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Authors: Evan Marshall

BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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Chapter 37
I
didn't hear from Reilly until June first when he called my office to tell me that our divorce was indeed final. This was good news considering the fact that my wedding to Matt was at the end of the month. “There's something I need to discuss with you, Prudence,” Reilly said. “Perhaps we could meet after work and talk.”
I suggested we meet at the apartment at seven.
Reilly didn't go for that. “Let's make it eight at Bar 89, okay?”
I had given up on the idea of reconciling with Reilly, and I could tell the thought of getting back together with me had not crossed his mind once over the last six weeks. This was all for the best. The invitations to Matt's and my wedding had been mailed. My dress was altered, and far too many nonrefundable deposits had been made to think about jilting the groom. Sure, Matt and I had some serious issues to work through, but we would, I assured myself. Every couple has its rocky times. It's just usually not before the marriage has begun.
Someone forgot to get that memo to Matt because when I arrived home at seven, the phone was ringing with him waiting to give me the ax. I heard the ringing from downstairs and ran up to make sure I didn't miss the call. I was like one of those poor unsuspecting people who gets a package in the mail and wonders, “Gee what's that funny ticking in this pretty box? Let's tear it open and—” KABOOM!
“Hey honey, what's going on?” I asked, a clueless fool.
“We need to talk,” Matt said.
“Okay, shoot,” I said, unaware of how appropriate my choice of words really was.
“I'm not really sure how to tell you this,” he said.
“Honey, in four weeks, we're going to be married. You can tell me anything. We're a team,” I encouraged.
“Well, um, that's just it. I'm not ready to go through with this wedding.”
Silence.
More silence.
Finally someone had to speak. “What do you mean you're not ready to go through with the wedding?” For once, Matt was communicating very directly, but I hoped there could be some other, innocuous meaning for what he'd just told me.
“I mean, I can't marry you, Prudence. I just don't see it working out between us,” he said apologetically. “I think we'd be making a big mistake getting married. I don't want to move to New York.”
“I'll come to L.A.,” I shot.
Call me Malone!
“It's not just that. I just don't think I'm really the marrying type, you know?”
“No I don't know, Matt!” I shouted. “You proposed to me back in October, bought me a ring in December and we've been making plans for a wedding ceremony, reception and honeymoon together for months. I kind of got the impression you
were
the marrying type.”
“See, this is what I'm talking about. We're on two totally different speeds. You are so uptight and controlling about everything, and there's just no moderation with you,” he explained.
Rick,
I growled wordlessly.
“Where is this coming from?” I hoped he'd realize on his own that his so-called best friend had just made an incision in his stomach and released a bunch of butterflies. “You've got last-minute jitters,” I begged.
“No, I've got last-minute clarity,” he said.
Was that necessary?
“It's useless trying to talk me out of this. I've thought about this a great deal and there's no way I'm going to marry you.”
I was begging wasn't I? I was groveling like some pathetic loser, crawling across the floor, hanging onto her man's pant leg. Just an hour ago, I was practically vomiting in my office bathroom at the thought of marrying Matt in four weeks. Now I had an out. I should have been celebrating, but instead I was hung up on who was doing the dumping and who was being rejected.
I should have broken it off in Los Angeles,
I thought.
I should have beaten him with my metal crutch and taped
A Passion for Life
over his uninspired and totally ridiculous film about Louis Pasteur, who I hope has the greediest great-grandchildren on the planet.
If I'd seen this coming, there are so many things I would have done differently.
Why is that?
I wondered. Why would I have done things differently if I knew I was going to be dumped in the end? Why did I let the ultimate destination determine how my journey would be? Why was I still on the phone with this loser?
“Matt, I respect your decision and thank you for at least telling me this time,” I said. “If
you
change your mind, don't even think about calling me to reconcile. If you ever see me at Michigan stadium again, walk the other way because I don't even want to say hello. Got it?”
“Come on, there's no need to be bitter about this,” Matt said gently.
“You're right, I should thank you for saving me from the biggest mistake of my life, but right now, I've got to admit, I'm a bit peeved at the thought of having to call two hundred and fifty guests and tell them the wedding is off. Actually, fuck that. You call your own guests and tell them what a spineless prick you are. And I'll send you a bill for the deposits I put down.”
“Okay, that sounds fair,” he said.
“Nothing about this is fair, Matt. You owe me a few thousand bucks, plain and simple. Don't congratulate yourself for paying what you owe. If I don't see the money in thirty days, I will sue you!” Then I hung up and fell to the floor in tears. I didn't get up for another half hour of sobbing until I realized I'd have to run to the bar to meet Reilly.
 
 
“Prudence, you're never late,” Reilly said as I rushed into the bar and sat down next to him.
“Not too late, I hope.”
“Don't worry about it,” Reilly shrugged. “I hope you don't mind I ordered without you, though.” He motioned for a waiter to come to our table. “You always have the same thing here, right?”
“Right,” I said, ordering my usual.
“Listen, I wanted to tell you this in person so you wouldn't have to hear it through the grapevine,” Reilly began.
He's marrying Sarah.
“I asked Sarah to marry me and she accepted,” Reilly said.
“So soon?” I asked. “Don't you want to take some time to get over me first?”
He laughed as if I was kidding. “To be perfectly honest, it was spending the night with you that made me realize how much Sarah means to me, and how I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.”
Gee, just what every girl wants to hear.
“Sarah and I have talked a great deal about your whole scheme to find a new wife for me, and we both agree that your heart was probably in the right place at the time. So I wanted to let you know that I forgive you. What you did was wrong, but it all worked out in the long run.”
For you maybe.
He continued. “Sarah and I both know we owe a lot to you for bringing us together that night in the restaurant. We probably wouldn't have met otherwise. Anyway, I'm sorry that I said I never wanted to see you again after, you know, that night.”
“Does Sarah know about—”
“No,” Reilly interrupted. “It was a mistake and there's no need hurting Sarah, so I would really appreciate it if you'd take that to your grave with you.”
Which I hope I will be visiting any day now!
“So, you forgive me?” I asked. “Just like that?”
“I wouldn't say just like that,” said Reilly. “It took a few afternoons at the shooting gallery. Oddly enough, the person who really helped me forgive you was Sarah.”
“Really? What did she say?”
“She didn't really say anything, Prudence. She just let me talk about this for hours without feeling threatened by it. After I talked and talked and talked about it, I wasn't all that angry any more. Just last week, someone said something about you and it was the first time I didn't answer with a nasty remark. I honest-to-God wished you well.”
My chicken salad arrived and I plunged into it as though I hadn't eaten for years. “Reilly, you are such a good person,” I said. “What about the vasectomy?”
“You know Sarah has a son, right?”
“I didn't know that,” I answered.
“To tell you the truth, one child is enough. Michael is five years old, just old enough to keep his bedsheets dry, but young enough to think of me as his father,” Reilly said, a bit choked up at the thought. “Sarah's husband died when Mike was a baby, so he's really excited to have a dad.”
In just a few months, Reilly had opened his heart to another woman, adopted her son and forgiven me. I couldn't even let go of anger I had toward Father for leaving me twenty-five years ago. What more could Reilly possibly do to elevate himself to sainthood?
“Oh yes, I almost forgot,” Reilly said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Here's an invitation to the wedding. It would mean a lot to Sarah and me if you came. You can even bring the surfer if you want.”
I burst into tears.
“I'm sorry, Prudence. I won't call him that anymore,” Reilly said.
I wiped the tears from my eyes. “It's not that. I'm just touched, that's all.”
You could say that again.
“When is the wedding?” I asked.
“It's the day before your birthday. Saturday at the Petersens' house in East Hampton.”
“The day before my birthday?” I sobbed.
“I'm sorry, Prudence. Why is this a big deal?” Reilly wondered.
“It's not, it's not, Reilly. I'm happy for you,” I sobbed, blowing my nose into a napkin. “You and Sarah will have a wonderful life together. Of course I'll come to your wedding. I have no plans that weekend,” I was able to get out before my next burst of tears.
“Prudence,” Reilly said, reaching across the table to hold my hand. “Is there something else on your mind? Tell me. Maybe I can help you.”
“No Reilly, I'm just happy for you, that's all.”
Part of me wanted to tell him about the whole Matt fiasco and cry on his shoulder through our dinner as he comforted me and told me what a fool Matt was to dump me. A bigger part told me to let Reilly enjoy his engagement without any more hassles from me.
Chapter 38
J
ust as I thought the night couldn't get any weirder, my intercom downstairs started buzzing frantically. I was rinsing off my makeup in the bathroom sink when I heard what sounded like the buzzer version of Morse code.
Annoyed, I pressed the button to hear who was outside. “What?!” I snapped to let the person know I was not at all pleased with the midnight call.
“Prudence,” said a muffled young woman. “I'm sorry to bother you, but you're the only person I know in the city.”
“Come on up,” I said, ringing the buzzer to let her in.
It was Paige, my half sister, and that was the longest conversation we'd ever had up till that point. I waited a few moments, then wondered what was taking her so long to climb one set of stairs. I opened the door and saw that she'd collapsed at the base of the staircase. I ran to her and lifted her shoulders. “Paige, wake up! Paige, can you hear me?!” Her limp head began to move and she made a face like someone being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. “Paige!” I shook her by the shoulders. “Wake up!”
I crouched beside her body in the stairwell and shook her until she began to say, “Okay, okay. I'm okay.” Paige had obviously been out for a wild night in the city. She was in her standard torn black tights, zebra print miniskirt and a black T-shirt so short it could have been worn as a bra. Her black hair was tossed over her pale face and her red lipstick was smeared to her cheek. Paige wore a men's black leather jacket with chains hanging across the back.
“Paige, what did you take tonight?” I asked her, gripping her face between my hands, desperately trying to keep her conscious. “Paige!” I said after she nodded off again. I ran upstairs and rushed down with two glasses of cold water. The first, I splashed in her face, the second I slowly encouraged her to drink as her head rested on my lap. Her head was burning so hot I nearly seared off my fingerprints trying to gauge her temperature with my hand. “Paige, listen to me. I need to know what kind of drugs you took tonight.”
“Ecstasy,” she muttered.
“Sweetie, you don't look at all ecstatic,” I said. “Where did you get it?”
“Some guy at a party gave it to me.”
Paige had just muttered the nine most dangerous words a young woman could say these days. She managed to tell me that she was at a party at NYU and started to feel sick after one of the college boys offered her the greatest high of her life, then proceeded to tear at her clothes in a bedroom that she had no recollection of going to. Thankfully, she had enough presence of mind to grab a trophy in the bedroom and hold the pointed gold angel wings at the boy's throat until he kicked her out of the party.
“Keep drinking,” I told Paige, patting cold water on her forehead, half expecting the droplets to sizzle. “Who did you go to the party with?” I asked her. “Paige! Stay with me. Did you go to the party with someone?”
“Melanie from school,” Paige said.
“Do you remember the name of the boy who gave you the ecstasy?” I asked her.
“Mark,” she slurred. “Mark Fucking Cornish. I remember 'cause I couldn't stop thinking of him as a Cornish game hen after he introduced himself.”
“Do you remember where the party was?” I asked. “Honey, you need to tell me where the party was so we can go back and get Melanie.”
“Student housing. You know the big building on Fifth?” Paige asked.
“I know exactly where you mean.”
Paige looked at the ceiling, then closed her eyes. “Prudence,” she said like a little girl. “I don't feel so well.” Her head dropped and there was no amount of face-slapping or cold water that was going to revive her. I rushed upstairs to grab my purse and was on the sidewalk with Paige in my arms within a minute. I felt like the Phantom of the Opera carrying her through the fogged streets trying to hail a cab with my foot.
Finally, a police car stopped and offered to take us to the hospital. The officer at the wheel sounded his siren and sped toward the hospital. The second officer was a woman who climbed in the backseat with us. “What happened to this child?” she asked.
“She went to her first college party and someone slipped her some drugs,” I explained. “A boy named Mark Cornish said he was giving her ecstasy. Her friend Melanie is still there. Melanie's seventeen, by the way, and I have little doubt that they're serving alcohol there. Do you know where student housing is on Fifth Avenue? The big gray apartment building?”
The officer grabbed her radio and called in the information. “We got underaged drinking and a possible possession charge. I want you to find some punk called Mark Cornish and bring him in for questioning.” She turned to me. “My daughter is sixteen and I hate this kind of crap. How old is your girl?”
“Seventeen,” I said, my eyes welling with tears. “She's going to Brown in the fall. Paige really has her head on straight most of the time.”
“There, there,” the officer comforted me. “Her stomach will be pumped in a few minutes and she'll probably be just fine.”
When we arrived at the hospital, Paige was swept off on a rolling hospital bed surrounded by young doctors and nurses. “Name?” one shot.
“Paige. Paige Malone,” I told them.
“What did she take?” another asked speedily.
“I'm not sure. Some kid said he was giving her ecstasy,” I said.
One shined a penlight in her eyes. “Can you tell me what day this is, Paige?”
Another asked her if she could tell how many fingers he was holding in front of her.
Paige said nothing, though her eyes were now open at least. Her facial expression let them know she had absolutely no idea where she was, or why she was there.
“We need to pump her stomach,” one said as they ran her bed past the blue hospital doors.
“I'm sorry,” the nurse told me as she stopped me from going past that point. “This area is only for hospital staff and patients. We're going to need you to fill out some paperwork.”
I sat in the hospital waiting area with a clipboard holding a blank questionnaire about a young woman who was a stranger to me.
Patient's Name:
Paige Malone.
Patient's Birth Date:
Don't know. Spring. She's 17.
Insurance:
Don't know, but I'm sure she has it.
Weight:
Don't know. She's slim for her height.
Height:
Not sure. Pretty tall.
Medical Conditions:
Don't know.
This question reminded me that I should call her sisters, Father and Carla. I took my cell phone from my purse and called information. Then I remembered that neither Ashley nor Whitney kept their maiden names after they married, and I had no idea what their new surnames were. I managed to get the number for Father and Carla from the operator, but when the sleepy maid, Angela, picked up the phone, she reminded me that Father and Carla were in France.
“Miss, you can't use that phone in a hospital,” the triage nurse told me. “It can interfere with the equipment.” I ran outside and put my left index finger in my ear to block out the street noise.
“Can you get me their number in Paris?” I shouted to Angela. “It's an emergency.”
As I dialed, I wished I'd taken French in high school instead of opting for Spanish. I'm sure I sounded like the quintessential ugly American when I immediately launched into the conversation with. “English, English!!! Who there speaks English?!”
“We all speak English,” said a condescending French accent.
“Can you connect me with Trenton Malone, please?”
“He will return later this morning,” the man offered.
Where the hell are they before sunrise in France?!
“Their daughter is in the hospital,” I told them. “Please have them call me right away.” I gave him my cell phone number and asked him to repeat it.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he said. “I will make sure that they receive your note the moment they return.”
I spent the next hour sitting in the waiting area in my pajamas eating peanut butter crackers I bought from the vending machine near the pediatrics ward. A nurse came out to tell me that they had successfully pumped Paige's stomach. “She's very lucky, you know, Mrs. Malone. Your daughter could have died tonight.”
“When can I see her?” I asked.
“Not for another hour,” the nurse told me. “We've got a social worker talking to her and the police are going to want to speak with her as well. She'll be fine, though. Just as long as she doesn't repeat tonight's shenanigans, she'll be just fine.”
Shenanigans? She could have been raped tonight.
“Excuse me, but Paige is a good kid,” I told the nurse. “I'm grateful for everything you did to save my sister tonight, but please don't refer to what happened to her as ‘shenanigans.'”
“I'm sorry, Miss, but I think your sister made some very poor choices, and I am not going to apologize for speaking my mind,” the nurse said.
“Do you have kids?” I asked her.
“Two girls. Five and seven,” she answered.
I laughed and dismissed the nurse's previous comment. She did not need to apologize to me. Humility awaited her soon.
“There's a chapel down the hall if you'd like to stop in and say a prayer of thanks,” the nurse said, her gold cross catching the fluorescent overhead lights. Though I'm sure she meant this as another dig about my sister's morality, the nurse's idea wasn't a bad one. I hadn't been inside a church since I was seventeen when I confessed about my abortion. Through the grating, my priest said that there was no penance for my sin. “I'm sorry, young lady, but I feel very strongly about this issue and I would appreciate it if you no longer came to Saint Ann's,” he said. That was it. No amount of Hail Marys or Rosaries could undo the one-way reservation to hell I had booked, he told me.
When I stepped into the empty chapel at the hospital, I half expected the booming voice of God to call, “Get out, Slut!” like the haunted house in the
Amityville Horror.
Instead there was silence. It was that kind of silence that's so intense you can hear the high-pitched hum that is drowned out by every other sound on the planet. I sat in the second row of glossy wood pews, and thanked God for the doctors and nurses who saved Paige's life. Then, I started crying, for reasons I wasn't even sure of at the time. I rested my head on my arms which were extended in front of me, clutching the back of the first row of pews. “Oh God, why did you ever leave me?” I cried, not sure whether I was directing this question to Matt. Or Father. Or myself.

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