Celine greets me when I walk through the door. I fall into her arms, a rag doll. She shushes me when I start to cry and settles me on the couch before bringing me a plate of olives and cheese. I pick at the food while she pours two generous portions of wine and carries them over in her small, white hands. Everything looks too big for Celine’s small hands.
“Yara,” she says. “Tell me what has occurred.”
What has occurred.
I want to repeat her phrasing but she gets flustered when I do.
“Turn on the news,” I say.
“Oh, no,” she says. “What have—?”
I shake my head indicating that I don’t want to say more. The story runs on the six o’clock news. Celine and I have drunk most of the bottle and are spread out on the sofa like a couple of college girls. I jar when I see my face appear on the screen, the blonde hair and red lipstick. I look like a whore, not a wife.
“Oh my, Yara,” she says. Oh my, indeed.
My roommate listens raptly as Lunya Louse asks me about my marriage to singer/songwriter David Lisey.
“Yara Phillips, who claims they were together in a bar on Rue Bezout the night David Lisey was attacked, is also claiming to be his estranged wife…”
Celine glances at me then back at the TV. “You certainly know how to cause a stir,” she says. “I sent you to the hospital to talk to David, not the entire country.” She waves her hand outside the window. “World,” she corrects herself.
“Yes, well, they wouldn’t let me see him and I got a little carried away.”
She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say more.
The phone begins to ring and we stare at each other.
“Do we answer it?” I ask.
Celine stands up and walks over to the dated house phone on her wall. She answers in her usually chirpy way and I hear her speak in rapid French before hanging up. She comes back with a new bottle of wine.
“Someone just called you a whore,” she says. “In French. It sounds much better to call someone a whore in French.”
“More elegant,” I agree. “Do you think it was the lipstick?”
Celine sits back down, and her eyes are bright and angry. “I think it’s the jealousy.”
Petra is on the screen now, images of her flash and change so we can get every angle of her beauty. Petra walking into a restaurant in downtown LA holding David’s hand, Petra at lunch with David’s mother, Petra sitting on David’s lap at an awards show. The public is curious about her, they love her: the silent and supportive fiancée to America’s newest sweetheart. She’s grown her hair out, added some tattoos. She wears the right clothes and paints the right makeup, looks devastatingly classy. Jealousy, such a complicated word. I don’t want to be her, I don’t want to look like her, but I want it to be easy to love him—like it is for her. What is it exactly that I’m admitting to myself?
David was mine. He could have left me. He could have annulled the marriage. He never gave me divorce papers. Oh my God. He hadn’t been trying to torment me; he’d come to find me. Once, twice, three times. I start rocking on the sofa, head buried between my knees. Celine wordlessly strokes my back. She knew…who else knew…Posey? Ann…? Was I the only one?
“Celine,” I say, sitting up. “You’re the most peaceful person I’ve ever known. Peaceful,” I reiterate. “As in filled with peace.”
Celine waves me off. “You’re drunk, Yara.”
“No, no—let me finish,” I insist. I’m holding up a single finger. I tuck my hand away behind my back, embarrassed. I can taste the wine on my tongue, coating the inside of my mouth. I am drunk, but that’s when you’re most honest.
“You and your monochrome,” I say. “I came here to think. Oh God. I came to you for peace.”
It sounds so stupid, but it’s true. When I went home to England after Seattle, Posey was my voice of reason. She was willing to tell me when I was being stupid, immature, narcissistic. I had these friends spread about the planet and each of them brought something so unique to my life.
“I have to go,” I say. “I’ve had time to think and now I have to go.”
“Go where?” Celine’s lips and teeth are stained from the wine.
I grab her face between my hands.
“London.” I have to go back.
I did a bad thing and now I have to wait and see if he’ll forgive me. Cat and mouse, cat and mouse. I do the responsible thing and instead of just running like I normally do, I turn in my two weeks’ notice to Henry’s family. Henry weeps when I leave work the next day.
“Not yet, little love,” I tell him. “Two more weeks!”
He nods, tears streaming down his face.
“Mama will find someone even more fun than me!” I shoot his mother a warning look and she shrugs, knowing her Henry will be stuck with someone not even a little bit fun.
“I can interview them,” I offer before I leave. “I don’t trust him with just anyone.”
Henry’s mum agrees to put an advert out in the morning and I feel better about that. At least I can find him someone who will play with him; otherwise, the poor kid will never have a childhood.
On my walk to Celine’s flat I check the news on my phone. David has left Paris and returned to the States with Petra. There is a picture of him, his arm in a sling and his face still bruised as he walks through the airport with her on his healthy arm. I can’t read his face because his head is down. He has yet to make a statement about his estranged wife, though the strong support Petra is showing him is what’s really making headlines. They love her more, if that is even possible, for standing by her man.
I stare at the picture of her, hair hanging loose, long slender legs. So he chose not to contact me and went home instead. I know this time he won’t be delivering phantom divorce papers himself. They’ll come from a fancy attorney’s office in New York or someplace like that. How many houses does he have now? Where are they? Did Petra buy the furniture and choose the art? Did they cook and laugh together? Make love over spilled M&M’s on the floor? Did he sing Michael Bolton to her? My heart hurts. I’d not entertained thoughts about their life together until now. I’d not wanted to replace myself with her. But there it was, their romance all over my thoughts.
I think of the way he kissed me, pulled back, smiled a little, and then kissed me some more. I think of the way he was always feeling me up, no matter where we were. I think of the way he always knew what I was thinking and called me out on it. Now it is all Petra’s; every second of David belongs to Petra. I hate her, and I hate him, and I hate myself.
At the end of my two weeks, I kiss Henry goodbye and sob all the way to the train station. This doesn’t happen when you are a bartender. You don’t get attached this way. His little chubby hands hadn’t wanted to let me go, they’d held onto mine until his mother had to pull him away and take him for an ice cream. I found him a good nanny, a kind woman who never had children of her own and delighted in hearing him laugh. They’d be friends for a long time.
Celine was at work when I left for the train, we’d said our goodbyes the night before, but I left her a long letter that I’d written in bed after she went to sleep. She’d taken me at my worst and I’d never forget that. She was my family now. I told her so, along with a lot of other things I’d never said to a friend before.
The next day I catch the train back to London not really knowing why or what I am going to do. I just know that I need to go back. Faith. I am having faith. In what I don’t know.
I crash at Posey’s house when I get back to London. She’s vacationing in Mauritius with her family for the week and left the key with a neighbor. The whole transaction reminds me of when I arrived in France at Celine’s just months earlier. My life is a cycle of hello/goodbye and it’s starting to feel empty. Her flat feels empty and void of life without her. I wander from room to room, studying things I’ve seen a thousand times before, until I get the courage to leave. I’m afraid to face London, as silly as that sounds. I’m
also afraid to run into Ethan or someone else I know.
I pull a beanie over my hair and step into the street, not really knowing which way to go. I’m wearing a dress, something new for me, but I think dresses are who I am now. I don’t want to dress tough anymore—I am tough. My faithful New York boots push me forward through the tourists, and school children, past Tower Bridge and then across. I walk and walk the streets of the city I love so much, weaving this way and that until I don’t really know how long I’ve been walking. I get hungry at some point and pull out my phone to find a restaurant. The app on my phone says twelve restaurants are in my vicinity. I scroll through looking at their star ratings until something catches my eye. Wow. I want to laugh. Someone stole our idea. A restaurant called IOU is just a few blocks away. I decide to go check it out. When I arrive there’s a wait out the door. I ask if I can sit at the bar and the hostess waves me through. I push through a dozen people cramming up the entrance and head for the bar, which is to the left. It’s a nice setup. The booths are cream colored and the tables are gold. There are giant pots of pale pink peonies everywhere. The atmosphere is soft and feminine. Soft. I stop dead in my tracks and look around suspiciously. No. That would be crazy. I laugh at myself until I see the wall to the left of the bar; mottled pink the color of the peonies, there’s a neon sign that takes up most of the wall.
Come back to me. Come back. Come.
I turn toward the bar and slide into a seat. The bartender is tall and lanky. He has matching sleeve tattoos on both arms, wild roses and skulls.
“Gin and tonic,” I say. “Please.”
He nods and sets about making my drink even though he’s backed up.
“Hey, who owns this place?” I ask.
“Lead singer of that band,” his accent is cockney, “Lazarus Come Forth. That’s why all these people are here, we’re busy every night.”
He hands me my drink and I down it.
“Whoa girl, that’s not a shot,” he says.
I slam my glass on the counter. “Another,” I say. And then I turn to look at the neon wall.
Come back to me. Come back. Come.
“How long has this place been here?” My eyes are watering from how fast I threw back my drink. I hold the back of my hand against my mouth, not taking my eyes from the wall.
“Six months.”
Six months, six months, six months. I just missed it when I left to Paris.
“There’s one in Seattle too,” he says. “And Miami, New York, New Orleans, Chicago, and LA.”
All the places I’ve lived. I feel lightheaded. I drink my second drink and then leave twenty quid on the bar and walk out.
Come back to me. Come back. Come.
I call Posey as soon as I get back to the flat.
“Yara,” she says as soon as she answers. “Well, well, well. The prodigal son returns.”
“I have to leave again,” I blurt.
She’s quiet.
“Posey…are you there?”
“Yeah…yeah,” she stumbles. I hear her say something to someone on her side and then she’s back.
“Yara, did David contact you?”
“Not since the news things, no. Why?”
“Yara, he came to see me. After you left.”
I drop the phone on the bed and have to scramble to retrieve it from the rumpled sheets.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Posey?”
She sighs. “Did you find the restaurant?”
“Yes,” I say. “But what does that have to do with you seeing him?”
“Nothing,” she says, quickly. “He did a Tour de Friends, Yara.”
“What does that mean?” I snap.
“Look, this is between you and David, but he came round after you left. He wanted to know you. The parts that he didn’t. Your London life, I suppose.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My tone is angry.
I walk into the kitchen with the phone still pressed against my ear and pull a bottle of Burley’s from the liquor cabinet.
“Fuck you, Yara,” Posey said. “You disappear every few years and I don’t hear from you. You don’t call and you don’t answer e-mails. I didn’t know you married the guy, thanks for telling me, by the way.”
My anger dissipates. She’s right. It’s my fault. I’ve been doing this to everyone in my life for years. Posey was the only one who consistently forgave and accepted me for who I was.
“I’m sorry, Posey,” I say. “You’re right. I’m so sorry.”
I hear her switch the phone to her other ear. “You’re going to Seattle, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I have to go find him.”
“Do you need me to come?” she asks.
And I know she would if I asked her to. She’d hop on a plane and come all the way to Seattle with me.
“No, you’re my London life.” I laugh. “I’m not ready to cross my worlds.”
“Okay,” she says. “Text me when you get there, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
When I hang up I go straight to the computer to book a flight. I have my savings, but they wouldn’t get me far. If this didn’t work I may be stranded in America without a work visa and no money to get back. I book a one-way ticket and close my eyes.
Please God, who I don’t believe in. Don’t let it be too late.
I write an e-mail to Ann, my old friend and neighbor. I tell her I’m going to be in town and ask if I can stay with her. I know she’ll say yes. Ann is a sixty-year-old agoraphobic. She never leaves her apartment—hasn’t in years. She’ll be glad for the company, and she is my last friend stop. Posey set me straight. Celine cleared my head and brought me peace. Now I need Ann’s wisdom. She’ll know what to do next.
I sleep on Ann’s pullout, just long enough to conquer my jet lag, and then I stumble into the shower. Ann makes me scrambled eggs and toast, and we sit down at her little table to eat while I tell her everything.
“Runaway bride,” she says, shaking her head. “What’s the plan for today then?”
“I’m going to see if I can track him down,” I tell her.
I look over her shoulder and out the window and my stomach does a little flip. I love it here. I missed it.
“Good, that’s a good plan.” She winks at me and stands up to clear our dishes.
David doesn’t live in his old condo behind Pike Place Market. A man answers the door and tells me that he rents it.
“I send my checks to an agency,” he says. “I don’t know anything about a David Lisey.”
I go to The Crocodile next.
“Man, if I had a dollar for every time some girl showed up here and asked for David Lisey,” the bartender says. He’s wearing a 49ers hat. Does that mean something or does it not count if it’s a sports team? He wipes circles on the bar and shakes his head at me. “No, he don’t come in here no more, not now that they’re big time.”
I thank him and leave. I think about going to his mother’s house, but I’m too afraid. She must hate me as much as he does.
“I don’t know how to get in touch with him, Ann,” I say when I’m back at her place. “He’s a celebrity now, it’s not like his information is public.”
Ann waves off my comment like it’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.
“He has a best friend, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s in the bloody band too.”
“Don’t you still have his phone number?” she asks.
I think about it for a moment. I don’t, but I do know where his mother used to live.
“You’re a genius, Ann,” I say, kissing her forehead before I run out the door.
When I knock on Ferdinand’s mother’s door, a plump lady answers wearing an apron with apple pie all over it.
“Hello, Mrs. Alehe?”
“Yes,” she says, looking around. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
“No,” I say. “I’m an old friend of your son. I was wondering if you could give this to
your Ferdinand. Tell him that Yara came by.”
“Yara,” she repeats, suspiciously.
I smile.
“Yes, Yara Phillips. He’ll know who I am.”
“Did he knock you up?” she asks.
I try not to laugh. “No, Mrs. Alehe. I’m really just a friend.”
I eye her crucifix as I hand her the paper and then walk back down the drive and to my waiting Uber. I know she’ll call him right away, just to make sure I wasn’t carrying her illegitimate grandchild.
Forty-five minutes later my phone rings. The number says Private.
“Yara?” I recognize his deep voice right away.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Seattle. Can we meet somewhere…tonight maybe?”
There’s a long pause on his end. “Yeah, sure. Where?”
I tell him to meet me at the brewery by David’s house. And then I hang up. One step closer.
I meet Ferdinand at the taproom we all used to go to near David’s old place. I’m thirty minutes late by the time the Uber pulls up to the door, typical Seattle traffic. Ferdinand is outside, smoking against the wall. He has the hood of his jacket pulled up around his face and I wonder if it’s to keep people from recognizing him. Their lives have changed so much since I was last here. He has tattoos on his fingers that weren’t there before, and he’s wearing heavy silver rings on almost every finger.
“Hi,” I said. I feel so awkward I stick both of my hands in my back pockets.
“Hi,” he says back. “Want a beer?”
I nod, and he tosses his cigarette on the ground before turning around and walking into the taproom. He orders an IPA for himself and a Stella for me.
Atheists Who Kneel and Pray Page 22
