The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins (24 page)

As Marge staggers off breathlessly to hose down her sweating bulk, I hit the juice bar and join Mona in an acai berry protein shake. She has a distracted air, and a flinty glare lights the eyes in her frosted face.

— You look a little rough, honey, I delight in telling her. — Late one last night?

— Oh my God, Mona’s facial muscles try to twitch into some animation, but you can’t inject that much toxin and expect a wide range of expressions.

— The things we do for love, I smile, as my next client, Sophia, my sweet old widow with the bad knees, comes in. I gently put her through her paces, using the low-impact elliptical for cardio. I like listening to her talk about her late husband; I dunno if men were genuinely better back then, or if I just meet the assholes. — You obviously loved him very much, I observe, as she spills another anecdote while slowly grinding out the cals.

— I still do. I always will. I know he’s gone, but the love I have for him will never die.

— You’re lucky, I mean, to have known that kind of love . . . I look to the machine, — . . . and five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.

— Oh, I know that, she says, getting her breath and taking my hand, and stepping off the elliptical.

— Don’t try and replace him with sugary snacks and junk food. He’d want you to be the best you that you can be.

— I know . . . She breaks down in tears. — I just miss him so much . . .

I put my arm around her. She smells of talc and perfume from another age. — We’re going to get the weight off you. Take the pressure off those bad knees. Make it easier for you to get out more. Eli would want that, wouldn’t he?

— Yes, he would. She looks up at me, her eyes strong under the lens of fear. — You really are such a wonderful, kind girl.

— We’ve got to be here for each other, I whisper gently, letting her go and stroking her arm, — it’s all there is.

Then I’m back along to the Lincoln lot to pick up the car, and inching down the causeway in heavy traffic into downtown Miami.

At the not-so-ivory tower, I bring Sorenson a grilled chicken salad dinner from Whole Paycheck. Factoring in vegetables and the sweet potato, it comes to a roughish 425 cal on Lifemap, not that I get much in the way of fucking gratitude for my efforts. — I’m sick, Lucy, you really have to let me go!

— If you do thirty minutes, Lena, three-zero, that’ll be 1,500 cal burned off today.

— No! I can’t! I said I was sick!

— It’s only your body recalibrating. It’s like cold turkey. Fight through that shit! Speaking of shit . . . well done. I pick up the bucket.

Gross bitch has practically shat her weight in dirty chestnuts. I’ve been putting flaxseed in her food and with all the water I’m making her drink, it’s already starting to pay off. I take the foul, toxic mess to the toilet and flush it away. Soon those stools will be long, smooth, and unbroken, not like she’s shat out the Thing from the
Fantastic Four
. And she’s used the pool and changed her clothes. I pick up the discarded items to take to the wash.

When I return, Sorenson is still pleading. — I need a Coke, or a Sprite! Just one! My head . . .

God, she disgusts me! Lying on that mattress, comforter swaddling her fat frame, like an obese refugee. Loo-zir! — The treadmill. I pat the machine.

— I can’t!

— Uh, uh, uh . . . what the fuck have I told you about the unpardonable rudeness of the “c” word?

She pulls the comforter closer to her, looking at me with those beseeching eyes. — No . . . please . . . let me go! Please, Lucy . . . this has gone beyond a joke! I’ll do what you want! I’ll follow the fucking program! The point has been made! Just let me go!

I walk toward her, sinking down on my knees in front of her. I point to the treadmill. — If you do as I ask, it means a fifteen hundred debit on your daily calories account. That’s half a pound of fat. There, I run my finger under her chin, — and here, I poke her gut, causing her to shrink away.

— I can’t . . . she moans in a small voice, — I never slept properly, I’m so tired.

— As I said, that’s just your body recalibrating. I spring up. — C’mon, I try to tug her to her feet, — let’s go!

— But I can’t!

— Losers find excuses, winners find ways, and I take a deep breath and haul the useless little sack of shit upright and push her onto the treadmill, her chain rattling behind her as she steps on. — Find a way! I stuff my phone into the iPod dock and set it on Joan Jett’s “Love Is Pain,” singing along as I set her controls to 4 mph.

— Okay . . . okay . . . Sorenson reluctantly hits her jogging stride.

I stand back to watch that fat little hamster work her ass to freedom. But you know what? That isn’t enough. I spring forward and push at the controls. 5 mph.

— Okay! Okay!

Bitch gotta sweat or bitch gotta bruise
. Up to 6 mph, a mild run.

— AGGHHH! The loser sow shoots off the mill like a grotesque comic-strip character, chain yanking at her arm, her fat ass wedged in between the machine and the wall. Her petulant face twists up at me. — Oh my God . . . this is a nightmare . . .

— The nightmare is one of your own making. I point at her, the contempt and derision coming from deep within me, as Joan sings about love being pain and not being ashamed. — I’m trying to save your bloated ass! Now get back on that track, you fucking ungrateful, time-wasting bitch!

Sorenson fearfully complies, pulling herself to her feet and stepping on.

She gets the message. This time she’s running strongly. — Better! Put those fuckin dimes in the jukebox!

I make her shave off another four hundred cal, to hit the fifteen hundred goal, before letting her eat her food as a reward. — Slow the fuck down when you eat. Watch every spoonful. Focus on the food. Chew it!

The nervous eyes under those bangs; going from me to what’s on the end of her spoon. A passive fucking victim. No balls, no fight. To let somebody do this to them. That asshole guy she went out with; the way she just let that prick fuck with her. You gotta fight them. You gotta hurt them. You can’t just fucking well lie down and take it. — Okay, Lena, you’ve done well. If you keep this up, I’m going to bring you a book tomorrow. Then, at the end of the week, I’m suddenly thinking of my portable, — you might get a TV.

Sorenson’s face is still crunched in misery. — Please, Lucy. The point has been made. I’ll come here every day. Just don’t make me spend another night here. I
need
to sleep in my own bed. I
really, really need
to get on with my work, she begs, her eyes red-rimmed. — Don’t leave me here for another night!

Those urging eyes. Her work is so important . . . but the bitch is playing me. I’m not gonna be manipulated, this won’t work if I’m manipulated. — Toughen the fuck up, Lena, and
do your Morning Pages
, because if I come back here tomorrow and find none, there will
no breakfast
. Get that?
No fucking breakfast
without Morning Pages!

And I head outside, double-locking the door, as her cries belt out:

— LUUUCCCEEE!!!! NO!!!! HELP!!!!

But there’s still nobody around, and as I summon the elevator and hear it clicking up the floors, I’m thinking:
yes, this building must be a spooky place to spend the night
.

I key the ignition on the Caddy, as a call from Mona comes in on my cell.

— Have you seen the news?

— No.

— Oh. Don’t shoot the messenger, she says coyly, and I know it’s not good. As much as I loathe that bitch I have to concede that she has a real nose for scenting blood in the water.

Mona recounts the grim story, but no way can her voice remain as neutral as that botulinum-paralyzed face, and irrepressible glee sparkles her tone. I get home, and there’s nobody at the rear entrance to the building, and, thank God, a free parking space. In my apartment, the plastic cunt’s gloating is confirmed on a local TV channel. The missing ten-year-old, Carla Riaz, has been found dead, in the home of her neighbor, one Ryan Balbosa.

In the swarthy mug shot I’m gaping at, I see the second man I saved that night on the Julia Tuttle. I can’t take my eyes off the screen, even when Balbosa’s face is replaced by a carousel of other sex offenders. The blood in my veins is like ice; the monster I saved did that to a child.
That
would have been the scum to execute,
that
one.

Chef Dominic calls, but I don’t pick up. I listen to an extended voicemail about a party. I can’t do that.

Mona calls again; I don’t pick up. Another voicemail, offering another party. No way.

Instead, I look through the plates in Sorenson’s book, at those monster men and women, scrambling through the debris of ruined cities. Then I leave the apartment and get into the car. The gates open and I pull into the alley. Two paparazzi snap at me, one of them, the bastard with the wrecked camera, shouting, but I look ahead and edge slowly onto the street. When I get there, I floor the gas pedal. The Caddy burns rubber (or as much as it can) and tears toward Alton sounding like a broken hairdryer. I take a long route to Lena’s place, over the MacArthur, through downtown, midtown, and back over the Julia Tuttle, paranoid that those bastards are tailing me.

But the coast seems clear as I park in the Publix lot and walk around to Sorenson’s house. Picking up the mail, I dispose of those ubiquitous fucking fliers advertising club nights and food deliveries. There’s a package among all the junk. I deliberate on whether or not to open it. No, it’s Lena’s. That’s crossing the line. I also decide against having a closer look at Lena’s studio. I dump the rest of the shit in the trash and take the package home with me, again parking a couple of blocks from my building, then head over to Whole Paycheck.

As I come outside with my groceries, crossing the parking lot and passing the bus stop, a contaminated-looking guy shuffles obsequiously toward me. I’m relieved when I realize he’s not paparazzi, just a bum. — Excuse me, miss, I wonder if you could help me? I need to get to Mount Sinai hosp—

— Bored already. I wave an upturned palm at him, jumping across Alton as the pedestrian signal comes on. When I get back to my apartment the street outside is full of press. I can’t get into my own fucking home! I double-back to the Caddy and drive up to Lena’s place where I make some food, and try to watch her cable. But I can’t settle. I keep thinking about that kid, and that animal Balbosa. What the fuck have I done?

I go onto Lena’s computer. It isn’t even password- or security-protected, and opens up straight onto the page of her email account.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: Did You Get The Caramel Creams?

Lena,

Please get back to me. I know you have a busy-busy, chop-chop life in Miami, but we like to hear from our girl!

Lynsey Hall is rumored to be having a baby . . . I know.

The caramel creams are your favorites. Hope you enjoy! Let me know if they came, UPS have been kind of weird lately.

Dad sends his love.

Love

Mom xxxxx

Good golly Miss Molly Sorenson. What a freakin loser! It puts me in mind to check my own emails on my iPad.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: Success!

I don’t know if I’d quite put it like that, but you need to be determined and not be swayed from your course of action! Tough love rules! And so do Morning Pages!

Best of luck with your difficult client.

M x

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: Have I Been Too Forthright In My Sexuality?

Michelle,

You are so right about the media turning on people. I worry that I’ve been too candid about my bi (veering strongly toward chicks) sexuality, and you’re right, I should have taken the “it’s none of your fucking business” approach that you and Jillian Michaels both so successfully deploy. I mean, look how the bastards turned on poor Jackie Warner!

Yes, you’re correct to exercise discretion. In the public eye it’s difficult to come out and say what you mean, with a hostile media so ready to demonize a strong, independent gay woman. Nonetheless, I think it would be great if you gave it the “bi and proud” thing. I think a lot of women in America would be empowered by that.

Love, respect, and sisterhood,

Luce xxx

PS I’m going round to see my artist bitch who better have written her Morning Pages! Cause I’m off to read those suckers RIGHT NOW!

A BRIGHT MORNING,
with red skies fusing into azure. I arrive at the penthouse hutch to find Sorenson scribbling into the notepad on her lap. She rips out a sheaf of papers and thrusts them at me. — Thank you, I tell her. Her eyes are darkened and she looks like shit. And the bucket is full of it. Better.

— I need some breakfast, she grumbles. — Didn’t you bring any food?

I ignore her, take the papers, and head into the narrow galley kitchen. I place them on the countertop, sit at the stool, and start to read:

I awoke lying prone in a perfect, stifling darkness, not aware of where I was. I struggled for air; there was a sort of cover over me. Raising myself onto my knees, I crawled forward, bumping my head on something, then my stomach lurched, and I felt like I was going to be sick. I tried to push the smothering weight from my shoulders and back, but then my hand snagged, a wrenching grip on my wrist being followed by a clanking sound. My awareness of where I was flooded back in a sick torrent, like it’s done the last two mornings. As I struggled more, I felt the sharp cutting edge of metal dig into my wrist. I’m shackled. But my other hand is free. I pushed the harsh, scratchy comforter from my face and blinked into a room faintly illuminated by distant lights spilling in through big windows. I tried my morning yell, “Hello,” but my throat was raw and sore. I felt like I’d swallowed a tennis ball.