We Are Water (31 page)

“He
bit
you?”

I nod. “Ebony ran out of there. And when he heard the door, he jumped up. Started to go after her and . . . that gave me enough time to get up and get to the bathroom. Lock the door. But then he starts slamming himself against it. I was down on my knees on the floor, watching it push in like that movie where Jack Nicholson goes crazy. Except it
wasn’t
a movie. It was really happening, Bree. I’ve never been so scared in my whole life. I thought . . . I thought, now he’s going to bust in here and kill me.”

A shiver passes through her. “
Did
he get in?” she asks. I shake my head. “Then how did you get out of there?”

“When Ebony got out in the hall, she saw this room service guy. He called security and they came right up. He wouldn’t answer the door, but they had a pass key, Ebony said. And some tool to push back the bar that secures the extra lock. When they got in, I could hear them out there like, ‘Okay, Mr. McCabe, let’s calm down before this turns into an incident. Why don’t you put your clothes back on? It’s not worth it, is it? If we have to notify the police and they come up here and see . . . what is that over there? Cocaine? You don’t want the media to get a hold of something like this, do you?’

“After they got him under control, they told me to come out. And when I did, I couldn’t even look at him. I just glanced at the security guys. They looked like ex-military or something. I grabbed my stuff and went to leave. I just wanted to get out of there, you know? But they said they needed to talk to me and my friend out in the hall. One of them stayed in the suite with Tristan and the other one had Ebony and me go with him down to some office on a different floor. He asked us a bunch of embarrassing questions and wrote down our answers. Wanted our contact information. He asked for mine first, and like an idiot, I gave him my real name and phone number. Ebony just made up a name and number. She did most of the talking. She was like, ‘Look, we’re not going to call the cops or anything. We just made a mistake. There wasn’t any money exchanged. Can we please just get out of here?’ And I was thinking like, oh, no, there wasn’t any money exchanged. It was just all over the floor. But the guy said okay, they were willing to overlook what happened—that they’d contact us if they needed to. But that from now on, we were banned from the Mondrian.”

“Oh,
you’re
banned, but Mr. Celebrity isn’t? They probably apologized to the pig and sent up a fruit basket because of the inconvenience. So then what did you do? Go to the emergency room, I hope.”

I shake my head. “It’s not like I needed stitches. He beat my purse up worse than he did me. We just . . . just left. Got into one of the cabs waiting outside the hotel. Neither of us said much. I just sat there with my hands over my face, trying to stop shaking. It took forever to get across town. Obama was in the city and the traffic was horrible. The driver dropped me off first, and when I got back up here, I locked and bolted the door. I just kept walking around in here, trying not to see it all over again. Bree, I can’t eat, can’t sleep. All day yesterday, I was too scared to leave the apartment or even answer the phone. You’re the first person I’ve talked to since it happened.”

“Did you call your therapist at least?”

“Sandie? No! She’s already on my case about my risky behavior.”

“Then maybe you ought to start listening to her. Jesus, Marissa, you are so fucking lucky.”

“I know, I know. But now what am I supposed to do?”

“Get yourself as tetanus shot for one thing,” she says. “And if I were you, I’d go to the police and press charges.”

“And tell them
why
we were up in his room? Get arrested for . . . ?”

“Solicitation,” she says.

“Oh yeah, that would look good on my résumé, wouldn’t it? Never mind the cops. I don’t even want to talk to Ebony. She’s called and texted me like five or six times since it happened, but I haven’t answered any of them.”

“Good,” she says. “You shouldn’t. Your friend is a hooker.”

“No, she’s not. She’s just . . . Bree, look at my face. I’ve got my mother’s wedding next weekend. And I was planning to see my father at the Cape first. Surprise him. My sister’s going to be there and—”

“Okay, calm down. The swelling should go down by then.”

“Yeah, and these bruises he gave me are going to turn all purple and yellow. I can’t just show up and have them ask me about them.”

Bree says she’s more concerned about the bite mark. Do I want her to go with me to a clinic and get that tetanus shot?

I shake my head. “Those places are always jam-packed on weekends. I don’t want to have to sit in some waiting room and have everyone look at me. I’ll get one tomorrow.”

“Have you been cleaning it at least?” she asks.

“Yeah, with peroxide.”

“Well, we should get you some antibacterial cream to put on it. And some gauze and tape. You need to cover that wound before it gets infected.”

“I’m more worried about my face,” I say. “I can’t let my father or my sister find out what happened.”

Bree says she’s heard about some homeopathic stuff that’s supposed to be good for bruises. “Arnica or something. It acts like an antiinflammatory. And my friend Karen? The one who works the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale’s? She says there’s this great cover-up they sell there. Karen said some model she recognized came in last week wearing sunglasses and a kerchief. She told Karen her boyfriend had roughed her up, and she had a shoot the next day. Karen says she fixed her up so that you couldn’t even notice. She’s working today. Why don’t we go uptown and—”

“I can’t! I don’t want to leave the apartment. Not yet anyway.”

She gives me this look like I’m pathetic. Which I am. “Okay,” she says. “Then why don’t I go get it for you. I’m sure it’s expensive, but maybe Karen can use her employee discount. And while I’m out, I’ll pick up the other stuff, too—the Arnica and some Neosporin or something. Okay?”

I tell her I don’t want her to leave yet.

She says okay, she’ll stay for a while longer, but I have to
promise
her I’ll get that tetanus shot. “All right, I promise,” I tell her, but I already know I won’t. It’s not like he was a rabid dog. Not in that way.

When she asks me if I’ve eaten anything today, I shake my head. “Then let me go over to that place across the street and get you something. Some soup, maybe, or a sandwich.”

“No,” I tell her. “But on second thought, can I have that Xanax? That one of Allegra’s I took was the last one she had.”

Bree nods, reaches into her purse. “Want some water with it?”

“No. Some wine, maybe. There’s some chablis in the fridge. Pour yourself some, too. Let’s get drunk.”

And so we do. Or I do, anyway. I lose track of how much Bree has drunk, but she’s taken a Xanax, too, because she says just
hearing
about what happened has made her so anxious, she needs to even herself out.

After the wine and drug kick in, I don’t feel so scared anymore. Wasted, we start complaining about our lives, our respective careers. “Why is it that in corporate America, the ones who wield the most power are the biggest douche bags?” Bree asks.

“Kate Hudson,” I say. “She does movies, commercials. Gets herself on Leno and Letterman,
Access Hollywood
. Why her? Why not me?”

“Because your mother’s not Goldie Hawn.”

“No, my mother’s an
artiste
.” I say it as much to myself as to Bree. “An
edgy lesbian artiste
. Next weekend, I’m going to be in my mother’s
lesbian wedding
.” For some reason, this makes me laugh. I picture Mama working in her studio, surrounded by all that scary art she makes that rich people pay insane prices for. Like that piece she made out of ruined bridal gowns. How much did Gaga pay for that thing? And I can’t even get acting work that pays scale?

I ask Bree if she wants to see the bridesmaid’s dress I’m wearing to the wedding—the black strapless Stella McCartney that Viveca bought me when the two of us went shopping. But Bree just looks over at me vacantly, like she’s deaf or something. So yeah, she
is
wasted. Maybe if I showed her.

I go into my bedroom. Take the dress out of my closet and hold it up against myself in front of the mirror. I slip out of my shirt and jeans and put it on. Look in the mirror at the girl in the chic black dress with the black-and-blue face, one side puffed up like a fucking baseball glove. . . . Maybe if I were my mother, I could rip the dress, stain it, and sell it as art. But I’m
not
Mama. I’m an out-of-work actor so desperate for a connection that I sold myself. Could have gotten myself killed. Then I’d be famous: Tristan McCabe’s victim. I’d be like that blond girl who got killed in the Caribbean on her school vacation—the one whose mother is on TV every two seconds.
I
can’t get work, but that dead girl’s mother has turned herself into a celebrity? . . . Maybe I’m not cut out for this meat grinder of a business. Or maybe I am. Maybe if I stick it out, my big break will happen next month, or even next week. . . .

When I walk out of my bedroom wearing the dress, I see that Bree has fallen asleep. I pour myself the last of the chablis. Sit down next to Bree. I see him again, his face contorted with anger, screaming at me the way my mother used to scream at my brother. . . . I hope he dies. Gets hit by a car or shot by some crazy fan. Gets killed in a plane crash on his way back to Hollywood. It would serve him right. I sip my wine. Rest my head on Bree’s shoulder. I’m getting drowsy now, too. . . .

W
hen I wake up, Bree is standing over me, taking the empty wineglass out of my hand. She smiles, I smile back. Then I remember what happened on Friday. “I have to go,” she says. “I’ll get you some of that cover-up and the other stuff. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

I stand. Teeter a little and follow her to the door. Watch her while she waits for the elevator. When it dings and she gets in, I close my door and lock it. Slide the bolt back in place. Put the chain on. My roommate’s not coming back from Mexico until when? Wednesday? Thursday?  . . .

I see the rage in his eyes, feel his blasts of breath, his spit hitting my face. My heart is pounding and I start to shake again. My head aches. My face is still sore to the touch. The bite mark on my stomach hurts like a motherfucker.

Chapter Thirteen

Ariane Oh

O
h god, I feel so sick, and of course they’ve assigned me the middle seat. Mr. Businessman is on the aisle, where I wish I was in case I have to run to the lavatory. He’s a big man, and his legs are spread wide. One of his knees is out in the aisle and the other’s trespassing into my space. The Holy Roller woman’s got the window seat. When she was coming down the aisle during boarding, I read her sweatshirt:
GOD IS GREAT
. Where’s that sickness bag, just in case? There’s everything but in this seat pocket. How long is this flight?

Click click.
“Good morning, folks. This is Captain Tom Moynihan. Wanted to let you know that we’ve reached our flying altitude. We’re expecting smooth air on our way to Boston this morning, so I’m going to go ahead and turn off the seat belt sign. But while you’re seated, we’d like you to . . .”

All right already. Blah blah blah. My stomach’s rolling and I’m shaking. If he doesn’t stop talking, I’m not going to make it to the bathroom.

“Our super duper flight attendants will be starting the beverage service in just a few minutes, and—”

Shit! I’ve just retched and had to swallow back my own vomit. Mr. Aisle Seat turns away from me. Well, tough. It’s not like
I
can help it. “You okay?” the Jesus woman asks. I nod rather than say anything. I don’t want her to have to smell puke breath. My throat is burning. My stomach’s gurgling. This is horrible.

“On behalf of my wing man, First Officer Bill Brazicki, and our entire Chicago-based flight crew, I’d like to tell you how glad we are to have you aboard today. And now we invite you to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.” Finally! I unbuckle, stand up too fast, and clunk my head.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, please!” Mr. Business unbuckles and stands, looking annoyed. “Thanks,” I say, accidentally stepping on his foot. “Sorry.” Hurrying toward the bathroom, I push past another woman to get there first.

“Well, pardon
me
,” she says in this bitchy voice.

“It’s an emergency!” I call over my shoulder. “I’m pregnant!”

When I reach the lav, I step in, slam the door, and slide the “occupied” bolt. Holding back my hair, I bend my head low and regurgitate some more. It’s just bile, mostly. I’ve been vomiting ever since my alarm went off at five this morning: at home, on the way to the airport, twice in the bathroom during the layover. Dr. Rosinsky said the sickness should subside in another month. “I hope she’s right for your sake,” Cicely told me. “With Sha’Quandria, I was only sick for the first trimester, but DeShawn had me upchucking the whole nine months. Then to top it off, he breeched and I had to get a C-section.” DeShawn is a senior in high school. I guess it’s not true what everyone says: that once you see the baby, you forget all about the pain and the inconvenience.

I go to flush but can’t find the button. Well, I guess I’d better try to pee as long as I’m here, although I don’t really have to. I pull down my pants and suspend my rear over the bowl. Manage a little bit of dribble, find the flush button, pull up my pants. I could have held off a while on buying these pregnancy jeans, but I’m glad I didn’t. My sister would probably be mortified by the elastic waistband. I can just hear her:
You’re twenty-seven years old and you’re already wearing old lady pants?
Well, so what? They’re comfortable. Those old ladies have the right idea. I turn and face the sink. Look at myself in the mirror, which is a mistake. Bags under my eyes, chapped lips, pasty complexion. I cup my hands beneath the faucet, swish, and spit. Do it again. And again. I wish I had a mint to suck. Ow! I just whacked my elbow. What did Axel tell me they call it when people have sex in these cramped little bathrooms? I forget. God, why would anyone want to do
that
? It’s got to be horribly uncomfortable, plus it’s gross, especially for the poor people who have to use it afterward. You go in there to pee and walk out with an STD. . . .
I’m pregnant
, I announced on my way in here. Haven’t even told my parents yet, but now a bunch of strangers on a plane know. How weird is that?

When I step out into the cabin, there’s a line. A stylish woman, a guy in a ball cap, a young couple with their hands in each other’s back pockets. The mile-high club: that’s what it’s called. Gross . . .

Back at my row, I stand and wait but finally have to tap Aisle Seat Guy on the shoulder. “Sorry to bother you again. Is your foot okay?” Does that grunt mean yes or no?

“Feel better?” Jesus Woman asks when I’m in my seat again.

“Yes, thanks.” There’s stuff all over her tray table: beads, little medals, a spool of . . . what? Fishing line? Oh, I get it; she’s making bracelets. Hey, if we hit some turbulence, her little cottage industry will be all over the floor. Why doesn’t she just knit?

“So what’s your due date?” she asks.

“Hmm? Oh, March. March twenty-sixth. How did you know?”

“Well, for one thing, I figure that’s not pleasure reading you’re doing.” She chuckles, points. The book I’ve brought,
Home from the Hospital: Now What?
is poking out of my seat pocket. “That, and I heard you say you were on your way to the john,” she says. “This your first?”

“Yes.”

“Morning sickness?”

“More like morning, afternoon, and evening,” I say.

“Oh, honey, that’s tough.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “March, huh? So you’re only a couple months along?”

I nod. She’s older than my parents. Short, teased hair dyed jet-black. It’s probably the same style she wore back in high school. Axel’s mother is about this woman’s age and she wore her hair like that, too. A lot of women do that, I’ve noticed: hold on to the hairstyles of their youth. Her
GOD IS GREAT
sweatshirt probably means she’s one of those family values types. To fend off any questions about a husband, I ask her if she has any kids.

“Oh, good golly, yes. Three sons by my first husband, What’s His Name, and three daughters by my second, What’s His Name Number Two.” Her laugh is a pleasant cackle. “Grandkids now, too. Seven of ’em. That’s why I’m flying in from Colorado: to see my latest grandbaby and help my daughter out. My youngest. She’s just had a nine-pound baby girl—
her
first, too. She was in labor for eleven hours, poor thing. Lisa’s narrow-hipped, like the women in her father’s family.” She extends her hand. “Dolly Cantrell, grateful alcoholic.” We shake.

A
grateful
alcoholic? If she saw some of the winos we serve at Hope’s Table, she wouldn’t be so grateful. “Glad to meet you. I’m Ariane.”

“Glad to meet you, too. You flying for business or pleasure?”

Neither, really. I’m going to Mama’s wedding out of obligation. “Pleasure,” I tell her. “I’m visiting my parents.” What am I going to say? That I’m seeing my father first, then going to my mother’s gay wedding?

“Oh, that’s nice.”

I nod. I think about that Christmas vacation two years ago, the last time all five of us were together as a family. I’m back there in my room, packing for my flight back to San Francisco, when Mama comes in. . . .

“Is this yours, Ariane?” she asks, handing me my cell phone charger. I thank her for spotting it. It would have complicated things if I’d left it here in Connecticut. Instead of leaving my room, Mama lingers. Straightens some of my old stuffed animals on the shelf, looks out my window. Then she turns and faces me. Asks me to sit down. There’s something she needs to tell me, she says. Whatever it is, it’s bad. I can tell from the look on her face. Is she sick? Is Daddy? I’m scared.

“Ariane, your father and I are separating.”

My tears start spontaneously, partly because she hasn’t just said that she or Dad has cancer, and partly because of what she
did
just say. “Separating? Why?”

They’ve grown apart, she says. Her work, her life in New York. His life here.

“But it’s a trial separation, right? Are you guys going to marriage counseling?”

She shakes her head. Says she’s already seen a lawyer about a divorce.

“Is this Daddy’s idea or yours?”

She lies. Says it was a mutual decision.

“Mama, I’ve been home for six days. Why are you just telling me this now?”

Because she and Daddy didn’t want to ruin our Christmas, she says.

My thoughts ricochet. How long has this been in the works? Was it a snap decision?

“Do Andrew and Marissa know?” I ask.

“We told your sister last night before she went back to the city. Asked her not to call you or your brother until after we’d had a chance to speak with you ourselves. Daddy and I figured we’d sit down with you two after breakfast this morning, but it hasn’t worked out that way. Andrew texted me late last night to say he was sleeping over at Jay Jay’s because he had too much to drink and didn’t want to drive. And then your father got a call this morning and had to rush off. One of his patients left a message on his voice mail. Apparently, she came back to school early and has been walking around the empty campus having suicidal thoughts. We’ll talk to Andrew this afternoon when he comes home, I guess. His flight doesn’t leave until five o’clock. Hopefully, your father will be back by then. It depends on whether or not this patient of his—”

“Mama, stop! Never mind about Daddy’s patient. Why aren’t you and Daddy at least going to try and save your marriage?”

“Because it’s gone beyond that point. Ariane, I just want you to know that this isn’t—”

I put up my hand to stop her. “Would you please just leave me alone?” She nods, invites me to ask whatever questions I have. When she gets up and goes, I close my door and lock it. Flop facedown on my bed and hug my pillow.

It should have taken me all of fifteen minutes to pack my stuff, but the task has become overwhelming because of Mama’s news. An hour later, I’m still not done. Mama’s back upstairs again; I hear her coming down the hall. Thankfully, she stays on the other side of the door and doesn’t try to open it. “Are you almost ready, Ariane? We should leave pretty soon.” Oh? Why is that, Mama? So you can dump me off at the airport and rush back to your hip life in New York? I almost say it but, instead, tell her to give me five more minutes. “Ready?” she asks when I come downstairs with my suitcase. Instead of answering her, I open the door and head out to the car.

On the way to the airport, she makes small talk while I stare out the side window. Once she’s taken the exit from I-84 to I-91, she tries broaching the subject of their separation again, but I stop her. Tell her I don’t want to discuss it with her until I’ve spoken to my brother and sister. “And my father,” I add. I’m not even sure why I’m more angry with her than I am with Daddy. Later, I’ll
know
why, but I don’t at this point. For the rest of the ride, we’re silent. At the airport, she puts on her blinker to signal she’s going to short-term parking. “You don’t have to check in yet,” she says. “I thought maybe we could grab a quick cup of coffee and—”

“No thanks,” I say. “Just drop me off in front. I’m flying Delta.” She complies, pulls up in front of Delta’s outside check-in. With the engine running, she gets out. Stands by the trunk while I pull out my luggage. “Hug?” she asks, holding out her arms. I nod but just stand there—make
her
come to
me.
I don’t hug her back. I know I should, but I can’t. I’m sick of being the good daughter—“Saint Ariane,” as my brother used to call me. Entering the airport, I can sense that she’s waiting for me to turn back and wave. I don’t.

Check-in goes okay, and the security people aren’t too obnoxious. Waiting at my gate, I try calling Marissa, but she doesn’t answer. Call Daddy’s cell. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. Orion Oh. If this is an emergency . . .” I don’t leave a message. I think about calling Axel but decide not to. He’s still in Wisconsin with his family, and we’ve only been going out for a month. Our relationship is too new to dump this on him. Alone with Mama’s news, I try to reason with myself. It’s
their
marriage,
their
decision, not mine. But our family’s never going to be the same. If they go through with this divorce, what will
next
Christmas be like? When I finally look up, most of the seats around me are empty. When did they start boarding us? Did they even announce it? I’m one of the last people to walk through the jetway and onto the plane.

I’m glad I’ve been assigned a window seat. Relieved, too, that the seat next to me is empty. I spend most of the flight staring out at the sky, at the distant ground below. I wonder how many of the people in those little Monopoly houses down there have been affected by divorce. At least they didn’t split up while we were still kids. I’ll give them that much.

My layover’s in Atlanta. When we land, I put my phone back on. I’ve missed a call from Daddy, but when I try to call him back, I get his voice mail again. Marissa’s still not answering either. I start dialing Axel’s cell but change my mind and shut the phone. Get up and stand in line at Cinnabon instead.

The flight to San Francisco takes forever, and the woman sitting next to me is a mouth breather. I’d like to get up and slap that whiny little boy across the aisle. I keep trying to get lost in the movie they’re showing, but I can’t concentrate. Why
haven’t
they gone to see a counselor? A marriage of almost thirty years isn’t worth even
trying
to save?

“Ma’am?”

I look over. It’s the flight attendant. “Hmm?”

“Something to drink?”

“Oh. Sure. Do you have Coke?”

“We do. Coke, Diet Coke, and Coke Zero.”

“Regular Coke, please. No, wait. Ginger ale.” Maybe it’ll settle my stomach. I don’t need the calories, but I’m supposed to avoid diet soda while I’m pregnant. Jesus Woman says she wants black coffee, and Aisle Guy wants Bloody Mary mix, “the whole can, no ice.” My stomach heaves a little at the thought of drinking spicy tomato juice.