by Cindy Bokma
Yes, he was critical and tough, but that’s what made him a successful film director. I knew in time, he’d soften his harsh ways. That’s what I was there for, to buff those rough edges.
I half expected to find a delivery person with a package at the door, instead there stood a woman grasping a pink folder, an enormous tote bag weighing down her shoulder. Her floral perfume greeted me before she introduced herself. I sneezed twice as she breezed straight into the kitchen, talking as she moved.
“You must be Delia. I’m Paris Prince.” Her blonde hair was a mess of highlights and lowlights, her skin tightly pulled and her lips looked collagen infused. She was pretty in the way most women in Beverly Hills were; blonde, tanned, and enhanced.
“Tell me. How do you envision your blessed day? Do you see lots of flowers? A harpist?”
Leo greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks and made introductions then offered her a cappuccino.
“I’d love a decaf,” she said, spreading out fabric samples, a color wheel, photos of dresses and cakes.
I looked from Paris to Leo back to Paris. He must have seen the confused look on my face and winked, indicating everything was under control.
“I’m here to facilitate your wishes for your special day,” Paris said, pulling a photo album from her tote. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from her puffy lips. Did it hurt when a needle pieced the soft flesh? My fingertips went to my own mouth.
“I’m thinking elegant and refined,” Leo said. He handed Paris her hot drink in one of our new coffee mugs. I thought they were ugly and too big but he insisted on buying them.
“You don’t understand modern art,” he had huffed, as he handed over his credit card for the purchase. The mugs were fashioned out of clay in the shape of a droopy face. We had six and I refused to drink out of them, the sad faces gave me the creeps.
“Okay, let me take notes and you can tell me your vision,” Paris clicked the end of her gold pen and opened a notebook.
“Very exclusive. A reception that’s in a top-secret location. The guests will take shuttles to the event.” Leo angled his body so that I faced his back. If anyone looked, they’d think it was a meeting between Leo and Paris.
“Good, good. It’s helpful when couples know exactly what they want.” Paris spoke in a clipped voice; she had a slight east coast accent. “Continue, please.”
“I want a gown designed by Lacey Noelle for Delia. Obviously, she needs to lose ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty pounds.” Here, Leo turned and looked directly at me. “We’ll make the gown a size four so you’ll be forced to lose the weight. Think of it as an incentive.” He winked.
“It’s unusual for the groom to choose the brides dress.” Paris peered around Leo’s frame and offered me a tight grin.
I sat, horrified, my brain processing Leo’s comment.
“I know what looks good on my beautiful bride.”
Lose weight? And ten or fifteen or twenty pounds at that? Was he serious? Did he want me to faint going down the aisle? Did he want to be married to a skeleton?
Paris Prince gave me a slow once over and nodded. “I know a superb personal trainer,” she whispered. “Remind me to give you her name.”
“Yes. We need to get Delia into a smaller size by the wedding day. And something with the hair. Maybe Botox around the eyes? I have some ideas for the dress; I will personally send Lacey Noelle a message.”
Leo laid a hand on my leg and I flinched. I bit my nails as Paris and Leo plotted out the details of what was supposed to be my big day. I missed my mother so much; a physical ache moved through my body and squeezed my heart. I remembered the picture of my parents on their wedding day and wondered what happened to her dress, I would have liked to have worn it. Struggling to recall what it looked like, I closed my eyes. Cap sleeves, a fitted bodice and a skirt that flared out gently. Lace. Beads. I wished I had a photo.
I tuned out, only catching words here and there as they spoke of roses and hydrangeas, a cake from a prestigious bakery, a non-denominational minister presiding.
My brain went soft, it was almost an out of body experience as I floated to the top of the room and looked down on my future husband as he made decisions regarding our wedding.
What about my opinions?
"...the guest list and a security detail,” he said as I tuned back into the conversation. I blinked my eyes several times and tried to bring myself into the moment.
“Security?” I asked surprised.
“Of course, dear. Every prominent wedding has to have a security team.” Paris exchanged looks with Leo.
“You’ll have to excuse Delia. She’s rather . . . uncultured. She hasn’t been in Los Angeles for very long. She’s not used to how these things work.” He chuckled.
Anger reddened my face, or was it embarrassment? My chest tightened, “I’m not uncultured Leo. I’ve lived here since I turned eighteen. I grew up in Ohio.”
My eye fell on that ugly face mug and I fought the urge to pick it up and throw it against the pristine white wall. I imagined it shattering into thousands of tiny shards.
“Okay, if you say so.” Leo rolled his eyes then removed his phone from his pocket and began to text.
Paris grinned, her pink lips tight against her bleached teeth.
My throat was parched, my brain pounded against my skull and I needed water. I excused myself but no one paid attention.
I grabbed a water bottle from the pantry and heard them speaking in low voices as I unscrewed the cap. I drank it fast, holding the bottle with trembling hands.
What if this wasn’t my vision for my wedding, did I even have a say? I didn’t want a group of security people at my wedding. What if I didn’t want a dress designed for me? Lacey Noelle was the premier wedding dress designer on the west coast, creating dresses with eye catching details like hand sewn pearls and sequins and imported Italian lace. But I wanted something simple and plain like a white sheath dress or a sundress with a wreath of daisies in my hair.
Annoyance clutched at me, clawing, and stirring up feelings that made me uncomfortable. For the remainder of the visit with Paris, my lips were puckered, my arms crossed.
As Paris left, she shook Leo’s hand and told him what a pleasure it was to work with him.
“Usually”—she dragged out the word so it sounded like yooz-yooooooo-ally—“I work with a couple over the course of several weeks. But you certainly have it all worked out. Very much in control of everything. I suppose planning a wedding is a bit like directing a film. Well, goodbye, Mr. Kubias.” she leaned in for a double air kiss from my soon to be husband and then turned to me. “Delia. It was a pleasure. I’ll be in touch.” The door closed behind her but the strong scent of her perfume lingered.
I turned to Leo. “Do I have a say in any of this?”
He stroked his chin looking thoughtful. “I have definite ideas on how I want our day. I’ve learned from experience. Plus, it’s like Paris said, this is like directing a film and I certainly know how to do that.”
He strode into the living room, me following him like a puppy. I turned into the kitchen and began loading the dishwasher as he sat on the couch with his hands behind his head. This open plan house allowed all the rooms to flow into each other which made it feel airy but lacked separation. From my tense body language and clenched jaw, I hoped he knew I was angry but he didn’t look at me. I glared at him.
“The first wedding wasn’t what I wanted. This time it’s going to be fantastic. I have this idea of getting married on the beach. About one hundred, maybe two hundred of our friends there. At sunset. I thought it over and decided, we can get married at the Ritz Carlton Kapalua. It’ll be perfect. Lacey can design a white gown for you, something with layers of tulle, a tight bodice.” He nodded, pleased with himself. “It will complement your body. Your hair will be worn up, off your face, and we’ll get the best artist available to do your makeup.”
I banged the dishwasher closed with a thud and turned it on.
&n
bsp; Shaking my head disapprovingly, I said, “This isn’t a movie that you’re directing. It’s our wedding. And I have ideas, too.”
I dropped into the nearest seat, an uncomfortable white leather side chair with a black pillow. He didn’t take his eyes from the television as I spoke. He squinted at the TV as he changed channels.
“Can we discuss it?” My voice sounded thin, watery.
He shifted his pale eyes to mine and inhaled, flaring his nostrils. “Let me do this for us. I know what’s best for you. All you have to do is show up when I tell you to and leave the rest to me. I want to spoil you, you deserve it.”
As he spoke, a ripple of something I couldn’t name traveled through my veins. Maybe I should be grateful that he wanted to spoil me, but in the moment, I felt more like a prisoner, less like a bride.
It was after work one evening when Randall asked me to go for drinks. Veronica left at the stroke of five, running out the door in a hurry with her black jacket and her face hidden behind a pair of oversized black sunglasses. Randall and I laughed that she was late for her witches meeting. It was a running joke between us that she belonged to a coven.
“Let’s go grab a beer,” he suggested and I agreed. My days were spent with the wedding planner as she detailed what Leo told her to do, or with the personal trainer who, from Leo’s instructions, was trying to whip me into shape with a boot camp regimen that depleted my energy and left me feeling lightheaded.
What Leo didn’t realize was that I ate whatever I could get my hands on as soon as the drill sergeant left. I made huge sandwiches and snacked on nut butters and avocados, trying to eat healthy but filling foods. Much to Leo's chagrin, I wasn’t losing weight and he kept asking, “Are you eating only steamed vegetables? Are you eating brown rice? Did you take your supplements?” He printed a spreadsheet for me to keep track of what I ate. “Every bite that goes into your mouth”—he tapped on the spreadsheet—“you write it on here. Got it?”
“Yes, yes,” I answered. I didn’t write down everything, only the approved vegetables and proteins. A little deceitful but I was hungry.
I consumed more in order to stave off the hunger pangs that accompanied a diet of nothingness. I figured out his diet plan put me at seven hundred calories a day. I fell asleep at work in the afternoons and knew it was because I wasn’t eating enough. It was probably stress.
Leo installed cameras in the kitchen so he could monitor what I ate. He tried hard to get me in shape and I appreciated it, but the cameras took his concern to a new level. I didn’t realize they had been installed until he called me as I nibbled at a hunk of cheese with crackers.
“That’s not on your diet,” he barked as I answered the phone.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. Suddenly my pleasant afternoon turned sour and the cracker turned to dust in my mouth. The sunny afternoon went dark though the sky was a vibrant blue without a single cloud.
“I’m watching you right now, Delia.” Leo's voice came in loud and clear as if he were standing behind me. “I see why you’ve been bloated.”
I threw everything in the trash and tried to dismantle the cameras but they were so well hidden that I couldn’t find them.
I needed to go out and relax without someone force feeding me protein and yelling at me to do sit-ups. I needed to blow off some steam and chill out. I had little time to do anything but work and accompany Leo to industry functions. I was required to have my hair and makeup done, wear a dress that a stylist had picked out for me, and plaster a smile on my face. At these events, I ran into the same people who rejected me years ago when I first came to Hollywood.
Our photos were in magazines, newspapers, and the tabloids. Vanity Fair did an article about Leo. Access Hollywood interviewed Leo for a short feature. I nervously bit my nails and tried to keep my balance on a pair of sky-high stiletto shoes that the stylist picked to go with my lavender dress.
“I wish you would lose that excess fat,” Leo said through clenched teeth as we got into the limo.
“Why? I’m not fat.” I defended myself. Not every woman had to be undernourished to be attractive.
“You’re headed in that direction, not fat . . . just chubby. And I love you so much, Delia. I want the best for you. It’s your health I’m worried about. Think about clogged arteries and diabetes.” He put his arms around me and I pulled away. Instead of feeling glamorous and special, I wondered if there was something wrong with me. I wanted to please Leo, who was older and wiser, yet I needed to be myself and his constant critiques cut me down. My stomach cramped, a burning sensation lodged itself in my chest.
When I arrived at work in the mornings, Randall always complimented me. “You look so nice,” he told me one day when I wore a plain pink sweater and a tweed skirt. I held back from telling him Leo bought me the skirt, a Chanel off the runway. I knew Randall wouldn’t care and Veronica would only grunt if I mentioned the designer’s name.
“Pink is your color,” Randall said with a shy smile. “You have nice skin.”
He made me blush. I liked Randall more and more. I liked his clean fresh laundry scent and his dark hair that flopped in his eyes. He was always nice and unlike Leo, never put me down. I defended Leo, at least to myself, knowing what a control freak he was. Look at his profession, he was a director, he was used to ordering people around. I tried not to let his words bother me but I had to admit, they did. No matter how pleasant my day was, his remarks played in my head on a constant loop.
I was fat, lazy, no one wanted me, I wasn’t smart or cultured and the list went on. He promised he acted in my best interest, trying to help me meet my potential but it didn’t feel good. Instead of empowering me, I shrank. And then like a light switch, he’d give me compliments and tell me I was beautiful and he’d kiss me and we’d be passionate and everything would seem like a fairytale. It was a constant roller coaster ride. Just as I thought about breaking up with Leo, he’d put me under his spell again.
Randall and I went to a bar off Melrose Avenue, where we drank ice cold beers served in frosty mugs. He ordered a plate of hot wings and we made a mess sucking off the sauce. I was not only accident prone, tripping every single day over a piece of untacked carpet at work, but I was constantly spilling water, soda, anything sitting on my desk without a top would inevitably end up on the floor in a puddle. So, when I knocked over the beer and it crashed to the floor with an ear splitting shatter, I paused to see if Randall would react like Leo, but he laughed with me as the waitress bent over to clean up the mess. I helped her, getting on my hands and knees to pick up shards of glass.
“Can you not spill one thing for the day?” Randall teased. His brown eyes sparkled. For a second, the noise of the bar disappeared and our eyes met like the day we ate lunch outside. The music and chatter stopped and the air stilled and as Randall grinned, chills popped up along my arms. We stared at each for what seemed like ten minutes but was probably only seconds. The waitress stepped between us and the motion and noise resumed.
What was that?
“I’m so clumsy, I think it’s nerves over the wedding.” I held out my trembling hands and he grabbed them in his own. His hands were soft and warm like mittens.
“Are you nervous?”
I shrugged and looked away. “Not nervous exactly.” I didn’t know what I was.
“Are you sure you want to marry Leo?” he asked, his smile fading. His look was tender as he gazed at me. His eyes never left my face, not even when the red-haired waitress with the crop top came over to place a new beer in front of me.
“Pre-wedding jitters I suppose.” I let go of his hands and took a sip of frothy ale. “I’m fine. Really.” I bit my nails as a new crowd of people entered the bar and voices filled the air.
“You don’t have to marry him, you know.” Randall leaned over and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
“I think I do.” I didn’t have a choice. How could I explain it to anyone else? Randall pressed his mouth into a ti
ght line and put his hand over mine for a second.
Thinking about Leo, tightness closed around my throat like two strong hands choking me. I squeezed my eyes shut to stop the tears. When I opened them, Randall’s credit card was on the table to pay the bill, our evening was over.
Chapter 13
Present
Texas was large, flat and dry. We made it over the border, and that’s when I decided to start using our new names. I’d be Grace Jensen. Grace was my mother’s middle name and Jensen was a family name on my father’s side.
“If you could have any name in the world,” I asked Will one day, months ago as we walked home from school, “What name would you choose?”
He was still young enough that he held my hand and when he looked up at me, he squeezed my hand. “I like Ethan.” He said it matter-of-factly and didn’t ask any questions; instead he switched the topic to the latest video game that one of his friends was raving about then he started telling me about an episode of Planet Earth.
I remembered the name he liked and decided to use it.
Now, the tired looking immigration worker read through our paperwork and stamped our passports, looking us over briefly while my heart thumped wildly in my chest. I worried that any second I’d be arrested for kidnapping or that Leo’s face would appear before me, scaring me into a heart attack. Living in fear, looking over my shoulder at every turn, made anxiety dwell inside me, dark like a shadow.
It had been a good four weeks or so since I packed up and left our home in Beverly Hills. Television and newspapers must have run the news of our disappearance, but I didn’t know for sure. For the past couple of weeks we were lost in a tiny town twenty miles from the Texas/Mexico border.
