by Rena Mason
“Chardonnay sounds good.”
“Waitress,” Jordan calls. “Could we get a glass of chardonnay please?” Then she lowers her head and whispers. “The service here is terrible.”
“But the food’s good,” I say.
“That it is. Now, when she comes with your wine, I think it’d be smart to order, or we might never get lunch.”
“I agree.”
“Two flank steak salads?” she says.
“Absolutely.”
After the waitress leaves, I raise my glass to toast. “Here’s to love, life, and happiness.”
“Screw that. To good health.” She tilts her glass, and I watch the dirty gin drain into her mouth. “Shoot. I should’ve ordered another one when she was here.”
“She’ll be back.”
“Well, until she does…I think I’ve got an idea you’re gonna like.”
I lean into the table. “Let’s hear it.”
“What do you think of Healthy Holidays for the name of the fundraiser?”
“Love it.”
“Excellent.”
Our food comes before she orders her third martini and that’s just since I’ve been here. Fortunately, we have gone over every fundraiser detail. I am so glad I brought my day planner in. At the end of the meal, I order a cappuccino, and she orders another martini.
“Will you be all right to drive?” I say.
“Don’t worry honey, I’ll be fine. They water down their drinks.” She turns away.
“So, how’s Samuel?”
She turns back with a sad look. “He’s workin’ me again about the prenup.”
“Oh.”
I don’t have the subtle finesse Cally does when it comes to talking about stuff like this and definitely not when Jordan is drunk. “Maybe he just needs a little more time,” I say. Things will get better.” I stare down at my lap and bite my lip. I’m so used to her only talking about happy times with Samuel. I forget about these.
“Well, how’s Cally?” Her speech is slightly slurred.
I look up and the sun glares into my eyes. Between squinting and blinking, I can’t see until I raise my hand up over my brow. Suddenly, it appears we’re outdoors.
Jordan has on a wide brim hat topped with piles of feathers, flowers, and lace. Dark navy ribbons wind through the weave. They match her gown—her gown? She’s wearing a gown! And it is beautiful. Beaded and trimmed with seed pearls and ornate lacework. She lifts a dainty China cup to her mouth then takes a sip. Sheer ivory fabric hangs from the fitted sleeve of her gown. I reach out, touch it. It’s soft, not starchy.
“Uh-hum.” Jordan clears her throat.
I pull my hand back and look up. “Oh…she’s good.” I respond.
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re doing the Housewives show, right?”
My God, she doesn’t see it. She doesn’t see or hear any of it. We’re seated at a café, next to a cobblestone street. Ambient sounds of people talking, their footsteps and horse hooves clapping, increases. Men wearing vests and dark frock coats walk by. They smile at us and tip their hats. There are horse drawn carts. Moisture in the air soaks my thirsty pores. It smells musty, a little on the pungent side of earthy, except for the occasional waft of coffee.
“Yeah—Cally talked me into it.” I can’t stop smiling. I want to laugh out loud. Laugh out loud and scream. Why can’t you see?
“I’m sure Tara will give us the details Saturday.”
“Great.” It’s hard to keep my focus and not stare out at the people—not stare at her. Jordan’s complexion isn’t plastic anymore. She’s no longer a spiky-haired brunette. Thick plaits of shiny auburn hair cling to the bottom sides of her head. There is something familiar in her eyes.
“It’ll be a hoot.” Jordan stays quiet for a minute and watches me. Her eyes shadow my every move. “Hey, sugar, you all right?”
“You just sort of remind me of me, right now.” I can’t believe I said that out loud.
“What?”
This has to stop. I put my head down and close my eyes. “Nothing. I’m good.”
I hear the waitress walk over, and I look up. Everything is back to normal. I hand her my credit card. I’ve had it out for about thirty minutes. Jordan holds up her hand to protest.
“Please,” I explain. “It’s the least I can do.”
“You’re sweet, honey. Thanks.” She leans across the table to hug me and knocks over a glass of water. “I think it’s time to go.” She laughs.
“I think you’re right.”
We leave in separate cars, and I worry about her being okay to drive. Sometimes, I wonder how she ever got so far in her career. When her son Jamie went off to college, she retired as the entertainment director for the biggest hotel-casino conglomerate in town, the only woman ever chosen for that position, then and since. After her first divorce she never had to work again, but did to keep busy, I think, stay in control. No one can plan a party worth going to without her, and she does it all on a volunteer basis for the charities she likes.
Her latest husband, boy-toy Samuel, is the male version of a gold-digger. Everyone knows it, but no one would ever say anything to her. She’s a woman used to getting what she wants. It’s painful to watch her spiral down like this, but she is so stubborn.
I worry about myself, too. If I didn’t already have that appointment with Dr. Light, I’d consider checking myself in after that flashback type of hallucination or whatever it was. I wonder if this is related to my nightmares in some way. For God’s sake, if they keep happening during the day while I’m wide awake, I don’t know what I’ll do. It would be awful for sure, but really, none of this can be happening to me—not now. I have too many things to get done.
* * *
There’s a tap on the glass. I unlock the doors and Patrick gets in.
“Why do you lock the car when you’re picking me up?”
“Robbers.”
“Yeah, right—in Summerlin?” Patrick fastens his seatbelt.
“Never know…some kid might get in and want a free ride, then dinner, then college…that’s just like robbery.”
“So not funny.”
“Totally was.”
Within minutes, the area is swarming with cars crawling on top of each other to get in or out. It’s unavoidable.
“Do you have a lot of homework?”
“No.”
I pull away from the curb and head home. Patrick reaches over and turns on the radio.
“Not too loud.” I tell him.
He leans against the passenger’s side window and stares out. I watch him and keep pace with the traffic.
“Mom, the light’s green.”
Funny, I can still make out his baby face hidden underneath this teenager one.
“You can go now.” He raises his voice. “The people behind us are honking their horn.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I wave in the rearview mirror to the driver behind me, and he flips me off.
“Not enough coffee today?” Patrick says.
“Maybe that’s it.” I swerve across two lanes and make a sharp right into a coffee shop.
“Oh my God, Mom. I was just kidding.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” I pull into the drive-thru line and turn up the radio. It is an eighties station, only now they call it retro. Hell if that doesn’t make me feel old. “Ooh, I love this song.” I turn the volume up even more and sing along. “I am a butterfly. A wild butterfly…” Rocking my head back and forth, tapping the steering wheel.
“Knock it off. Please,” Patrick says. He shrinks down into his seat.
“Come on, sing it.” I pull up to the order box and Patrick turns off the radio. “I’d like a small cappuccino, please.”
A loud garbled voice comes out of the box. “Drive up—Total.”
When I get to the window, I hand the young girl some money, then she gives me my drink. “Thanks.”
Back in the flow of traffic, “Mom, is everything okay?” Patrick says.
&
nbsp; “Of course. Why?”
“Never mind.”
“I’m fine. You just have lousy taste in music.”
“Serious? That song was beyond stupid.”
“Music today doesn’t have lyrics half as good as those.”
“Really, Mom? Wild butterfly? What butterfly isn’t wild?”
“The kind they grow artificially.”
“You can’t grow a butterfly.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
* * *
Patrick goes up to his room after dinner, leaving Jon and me to clean up.
“How was your day?” he says.
“It was good. I had lunch with Jordan.”
“And?”
“We’ve got a good name for the fundraiser—Healthy Holidays. You like it?”
“That’s great. Your idea?”
“No, Jordan’s. All the food will be organic and independently raised on green farms.”
“There’s still going to be a bar, right? People won’t come if there’s no alcohol.”
“Yes. There will still be bar.” I stop and roll my eyes.
“Then it sounds fantastic.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ve got office work. You mind?”
“No. Go ahead.” He starts to walk away. “Oh, but wait.”
“What?”
“Have you ever heard of a Dr. Light?” I say.
“No. Should I have?”
“No. But, that’s a good thing.” I smile wide.
He has a look of bewilderment on his face that quickly fades. “Oh. Is that the shrink?”
“Yes.”
“You make an appointment?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. His office is in Henderson.”
“Why so far? You’ll hate the traffic.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Leave early. Tell me how it goes.” He walks over, leans down and kisses my cheek again. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.”
If my problems were medical, he’d be all over it. I don’t get sick often, but when something physically goes wrong with me, he literally becomes both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
In part, I understand why he doesn’t want to talk about it. I’m not the crazy distant relative everyone in the family signed off to be committed—I’m his wife. And he is a physician, and he can’t mend what’s wrong with me. He’s always been hands on, frustrated by the unexplainable. “Psychiatry isn’t medicine,” he used to say. “It’s merely an imbalance of chemicals in the human body. Fix that and mental disorders wouldn’t exist.”
He complains sometimes about how now, more than ever, his patients are overmedicated for depression and other mental illnesses. It affects his ability to do the chemical balancing that he does, when he puts them under then wakes them up.
Life would be so easy if it were all about balancing the right ingredients. Hopefully, Dr. Light will be able to bring some equilibrium to my mind—soon.
CHAPTER SIX
I got three hours of uninterrupted sleep last night. The most since the nightmares began—maybe they fear Dr. Light already. This could be a sign of good things to come or clarification that it’s all in my head. Either way, I’m feeling overly anxious. I’ll have to limit my caffeine today. I do not want to show up manic, and first impressions are everything.
After dropping Patrick off at school, I resist the urge for coffee. I head home instead to call the caterers and party rental places. Make a list for Thanksgiving dinner. Hard to believe it is next week. My parents annually drive in from Long Beach the afternoon before and leave Sunday morning. Ever since we moved to Vegas, they visit every holiday. My dad stays home and watches sports with Jon, or they go play golf while I become my mom’s personal chauffeur, tour guide, and gambling assistant.
Thursday appointments work best for me. It’s my day off from working out. Evening soccer practice is the only thing scheduled. Maybe Dr. Light could see me regularly on Thursday mornings. It’s barely nine, but I grab my purse and head out the door. Most important, I program the car’s navigation system. The east side of town is not master planned like Summerlin, so the traffic is horrific. There is nothing worse than being lost someplace crowded and unfamiliar.
Thirty minutes driving and I’ve nearly passed every exit for Henderson. Right as I’m about to check the navigation screen, the robotic female voice speaks out. She tells me to take the next exit then continue driving on the frontier road. There is not much around, except for mounds of displaced earth and empty lots of graded land. A great deal of construction was left unfinished when the market tanked.
She guides me onto a side street and then another. When she says I have arrived at my destination, I’m in the middle of nowhere, stopped in front of a solitary office building that must have dropped from the sky.
The building has a bland exterior that fuses into the desert landscape. If it weren’t for the car’s navigation system, I would have driven right past it. The stucco and trim are all the same color, taupe. It is notoriously called desert brown by all the designers in town. Even the window shades match. They’re all pulled down, too, making the building look closed.
I grab my purse and step out. Nothing improves on my approach. Not a single shrub lines the walkway. Vacant buildings have become a more common sight, but if Dr. Light wants patients, he’s going to have to spruce it up. Then again, if he doesn’t own the building, there really is no sense. Mine is the only car in the parking lot.
I swallow hard and pull open the heavy glass door. The morning sun glares off the lustrous marble floors, blinding me. When my eyes adjust, I’m disappointed by the all-around drab inside, too. The lobby entrance is large, open, and empty. No décor.
Across the way is a wall of names and office numbers placed in alphabetical order. Block white letters line a black background, set into a glass frame. Near the middle, a single line spells out Dr. T. Light, M.D., Psy.D., with suite number one hundred next to it. First office on the first floor also spells convenient.
Next to the name board and halfway up the wall to my right is a matte-gold placard with the numbers one hundred through one hundred and ten. A long arrow points the way.
Around the corner, I stop and stare down the narrow corridor. The far end appears to stretch back. Long bars of fluorescent lights cast a purple, artificial glow on the walls and floors. It looks more like a tunnel than a hallway.
Desert brown doors fade into desert brown walls. Chrome levers are the only indication doors even exist. Small placards indicate the suite numbers. To my left is suite one hundred and ten. A deep sigh, then I walk to the other end of the hall. When I get to the door, I stall, look down at my watch. It’s nine thirty-five, which doesn’t seem right. It should be later than that.
Deafening feedback fills the hall—my head! I brace my arm over the placard and press my forehead against it. Maybe I can squeeze the sound out. Brilliant colors explode like fireworks behind my eyes. Loud, off-key squeals change pitch in sporadic outbursts. The smallest of itches starts at the tip of my nose. “No.” I mutter through clenched jaws. I watch a drop of blood as it falls to the floor. It spatters in front of my shoe. And shit, I’ve got my favorite pair of Pliner heels on today. I keep my head down and turned to the side, away from my clothes. I take my purse from around my shoulder. Fumbling through the chaos that’s inside, the pouch of tissues is within fingertip’s reach. Eureka—I yank them all out and push them up under my nose.
I’m not sure I saw a restroom in the lobby, but there has to be one. So, with an open purse hanging from one forearm and bloody tissues at the end of the other, I joggle back down the hall. My eyes dart around and spot nothing. Then an illuminated sign near the entrance catches my attention. I head for it. Thankful now, the lobby is empty.
When I get into the bathroom, I pull the tissues away from my face. There was more than one drop this time, but the bleeding has stopped and so have the sounds; although, I can’t rem
ember exactly when they did. I toss the red bundle into the trash canister, wash my hands, then pull new tissues from the box next to the sink. When I’m all cleaned up, I fix my lipstick, check my watch again. It’s nine forty-four—impossible. I shake off time’s slow crawl and return to suite one hundred. Before entering, I glance down to avoid the blood droplet. It’s gone. I push the lever down, then step into Dr. Light’s office.
A plain laminate desk sits out front, with no one behind it. I hear a door close off to the right. In the left corner, there are two taupe chairs. A small square coffee table between them with magazines fanned out on top. His office is as sterile as the rest of the building. I step up to the desk and lean over. A man walks toward me. I smile coyly, then lean back. He is extremely tall and gangling, with dark eyes and black hair.
“Hello, Mrs. Troy?”
“Yes. Dr. Light. Nice to meet you.” I reach my hand over the desk and give him a firm shake. His hand is enormous. Feels like warm velvet, but his grip is flaccid, almost soft.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, “and on time, too.”
I smile and nod my head.
“Let’s head back to my office.”
He leads the way, and I follow him around the front desk. Not a single piece of paper sits on top. There isn’t even a phone. We walk down the hall he came from.
“This is a large office space for one physician,” I say.
His pace quickens, and I fall behind. The fluorescent lights make his dark hair look blue. His whole head, periwinkle shirt, and navy pants, they all glow like an iceberg. There is something peculiar about the hallway, too. It seems longer than it should, and there is only one door at the very end.
My heels tap along the marble. The tiny clinks sound like thunder claps in all the quiet. Strange, there’s no carpet. The rent here must be a fortune. “Do you own the building, Dr. Light?” If he can afford this building, I wonder where his staff is. “Is your secretary on break?”
He gets to the door and stops. “Actually, I do own part of the building, but I don’t have a secretary just yet. I’ve only recently opened up my practice here, and financially, I’m not able to hire someone full-time.”
