with barely discernible patterns that looked as if they’d been through a war zone in exactly the right places. Maple and mahogany paneling. Blackened brass chandeliers with frosted glass shades that curved in ways that were surprising and yet inevitable. Good-looking staff in sharp uniforms.

I was wrung out from the flight, but I shook it off by taking a coldish shower, and I left before I missed Jonathan more.

“Ah, I know your face!” Omar said when I showed up for the pre-studio dinner.

Hartley Yallow and the Trudy Crestley were already there, and the table was huge.

“I know yours too,” I said. Everyone knew Omar’s face. He had classic South American good looks that came from an Argentinian mother and an Italian father. His voice, however, was something no genetic pairing could predictably create.

I sat down, and we ordered. More people came. I could hardly keep up with the names, because even though I knew them all, I was overwhelmed and in love with that moment. Ivan Braf showed up with his wife, and I envied her presence. I wanted Jonathan next to me, even if he didn’t say a word. It wasn’t that I wanted to steal moments before his death; I wanted this moment to be complete, and without him, it wasn’t.

But it was good. Very good.

Quentin Marshall showed up with the guys from The Breakfront. “Monica Faulkner,” Quentin said in his thick Aussie accent. “So happy you could come. Now we all have to take our game up a notch.” He wagged his finger around the table.

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“We need her on the chorus,” Omar said, pointing his fork. “Flat out.”

“
You
were on the chorus,” Quentin replied.

“I—” I couldn’t finish a denial.

“There’s no point having her here unless you showcase her voice,” Omar argued.

“That’s true,” Quentin replied.

“Hang on!” I said, putting my fist down. I didn’t watch for their reaction, because I knew I didn’t have a second before they’d interrupt. “Even if all this is true, it’s irrelevant. My name won’t sell the record, and the point is to
sell the record.
Nobody knows me, so showcasing me gets you nowhere.”

“She has a point,” Trudy said.

I nodded to her, and she nodded back.

“Fine!” Quentin proclaimed. “We rehearse tomorrow and try it out. Once Victory Spontaine gets in, whenever that is, we decide once and for all.” He clacked the ice at the bottom of his glass. “My drink is empty.” He twisted in his seat to look for a waiter.

I hadn’t realized until that moment that the rest of the restaurant found our gathering very interesting. Black rectangles hovered over heads, and little phone flashes went off. The dinner was publicity. I hadn’t thought of that. I wished I’d worn lipstick or done something with my hair.

Omar, who was next to me, leaned close. “I’m fighting for you to get the chorus.”

“Why?”

“Because you have the most unique voice I’ve ever heard.”

I swallowed. “Well, my point stands.”

“If we want to sell the record, it has to be a
great record.
That’s the number one priority.”

I couldn’t believe he was saying that to me. Omar D’Alessio. Holy shit. I couldn’t believe he was even talking to me.

“You’re pretty great, Omar.”

“I never said I wasn’t.” He put his arm around me. “But there’s room for another.”

He kissed my cheek, and I felt accepted as a musician and artist. Jonathan was the only thing missing from that moment. I wished he could have seen it.

JONATHAN

L
aurelin puttered around the kitchen, putting ingredients into two blender jars that were meant to hold me for two days. She put measured portions of vitamins, greens, milk, powdered puke, and dried shit into a healthful grotesquerie of layers that would be in the fridge for my reluctant consumption.

I didn’t have to think about it. I just had to blend it and choke on it. She’d already taken my blood pressure (one-ten over seventy), drawn blood (a monthly task), and hooked me up to an EKG (looked good). The meds for the week were set out so I didn’t have to count them. The privilege of money. I could pay someone to keep me from the mundanities of my illness.

“Where’s he taking you?” I asked.

“We’re driving up to Monterey,” she replied in a singsong voice. “Donny is staying with Grandma, so it’s kind of a last hurrah before I get huge.”

“Good for him.”

“I have everything you need here until Wednesday. Then you follow this list on the fridge to make new. I’d make them for you for the whole ten days, but the ingredients are perishable.”

“I wish they’d perish,” I said in passing just to make a joke. I was looking at the news on a tablet and was on humor autopilot.

“Oh stop. Be cheerful.” I looked up at her to see her holding up her finger. “Twenty years ago, you’d be the one who perished. And when you complain, people think you won’t do with you’re supposed to when they’re gone.” She winked and went back to arranging my fridge.