The Test (10 page)

“Miss Carla, when they explained what they wanted me to do, I sat at the desk in your father's office. I wanted to remember everything important, everything that might help you. I started four years ago when you moved here from Philadelphia. Before you met Bunky. Just about
the time your mama got diagnosed with melanoma. You were going to Parsons. You weren't happy there.”

Carla shrugged. Damn right. Her grades had been too rotten for an academic college, so Dad bought her way into Parsons School of Design. She'd flunked out the first semester. But she met people who got her into modeling – and into heavier drugs. For a couple of years she'd had a good run. Mostly catalogues until she got to be the “face” for Sensation Cosmetics.

Carla, mute, nodded.

“You were very thin back then. Still are, skin and bones. Anyway, I started to think that you were drinking too much, like in the morning. And I noticed suspicious medicine bottles back then. I thought they were diet pills.”

Yeah, back then it was amphetamines.

“Since they had a doctor's name and all, I didn't bother you about them, Miss Carla.” Sara had turned toward Carla and spoke to her as if no one else was in the room. “About then I started to smell that sweetish marijuana. I didn't like it, but I let it go. Then after your mama died, I knew that you were slipping bad. I don't know much about drugs, but I did try to talk to you about it. Remember?”

“Yes,” Carla said.

“I wish I'd tried harder. You begged me not to tell Mr. Paul, and then he got the cancer and he was at Sloan-Kettering and Fox Chase and Baylor and Mayo Clinic that first year. And things got worse and worse.”

She was right there.

“Do you remember when you got fired from the modeling agency after you didn't show up for your shoots? And nobody knew where you were? That was when things started to get really bad. And after that Bunky moved in here? All our arguments about how he was taking advantage of you?”

“Mrs. Waring,” the doctor prompted. “Why don't you get back to the list”

Carla felt like screaming.
Hadn't enough been said?

“Yes, doctor.” Sara picked up the yellow pad and started reading an endless list of Carla's abuses. Wild parties. Damages. Blackouts. And the final straw, prompting the eviction process.

Carla listened as if the person Sara was discussing was someone else, a disgusting slut. Not herself at all, but a fucking loser, one with no self-respect, no redeeming qualities. Then Sara finished by saying she hoped it wasn't too late.

“Too late?” Carla asked aloud. Too late for her was AIDS.

“Thank you, Mrs. Waring,” the shrink said. He kept up his repulsive blinking habit. “Now, Mrs. Parnell?”

Carla buried her head in her hands. She'd never liked her sister-inlaw and had always tried to avoid her, never imagining that someday she'd be presiding over her life. Now Carla felt trapped, like in a tornado where everything was sucking her into a vortex of confusion. Maybe she did hate what she'd become. Sometimes she did think about just ending it all.

“Carla, deep down, you must know that you need help,” Meredith started out. “Your habit and your friends have taken all of your money. A million dollars in six months. Your junkie friends are taking advantage of you.”

“What do you know about my friends?” Carla forced a civil tone.

“You're right. This is about
you
. About giving
you
the help you need. We've made arrangements for a treatment program,” Meredith concluded.

“I'll think about it,” Carla said, trying to focus on getting out. “Maybe you're right, but I need time to think about it. Anyway I appreciate your concern. I really do.”

“The Roberts Clinic,” said Uncle Carl, taking Carla's hand in his and pulling her so close to him that she could feel the random tremors. “It's the best. It's in upstate New York. In the Catskills. Quiet, comfortable, and experienced.”

“No. I know people who have been to places like that. Horrible. All kinds of ugly drunks and junkies. No, I don't think so.”

“You need inpatient care,” the jerk said. “You're fortunate that your family can afford it.”

“Fucking fortunate,” Carla mumbled, not caring if they heard.

“Mrs. Waring, why don't you pack her things,” Meredith said. “Nothing formal. But enough warm clothing for the cool mountain evenings.”

Carla thought of the one AA—or was it NA—meeting she'd gone
to with her friend, Jan. Jan was clean now. Did the Twelve Steps. But Carla had spoken up at the meeting. “I'm Carla,” she said. “I'm an alcoholic and an addict.” She could still hear the chorus ring out, “Hi, Carla.”

“You just get well,” Uncle Carl said, reaching for Carla's hand. “Your health, that's all that matters. Dr. Adair will accompany you. Everything is set up there.”

Carla knew she was being railroaded. Everyone had turned against her. What choice did she have? She had to go. If she didn't, they'd kick her out of the apartment, and she didn't have money for another place. She figured she could get her hands on drugs inside. Maybe somebody in there could give her advice on how to face AIDS. After she got back, she and Bunky would still be together. Bunky. She'd have to let him know where she was, but first she had to get her hands on that stash. Where the fuck was it? Sara was right. She didn't remember shit.

Sara was packing sweaters into her duffel bag when Carla returned to her bedroom. A suitcase was open on the bed, full of shoes, slacks, shirts, nightgowns, bras, panties. Her travel kit lay beside it, already zipped up. Sara looked up as Carla approached, dropping the clothes in her hands and opening her arms.

“I'm sorry I yelled at you,” Carla said. “I was in shock. I still am.”

“Miss Carla, I am so sorry. Mr. Schiller convinced me that I just had to help. You know how much he cares about you. Then Mrs. Parnell told me exactly what I had to do. I worked hard on that list. You know, everything on it is true.”

“I know you meant to help me, Sara,” Carla said, going to the woman, taking her hands and squeezing them, “but I need your help right now.” Sara slipped her hands out of Carla's grasp and started to pack underwear into the overnight bag. “Please, you have to tell Bunky where I am.” Sara started to shake her head, back and forth. “Tell him I need him and let him stay here, please, Sara.”

“I can't do that, Miss Carla. I promised Mrs. Parnell. Besides that doctor said that you can't have contact with people who still use drugs.”

“Come on, Sara, you've got to do this for me.”

“I'm not going to lie to you. Dr. Adair says that I've been an ‘enabler,' that by protecting you, I've allowed things to get worse. I'm not going to
lie to anyone anymore. No more drugs. You can't get back with those users.”

“I won't. Just Bunky.”

“No,” Sara said, this time looking directly at Carla. “I've packed his things. And I'm changing the locks. He's trouble, Miss Carla, real trouble.”

Carla figured she could get word to Bunky somehow. Sara would get over this high moral ground, and become her supporter again. If only her mother were here,
she'd
make them all go away. Or Rory, who'd always rescued her.

“Sara, one more thing” Carla said. “And this is important. It'll take hours to get to this place upstate. I need my stuff. Just to get by. I need it real bad. I thought I had some, but I can't find it. Did you see it? Please Sara. After today, I'll be in treatment. This will all stop, but I'm desperate, just for tonight.”

Sara shook her head.

“Please, Sara. I'm begging you.”

“Nothing's left, Miss Carla. I flushed it all down the toilet.”

“No.” Carla reached out to strike her, but when Sara lifted her thin arm to shield her face, Carla dropped her hand. “You flushed my fucking life.”

A
PRIL
2001

Dan Parnell set down the twenty-pound bag of dog food and punched the blinking message button.

“Hi Dan, this is Gina.” Her voice in his kitchen? He must be delirious from a day pruning royal palms in the unseasonable heat.

“I'd like to invite you to my house for Easter dinner. I know it's last minute, but Monica is going to be there too. Of course, if you have plans, I'd surely understand. But it would be great if you can make it. Three o'clock.” She went on to provide directions, but Dan knew exactly where she lived. In a Spanish stucco, cream-colored, one-story house with a red-tiled roof. In Fort Myers, not far from Lee Memorial Hospital where she worked.

Taking only enough time to fill the dogs' water bowl, he reached for the wall-mounted phone. His hand trembled as he dialed the call-back number. He needed to react before he lost his nerve.

“Hello.” He recognized the male voice.

“Terry? It's . . .” Dan hesitated, not knowing what he should say, “It's your dad?” Too presumptuous. He decided on, “It's Dan Parnell. Is your mother there?”

“Nope. She and Carrie are out shopping. So are you coming tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Dan said. “Will you let her know?”

“Sure thing. That's cool 'cause I've got a couple things to talk to you about.”

As Dan drove across Alligator Alley on Easter morning, he could still see it in his mind's eye, their tiny two-room apartment in Miami. How
he and Gina had to rearrange the cheap living room furniture to allow for the two cribs. How the walls were so thin, and how worried they were that the babies would keep their neighbors awake. How it had all come to an end. The air conditioner in his Tundra was blasting, but Dan started to sweat. Would Gina give him a second chance? He reached up to loosen his tie. Maybe he shouldn't have worn one, but he wanted to look respectful. He cranked the air-conditioning up even more. He calculated carefully when to take his last smoke, so that Gina wouldn't smell stale tobacco on him.

Dan had returned to Lantana in January after his father's funeral, mortified by the scene he'd made. For days, he'd simply roamed his property, talking to no one. His foreman stepped in and took over all the decisions about the trees. His only company was Lucy, his yellow lab, and Lucky, his black one. In the end, he decided to write to Gina. In that first letter, he groped to find the right words to express all the pent-up guilt, all the years of loneliness. He apologized for his embarrassing tears in Pennsylvania. He wrote of his pride, totally undeserved, in the children. About what a magnificent job she had done. He'd never been much of a writer, but the words that he'd never been able to speak poured out.

He had not expected a reply, but within a week, a thank-you note arrived. That opened the door. He wrote to Gina again, and she wrote back. And now he was on his way to her house for Easter dinner.

As Dan parked the truck outside Gina's house, he checked the mirror on the visor, combed his floppy hair, stuck a cinnamon-flavored Eclipse into his mouth, and straightened his tie. In his anxiety, he didn't notice the white stretch limo parked across the street. He grabbed the pot of Easter lilies off the floor of the truck and almost dropped it as he stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk.

Dan rang the bell, hearing chimes from within. The jasmine growing among the gardenias and azalea beds on both sides of the entrance sent out a powerful fragrance. He felt profound fright and intense serenity. Both at once. Both overpowering. Then Gina appeared, held the door open for him, and he stepped into a space loaded with flowers and plants. He couldn't help but gasp. Gina looked beautiful in a lavender dress with matching sandals, her hair pulled back and held by a clip.

“Dan,” she said, “it's good to see you.”

He pushed the oversized pot of lilies toward her and felt relieved that she took them.

“How thoughtful. Why don't we put them in the living room? I know just the spot.”

He followed her across polished oak floors.

“Terry, Carrie, your father's here.” Said so naturally, as if it were part of a routine.

Both of his kids appeared. Both had a curious expression. Dan wondered if they expected him to release a dam of tears.

“Hello.” Dan said, sticking close to Gina as she placed the lilies on a small round table.

“Welcome.” Carrie gave him a friendly grin. “How was the drive from Lantana?”

“Uh, fine,” Dan said, at a loss as to how to strike up a conversation.

“And,” Gina said, “our guests are in the kitchen.”

“Oh,” was all Dan could think to say. He'd forgotten about his celebrity half sister, Monica Monroe.

“Monica's in the kitchen.” Gina took his arm. “Can you believe it? She had a concert last night in Miami and invited Terry and Carrie as her guests, as well as her niece who lives in Tampa. So I asked them all to Easter dinner, and they flew in from Miami on her private plane.”

Gina stood so close that Dan could smell her hair. Her touch on his arm made his heart hammer. Could she hear it?

“And Monica brought her fiancé. Somebody a sports nut like you will recognize. They gave me the most beautiful bouquet.”

“Oh?” Again, this was all Dan could think of to say. He was a jazz fan, but didn't have a clue about Monica's kind of music.

“Dan,” Monica had been arranging flowers in a crystal vase, “I'm so happy you're here.” She wiped her hands on a towel, and stepped forward for one of those social hugs. Dan forced himself not to pull back and to be gracious when she put her arms around him and leaned in to peck his cheek. “This family is still a mystery to me. I do want to get to know everybody.”

“Of course, you recognize this guy?” Gina announced.

“Uh, nice to meet you,” Dan said to the stranger who stepped up to shake his hand. Only he wasn't a stranger. Dan knew him. But from
where? Good-looking, casual clothes, hazel eyes, brown hair in a crew cut. Tall, with an athletic build. Why was Gina saying that he'd recognize him? Dan wasn't into movie stars or popular singers.