The Test (8 page)

And that was true. Once she graduated, there would be no need to keep their relationship a secret. They could be out in the open and—she had to hold her breath every time she wished this—they could get married.

Ashley had always known that she wasn't the smartest among her fellow students. She had to work hard for good grades, harder than her colleagues. And she had always known that she was not attractive. Not beautiful, like Carla. Not outgoing, like Rory. And to make things worse, she had that stuttering problem, not as bad as when she was a kid, but enough to embarrass her.

But now she had Conrad, so protective. He made her feel attractive and special, leaving Ruthie's concerns unfounded. Conrad cared enough about her to be concerned about any decisions she had to make. But there was one thing about Conrad that she could not share with anyone, not even Ruthie. Ashley suspected that Conrad had Peyronie's disease, a penile curvature that should make sexual intercourse painful for him, but apparently did not. She'd read about this condition, but had never seen a case. And what did she know, anyway? She'd been a virgin before him. What she did know was that sex with him left her satisfied and fulfilled. But, she did have this weird inability to recall the actual details and sensations. Too embarrassed to mention it to Conrad, she'd self-diagnosed herself with unclassified sexual dysfunction syndrome. Surely that would correct itself after they were married.

Ashley's thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Mendoza. “Mrs. Parnell calling, Miss Ashley,” she announced, handing her the phone.

She looked up at Conrad before accepting it.

“Meredith?”

Ashley listened as Meredith made it clear that she expected her help with Carla. And Meredith intended to bring in an addiction specialist. She insisted that Ashley bring Conrad, too, reasoning that as a psychiatrist, he'd know how these interventions worked.

Ashley felt the surge of inferiority hit as it always did when dealing with her imperious sister-in-law. The perfect political wife. The brilliant lawyer. A woman who did not take “no” for an answer.

As Meredith stated her demands, Mrs. Mendoza returned with a pear tart, setting it down in front of Conrad. Ashley watched as he picked up his fork then set it down while he waited for her to hang up. What if he refused to take part? Her attention drifted from Meredith until she heard her say, “Unfortunately, Rory won't be there. They're going to Disney World. Seems selfish to me, but bottom line, she and Chan won't be participating.”

“Oh no.” Rory always knew the right thing to say at the right time.

When Ashley hung up, Conrad cut her a slice of tart as she tried to explain that Carla had a drug problem and the family needed to get involved.

“Don't kid yourself, there's no quick fix for drug addiction,” Conrad said, twirling his wine glass. “Your sister's too deep into the culture. But sure, we'll show up if that's what your brother's wife wants.”

Ashley let out a sigh of relief. She wouldn't have to deny her sister-in-law, but she did wonder why Rory, always so unselfish, had not made helping Carla a priority.

A
PRIL
2001

Carla took Ashley's call in bed. As soon as she hung up, she reached for the Vicodin, took out three and swallowed them without water. Her head throbbed with each breath. She had no memory of the night before except crawling out of bed to vomit. That must have disgusted Bunky because he'd left their bed. Not that he'd been better off. He'd gotten fucked up too: crack, pills, alcohol.

What was it that Ashley had said? That she'd be dropping by the Manhattan apartment today. Sure, like right in the middle of her school shit. How likely was that? And on April Fool's Day?

When Carla was a kid, this had been Dad's special day. She and Ashley used to scheme to get the best of him, but he had always one-upped them. Carla remembered when she was seventeen, Ashley had dared her to “borrow” Dad's Porsche for a trip to the mall. Dad and Ashley had followed her there and moved the car. She'd gone berserk at the empty parking space and she could still hear their crazed laughing when they jumped out and yelled, “April Fool's!” Carla decided to simply blow off Ashley's call as an April Fool's joke.

Then Carla heard the knock on her bedroom door. “Miss Carla?”

Carla massaged her forehead. Wasn't this Sunday? Sara's day off? Why was she here checking up on her? Ever since that ugly eviction threat, Carla had been afraid that the family—Frank, in particular—might press Sara to betray the family code of privacy that Dad had required of the household staff.

“Are you okay?” Sara raised her voice.

“I'm okay.” Carla wiped specks of dried green vomit off her face.

“Miss Ashley's coming over soon, so you'd better get dressed. I'm going to fix a luncheon. Lobster salad, her favorite.”

The thought of lobster made more bile rise in her throat. So Ashley's little joke had gotten to Sara.

“April Fool's,” Carla called, not getting out of bed. “Sara, will you send Bunky in?” She needed a hit.

Sara did not respond, and Carla knew she'd have to get the stuff herself. Just the effort of climbing out of bed made her heart race. She felt wobbly, but she stumbled to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. Brushing her teeth made her woozy so she set the toothbrush down and sat on the toilet to run a brush though her tangled hair. Shit, her hair needed styling and highlights. She looked down at her nails, broken, the red polish chipped. She looked like hell, and she felt like crap.

“You got the shit?” Carla pushed off the toilet as Bunky shuffled into the bedroom suite. A vision of a Calvin Klein model in a silk robe, he'd showered but not shaved, orange-red stubble peppering his chin and curls tumbling across hazel eyes.

“Yeah, babe, but your sister's coming. Sara's out there getting ready for a feast. Can you eat anything yet? I had rye toast. Settled my stomach.”

“Just get me the rocks. I gotta get fucked.”

“Seriously, babe, I'm gonna split. No way I'm mixing it up with your family.”

“I can't face her like this. Look at me. And Ashley, with that dressed-for-success look.”

“All you gotta do is act normal, babe. Say whatever the fuck she wants to hear.”

“So she's really coming?” Carla sank onto the dressing room bench.

Bunky sauntered into her closet and returned with pressed wool slacks in gold tones and a matching silk long-sleeved blouse. “Wear this and put on some makeup. Here, let me pull your hair back.” He reached for a jeweled clasp and pulled her lank hair off her neck.

“That's better, and remember, babe, don't get into the AIDS thing. You do, they'll grab you right out of here. You know what I mean?”

Carla did know. She and Bunky had gone back and forth. Should she ask her family for help? Or tough it out herself? To her huge relief, when she'd gotten up the guts to tell Bunky about her HIV test, he said he didn't give a fuck. Refused to get tested. Refused to wear a condom. After all, they had drugs that cured the virus. He knew all about drugs. He'd been off and on them since he turned fifteen. Mental drugs, he'd explained. For schizophrenia. But he was cured now. Same thing would happen with AIDS, he said. Carla knew better, but what good would it do to argue? Bunky's confidence was infectious and they'd dialed up their lives, getting stoned every night, using more and more of the white powder to the point that their life together was a blur. So this is what it had come to, Bunky and her, their brains fucked up. Her body infected. She tried to recall what Bunky had told her about her money getting low.

“I'm not going to tell anyone,” she said. “But what about money? Should I ask Ashley for more?”

“Find out how to get that inheritance, babe.”

Bunky went over to the drawer where they kept their stash—same place she kept Dad's letter. He picked up the letter. “Says here that you used to be daddy's pride and joy.”

“That's crap. My whole fucking family always thought I was a spoiled brat. All the shit I got into at that prison of a girls' school. Booze, pot, sex in the backseat, sneaking into motels. Rory and Ashley, perfect little ladies. Carla, the fuck-up, the nuns kept telling me, but not in those words.”

“Hey, it says, ‘Imagine how proud we were of you when you became a fashion model. You had so much talent, so much beauty.'”

You wouldn't be proud of me now, Dad. Good thing you and Mom aren't here, Carla thought.

She didn't need to rehash the rest of the letter. Complaints about her mood swings, her inability to focus, not meeting her fucking commitments.

“Come on, Bunky, quit reading that crap. I'll never be what he wants. So why keep going over this? Just fire up the pipe.”

Bunky ignored her and read on, “Carla, I feel I must bring this up. Are you taking drugs?”

Yes, Dad, I am, she wanted to scream. Remember those parties you
and Mom threw? I was ten when I started helping myself to those bottles in the liquor cabinet. Dope in high school, right under the nuns' noses. Getting high, drunk, both. Cocaine after that. Some pills, but mostly coke. Then crack, and that I could never stop. So forget it, it's too late.

“All that blah, blah, but he never comes out and says what the fuck do you have to do to get the inheritance money.” Bunky put the sheet of paper down. “Find out what your sister is doing. She got a letter too. Then we'll have to put together a plan.”

“I can't stop this shit and neither can you. So there's not going to be a plan.”

“Babe, we gotta find a way through this.”

She knew that passing Dad's test was hopeless. There was no
way
. “Right now just get me that pipe.”

“No. You're gonna have to tough this out. You take a hit now, you'll freak out. Just stay calm. Take one of these.” He handed Carla a Xanax and two Motrins. “We'll get fucked soon as your sister splits.”

Bunky left, and Carla rang for a piece of toast.

“Miss Carla,” Sara said as she carried in a tray laden with bagels, toast, muffins, jellies, and a coffee service. “You need more than one piece of toast.” Carla felt the appraisal of her eyes. “You going to shower? They—Ashley'll be here soon.”

Carla took a bite of a bran muffin, feeling that it was going to stay down, but remembering that she'd not brushed her teeth, that she hadn't washed her hair in days. “Yes, I am.”

The hot water felt good, and she stood in the shower until her heart started beating so fast she thought she would pass out. So she got out, toweled off, and dressed in the clothes that Bunky had laid out. She clasped her wet hair on top of her head, feeling much better, a bit back in control. Good enough to take on Ashley. Good enough to take on the whole family. Well, maybe not that good. When she heard the door chime, she started to rush out, but stopped abruptly. The voice greeting Sara was not Ashley's. It was Meredith's, the sister-in-law from hell. She had to open the door a crack to hear Sara. “Ashley hasn't arrived yet. Nor Mr. Schiller.”

Uncle Carl? Two weeks ago Uncle Carl and Aunt Phyllis had dropped
by without warning. A Sunday afternoon. The place was fucked up. Shit all over the place. Stoners—friends she hardly knew—passed out on the sofas. Obviously, she couldn't let the Schillers up, so she'd suggested coffee at a nearby Starbucks, a place too noisy for private conversation, which she didn't want to have. She knew that the Schillers meant well, but she did not need their interference. That's what she'd told them, only not in those exact words. Wasn't she a legal adult with the right to her privacy? So had the Schillers talked to Meredith? And Ashley? Were they all here to fucking mess with her?

They must have moved into the library or the living room, and Carla had to inch her way down the hall to catch what they were saying. Meredith's voice. “So that's what precipitated my call. Ongoing complaints from the building manager and, finally, the threat of eviction.”

Carla assumed that Meredith was talking about one of her clients.

A man's voice. “So she used to be a model. Her drug habit is out of control. Her parents are deceased.”

“Yes, Dr. Adair. Here, let me show you a picture of Carla from about two years ago. We don't know if she was taking drugs back then, but here she is representing Sensation Cosmetics. You'll see the difference.”

Shit, Meredith was talking about her? To a doctor? She must know about the HIV? That was supposed to be confidential.

“What a shame,” she heard a male voice say. “Any family history of substance abuse?”

“None whatsoever,” Meredith said, just as her cell phone rang. “Excuse me. Frank? We're here with Dr. Adair. Carla's home, but Ashley's not here yet, or Carl.”

Carla stayed put.

“No, I'll call,” Meredith said after a pause. “You need to stay out of this. Did the Justice Committee finish with Microsoft?”

A more lengthy pause. Carla's brain screamed,
Get the fuck out of my apartment
.

“Of course Microsoft's lawyers want to drag it out.” Carla heard Meredith chuckle as the doorbell chimed. “Someone's arrived. Must be them. Love you too.”

Carla inched out to peek around a marble column. Here she could see Sara usher the so-called doctor to the library through the door connecting
the living room and dining room. Would she be able to slip by the library and leave by the rear elevator that opened into the pantry off the kitchen?

Meredith headed toward the foyer and Carla slipped back into the hallway. Run, her instincts screamed, but she stood rooted, not able to figure a way to escape.

“Ashley, Conrad,” Meredith said. “Thank God you're here.”

“Took the helicopter,” the Conrad voice said, the same one who'd answered Valentine's night when she'd called Ashley.