by Rena Mason
“Thanks.” I hand back the glass. “You coming to bed?”
He sets it on my nightstand. “In a bit.” Then he pulls the comforter over my shoulders and kisses my cheek. “Love you.” He taps the rocker switch and the light goes out.
I roll onto my side and fight the inevitable numbness. Seeing Dr. Light as a monster when I was wide awake makes me fear how he might appear in my nightmares. It must have been my imagination or maybe the muscle relaxer. There really is no other explanation. I’m sure he would never hurt me. I don’t know why, but I have strong feeling about that.
Half asleep—attempting the dream scripting, I open the bedroom doors and imagine seeing Dr. Light in front of me. After all the horrible things I thought I saw tonight. He looks perfectly normal. Maybe if I don’t think too hard about it, he won’t change.
* * *
The floor falls away, but I’m unafraid. Weightless, I hover amidst a luminescent fog. Neon colored laser lights roll in ribbons all around. I hear soft bell chimes, more like electronic xylophone tones. They play a harmonious duet with the colorways, creating a fantastical orgy of dancing lights and sounds.
Gathered around me in a circle, hidden within the fog, elusive shadows begin to form. There is a familiarity among us that keeps me fearless. Together, we are twenty-seven.
I speak out, “Hello.” Ripples of orange light with glowing edges move away from my lips. Each wavelet shades to green as they spread further apart. They carry musical notes.
In response, rainbow waves slice through the fog from the others. They strike me all at once with a cacophony of blinding light and tones. Then it stops.
“See.” The word hisses out twenty-six times, echoing through every part of my being.
* * *
“See what?” Jon says.
I open my eyes and he’s standing at the doorway, holding two cups of coffee.
I’m already sitting up in bed. “That I’m fine.”
“Good. How’d you sleep?” He walks over and hands me a cup.
“Great. Thanks.”
He sits down next to me and examines my face. “Follow my finger with your eyes.”
“Really? You’re doing this now?”
“Just do it.” He finishes his little examination and moves his finger away.
“Well? Did I pass?” I say.
“With flying colors.”
“Funny, I had a weird dream about that last night.”
“About what?”
“Flying colors.”
“No nightmare?”
“No.”
“That’s excellent.”
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
“Are you feeling up for Pat’s game?”
“Yes, of course. What time is it—seven? We’ve got to get moving.”
“I’ll wake Pat up” He leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He gets off the bed then leaves.
I flip the covers over then step out. The floor feels foreign underfoot. And ouch! I turn my head and look down. The back of my heels have partially scabbed over. After I get dressed, I slather the scabs with antibiotic ointment and rub my feet with moisturizing lotion. They’re tender and sore all over. Thank God for Indian summers. It’s going to be flip-flops for a while.
I step out into the hall, and it’s too quiet. Patrick must still be asleep. On my way to his room, I walk by the office and see Jon sitting at his desk.
“You were supposed to wake Pat,” I say.
“I did a while ago.”
“No. You can’t just tell him. You have to stay there until he’s out of bed, or he’ll go back to sleep.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No. That’s a teenager.”
I rush around to Pat’s room and throw open his door.
“Rise and shine sleepyhead, you’re going to be late.”
“What?” He pokes his head out from under the covers.
“You didn’t get up when your dad tried to wake you, so now we’re going to be late. Get up.”
“Aw, Dad.”
I walk over and open his shutters. His uniform is bunched up in a pile on top of his dresser. He pulls the covers over his head and groans.
“Get moving, or we’ll leave without you.”
He slides his feet out of the covers and plants them down onto the floor. “I’m up.”
I head downstairs. Jon shouts from his office. “Do we have to get snacks?”
“Crap. I forgot to check. I’ll text Cally.”
When I get to the kitchen, I grab my phone off the counter and text her. Then I pour myself another cup of coffee and wait.
Ten minutes later, she texts me back. “Oops. We’re snacks. Gonna be late.”
“Well?” Jon says from the bottom of the stairs.
“It’s their turn. They’re running late, too.”
Patrick comes barreling down the stairs. “Mom, my socks?”
“Laundry room. Then come back and grab a breakfast bar. You’ve got to eat something.”
* * *
We canvas the parking lot no less than five times for a decent spot. Not an easy task on soccer Saturdays. No one wants to hike more than a few yards lugging chairs, sunbrellas, extra gear, and coolers.
Patrick runs out to practice with the team. Cally, Bill, and Kyle are nowhere in sight. Gail is under the tree with a huge blanket spread out. She sees us and starts straightening out the edges to make room.
“Hey, thanks for saving us a spot,” Jon says.
“No problem,” Gail says.
Jon drops our stuff then leans over and gives her a hug. “How have you been?” he says.
She looks up at him and smiles. “Not bad. Much better, actually.”
“Well, you look great,” he says.
“Yeah, you do,” I say. Then I set up my chair, spear the bottom of the sunbrella through the topsoil, into the clay, and pop it open.
“I’m gonna go see if Coach needs anything,” Jon says. Then he turns to me and asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Go on.”
“You’re so lucky,” Gail says. “He always dotes on you.”
“Not always, but just enough.”
“Of course I’m jealous…I have a husband who’s divorcing me and a son that’s about to push me over the edge.”
“Something happen with Justin?”
“Well, I’m sure you heard about Friday.”
“No. What happened?”
“Justin was suspended for punching the lockers.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He met with his therapist Thursday afternoon and finally let loose. He told her that he blames me for the divorce, that I’m a terrible mother, and that he hopes I rot in Hell. We fought all the way home in the car.”
“Oh my God. How awful. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s been a long time coming. He’s been saying all those things since the separation. Just not so blatantly.”
“Honestly though, Patrick never mentioned a thing.”
“Maybe that’s good, and they’re actually keeping it hushed up at the school.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Keep at it. Of course, I had to make an emergency visit with Dr. Goodwin. Thank God he was able to move things around and get me in. I never needed to talk with someone so bad.”
“You could’ve called me, or any one of us.”
Gail looks away. “I meant with a trained professional.”
“I understand what you mean more than you think,” I say in a hush.
She looks at me again and smiles sly. It’s such a strange thing to have so many friends and no one to talk to. I can wholly relate to her dilemma.
“Where’s Cally and Kyle?” she says.
“They’re getting drinks and snacks. They’ll be late.”
Jon walks toward us from the field. Cally and Kyle jog up from the parking lot. Kyle goes straight out to join the team. Cally drops
down to the grass and tries to catch her breath.
“Where’s Bill?” I say. “I thought you said he was coming.”
“I forgot the damn oranges,” she says between gasps.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jon says.
“I sent Bill for some. You don’t think the kids will mind peeling them, do you?”
“Not at all,” Gail says.
“Oh, hi, Gail,” Cally says. “How have you been?”
“Good,” Gail says. “With all of us here to help, we’ll have the oranges peeled before break.”
“Great idea,” Cally says. She turns to face me and rolls her eyes a bit.
I look out to the field. “They’re getting ready to start,” I say.
Jon points behind me. “Hey, there’s Bill.”
I turn around and see him running up the hill behind us. He’s carrying four plastic grocery bags full of oranges and water bottles. They’re swinging wildly from both hands. Before he reaches us, he trips over a sprinkler head. Two of the plastic bags tear away, and the oranges launch straight up into the air then rain back down. We cover our heads as the oranges pummel us on their way out toward the field. I watch them roll onto the grass, then look up at Kyle and Patrick. They immediately turn away. The rest of the team is laughing out loud. I can’t help it, I start laughing, too. Bill dives onto the other half of Gail’s blanket. “Ah…” He moans.
“That was quite an entrance,” Jon says.
Bill gets up and holds his hand out. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Jon. How have you been?”
“Good. Good,” Jon says, shaking the proffered hand.
“Hey, let’s go over and see if Coach needs us,” Bill says.
The two start walking off.
“Wait a minute,” Cally says.
They turn back. “What?” Bill says.
“You were going to help us peel.”
“The three of us can handle it,” Gail says. “You guys go ahead.”
Cally rolls her eyes again.
It’s going to be a long game, prepping me in some twisted way for Tara’s bleak dinner party this evening. I stay quiet, peel my oranges, and gaze out across the fields of families and ponder what it is my subconscious wants me to See.
Cally and Gail make light conversation. I do, however, notice that Gail doesn’t bring up Justin’s suspension again. I wonder what caused these two women to drift so far apart. Gail’s divorce hardships should have made Cally more sensitive, not catty. Nine years, and I doubt I will ever understand them. I only hope I don’t fall out with any of my friends the way they did.
* * *
When we get home from soccer, Jon spends the rest of the afternoon working in the yard. Doing what, I can only imagine. Most of the yard is xeriscaped—a must in Vegas to limit water usage. Decorative rocks replace grass and drought-resistant plants. Shrubs are used instead of big thirsty trees.
I think I did hear Jon out there a few times, talking with the neighbors. I wanted to go out and say hello, but ever since I started hacking them to pieces in my nightmares, I feel uneasy amongst them.
I’m nearly finished with Memoirs of a Spa Junkie. Some of the worst crap I have ever read. Honestly, if it weren’t for the spa locales I don’t think Cally would have picked this book. Then again, it’s hard to say.
Patrick kicked the winning goal at the game today, and against my stern opposition, Jon gave him fifty dollars. He also promised he would take him to the movies. They left a while ago.
I’ve showered and have since been sitting at my vanity. Everything seems to be dragging. Then Jon walks into the bathroom. “You still not dressed? You’re going to be late.”
“What are you doing home? Was the movie sold out?”
“No. I dropped Pat off at the Red Rock casino.”
“What?”
“At the movie theatre entrance. Relax.”
“By himself?”
“He’s meeting some friends. He’s got his cell.”
“Oh.”
“You feeling up to this dinner thing tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Better wear some comfortable shoes.”
“Why do you think I have slacks on? They’ll cover my feet. God, I wish I could wear slippers.”
“That would go over well.”
“Okay, get out, and let me finish my makeup.”
He kisses the back of my head then turns around. “Have fun,” he says.
I put on my lipstick and step into the closet to get a look in the full-length mirror. I take some baubles from my jewelry armoire and put them on. Then I grab a pair of black high heel flip-flops from one of the middle shelves. Great choice, they’re lined with Sherpa fleece. I forgot about that.
Jon shouts down another goodbye as I head into the garage. I put a soft jazz station on. Now that I’m running late, I don’t want to rush and start sweating in my blouse. Too bad there isn’t a station that plays the music I heard in my dream last night. For the most part, it was soothing, except for all twenty-six voices together and all at once. They turned it into nothing more than white noise.
* * *
Tara answers the door. “Hello, Sweetie. Come in. Did you get lost?”
“No, just running a little late. Then your guard couldn’t find me on the list.”
“Sorry. I know they can be a pain, but they change guys all the time—a total nightmare. I’ll call tomorrow and complain. Let’s get you a glass of wine. It’ll make you feel better.”
“It definitely couldn’t hurt.”
Tara puts her arm through mine and walks me to the kitchen. She’s being so overly affable it’s creeping me out.
And now I see why.
More of Tara’s friends, Jordan among them, are standing in her kitchen sipping wine, eating, and socializing. Cally is seated on the couch in the adjacent family room with someone I’ve never seen before. A younger woman, in a modern dress suit. She looks like business. Something to do with that show I’m sure.
Tara lets go of my arm when we get to the kitchen. “White or red?” she says.
“White, please.”
She steps over to the hired bartender, talks to the wait staff going by, then comes back with my wine.
“Thanks. Everything looks nice.”
She leans in close and whispers, “Really? You think so. God, I’m so nervous.”
“You’ll be fine. They’d be stupid not to pick you.”
“Thanks. I’m so glad you’re here. The calm voice of reason.”
“Who’s Cally talking to?”
“That’s Jennifer Adler. She’s Mr. Bancroft’s assistant. The executive producer I was telling you about. You’re up after Cally.”
“What?”
“Just be yourself and be honest. Remember, they’re looking for reality.”
“Lord, if that were the case we’d all be in trouble.”
“This is serious, Stacy. Act normal.”
“Don’t worry.” Acting normal has been my latest greatest achievement.
Tara steps away and tends to her other guests. I drink down everything in my glass then head to the bar for another. Jordan approaches me while I wait for the refill.
“Hi, Sweetie,” she says, while leaning in to give me air kisses. The alcohol fumes from her breath could catch fire. I hope her interview was first.
“How have you been?” I say.
“Wonderful, dear. Just wonderful. So, what do you think of all this hoopla?”
“I…”
Tara interrupts. “Stacy, this is Jennifer Adler. Jennifer, this is Stacy Troy.”
I shake hands with Jennifer. “You can call me Jenny. Shall we have a seat?”
We walk together toward the family room. I sit down where Cally was. The suede underneath is warm and slightly damp. The others must be nervous. Strange, but I don’t feel anxious whatsoever.
“Stacy, Tara has told me a little bit about her friends, but there are still some questions I’d like to a
sk.”
“Please.”
“How long have you lived in Vegas?”
“Almost ten years.”
“So, you didn’t grow up with these women?”
“No.”
“And what do you think of them?”
“They’re my friends. They’re good people.”
“Do you always get along?”
“Not always.”
“Oh.”
She scribbles something down on a notepad. “And Tara tells me your husband is a physician?”
“Yes.”
“Would he be willing to be on camera?”
“It’s something we’d have to discuss.”
“Sure. Sure.”
She continues to talk, and her mundane line of questioning eats away at my façade of normalcy. I can’t help staring at her mouth. As she goes on and on, I imagine the words coming out as rainbow musical notes. It’s Mozart’s “Queen of the Night,” from the Magic Flute, only not so lovely.
Jennifer, you can call me Jenny, scoots closer to me and leans in. “So what’s the story with the cougar? Cally says she’s a real kick.” Her head tilts to the side and her eyes casually search the kitchen then fixate on something.
I turn around and see Jordan standing next to the bar.
“Ha, I think she might actually be drunk,” she says.
“Jordan does a lot of great local charity work.”
“Yeah, I heard…her husband Samuel, for one. I guess he landed his whale.” Jennifer looks down at her notepad and feverishly jots away.
“I’m sorry. Are we done?” I stand up and reach my hand down. “It was nice meeting you Miss Adler.” She looks up, takes my hand and shakes it. “I hope you have a good evening, but you’ll have to excuse me.”
“Yes, of course,” she says. “Nice meeting you, too.”
I head straight for the bar. Miss Adler remains seated on the couch scribbling down notes.
Cally and Tara immediately come up to me. “Well?” Cally says. “How’d it go?”
“It was fine. I answered all of her ridiculous questions.”
“She looked a little shocked or flustered,” Tara says. “What did you tell her?”
