We Came Here to Forget

by Andrea Dunlop

  The only explanation I can offer for how we moved on so swiftly was that shortly after Penny lost the babies, she met Stewart.

  Stewart Granger. He was thirty years old, originally from Hayden and now a captain in the U.S. Air Force, stationed out of Mountain Home Air Force Base. He was visiting friends for the weekend in his hometown when he met Penny.

  Stewart was a cut above Penny’s other boyfriends in every way. He was tall and even a bit handsome in his sleek airman’s suit. He had the polite reserve of a military man: yes ma’am-ing my mother and yes sir-ing my father in a way that made him seem both older and younger than he was.

  Most importantly for us, Penny just seemed better when she was with him. The cloud of melancholy that had settled on her after she’d lost the babies lifted, and the whole incident seemed to quickly fade into a terrible but remote memory. It was because of Jon, I was more convinced than ever.

  “You know,” my mother told me on the phone right after they’d met Stewart for the first time, “I had a dreadful boyfriend right before I met you father.”

  “You did?” I was surprised. Both because it’s always surprising that your parents were young once, and because it was hard to imagine my sensible mother choosing the wrong man.

  “Yes. I was young and stupid. He was not nice at all,” she said in a way that made me understand that she meant abusive. He’d even convinced her to steal some money from her boss and lie to her own parents. She was ashamed of all of it but said it gave her perspective too; she’d never done anything like it before or since. Maybe that’s what Jon had been for Penny: just an aberration.

  But now, there was Stewart, disciplined, solid, straight-and-narrow Stewart, a massive upgrade from the dreadful Jon, on whom we placed all of our grief and anger. This time when my sister said she was getting married, I hoped she meant it.

  Liz Came Here to Forget

  AT FIRST I’m ashamed of my meltdown, but later it feels as though I’ve passed some initiation rite, and now I talk to Gemma almost every day. The next week, Edward is having Gianluca and the team over for dinner, and Gemma insists I come. She worries about him, she says, rattling around in that mansion by himself. And she loves the team, but the team is trouble; it goes without saying that Gianluca is doubly so.

  “I know Ed’s all charm and polish on the surface, but he’s really quite a mess underneath. I feel it’s my duty to keep an eye on him. Otherwise, he’ll just drink too much and sleep with floozies.”

  Edward is an exotic species for me. I knew plenty of people who partied their faces off, especially in the off-season. Even Luke—with his impossible drive—was always having to be pulled back from the edge. But the skiers who were wild were wild in every sense of the word, and Edward is so polished, so self-contained. And though the two could hardly be more different physically, there’s a recklessness in Edward that reminds me of Luke, though it seems self-destructive rather than what Luke’s is: a cocky, shortsighted invincibility. If he has the successful run he’s meant to in Vancouver, he’ll be unstoppable. I have to remember that he’s no longer my problem.

  The night of the dinner party, Edward is cooking and Gemma and I put place settings around the massive walnut dining table. Edward is a phenomenal cook. He loves Mexican food, which he’s making tonight. I can’t imagine where he’s learned this. But this is special, he explains, because it’s impossible to get down here.

  “Try this,” he says, offering some of the mole he’s making to Cali, who’s just come into the kitchen to investigate. The team is drinking wine by the fireplace with Gemma, but Gianluca has not yet appeared. He’s on his way, almost an hour late. No one seems too invested in punctuality here.

  “Oh god that’s good.” Cali smiles.

  “You have no idea how difficult it is to find ancho chilis down here, they are absolute wimps about spice. It’s maddening, you can’t find them anywhere.”

  A melodious cello tune begins, and Edward smiles.

  “Ahhh . . . the Bach. Yo-Yo Ma. Perhaps it’s a bit of a cliché, but I love it,” he says.

  “It’s pretty,” I agree.

  In the sitting room, someone groans. “We can’t dance to this!”

  “You can dance later, you heathens!” Edward says, turning back to the stove where something is ready to be taken off the burner and something else is ready to be added. I lean from the doorway and see that Valentina has gotten off the couch and is up on her toes, doing ballet moves as the others cheer. Anders from Norway gets up and lifts her tiny frame.

  It takes me a moment to realize that Cali has frozen in place, her eyes staring into the middle distance. I put my wineglass down carefully, as though she might shatter if I make any sudden moves.

  “Cali? Are you okay?” I put my fingertips lightly on her shoulder, and she jolts back to life.

  “Yeah.” She shakes her head and tries to smile, but it slips from her. “I’m sorry, I . . . excuse me.”

  Edward looks up from the stove as Cali pushes off and heads abruptly to the patio. “What happened?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  He looks anxiously at some delicately caramelizing onions. “Well, is she all right?”

  Why is he asking me? I barely know Cali. Should I have some intuition here?

  “I’ll go check on her.”

  Cali is sitting on one of the pool chaises, staring into the glowing blue of the water beneath her.

  “Cali?” I say. She turns to me and her eyes are shining. “I’m sorry,” I say. I hate it when someone catches me crying. “I can leave you alone. Or not.”

  Her fingers meet her cheek and quickly whisk away a tear. She shrugs but smiles in a way that makes me think she’d like me to stay. I gingerly take a seat on the chaise next to her.

  “You must think I’m a weirdo,” she says after a few moments.

  “No.”

  “That piece. I freaked out, I just . . .” Her voice catches.

  “Well,” I say, feeling like I have to give her something if this is the moment we’re going to become friends. “Will it make you feel better to know that I had a panic attack when I was here on Saturday? I slept in the guest room after Edward gave me a horse tranquilizer. So whatever it is, no judgment.”

  “That does actually make me feel better.”

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? If you don’t, that’s okay.”

  “I might as well. I keep trying to convince myself that I’m over it, but if I’m falling apart at a cello suite, then clearly I’m not. I know I didn’t tell you much about New York. I spent two years as a cellist with the Philharmonic and was on my way to becoming a principal. Truthfully, it was the only thing I ever wanted since I was a little girl.” For a moment, she’s lost in a reverie.

  “What happened?”

  “The director was—still is—Francesco Bellini, this venerable Italian who was known for being a kingmaker. It felt like he took special notice of me right away—but then, it was hard to know if that was because of my talent or because I stuck out. It will probably not shock you to know I was the only black woman in my section. To be honest, I didn’t even care why. He was so charming, incredibly charismatic. He felt like a father figure. I trusted him. In the beginning, he brought out the best in me, I was improving so fast. The better I got, the more attention he paid me, and it was honestly addictive. Eventually, he started wanting to work with me privately. I’m sure you’re worldly enough to imagine where this story is headed. I was so naive, he’d been married for thirty years to this stunning woman. Evidently, there were all kinds of rumors about him, but no one thought to warn me.

  “It started with rubbing my shoulders, you know, loosening them up to help my strokes,” she continues, rolling her eyes, “then it was pushing my legs apart to adjust my stance. And it just escalated . . . He would touch himself while I played.” I’m frozen in horror, listening to her. “It was awful. At first, it was just a major distraction and my playing got worse. But then he l
ost his goddamn mind and told his wife he was going to leave her for me. Mind you, I never cosigned any of this! But the story becomes that we’re having an affair.”

  “That’s ludicrous.”

  “Well, the media didn’t care so much about the facts. I was one of the youngest cellists there, so it seemed like I stood to gain from his attentions. Oh, the irony! He was the one who ruined my career. He’s doing fine, mind you. His wife took him back; apparently, this is something he just does every few years. He never follows through with it, it’s just some little temper tantrum. He has to keep his wife on her toes or something? For the sadistic pleasure of it? I don’t know. It just doesn’t usually get out to the press.”

  “How did it get out to the press?” I ask.

  “Oh, that’s the worst part,” says Cali. “Well, one of the worst parts. There was only one other young cellist, Brian. I thought we were friends. There was never proof and of course he denies it, but he’s the only one I told about what Bellini was doing. I was so worried and I felt that if something really awful happened . . .” There was no need for Cali to elaborate on what that something really awful was. “And I’d never told anyone else about his creepy advances. I thought no one would believe me. And Brian benefitted, certainly, from getting me out of the way.”

  “How has this man not gotten sued?” I ask.

  “He’s a revered, wealthy white man. Does that not answer your question?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I guess it does.”

  “The arts community is so insular and New York is such a small town at the end of the day. It’s one of those stupid things: the more you try to defend yourself, the guiltier you seem. People were all too ready to believe that I wanted to take advantage.”

  “But even if you had had an affair with him, he’s the one who’s married, he’s the one who is in a position of power,” I say.

  “Yes, if this were being tried in the court of women’s studies, I’d definitely win. Sadly, in the court of public opinion, the woman loses every time.”

  I exhale. “Yeah, isn’t that the truth.”

  For a moment, we’re both quiet.

  “Sorry,” she says, “that was a lot.”

  “No,” I say. “Don’t worry. I . . . well, not to make any of this about me. But I do understand. It’s a long story, but my career got fucked by a drama I didn’t create, so yeah, I get it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, but it’s nice to know I’m not the only one. I’m playing hard at being the carefree expat. Some days I almost believe it. Other days . . .”

  “Don’t you miss playing?” I ask. I suddenly see more clearly why I was so drawn to Cali, even though neither of us had been forthcoming about our pasts. She has the sheen of the extraordinary. She knew what it was like to give her life over to a singular goal, only to see it swept away in one catastrophic incident. I feel something similar to what I’d felt with Luke and Blair all those years, like I was with my same animal. “You must have worked your whole life to get where you were.”

  “Hell yes, I miss it. Why do you think I fell apart over a little bit of Bach? That was my audition piece for the Philharmonic. I practiced it so much it’s probably imprinted on my DNA at this point. My life used to revolve around the cello. I just lived in this bubble where nothing else mattered. I guess that probably made me kind of oblivious to anything else. I’d barely even dated when it happened. But yes. I miss being onstage. I miss the crowds and the other musicians. I miss the long black skirts and the smell of resin, all of it. But being here, with the team, it helps. And dancing. There’s no cello in tango music, so it feels safe. And I’m obsessed with practicing. I need something to practice every day or I fall apart.”

  “I hear that,” I say.

  “Yeah?” She looks up at me for the first time in a while. For a moment, I think I might take the opening. But then I think about Luke. I think about how many times I called Emily, how eventually she just stopped answering.

  “You know, I can picture you as a musician,” I say instead.

  “You’d barely recognize me,” Cali says.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah. Here, I’ll show you,” she says, picking up her phone and scrolling through a photo album. She hands it to me. It’s a sleek professional photo of Cali onstage with her cello. She’s wearing an ankle-length black skirt and a conservative white blouse with a pussy bow. Her hair is longer and coiled tightly at the nape of her neck in a wide chignon.

  “It’s like you in a parallel universe,” I say. I’ve only ever seen Cali in bright colors, short shorts, with her short hair that shows the shape of her uncannily perfect head.

  “I know,” Cali says, “it’s been quite the hair journey. I felt like I had to wear it straight all the time, it was so much work. It literally took me hours and about a half-dozen products.”

  “I like it now,” I say. “I mean both are pretty but . . .”

  “I like it now too,” she says, smiling wistfully and running her fingers over her scalp. “And it’s a good thing, I don’t think I could have made it through TSA with my hair arsenal.”

  “What are you girls doing out here? Dinner’s ready and Gianluca finally decided to grace us with his presence and . . . oh dear, serious faces! Everything okay?”

  “Yes! I was . . .” I say, manically trying to cover for Cali in Gemma’s sudden presence. “Just feeling a little out of it.”

  Cali smiles. “Gemma knows,” she tells me. “and Edward. They’re the only ones.”

  “That dreadful old bastard,” Gemma says, coming to Cali’s side and rubbing her back.

  “I’m fine,” Cali insists. “I just wish I could stop walking around feeling like I’m made of glass.”

  “You will,” Gemma says. “Someday it will fade, I promise.”

  “I know you’re right,” Cali says, leaning her head on Gemma’s shoulder. “I just wonder where to go from here.”

  “That’s what we’re all trying to figure out. It’s what everyone comes to this city for: to forget who they were, become someone new. God knows I can’t stay forever though.”

  “Poor Anders,” Cali says, smiling at her.

  “Anders? Like Cali’s Anders?” I ask.

  “Not exactly. Didn’t you know? We’re strictly forbidden to sleep with our dance partners,” Cali says.

  “That seems like a really good way to get everyone to sleep with their dance partners.”

  Gemma and Cali laugh.

  “Nah,” Cali says, “getting on the outs with G isn’t worth it. I love him, but he can be . . .”

  “Mind-bendingly petty,” Gemma finishes.

  “Loyalty is important to him,” Cali adds diplomatically. “Besides, it’s just our partners; no one else is verboten.”

  “And Gianluca is allowed to sleep with anyone, of course.”

  “Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Oh, Angelina? Girlfriend is a strong word. Depends on the day,” Cali says.

  “You will be surprised to learn that Gianluca is quite lovelorn.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “That is surprising. And what about you, Cali? Any on-team dalliances?”

  Cali cringes. “Maybe Rodrigo.”

  “Oh, he’s so beautiful. Was it amazing?” Gemma asks.

  “I’ve seen you two dancing,” I say, thinking of the party that weekend. “Looked hot.”

  Cali shakes her head.

  “No. Why?!” Gemma asks.

  “Well,” Cali says, smiling, glancing inside to make sure Rodrigo isn’t about to walk in on this conversation. “It turns out his dancing skills do not translate as well as I had hoped.”

  “Oh nooooo,” Gemma says.

  “I mean, he’s so beautiful!” Cali says. “And trust me, it only gets better when the clothes come off.”

  “So far, so good,” Gemma says. “Tell us! And when was this?”

  “Oh, months ago. We were at the social and we danced until like three a.m., and i
t was amazing. Just . . . erotic. But then, okay, first weird thing. He lives with his parents, so we obviously can’t go to his house. So instead, he takes me to a telo.”

  “A what now?” I ask.

  “You haven’t heard of these yet? The ‘love’ hotels?”

  I look at her, baffled. Gemma is beside herself with laughter. “A telo!” she squeals. “Oh it’s too good.”

  “Let me educate you,” Cali says. “You know people here live with their parents until they’re like thirty, so when they need to go smash their boyfriends or girlfriends, they go to a telo and rent rooms by the hour.”

  “Yikes!”

  “It’s a fact of life here,” Gemma says. “They think it’s absolutely no big deal. Of course, people use them to have affairs as well, but that’s for the married crowd. I gather the lunch rush at telos is all people shagging their coworkers.”

  “Right. So, anyway,” Cali continues, “I hadn’t been to one yet, but I’m not so shocked, and some of them are actually pretty nice, I’ve heard.”

  “And the one our fair Rodrigo took you to?”

  “Ye-ah. I think it must be the student discount version. So, so bad. Like red velvet, heart-shaped bed, shag carpet, the works. I half expected Austin Powers to burst out of the closet. The worst part of it is, I think it’s funny, but the kid is in full seduction mode.”

  “Oh dear,” Gemma says.

  “Indeed. Anyway, you know how it is, once you’ve decided to bone, it’s hard to turn back. And it’s been a while, so I’m willing to get past the bad decor, and at this point I’ve had some wine and we’ve been dancing this amazing tango all night. I’m still in the place. So I decide to just forge on and be relieved that he’s not suggesting we break open the costume closet.”

  “Costume closet? You’re joking,” I say.

  “I’m absolutely not. Anyway, I forge on. And you guys, it’s bad.”