by Rena Mason
“It’s navy pinstripes or moss, and I like the moss.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Wear Aloha shirts all the time.”
“I would, too.” He laughs.
“Oh, I know.”
“What are you wearing?”
“The black cocktail dress.”
“Help me out, you’ve got a hundred black dresses in here.”
“The lace number that was in with the dry cleaning.”
“I got it. Nice. And you should get out of the tub. We’re leaving in less than an hour.”
* * *
Jon showers, gets dressed, and I’m still seated at my vanity. “You’ve got ten minutes. Then I’m leaving without you,” he says.
“Promise?”
“You look fantastic. Now, let’s go.”
“I’ll be ready in ten. Tell Pat we’re heading out soon.”
Finally, I never thought he’d go. I pop open the Valium cap and take one of the little blue pills. Yuck. The tap water tastes bad. It’s all that reverse osmosis, saline treatment crap.
One last glance in the mirror and I’m out the door.
* * *
We arrive thirty minutes casually late, along with everyone else. Valet parking is overrun. Someone really needs to change the standard thirty-minute-late rule. Forty-five minutes seems like a better time, because that’s when they finally get around to helping us.
“Are you folks guests of the hotel?”
“No. We’re local. Here for a cocktail party.” Jon hands the young man a twenty-dollar-bill.
“I’ll keep it up front for you, sir.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Jon says. He reads the parking attendant’s name tag. “Gus, from Idaho. They’ve got some great skiing there.”
“Sure do, sir. Have a good night.”
Jon takes my hand, and we walk into the hotel-casino through the shopping entrance. It’s a long way around to the convention area, and my feet are already sore. I should have known better than to wear a new pair of shoes, but they go so well with the dress.
We pass people crowded around craps tables yelling and cheering. Cigar and cigarette smoke billows through the designated walking areas into endless rows of slot machines. It looks like fog rolling through a cemetery of marquee gravestones. My pace slows, and I lag a little.
“You okay?” Jon says.
“Want to trade shoes?”
Jon looks down and shakes his head. “They look better on you.”
“If I’d remembered we’d be walking five miles, I’d have worn sneakers.”
“And you’d still look good, but we’re almost there.”
The convention area is much quieter. Almost too quiet, until you get up close to the rooms, then you can see and hear all kinds of big parties taking place. The walls must be soundproofed, because there’s a DJ in one and a wedding reception with a string quartet right next door. It’s a labyrinth of infinite doors, hideous carpeting, and numerous possibilities.
Of course our party is at the end of the hall, my feet are about to give up. The makeshift walls and doors are pushed all the way back, making the party entrance nice and open. A large buffet area is set up along the back wall. Many decorated tables are placed from the buffet to the entrance, like an obstacle course. This makes me a little nervous about my maneuvering through them on sore feet and the Valium.
The cash bar is to the right of the buffet, and the band is on the other side. Jon brings me over to an empty table toward the open front area then walks off to get a glass of wine. If I’m lucky, he’ll be back in thirty minutes, carrying a warm glass of chardonnay. He’s going to network, and I am so glad I took the Valium. It will definitely be a long night, and alcohol consumption probably isn’t such a stellar idea after taking a muscle relaxer on an empty stomach. I really should eat something.
I set my crystallized clutch on the table then get up nice and slow. I feel relatively fine, other than not having a care in the world and sore feet. Taking my time, I make my way up to the buffet then steady myself up against the food carts. As the line moves along, I move with it and put easy eating food items on my plate. The line comes to a sudden stop. Food service is replenishing some of the chafing dishes ahead. I’ll wait for that. While doing so, I look to the front of the room to check on my clutch. It’s still there, and next to it, is a glass of chardonnay. No sign of Jon, however.
Another couple is also seated there now. Oh no, it’s Megan Rowland and her husband Adam, who Jon says is the worst surgeon in town. They’re looking feverishly into the crowd. I casually turn my head and try to focus on something else. Too late, they spotted me. They simultaneously stand up and wave. Adam shouts, “Stacy! Over here!”
Megan looks mortified. She sits down and pulls Adam down with her. Everyone in the crowd turns around and gives me the once over. It sure is good not to care. I doubt anyone else will join our table with those two there, and tonight, that suits me just fine.
The line gets moving again. Jon strolls up alongside me and rattles off everyone he has spoken to. He asks if I saw who was at our table and tells me that my wine is there. He takes food off my plate, shoves it into his mouth, then leans in and kisses my cheek. He mumbles something before walking away, leaving a trail of crumbs.
Good thing, I don’t care. I brush the mess from my cheek and carry on, adding a few more pieces to my plate. Nonchalantly, I work my way back to the table, making several stops to say hello to friends and acquaintances. By the time I get to my clutch, I have no idea who I had spoken to or what I had said.
Adam and Megan talk over each other while I eat. My occasional smile and nod abates their need for attention. Even if I wanted to say something, I’m not sure they would let me get a word in.
Now that I have a little food in my stomach, I’m feeling better. My focus is directed to watching Adam’s lips move as he talks about what—I have no idea. Then several twinkling lights slowly circle and gather in the far corner of my left eye. The moment they come together, they take off like a rocket down the hallway. My eyes move from their drug-induced gaze on Adam, to follow the light. I notice a shadow weaving swiftly through standing crowds of party people loitering outside the restrooms.
Adam stops talking and looks out at the hallway, too. “Anyone we know?” he says.
If something were about to happen, these are the last two people I would want to see me have a breakdown. “Excuse me,” I say, “I’ve got to use the restroom.” I rise from the chair, pick up my clutch, then walk out into the hall. I can hear them whispering behind me. Megan asks Adam what I was staring at. He tells her the bathroom, obviously.
I pick up my pace, and when I get close to the women’s restroom, I duck to the right, behind one of the crowds. Dr. Light walks by in a pale gray suit. No mistake. It’s him. I would recognize that distinctive stride anywhere, even though he is walking really fast.
I step away from my camouflage and follow him. He turns left at the end of the open lobby. I move a little faster. The five inch heels shift my weight forward, cramming the front of my feet into the crisscrossed straps of my new shoes. The tender pain returns.
When I get to the hall, I catch a glimpse of him turning right.
“Dr. Light,” I shout.
I’ve passed all the crowds. There is no one else in the hall. Every step becomes an explosion of pain. My feet are bulging out between the straps. Every other step, I look down and see flashes of angry red lines around the black leather bindings.
At the end of the hall, he turns down another.
“Tom!” I gasp. “Dr. Light!”
Exhausted and out of breath. The halls are an endless maze of blank walls. Blazing shades of crimson paisley carpet comes to life. Their bold patterns pop out of the floor while I run. It’s dizzying. My head starts to throb. I stop and lean against the wall to take off my shoes. Pain! The strap behind my heel has burrowed into my skin. I peel it back, exposing bright pink flesh. Blood quickly se
eps to the surface. Tears fill my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I bite my lower lip, look away, and then yank off my other shoe.
Dr. Light is at the end of the hall, about to turn again.
“Dr. Light?”
He stops and slowly turns his head to face me. His eyes, they’re bigger. The depth they possess is abysmal. What I thought was a gray suit, now looks more like gray skin. It’s pale, too—almost transparent. Dark veins pulse underneath.
My heartbeat pounds so loud I can hear it in my ears. It beats in sync with his veins. As mine gradually slows, his gradually slows.
“Who are you?” I mutter.
He slowly turns away and looks down the next hall. Then he steps out of sight. I quickly hobble after him.
“Dammit! Dr. Light!”
When I get to the corner, he’s nowhere in sight. It’s impossible.
An onslaught of deafening feedback seizes my head, boring into my cranium. I drop to my knees, grab my hair and pull as hard as I can. I want to tear it apart. Free the noise.
Rocking back and forth to ease the pain casts irregular lines of blood from my dress to the floor. It beads, coalesces, then soaks into the red carpet and disappears. The taste of tears and blood are like salty nails between my lips. “Dr. Light,” I whisper through them.
Him—or maybe just the thought of him—makes me remember. I put one hand over my eyes, the other across the back of my neck.
Nothing happens.
I crumple, lie down on the floor, and weep. Through watery eyes and loose strands of hair, I see a figure moving rapidly toward me from the end of the hall. A voice yells out, “Oh my God.”
When Jon gets closer, he falls to his knees and slides across the carpet. I grab hold of his jacket with a death grip, giving me strength to open my mouth and scream. The sounds stop, and then I let go. My hand falls to the floor. He gently rolls me onto my back. “Jesus Christ. Were you attacked? Security!” He shouts down the hall. He takes his jacket off and lays it over me. He uses his fingers to hold my eyes open and examines my pupils. “Are you all right?”
I nod, yes.
At first, he uses his hands to wipe the blood on my face. Then he wrestles with his tie and throws it to the side. He hurriedly strips off his collared shirt, so he can remove more of the blood from my face with his T-shirt. He quickly establishes my nose as the blood source.
“Security!” He shouts again.
I raise my hand up and cover his mouth. It felt like my hand, but in no way does it look like it now. It’s smeared with blood that goes all the way up my arm.
He checks my head.
“No security. I’m all right,” I moan.
He slowly pulls me up until I’m leaning against him. “What happened?”
“I got lost. My heel snagged on the carpet, and I fell into the wall, face first.”
“What? Lost, how?” He gently manipulates the cartilage in my nose. “It’s not broken.”
“Please, take me home. Don’t let anyone see me like this.”
“Maybe I should swing you by the ER. No one will be there at this hour.”
“No, really, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, please, Jon.”
“Okay. Let me think.” He reaches into his pants pocket and takes out his cell phone along with the valet ticket. He dials a number. “Hello, this is Dr. Troy. I need to speak with…uh…Gus. It’s urgent. Yes. I’ll wait.”
He combs the hair out of my face with his fingers. “Gus. Hello. Yeah, I’ve got a favor to ask. Could you bring the car around to the convention entrance for me? My wife’s not feeling well. Yes…great. Appreciate it.”
He closes his phone then puts it back in his pocket. “I’m going to stand you up and lean you against the wall. You can do that, right?”
“Yes.”
I put my hands down and help him get me to my feet. Aside from being a little dizzy, I feel perfectly fine. Jon puts his shirt back on and hands me the tie. He puts his jacket around me, buttons it, then stoops over to pick up my shoes and clutch.
“Your feet,” he says.
“The shoes.”
His mere mention makes them sting like I’d stepped into a mound of fire ants.
“My God, woman. You’re a mess.”
He finds a clean spot on his bloodied T-shirt, licks it, then wipes around my nose.
“Just pull my hair back over my face.”
“Good enough,” he says. Then he slips his hand under a lapel and shoves his T-shirt down into one of the inner pockets. “We’ve got to walk down a couple of hallways.” He puts his arm around my waist and holds me steady.
When we get to the exit door, I stop and look down the second hall. Sparse crowds still linger outside the restrooms.
“They couldn’t have been just right there.”
“What?” Jon says.
“The bathrooms—they were farther away than this. I know it. I walked through six corridors. At least!”
“Okay, honey. Calm down. The car’s here.”
He leads me through the exit, and I glance back to the hall. The people have dispersed. Dr. Light stands there all alone. His obsidian discs spread out and become darkness all around. He’s engulfed by it—swallowed whole. Then it pervades the open hallway. Speechless and frantic, I claw at Jon until the black emptiness reaches me. All light disappears, and I feel Jon’s arms tighten around me once more.
CHAPTER TEN
Jon hands Gus another twenty then gets in the driver’s seat and pulls away. Once we’re on the highway, he says, “I want you to see a doctor.”
“Not now. Please.”
“Fine, but you need blood work done as soon as possible. I’ll set up the appointments, and you better not miss a single one.”
“Don’t talk to me that way, I’m not a child.”
“This is serious, Stacy. I’m not fucking around.”
“Jon,” I reach my hand out and place it on his thigh. “Is there something else?”
He turns to me with a grave expression. “Not a single drop of that blood had clotted.” He looks back to the road. “Have you been taking any aspirin?”
“No.”
“Herbal crap? St. John’s wort, Gingko biloba, Vitamin E, or fish oil, anything?”
“No. Nothing. Stop it, you’re scaring me.”
He moves his hand from the gearshift and lays it over mine. “It could’ve just been my imagination, but promise me you’ll go to the appointments.”
“I promise.”
“Strange as it seems,” he says, “the last time I think I saw you bleed was when you had Patrick, and there was very little then. Remember? Even the doctor had said so.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I turn my head and stare out the passenger side window. Images of my pregnancy play across the nightscape like a slide show. Jon was allowed to be a doctor to me then and only then. I was young and naïve to his obsessive way of doctoring loved ones. I gave him free reign.
I must have seen at least ten physicians, from neonatologists to geneticists. Against the opinion of my regular gynecologist, Dr. Reynolds, Jon talked me into and convinced most of the hospital staff I should have an amniocentesis. The horrible procedure was all for nothing. My pregnancy was healthy, and Patrick was born a normal baby boy. Prior to the delivery, Jon even fought with Dr. Reynolds about me having a C-Section. He was convinced that a vaginal delivery would cause undue trauma to Patrick. It was horrible, and I swore I would never let him doctor me again. The less he knows about my mental and physical problems, the less he can complicate things.
We get home and I immediately go upstairs. Jon stays close. He walks me into the closet and sets me down on the chaise. “Take your time and undress. I want to check something online. Shout if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine, really. Go.”
As soon as he leaves, I pull the T-shirt out of his inner jacket pocket and open it up. Blotches of bright red blood stain its entirety, and every
bit is still wet—he cannot see this. I scrunch the damp fabric back together then shove it down into one of my knee length boots lining the bottom shelf of a wall. I’ll have to get rid of it when he’s not around.
My reflection in the standing mirror is macabre, something out of a horror story. I quickly get out of the clothes and put them into a bag for the dry cleaners. Jon comes up behind me.
“What are you doing?” he says. “I told you to sit down and undress.”
“I’m fine, really. I just need a shower.”
“Let me get my clothes off. I’ll get in with you.”
I lean against the closet cabinetry and watch him undress. His muscles flex as he hurries to get naked. He’s tall, well-built, handsome, and smart—just like he was when we first met. I’m the envy of all the other wives. Women in Vegas hover like vultures waiting to swoop in. Always trying to sniff out a weakness they could sink their claws into. The relationship doesn’t even have to be dead before they start circling. Lucky for him, I’m not the jealous type. I don’t doubt Jon’s faithfulness, and I never would. He’s one hundred percent dedicated to Patrick and me, but sometimes, I wonder how things would turn out if something were ever to happen.
“Come on. You get in first.” He takes my hand and helps me into the shower, then closes the door behind him and turns on the water. When it gets to temperature, he stands underneath and pulls me against his abdomen. “Shut your eyes.” He whispers behind me. “I’ve got you.”
I rest the back of my head against his shoulder and take in a deep breath. He uses a foamy bath sponge and washes me down. He’s enjoying this role reversal a little too much. Jon’s never had to take care of me like this before, and I’m worried he might get overbearing again.
* * *
Jon helps me to bed then disappears into the bathroom. He comes out a couple minutes later with a Valium and a glass of water. Oh geez—I can’t tell him I’ve already taken one.
“Are you sure?” I say.
“It’ll help you relax.”
I can’t imagine just one more would hurt, so I sit up and take the pill from his palm, place it on my tongue. He hands me the glass. I take a small sip and wash it down.
