by Cindy Brown
Oh. Phew. “He doesn’t have one any longer. Remember I emailed you?” My brother had bought a cell phone at the urging of an unscrupulous talent agent. When he got out of his bogus contract, he was left with a phone he didn’t really want. Instead of going down to the mall and throttling the guy who had talked him into the exorbitantly expensive plan, I called the carrier and explained the situation, adding that I was sure they wouldn’t want a social media campaign about their exploitation of people with intellectual disabilities. They discontinued the service, and Cody kept the phone in case he needed to call 911. “Did you try the group home?” I asked.
“I hate calling there. I always get one of those...boys.” My mother had never reconciled herself to the fact that Cody and the other guys who lived at the house were grown men. Actually, she never reconciled herself to the idea of the group home at all, and was still mad that I suggested it to Cody years ago. She’d wanted to keep him at home, even though she didn’t really want him there. Matt called it “the mother-martyr syndrome.”
“The guys are good at taking messages.” Mostly. “Or you could ask to talk to somebody who works there. Or just tell me whatever it is. I’ll let him know.”
“I just wanted to let him know that your father and I are leaving the country for a while.”
“You are?”
“He’s taking that job in Italy.”
“What job?”
“Didn’t we tell you?”
Mom and I hadn’t spoken since Christmas. Dad had been better at communicating with Cody and me for a while, but I hadn’t heard from him in over a month, and no one ever mentioned Italy. “I think I would have remembered.”
“And I think we told you when you were here over the holidays. Anyway, it’s a consultant job. Pays very well, the village we’ll be living in is beautiful, and it’s so much cheaper.”
“Wow. Nice. Have fun.” I managed to say this in a pleasant tone, though I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Abandoned. Again.
“We’ll be gone for at least six months, more if the job works out. You’ll tell your brother?”
“I’ll let him know.”
“And you’ll watch out for him while we’re gone?”
I always watched out for Cody. I managed his finances. I dealt with Social Security and healthcare and the group home. I saw him in person at least once a week. My mother knew this. She was really reminding me that I hadn’t watched out for him when it counted. “Of course.”
“I thought of you the other day.” She did? “Read a funny article about actors.”
Wow. “Why don’t you send it to me?” Maybe Mom was starting to accept my career choice.
“Oh. Well, okay. And you’ll give your brother the message?”
“Will do.”
“Bye.”
The rest of the way home my thoughts swung between “my parents are moving halfway across the world and forgot to tell me,” and “my mom read an article about actors and thought of me.” By the time I reached my apartment, I decided to focus on the latter. Maybe they had told me at Christmas. There was that one night when I overdid the eggnog.
I showered off the faire’s dust and makeup, then sat down with a beer and booted up my laptop to look for Mom’s email. I felt hopeful, but guardedly so. Thus the beer.
The email was at the top of my inbox: “Article I told you about.” No message in the body of the email, just a link to a clickbait site. I bit.
Oh no. Really? “Top Reasons Why You Don’t Want to Date an Actor.” Gee, thanks, Mom.
Wait—she’d said the article was funny. Maybe I was taking offense where I shouldn’t. Maybe there were some funny photos. I went to the first slide.
No funny photo, just a crack about our weird schedules. But I couldn’t help it. I went to the next slide. And the next. I was ready for the stuff Candy and I had talked about—the schedules, travel, lack of money—but the rest...
I got up and got myself another beer. I sat down again and read about actors—how we were moody and insecure due to all the rejection we faced; overly concerned about aging and our appearances; dramatic and needy in our relationships; and dependent on external satisfaction, which was always fleeting. And these weren’t the worst reasons not to date us. We were also incapable of real lasting happiness (owing to that external validation thing) and so self-absorbed that other people always came second to us and our careers.
I once fell out of a swing when I was six and hit the ground so hard the wind was knocked out of me. I lay there on the ground, everything hurting, wondering if I’d be able to breathe again. I felt the same way now. Everything hurt: the fact that Mom thought this was funny, the fact that people thought we were actually like that, and the fact that some of the reasons were true. About some actors. About me. I was insecure. I was working on not worrying about my appearance, but the aging thing was real: I could hear the clock ticking every day. Dramatic and needy? Maybe. I certainly liked external validation—maybe I was dependent on it. I wasn’t sure I was capable of real lasting happiness. Worst of all, I was pretty sure I was self-absorbed. In fact, I was pretty sure that’s why my mother thought of me she read the article. It was an accusation I’d heard over and over since Cody’s accident.
And it seemed justified. Like yesterday’s call to Matt—all I did was vent to him about stupid stuff in my life. Did I even ask about him or his mom or dad? I couldn’t remember. Had I sent flowers or even a card? No. Even worse, I’d been considering the “living together” decision by how it would impact me and my career, not how it’d affect Matt. What it’d feel like for him to live with my lifestyle, my insecurities, my general messed-up-ness.
The hurt I felt when reading the article didn’t go away. It got worse. I loved Matt. He was a good man.
And he deserved better.
Chapter 55
“My parents are moving to Italy.” It was the first thing I said to Matt after he got into my truck outside the terminal. Not “Hello,” or “How was your flight?” or even “Sorry I was late.” Definitely self-absorbed. And afraid to say what was really on my mind. I pulled out into traffic.
“Italy? Are you kidding? Where?...Hey, car!”
I slammed on the brakes. We skidded to a stop just inches from the sedan I’d nearly sideswiped. “I just realized they didn’t say where.” I clunked my head on the steering wheel. Such an idiot. “Just Italy. Maybe it’s a smaller country than I think.”
“God, your parents,” he said. “That sucks.” Matt leaned over to kiss me, but I turned my head to look for oncoming traffic so I could merge. Also because I thought I’d burst into tears if he kissed me. I slid into traffic and kept my eyes on the road. “Good flight?”
“You know: crowded, a little bumpy, but free Coke.” I could feel him looking at me. “You okay? Do you want to talk about Italy?”
“Are you social-working me?”
“What? No.”
I knew I was picking a fight to distance myself from him. To make what I had to do hurt less for both of us. So I didn’t stop. “Sounds like you are.”
“I had enough of that at home,” Matt said quietly. “Listen, if you don’t want to talk, maybe we can just go back to my place, sit on the couch, maybe listen to music or watch something funny on television...”
“No.”
“Oh yeah, you have to work tomorrow morning. At the faire, right? Maybe afterwards you can come over, teach me how to belly dance...”
“No.”
“Okay.” Matt sounded confused and a little hurt. He didn’t say anything more. I didn’t either. After what felt like eons, I pulled into his apartment’s parking lot.
Matt finally broke the silence. “Ivy, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this.” To you, I wanted to add, but didn’t. It might open up the conversation and I didn’t want to talk. I’d m
ade up my mind.
“Listen.” Matt took off his seatbelt so he could turn toward me. “We don’t have to move in together. Let’s just forget about that for now.”
“For now. That’s the trouble. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. And with my career...”
“Oh.” Matt sounded relieved. “Your career. Don’t worry about that. I’d never want you to give that up.”
I loved Matt so much. So I had to keep going. “So it’s okay if I move to San Diego and then to New York and then who knows where? It’s okay if I’m on the road more than I’m home? If I have fake sex with men who aren’t you?”
“Well—”
“Let me answer that question: It’s not. It’s not okay to always put myself and my career ahead of you.”
“I don’t think you—”
“Yes, I do. I—” I had to stop. I didn’t have a lump in my throat—I had a lump that filled my entire chest cavity.
“Ivy, look at me.”
I did. Matt was so beautiful. My chest felt like it might explode.
“I thought we were fine,” Matt said. “Better than fine. I would have never asked you to—” he shook his head. “I suspect this is really about your parents, and no, I’m not social-working you—so why don’t we just talk about it tomorrow when—”
“This isn’t about us, or even my parents. It’s about me. It’s always about me. That’s the problem.” The lump in my chest turned in on itself, became a giant hole. I was in danger of being swallowed, but I had to do this. “I love you,” I said, “but I think I need...some time on my own.”
“Really? Are you sure? What if we just—”
“I’m sure.”
“...Okay.” I didn’t look at Matt but I heard the tears in his voice. I felt him leave, felt him step out the door, felt him turn back to look at me, felt him shut the door. Then he was gone, and I tumbled into the black hole in my chest.
Chapter 56
I don’t think I slept at all. I must have dozed a little but every time I came to, the same tape was playing in my head. Matt’s beautiful face. Matt’s voice, cracking with emotion. Matt, whom I was leaving. Had left.
Since I was already up, I got on the road a little early. I pulled into the employee parking lot and Mooooo! Mooooo! Not so comforting this morning: I’d almost forgotten my daily call with Riley.
“Hey, Ivy.” Riley sounded as bad as I felt.
“You okay? Did you ever get that aspirin? Maybe I can do something about it.”
“No, it’s just...I’m still here. I miss my life. It was pretty cool, you know.”
“Just hang on a little while longer. I think you’ll be out of there soon.”
“Really? You found whoever pretended to be me?”
“Um, no. I just think you’ll get out on bail.”
“How? You didn’t call my mom, did you?”
“No. Bianca said that everyone at the faire is raising money. She thought they should have enough by today sometime.”
“Bianca said that?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s not mad at me anymore?”
“She doesn’t think you did it.”
Riley’s sigh of relief was so big I swear I felt his breath through the phone. “Cool. That’s cool. She’s cool.”
“And Uncle Bob said you can probably get the marijuana charge reduced to a misdemeanor.”
“He’s cool too. Everything’s cool. Yeah. Thanks, Ivy.” He hung up, and I sat there, wishing everything was cool.
I was just about to stash my phone under the seat when it buzzed at me: a text. I squinted at it, hoping it wasn’t Matt—and hoping it was. I was a mess.
Not Matt, Uncle Bob. “Too much sun the last couple days.” That monk robe did look hot. “You okay without me?”
No, I wanted to say, I’m not okay. I did the right thing but it hurts like hell. But I said, “Sure. Take care. XXOO.”
I went through the day like a belly dancing automaton. Even Jasmine noticed. “You’ve lost your shine, my girl.” Indeed I had. I hoped it would come back.
I was about to wrap up the day and count it as a total loss when I wiggled my way past the Bawdy Buccaneers show. They were leading the crowd in a cheer: “Trojans, Trojans, we will never break!”
The same cheer John Robert had used on Friday. And that fact jogged something else loose in my mind—he’d also used “Might for right”—William’s catch phrase. Is that what he was doing at the faire? Stealing ideas?
“Tell your fortune, milady?”
I whipped around. The question wasn’t directed at me, but no one else was biting, which was good, because that was one crone who had some explaining to do.
“Inside. Now,” I said, walking ahead of her into her stupid bloody caravan. The deck of tarot cards was on her table. I sat in her seat, turned the cards face up, and spread them across the table.
“What are you doing?” She’d followed me in.
“I wanted to make sure these cards weren’t all Towers. Or Magicians.”
“You think I was tricking you.”
“I think you know too much.”
“The crone kn—”
“Do not go there,” I said. Then I burst into tears.
She let me cry for a while, passing me Kleenex when I needed them. I finally got myself under control. “You knew my life was going to go down in flames.”
“I didn’t.” She spoke gently, dropping the Slavic accent. Her real voice had a Midwestern softness. “I’m sorry.”
“But you knew about William.” I watched her eyes.
“No.”
She was telling the truth. “But before the joust that killed Angus, you said death was near. And you told Riley he was going to be famous.”
“Angus was called the Black Death, remember? I saw him standing right behind you; that’s all I meant. And about Riley being famous—he’s a good jouster and funny and big-hearted. I thought—I think—he’ll do well here.”
“When you showed me the Magician card, you said something about evil.”
“I was talking about Angus. Hated that guy. Listen,” the crone said, “I’m just an actress. I really don’t know anything. Though I do believe the cards can show us things about ourselves.”
“Okay then...” I picked up the card in front of me—a skull-faced knight in black armor with the word “Death” scrawled underneath. “Let’s see if they can show us who killed Angus.” I placed the card in front of the crone.
“That’s not really how it works.”
I tapped my finger on a card that showed a woman with bird wings. “There’s Bianca, the middle of the love triangle...” I put it next to The Fool card. “There’s Riley...” I found The Magician and put it next to them. “William the Wondrous...” I pointed to another card with a man and a woman who looked like twins holding cups... “Benjamin and his alter ego”...then another one that had a man stealing swords from something that looked like a faire “John Robert, and...” I searched for a card to represent my last suspect. I point to a man carrying a sword, with birds in the background for the Bianca connection... “Hayden,” I said.
I watched the crone. I was pretty sure she did know more than she was saying. Maybe her eyes would give her away. But instead of looking at the cards, she looked at me. “Are you sure that’s everyone?”
Chapter 57
Was that a clue? Had I missed someone? The fortuneteller wouldn’t say any more, and she wanted me gone. “I have to make a living, you know.” She practically pushed me outside.
But what was she trying to tell me? Maybe she was pointing out the fact that I had too many suspects, or maybe...
“Doug,” I said, sticking my head back inside the caravan.
The crone laughed, “Doug, joust? I doubt he’s ever been within ten feet of a horse.”
>
She was right. Not Doug. Arghh. I did have too many suspects. And a headache. And a heartache.
I told Jasmine I wasn’t feeling well, and left the faire early. I went home and tried to take a nap. Didn’t work. I lay on my couch and let my mind wander through the investigation, hoping it would show me something I’d missed. That didn’t work either. It was as if my brain was trying so hard not to think about Matt that it was too tired to think about anything else. I finally gave up and called Cody. “You free for dinner?”
“Um...Aren’t we having dinner tomorrow?”
Our weekly double date night: Cody and Sarah and me and Matt. That was really why I’d called. I could tell Cody about me and Matt while we were at the group home, then take him out to dinner so we could process it. “I don’t think that’s going to work out.”
“Okay. Should Sarah come?”
“Let’s just make it you and me this time.” I arranged to pick up Cody in fifteen minutes.
This was not going to be fun.
Cody had loved Matt before I did.
They met several years ago. Matt was working at the group home while finishing his master’s in social work. He was a quiet force of change in that house, not only insisting that the guys be treated like the adults they were, but giving them goals—like getting part-time jobs—and boundaries, like not sleeping late and missing work. Best of all, by being comfortable with who he was—a slightly geeky, sci-fi-loving college student—he helped them embrace who they were too. Ever since Matt, Cody and his buddies at the home felt free to dance, to tell bad jokes, to have friendly arguments about the best superhero, to be who they were, regardless of society’s expectations.
So I expected Cody would be upset about the break-up. I didn’t think he’d go ballistic.
“What!?” Cody yelled, loud enough that the guys who’d been in the living room with us scattered. “You did what?” He began to shake, like he did when he was upset. “Why?”
“Well, he asked me to move in with him and—”
“So you broke up with him!?” Cody was wobbling so wildly I was afraid he’d fall over.
