“I’m not some doll to be ordered around, to be fed and clothed.”
As she stands there with her impassive, yet livid-seeming face, I scan it furiously. Does she know already, is that the problem? Is this a test?
I step back. Either way, it doesn’t matter; there’s only one thing to do. I step back, open my hands, concede.
“I’m sorry you got the wrong impression, Phoebe. Would you prefer to go naked?”
Her angry slants of eyebrows raise. She smirks.
“Yeah, I’d bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Our gazes meet. Her pupils are almost the same color as her irises, making her gaze one intense stare of lust. Through her silky pajama shirt, I can see her nipples.
I let my gaze run over her body slowly, so there’s no mistaking what I’m thinking. Then, I turn on my heel.
“Wear whatever you want. Today is for you, after all. I’ll be waiting downstairs.”
As soon as I’m out of the room, I pause at the top of the stairs. The door doesn’t creak behind me; it’s still open. If I go back there, she’ll probably still be inside, maybe even as naked as she threatened me.
One look in those eyes, and it’s obvious; she wouldn’t resist when I pressed her body against mine, my lips to hers when I stripped off those silky pajamas and did with her what I liked.
But then the door shuts behind me, and I remember. Not now, not yet. That’s not why she’s here.
When Phoebe does finally make it downstairs, a few minutes later, she’s wearing the same outfit she arrived in: a plain royal blue dress.
Taking my hand, she smiles demurely, as if she hadn’t just thrown a hissy fit for basically no reason. When I don’t move, she says “Ready when you are.”
I pat her head, smiling myself.
“Just enjoying the view.”
Phoebe pauses, Then, frowning, she follows my gaze to the gaping front of her dress, showcasing her breasts.
Stepping back, she adjusts it, so they’re covered. Replacing her flustered expression with a cool, collected one, she says “Aren’t Canadian men supposedly gentlemen?”
Taking her arm, I look down at her with a raised brow.
“Aren’t Japanese women supposedly ladies?”
Another sparing long look. Then, without a word, I take her outside.
My Ferrari is parked in the driveway, the sleek red vehicle reflecting the light brilliantly. I open the door for Phoebe like a gentleman, and she gives a slight incline of her head like a lady.
Then, once we’re both seated and seat-belted up, it’s time to go. I back up out of the cobblestone driveway, and then we’re off, on the road. The lazy winding suburban streets are just the foreplay, the building until it’s time. Round and round we go. We stop then start then stop. I avoid a few runoff children, a few ill-placed sewer grates. I make one sharp turn, then a long winding one and then we’re there, on the paid-toll highway. It’s empty and ours, the long stretch of road for the red speed-demon carrying the married couple who are all but strangers.
I accelerate the car on faster and faster. Then, as we’re speeding along, faster than ever, I hit the sunroof button. And so, as we shoot along the highway, the wind whips into our faces exultantly, the sun streams about jubilantly, and me, I throw my head back and breathe it all in.
It’s times like these that I forget enough to feel stupidly lucky – like there was some blip in the system of life I somehow got unfairly sifted into – some blip that made things spectacular.
“Woooo!”
A glance over reveals that Phoebe, weirdly enough, is enjoying this just as much as I am. Eyes closed, arms were thrown out, head flung back, she is the very picture of unrepentant euphoria.
I quickly glance away. I don’t know why, but seeing her like that, so genuinely happy and free, it’s almost painful.
We get to the spa soon after. The parking lot is crowded, but I just leave my car at the front with the valet. At the front desk, they have our names down and, in the waiting room; they have comfortable white leather seats you sink into. Flopped there, positioned just so we’re almost touching each other, after only a minute or so, I’m so comfy that I don’t want to leave. But, soon enough, a slick-bunned woman in a white shift dress appears, informing us that “Fiona will now see you.”
Fiona, as it turns out, is the innocuous name for the rotund woman of a great deal of skill and an even greater deal of words. All the while, as she transforms our unruly hands and feet into pristine perfections, as she massages away our worries, she talks a mile a minute. She has a soothing voice, a low almost baritone one, so it’s only another part of the relaxing quality of the place, melds nicely with the sound of water coming from the water wall behind us.
When we walk out and it is considerably cleaner than before, mid-thought a glance over reveals that Phoebe is as tense, as if she’d never gotten a massage at all.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, but she only gives a rigid smile in response.
The drive only worsens things. The wind blows the silence about us noisily; all my attempts at conversation she only makes one-word answers to, all the while smiling that same tense smile.
By the time we get to the mall, I’m about ready to turn around and go home. But when I stop the car, my gaze stops on my mirror. The rear-view mirror where their picture once hung. I have to do this.
So, I get out of the car. On the other side, Phoebe’s already gotten out. I take one look at her less-than-excited face, then another at the huge hulking monster of the mall our next plans were for, and I take her hand and lead her in the opposite direction.
She says nothing; her hand expresses it all – a cool, uncaring clamminess; I could be taking her back to the highway to throw her in front of oncoming traffic for all she cares. Where I do take her to, however, is only slightly less surprising.
“Glow in the dark mini-putt?” Phoebe says in a skeptical voice.
It takes me a minute to respond; I’m not quite sure what we’re doing here myself.
“Yes,” I say finally, “Let’s see how good of a game you have.”
Phoebe raises her eyebrows, then laughs.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Inside, the place is full of shy, giggling pre teens and staff who look like they wish they weren’t there. The blinking cacophony of glowing lights, the dark purple tinge of the room, it’s mesmerizing in a weird, almost sinister way.
“So that’s for two?”
I stare blankly at the purple-skinned, red-haired youth behind the desk.
“For two?” he repeats, more insistently this time. I nod, hand him my credit card. After he’s swiped it, and the transaction has gone through, he hands us the pink and blue golf clubs, gives us the big spiel “If the people ahead of you are too slow, just wait a bit; You lose a ball then you just come right back here and we’ll give you another”, and then we’re off.
As it turns out, calling Phoebe’s former vague comment an understatement would be an understatement; the woman is a mini-golf God. While I punt, hit and tap my way all around the curving, hilly course and its collection of glowing mocking creatures, with one or two simple taps, she’s got a hole in one (or two). While “Mulligan” becomes a running joke between us when I mess up, her delighted “yes!” when she hits another beauty of a shot becomes expected.
When we catch up to the kids ahead of us, we sit down to chat.
“Are you some kind of former golf whiz or something?” I ask, and she laughs.
“No, I’ve just always liked competition, sports, challenges.”
I bet you do, I think, though I only say, “Well, Tiger Woods, it really shows.”
This laugh showcases glowing white teeth.
“And what about you?”
Her black orbs of eyes find their way to my face. I look away, suddenly feeling as if my brain and all its workings: every thought, impulse, is lit up and glowing for her to see too.
“What about me?”
“I know next-to-nothing about you, other than that you work in IT. I don’t know; you just don’t seem like the type to…”
I laugh.
“Have a mail-order bride?”
She nods, and I laugh again.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Then, silence. Now’s the part when I’m supposed to tell her when the lie I’ve practiced several times gets thrown in.
“The truth is…” I say, falling silent. A bad way to start, what I’ve planned on telling her isn’t the truth at all. Except what slips out of my mouth is:
“I had a tragedy a few years ago. I wanted something… easier, less stressful.”
Phoebe nods don’t say anything.
It’s strange, sitting here beside her, with the white stripes on her shoes all lit up, and her head turned away, face somber, I could’ve sworn she understood. As if this unfeeling woman knew tragedy all too well.
At the sound of too-close laughter, a glance over my shoulder reveals that the giggly pre teens have almost caught up to us. So, taking her hand, I lead her to the next hole. There, a neon fuchsias octopus deflects my ball no less than 15 times. Once I finally do get the ball in, I glance away, to the next hole, and see him.
Kuya. He’s standing by a neon yellow lion, his eyes closed, mouth gaping. Laughing. Without thinking, I run up to him, stop an inch away. He opens his eyes and the stranger gapes at me with fear.
As I back away, back to my own course, I remind myself for the thousandth time: Kuya is dead. Antoine, your son is dead.
I pick up our golf balls without looking at her, but Phoebe isn’t blind, had seen everything.
“Did you know that boy?”
I shake my head.
“I thought I did, I… he looked like my son.”
“You have a son,” Phoebe says quietly.
I’m rotating the ball in my hand round and round. It’s smooth, but there’s a chink somewhere, a chink of black on the smooth whiteness.
“I had a son,” I say.
And then she understands or at least pretends too because she doesn’t ask anything or say anything.
The rest of the holes are amusing chit-chat, more of the same; Phoebe keeps winning, I keep losing and moaning about it. By the time we’re done, we’re both ready for a game of some good old-fashioned air hockey. Under the lit-up table, Phoebe’s competitiveness comes out once again: it’s in every curve of her fiercely-determined face, every tensed muscle of her arms. Her arm shoots out with jerky accuracy, like some sort of spasm. But, unfortunately for Phoebe, this is one game I’ve had entirely too much experience in. She slams, and I tap. She throws her arm back and forth like a windshield wiper, and I sweep mine around in graceful arcs like a classical ballerina. She ricochets the puck off the walls of the rink with a force that sends the whole table shaking, while I swoop it around her claw-handed goalie. The score mounts perilously, with my lead consistent: 4-3, 6-4, 10-7. When Phoebe’s smack of a hit shoots the puck off the table and two inches from a toddler’s head, we both accept this as our cue to leave it at that.
“Guess you won then,” Phoebe says.
She slides me her pusher and, when I catch it, I remember.
His disgruntled little voice: “Dad, you always win, why do you always win?”
My gentle, encouraging one: “Because I’ve played more and I’m bigger. Your time will come too. Kuya, you don’t want me to lose on purpose now do you?”
And then, his dark head shaking back and forth, his little hand sliding the pusher across the table.
“No Dad.”
“Antoine?” Phoebe’s saying.
“Yes,” I say, ambling over to the prize table, “Prize time.”
There, serviced by the same less-than-enthused red-haired youth, we choose our reward. Phoebe quickly gives up, throwing up her hands in exasperation.
“I don’t know; there’s too many to choose from.”
So, I scan the few items afforded to us with our meager earnings – a pixie stick, a bendable spoon and a hideous little gremlin toy – and decide on a kiss emoji ring. Phoebe’s laugh of delight as I slide it on her finger indicates that I made the right choice.
We leave the building riding high, with Phoebe holding out her hand mock-proudly. Once in the car, I turn to her with a kiss on the cheek.
“Now, for dinner.”
“Do I ever get to find out what we’re doing before we do it?” she asks.
She said it half-jokingly, but I’m entirely serious when, patting her face, I say “No.”
Phoebe waits a while to make her reply. I’ve already started the car and made it back onto the highway when she finally says “I don’t understand you. One minute you’re saying this day is all about me and the next you’re ordering me around.”
“The surprise is for you,” I explain.
I leave it at that, because, truth be told, I have no idea what I’m doing. As soon as I met Phoebe and saw her haughty beautiful face, all my plans went out the window. I know what I need to do, but I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know if I should be demanding or conciliatory, aggressive or passive. I don’t know if I should let things run their course or tailor this whole thing to my pace, my time.
Soon enough the car is pulling up to Beni Haha. Once I park and help Phoebe out, as we walk up, I notice that, once again, she looks strained.
“Is something the matter?” I ask, but she only shakes her head.
Once inside, the whole dinner is an exercise in pulling teeth. Phoebe is once again hostile and silent, seemingly for no reason at all. I end up having to order for both of us, a chicken bean stir-fry she ends up barely picking at. By the time I’m finished my meal, I can’t stand it anymore. As soon as I put down my fork, I walk up to the front, pay and then leave.
For the short walk to the car, I say nothing. For the car ride home, I say nothing. Even as we walk up to the front door, I say nothing. However, when the door closes behind me, and we’re back at the house, I turn to her.
“Why?”
She isn’t looking at me, and, at my words, doesn’t.
“Why?” I say again.
“Why what?”
“The moods this whole day – the spa, the dinner – I’m trying my best here, Phoebe, can’t you see that?”
A nod, and when her head rises, there’s a soft, sad expression on her face.
“I can. I… it’s hard to explain.”
Her head falls again. Now, it’s clear what I’m supposed to do – respect her silence how she respected mine, be a gentleman. Play the part. The only problem is that I’m not a gentleman at all, I’m here to accomplish something.
“Try me,” I say, and her head snaps up. Her eyes are narrowed.
“You want to know?”
I nod.
“My mother used to be a masseuse, a chatterbox one like the one who did us. She lost her job and then got sick. My brother used to work at a restaurant where they prepare the food right in front of you, just like at Beni Haha. My brother is dead. My mother is dead.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. Could she be telling the truth? We had talked about her visiting her family, online she had mentioned her family – but had that been a lie?
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she snaps, turning on her heel and starting up the stairs.
Before I can stop myself, I’m following her, snapping back: “Really. Then why don’t you tell it to me – all of it – the truth.”
She stops, turns to me with a snarl, her eyes narrowed into two black slits, her lips curled into a sneered gash.
“You can’t handle the truth,” she says, before turning back around and storming into her room.
As I watch her go and that snarl replays in my head, the thought occurs to me that, a woman that livid and determined, I wouldn’t want to be against. And then I remember. I am.
Chapter 3 - Phoebe
I awake confused. This bed is unfamiliar, the walls too
. I smell weird; these pajamas aren’t right. None of this is right, where am I?
Then, I remember.
I’m in Toronto, Canada. I’m in Antoine’s house – Antoine, my husband. He’s my mail-order husband, who unknowingly saved me from being taken down by the very government I loyally served for half a decade. The same government who killed Samuel, my brother, who almost killed me.
As I lie in this unfamiliar bed and stare at the pale-yellow ceiling, I try to remind myself of this, that I’m lucky. But all I can feel is pain – and fear.
Replaying yesterday’s events only makes everything worse. What had I been thinking? I’d been downright rude and bitchy to Antoine for practically the whole day. And then, worst of all, revealing the truth about my family like that?
This was all turning out to be much harder than I anticipated.
I can’t get out of bed fast enough. Downstairs, Antoine is nowhere to be seen.
“Off to work. Back at 5” the note on the dinner table says. I let out a sigh of relief. At least he isn’t already so fed up that he’s having me shipped back. I stare at the letter, at the lack of any kind of happy indication or anything. Yes, if I keep up this idiotic behavior, I’m going to be out of here and back to Japan sooner than you can say “Sorry, I’m just really emotional right now.”
My stomach lets out an angry yelp. A quick glance in the fridge reveals some colorful yogurts that look yummy.
I grab two, then flop onto the kitchen chair and get to eating. However, as I devour the delicious too-small things, my hunger only grows. So, it’s on to the cupboard. Luckily, Antoine has some cereal that looks delicious –a bright blue box apparently called “Rice Krispies,” with little beige circular things inside. Tasting one reveals that it’s not bad, so I pour a bunch into the biggest bowl I can find. Adding milk makes them crackle wonderfully, and I get to eating.
Once I’ve finished the bowl, I’m not full, but I’m no longer hungry anymore at least, so I set about to explore the house. It’s beautiful but not big. Every room seems to have the perfect arrangement of furniture in the perfect colors; everything set up just perfectly. Indeed, as I wander from room to room, from the living room to bathroom to kitchen to my bedroom to Antoine’s, I’m left with the distinct impression that everything in this glass palace is indeed perfectly set up and matching – everything, that is, except me.
The Lost Seal: A Seal Romance Page 38
