After a beat of stunned silence Jamaica says, “I know who you are. But I really must go now.”
No, fuck that. This girl has no idea how long it’s been since I felt…well, anything for anyone. I’d been keeping myself more or less permanently numb since graduating from Yale in May. But there was something about this girl. Something that cut through the usual haze like a shot of adrenaline delivered straight to the heart.
“Wait…wait. Just wait,” I say, fighting the covers to get out of the bed.
But it’s too late. Her friend pulls her out of the room, leaving me tangled up in bedsheets that I’m too messed up to get out of.
“Fuck!” I yell when the door closes behind them. I have no idea who either of those girls were. Or how to find Jamaica if she leaves before I can stop her.
When I finally disengage myself from the bedding, I stumble out to the party, searching for Jamaica. But I can’t find her or her friend anywhere.
And I must be really gone over this girl because for a minute I forget why I haven’t left this apartment building since graduation. Why I threw this party in the first place instead of just going out.
I make it three steps outside the apartment before the pins and needles attack my body. A piercing wind fills my head and I break out in a sweat so sudden, I can feel it cold and dripping down my head. Choking, I rush back inside, slamming the door closed behind me before my muscles start contracting and eventually give out.
“Heya, Holt. You alright?” someone asks behind me.
I look over my shoulder. It’s Luca, and he’s got some hot blonde with him who he says wants to try out the stuff he brought back from his trip to Ibiza. The trip I was supposed to go on with him and our former suitemates. The trip I opted out of because of this, because of what’s been happening every time I try to leave this apartment.
I can breathe again…but I don’t respond. Instead, I push past them and return to my room where I search for my phone to call down to Javon. But when I do, he tells me the girls are long gone.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice suspicious. “Did they steal something?”
In a sudden rage, I throw my blackberry against the nearest wall instead of answering. But I don’t get any satisfaction from watching it smash into pieces.
A few minutes later, I’m back on the balcony. Still not planning to jump. I just need some air. And ever since graduation when I turned into the second coming of Howard Hughes, going out on my balcony is the only way I can breathe natural air these days.
But the air doesn’t help. The numbness begins to set in again, pushing at the memory of her like she never happened at all. Time to go back inside, I decide. Go out to the party and invite Luca’s friend to come to my room and suck me off, take my mind off the one who literally got away.
But when I turn around, I see it, lying just inside the open French doors. And it makes me stop. Stop…and grin, because like a Jamaican Cinderella, she’s left something very important behind.
Chapter Three
SYLVIE
“How was that talk you just had to go to?” Mommy asks when I walk through the door almost an hour earlier than I said I would.
She is in the front room, seated sideways on a folding chair next to Daddy’s recliner. She pushes a spoon loaded with applesauce and crushed up nighttime pills into my father’s mouth. “Not too good if you be home this early,” she answers before I can.
Prin and I planned out every detail of my lie on our way down to New Haven, but now I find myself simply saying, “No, he was a good speaker.” And I leave it there without going into the carefully composed list of observations I’d made after watching his Ted Talk online. Because I do not want to lie. Because I do not want to think any more about tonight. About the drug-addled boy who stared at me so intensely. Or how upset Prin had been on the drive back to Hartford. Luckily she only had to drive a few miles east to Beaumont tonight, since seniors we’re given a week to move out of their dorm rooms after graduation. She was so very upset, I don’t think I could have trusted her to get home by herself if she was going all the way back to New Jersey.
“What did you say his name was again?” Mommy asks while using a cloth napkin to wipe away some applesauce that has dribbled out of Daddy’s mouth.
My heart catches because for a moment I think she is asking about Holt Calson, that she’s somehow found out. But then I realize she is still gathering information about the pretend version of where I went tonight.
“Malcolm Gladwell,” I answer, scanning all the medical equipment beside Daddy’s chair.
I don’t like the level on his catheter, so I go into the kitchen and fish a new drainage bag and a plastic bedpan out of the bottom cabinet where we keep all his medical supplies in a tidy plastic organizer. One I am pretty sure Mommy bought from Cal-Mart. Without warning, my skin warms with the memory of how the Cal-Mart heir had looked at me. Hungrily, like he wanted to gulp me down the way he gulped down that first glass of water I brought him.
Boys never look at me like that. Not ever.
I close the cabinet and stand with the new bag before I can delve too deeply into that thought. I wonder how long it will be before I forget or can even stop thinking about my brief meeting with Holt Calson.
“And you say he a Jamaican?” Mommy asks when I return to the living room. Still on the subject of Malcolm Gladwell.
I can feel both sets of my parents’ eyes on me as I bend down on the other side of Daddy’s recliner. They’ve been like this since they put Lydia on that plane: suspicious bordering on distrustful. And asking more questions than necessary about anything I tell them.
“His mama is,” I answer, setting down the plastic container under the catheter bag clipped to the side of Daddy’s recliner.
“He only wanted a few sips of water with dinner. The bag is most likely fine,” Mommy says.
“Just in case,” I answer as I change the bag, grateful for the excuse not to look her in the eye.
“Alright, you are the smarter one than me when it comes to these things. And you say this man gets paid to talk to young people? About what exactly?”
“Ideas,” I answer. I can feel Daddy’s eyes on me, as interested in my answers as my mother even if ALS has taken away his ability to speak.
“Ideas,” Mommy says with a harrumph of a laugh as if she’d never heard of such a thing. “Daddy and me was talking about it. We could understand if it be a singer like Mr. Belafonte. Or maybe even that runner Usain Bolt. But imagine you girls driving all the way down to New Haven to hear a man with a Jamaican mumma talk about ideas. Probably none of them even close to godly!”
I don’t answer, don’t argue with her about the value of ideas that aren’t regurgitated from a pulpit every Sunday morning. I’ve learned Lydia’s lesson and I don’t want to be put on the next plane to Jamaica. So, I finish changing out the catheter bag in silence. Then I help my mom get my father out of the recliner and into his wheelchair, and then into the bed they still share.
While Mommy readies herself for bed in the bathroom, I take Daddy through his nighttime routine. Uncurling his painfully thin body on the bed and slipping an oxygen mask over his mouth to help him breathe at night.
He doesn’t communicate to me as clearly as he can with my mother, but I can feel his thoughts. Grateful, embarrassed, sad, resigned…
His hair used to be jet black. Not 1B like my mother and sister, but jet black, same as mine. However, three years after receiving his ALS diagnosis, Daddy’s hair is more salt than pepper. He is either aging faster than a one-term president, or he was dyeing his hair before. Either way, it feels like ALS has taken everything from him along with the privacy he enjoyed before I started helping Mommy take care of his every need.
He can’t weigh more than 100 pounds now, I think, stroking a hand over his wiry hair. I wonder how his life would have turned out if he’d never been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. But I no longer wish for it like I used to. ALS h
as been a kind disease in that way. It took our hope away, flare up by flare up until one day, all I wanted was for my father to die in peace knowing he was loved during his time on this earth.
But tonight is different. After I put his breathing apparatus on, I look at him and he looks at me, and I wonder if he knows I lied to him and Mommy. Lied to save Prin like I couldn’t save Lydia.
Strangely, I want to tell him about what happened. How I’d met Holt Calson, the sad little boy we’d read about in the newspaper when his mother killed herself in the dead of night. How he wasn’t at all as I’d expected. Neither completely sad, nor standard Beaumont issue.
How I’d recognized him, but just barely. Because the clean-cut boy who cut the ribbon on the Calson Center, had been buried beneath a tangle of long blond hair and a scraggly beard, patchy and resentful—like even it knew it had no business at all covering his beautiful face. How his eyes had been…mesmerizing. A perfect classic blue, but pained like he was bleeding out from a wound no one else could see.
I should have felt sorry for him. Under the influence of God knew what. Confused about what he wanted from the girl who’d shown up on his balcony and told him to come inside. But instead of pity, I felt something else. Especially when he said he wanted to have sex on a cloud with me….
But of course, I don’t tell my father any of this. I don’t say anything but, “Good night, Daddy,” as I lean over and kiss him on his forehead. It’s dry and still smooth, despite the gray hair.
Daddy is only forty-four, I remind myself as I turn off the overhead lights and walk the short distance to the room I used to share with my big sister.
And I’m only eighteen. I shouldn’t be in my bed thinking about meeting Holt Calson at that graveyard party. There’s no reason for warmth to pool between my legs. I don’t touch myself below as I could do now that I no longer share a room with my sister. I still feel too guilty about lying to my parents anyway…and about telling Lydia everything would be all right.
I have a restless night, tossing and turning with strange dreams that remind me of trailers for the European arthouse movies I’m not allowed to watch. And when I wake up, my head still feels like it’s trapped in a dream as I help Mommy with breakfast and Daddy’s morning routine.
“Any good news about a summer job?” my mother asks as we eat green banana porridge at the round linoleum table in our front room. Just the three of us, Daddy in his wheelchair, and Mommy and me in two dining room chairs. Mommy moved the chair that was Lydia’s down to the unfinished basement because she claimed it was taking up space.
Sometimes I wonder if she put all our laughter in the basement, too. When Lydia was here, we used to laugh around this table all the time. Even Daddy, because laughing is something even ALS cannot take away.
But these days, our mornings are filled with sober and practical conversations. Daily schedules, and who will do what for Daddy after I finish reading him the morning news.
Mommy works seven days a week cleaning houses. Saturdays are particularly bad because she has two back-to-back houses to clean, one in Avon and the other in Farmington. That means twelve hours of work topped off by at least two hours of bus rides there and back.
At least when I was still at Beaumont, I was able to contribute the pitiful amount I made babysitting staff children and grabbing extra hours at the childcare center to our family income. But now I am out of work—which makes me less than useless as the bills continue to pile up, worse and worse.
“I’m still looking for a daycare job,” I answer my mother. But I am not confident I will find one. That morning while Mommy put together the porridge, I read yet another article about the current recession to Daddy. According to the news, times were so tough that many young people were unable to find work of any kind, even at fast food chains.
Still, I have to do something. In the kitchen, there’s a drawer about two down from the sink. Right now, it is shut tight. But I can still hear the creditors yelling about what’s hidden inside. And I know it will be opened again when the mail comes this afternoon. Mommy will toss more unopened envelopes with angry red “UNPAID” and “DELINQUENT” stamps on top. I feel guilty because I have been too busy getting an education to be of much help. I attended Beaumont on a dramatically reduced tuition because my father was part of the staff. But even after Daddy’s medical severance ran out and I had to switch over to a full scholarship, my parents insisted I finish my schooling at Beaumont instead of dropping out to help my mom keep up with the bills.
“You use that laptop the school gave you to look for some work,” Mommy instructs me as she drops a kiss on Daddy’s left temple which is now tilted at a semi-permanent angle.
“I will—” I start to answer.
But I am interrupted by the ringing of our house phone.
Mommy’s head and mine rise at the shrill sound of the landline. Bill collector, we both think without having to say it. Usually, they do not call on Saturday mornings. But as we have discovered in the last three years, creditors do not live by a strict set of rules.
“I’ll get it,” I offer.
“No, this is adult business,” my mother answers. And like a soldier on latrine duty, she squares her shoulder and goes over to the kitchen wall to pick up the beige handset.
“Hello, this is the Pinnock residence,” she says to the person on the other end.
But then her face slackens with surprise before she asks, “And tell me, who is this calling, wanting to speak to my daughter?”
Hmm, I think. It must be someone from one of the jobs I’ve applied for. But I was sure I only gave out my cell number—
Suddenly, my current train of thought completely derails because something very important has dawned on me. In a flash of memory, I recall dropping the purse Prin loaned me like a sack of bricks, as if it didn’t hold two of my most important possessions: my wallet and my phone. In my defense, I dropped it to save the rich boy I honestly thought was about to jump. But the bad thing is, I do not remember picking it back up. Which means…
“Holt? Holt, who?” my mother demands to know from the person on the other end of the line, as if to confirm my sudden realization.
I rush over to my mother and take the handset from her as politely as I can, considering every nerve in my body wants to snatch it.
“Mommy, you’ve got to get to work,” I say before she can protest.
“Who is that boy?” Mommy demands. Loudly. So loudly.
And I find out that contrary to what I told myself last night, I am not done with lying. I cover the phone’s mouth piece and whisper, “This is about a job. Mommy, please!”
Then without waiting for her answer, I uncover the mouthpiece and throw a bucket full of false bravado into my voice to say, “Sorry about that. Yes, this is Sylvia Pinnock.”
I cannot decide whether to feel guilty or relieved when Mommy immediately backs down with an abject look of apology.
“You left something at my place, Jamaica,” the voice on the other end of the line says. It sounds much smoother but a little hoarser, hungover with a tight Connecticut jaw.
“Yes, I applied for your daycare job yesterday. Please, call me Sylvie,” I say as I watch my mother grab her purse from the linoleum table and head for the door.
“Sylvie? You like that better than Sylvia…or Jamaica?”
“Yes, I have been babysitting since I was twelve. I also provided after school care on an as-needed basis for younger students and the children of the staff at Beaumont Academy,” I answer in a rush. But as soon as I hear the door close behind my mother, I cut the act.
“You cannot be calling me here!” I hiss to Holt in a whisper, praying my father cannot hear me in the living room.
“Your mom’s strict, huh?”
I do not want to talk with this boy about my parents. Also, proving ALS has not removed the ability to keep an eye on his daughter, an electronic whir sounds in the other room and moments later, Daddy appears in the kitchen doorway. Ugh
, I should have transferred him to the recliner before I took care of the breakfast dishes.
“Yes, that’s right, I live with my parents,” I say into the phone, switching back to my most professional tone. But it is difficult to keep my voice from trembling.
“I’m assuming she doesn’t know you were at my place last night.” Holt sounds more amused than confused by my continued act.
“Yes, that is correct.” I eye our kitchen floor. It is checkered like the one in his skyscraper, but worn and dingy rather than shiny and immaculate.
“So, Sylvie, how’re you going to get your purse if you can’t even admit you’re talking to a guy on the phone?”
Good question. I think on it and come back with, “Maybe you can send the rest of the paperwork in the mail? If not, I could come down to Yale to fill out the rest of the application on Monday.”
“I see…those are your terms. You want me to find you a job at one of the Yale daycares in order to see you again?” His voice is a bit more serious now, as if a businessman has taken the place of the strung-out guy I met last night.
“No, that is not necessary,” I answer quickly, alarmed he jumped to that conclusion—or even thought I was negotiating to see him again. “Like I said, I can come on Monday to fill out the rest of the paperwork. It is no problem. If you leave it with your assistant downstairs, I will pick it up.”
“Fine. Cool,” he answers. “See you Monday, Sylvie.”
“Yes, I will see you then?” I answer, my voice going up on a question because I am still not sure he understands my code.
But instead of reassurances, I hear a click followed by the dial tone.
Strange—not to mention inconvenient. But I focus on getting Daddy into the recliner. Then I take my position in the folding chair beside him and open my laptop to begin applying to the few daycare and high school diploma-only jobs I can find on Craigslist. I try not to think about how I’m going to get back down to New Haven on Monday. The $11 in my wallet is all the money I have in the world until I find a job…
Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3) Page 3
