by Merry Jones
I couldn’t imagine what Jen would look like after the surgery. Would her belly skin stretch taut and her breasts stand up even when she lay on her back? Would her nose be too small for her face? I’d seen some terrible nose jobs. Noses molded to a triangular point, or to an upward curve at the tip. Noses that seemed plugged into the wrong faces. I looked at Jen, her exotic features. Of all of us, she was by far the most glamorous. Slender, busty, blonde. Long, dense eyelashes, extreme cheekbones. Why would she want to mess with what she already had? Maybe it wasn’t about appearances, but about something deeper. Maybe self-esteem.
“So, Jen, you think a flatter tummy will make you feel better about yourself?”
Silence. Three faces stared at me.
Oh Lord. I’d blurted out the question. Should have listened first, waited for an appropriate time. Instead, I’d jumped into the middle of their conversation. Probably they’d say I’d pulled an Elle again.
“Actually, that’s a good question, Elle.” Susan skewered chunks of chicken.
Jen sank back against the sofa, wide-eyed and pale. Had I hit a nerve?
“I’m just asking. Because I think you’re perfect the way you are. So it doesn’t make sense that you’d change anything. Unless, deep down, you don’t like yourself—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Elle,” Jen cut me off. “I like myself just fine.”
“Then why do you want to change—”
“You know what I think?” Susan interrupted. “I think you kids are getting close to forty. And Jen’s scared about getting old.”
“OM effing G,” Jen slammed her drink onto the coffee table. “Will you get off my case?”
“It’s just that we love you,” Becky offered.
“Okay. Here’s the effing deal. I like myself just fine. But I’d like myself even better with a flatter tummy. Can any of you say that you wouldn’t like to change something? Becky, you arrive places a full minute after your boobs. Tell me you wouldn’t want to reduce them? And Susan, you’ve had three fucking kids. You must want a tighter—”
“What I want isn’t the issue. I’m not the one risking my life to make superficial cosmetic changes instead of looking deep within myself and confronting what’s really bothering me.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jen sat up straight. “Go on, say what you mean.”
“You know damned well what I mean, Jen. Your biological clock is ticking. You’re afraid time is running out but you’re focusing on the surface instead of facing what’s really bothering you: Norm’s issues about having kids.”
“Okay, whoa—” Becky raised her hands. “Let’s take a breather.”
“This is not about kids, Susan,” Jen hissed.
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
“It’s not about kids.” She crossed her arms, glaring.
“Fine.” Susan flipped kabobs in the broiler. “Except I’m pretty sure it is.”
“Okay, that’s it.” Jen was on her feet. “I invited you guys to come down here so we could have some fun while I got my work done. I didn’t invite your opinions. But since you feel free to judge me and label me superficial and impulsive, let me say, in the spirit of friendship and fellowship: Shut the fuck up. Leave me the fuck alone. Go ahead, Susan. Age gracefully. Get as wrinkled and shriveled as you want. But I am not going that route. I’m going to fight every step of the way. For as long as I can, I’m going to look the way I did when Norm married me—no, I’m going to look even better than that. He deserves it.”
“Wait, so now it’s not about you anymore? You’re doing this for Norm?” I swallowed sangria.
“If you’re doing it for Norm, you might be smart,” Becky chirped. “Think about it—lots of guys like Norm ditch their middle-aged wives and trade them in for young trophies.”
“Seriously, Becky?” Jen was sputtering, her bejeweled hands on her hips. “You’re going there? Norm would never—”
“No,” Susan cut her off. “He wouldn’t. That was stupid, Becky.”
Becky’s mouth opened. She looked slapped.
“Anyway,” I tried to ease the mood, “the point is that we all love you, Jen. We’re just worried about you going under the knife.”
“That’s right.” Becky stood beside Jen and hugged her. “You’re already stunning. And the most beautiful part about you is something that no surgeon can change. It’s not the beauty that shows on the outside; it’s the beauty that comes from within. That’s what we love most about you. That’s what Norm loves, too.”
Becky’s eyes were moist. She’d made up for her trophy wife comment.
“Becky’s right.” Susan came out of the kitchenette with a platter of skewered chicken and vegetables. She placed it on the table beside a bowl of beans and rice, put her hands on the back of a chair. “Look. We’re all a bit on edge about tomorrow. After all, we’re far from home.”
Jen opened her mouth to respond, but Susan put a hand up. “Hold on, Jen. Let me finish. See, even though these procedures aren’t my choice for you—bottom line? It’s your body, your life. If surgery is what you want, then we’re all with you. Right?” She looked at Becky, then me.
We nodded obediently.
As she sat down, Susan added, “Besides, if the surgery goes south, I don’t want to remember our last night together as a fight.”
Before anyone could react, I lifted a glass. “To our friendship and Jen’s recovery.”
Everyone toasted, and then we ate, avoiding anything related to beauty, age, reproduction, or cosmetic surgery.
I opened my eyes in pitch darkness. Had someone touched me? Talked to me? Wait, this wasn’t my bedroom. Where was I? Oh, right. The hotel, in Mexico. I lay still, alert, watching for movement. Seeing none.
“Becky?”
No answer. Of course she didn’t answer. Becky wasn’t in our room; she was off with Chichi.
I reached out and turned on the lamp. Saw the dresser, the television. Becky’s empty bed. No one.
“Susan? Jen?” Maybe one of them had come into the room, hoping I’d be awake.
But no one answered. Susan and Jen had gone to bed early to be rested for Jen’s surgery. Susan was planning to go with her and stay at the hospital.
So what had awakened me?
I sat up, unsettled. The ceiling fan whirred overhead. An indifferent, inanimate sound. Nothing that would have startled me. I got out of bed, stepped into the living room. Shadows draped the furniture. Jen’s hospital bag sat packed and ready on the sofa. Susan’s computer on the kitchenette counter. Dishes on the rack by the sink. Everything as we’d left it. Undisturbed.
Probably I’d been roused by an uneasy dream. I got back into bed, but couldn’t get comfortable. The pillows were too thick; I punched one, trying to make a dent, but the filling was dense, refused to give way. Who would make such fat, firm pillows? Could people really sleep on them? Never mind. I shoved the pillows aside, lay flat on the mattress. But that was no good either. Finally, I piled them into a stack, reclining in a half-lying half-sitting position, but it was no use. I couldn’t fall asleep. Couldn’t shake the sense that it hadn’t been a dream, that something else had interrupted my sleep. I half-lay half-sat in bed, leaning on sore, sunburned shoulders and watched the ceiling fan, trying to hypnotize myself into slumber. Empty your mind, I told myself. Watch the blades spin. Do not think.
Of course, the more I tried not to think, the more I thought. Images twirled through my head, doing tortured pirouettes. I pictured Jen wrapped mummy-like in bandages. Becky salsa dancing with Chichi. Susan typing angrily on her computer. Claudia Madison reaching for my hand.
And falling.
Stop, I told myself. Watch the blades go around. I watched, and then I was in the ocean, bobbing on a boogie board. Rocking with the water, beginning to relax. Except then that annoying Melanie swam over with her hollow cheeks and bony frame, glomming onto me. Who was she? Was Luis really stalking her? Why had she picked me to come to with her problems? Damn, I was
thinking again. I closed my eyes, and Melanie faded, became a woman hidden behind a scarf. A breeze lifted it, revealed her swollen ravaged face—and then Charlie led her away. Oh Lord. Charlie? Really?
Oh God. Was it Charlie who’d awakened me?
“Charlie?” I said his name. “Are you here?”
The hairs stood up on my arms, but that was the only response. The blades of the fan whirred quietly. The room was still. Of course, it was. I was talking to air.
Enough. I needed to turn my mind off.
I got out of bed again, went to the balcony door, and stared at the darkness, the star-dotted sky. The unsettled black ocean.
Damn. Why had I seen Charlie on the beach? At first, after his murder, I’d seen him everywhere. I’d smelled his aftershave, talked to him, kept him alive in my mind. The shrink had called it a “coping mechanism,” my way of dealing with the loss. But I hadn’t seen or imagined Charlie for almost a year, not since his murder had been solved.
So why had he appeared that morning?
Madam Therese popped to mind, bringing fragrances of jasmine and roasting meat. “I told you why,” she smiled, jangling her bracelets. “The dead are drawn to you.”
“Bullshit.” I answered her out loud.
I did not attract the dead—no one did. The dead were dead. They didn’t go on vacations to Mexico or walk on beaches. So why had I seen Charlie there? Why had my mind brought him back—and paired him with the ghastly image of Claudia Madison? What did Charlie have to do with her?
Nothing.
Except that they were both dead. And both their deaths had involved me.
Gooseflesh rippled on my neck. I wished Susan or Jen would wake up and keep me company. But they didn’t, so I went to the kitchen and downed a shot of tequila. Brought another with me and drank it after I’d climbed into bed. Turned the lamp off. Watched shadows for the rest of the night, but saw no sign of anyone, even Charlie.
My plan had been to get to the beach early, before most of the lounge chairs had been claimed, but as I walked across the lobby, Juan Alonzo, the hotel manager, gestured to me from the front desk and hurried to meet me. Damn. I didn’t want to talk to him. I just wanted to sit by the ocean. But I was trapped. Probably he just wanted to make sure I was all right. Just a formality. A matter of professionalism. Hell, maybe he’d comp a few drinks.
“Señora,” his tone was hushed as he approached. “Buenos dias. I hope you are recovered from your experience?”
“Thank you.” I didn’t engage. I was holding a beach bag and a hat, kept moving slowly toward the door to the water.
“Señora, please. I am sorry to bother you. But I have a small request to make of you. It will take just a moment of your time.”
Wait. He wasn’t giving me free drinks. He wanted me to do something for him? “I really just want to relax this morning.”
“I understand. Of course. It is my wish for you to relax as well. And you will have all morning to relax. But Sergeant Perez is in my office now with the family of Claudia Madison.”
Oh God. I gazed out the door at the sunshine. Felt trapped.
“And they have asked to talk with you.”
“With me?”
“As you were the last person to see her alive.”
I saw her again, reaching for me. Her eyes. I looked at the door, wanted to run.
“I was just about to call your room, but I saw you in the lobby—”
“Of course.” I let him lead me across the lobby, away from the air and the water into a small windowless conference room behind the front desk.
Inside, the walls were dotted with framed photographs of Mayan ruins. Sergeant Perez introduced me to Claudia Madison’s two sisters, who sat red-eyed, holding hands. They looked alike, solid women with thin lips and long, narrow noses, didn’t resemble Claudia much. But then, they wouldn’t; Claudia had had plastic surgery.
Juan Alonzo sat me across the table from them. Emily and Rose. They each wore crumpled pastel clothing and wedding bands; had come as soon as they’d heard. Had taken two flights each and hadn’t slept. They wanted to find out what had happened to Claudia. What she’d said. They watched me, four urgent eyes, starving for answers.
I wanted to help them. I didn’t know how.
Sergeant Perez helped me along, guided me through the events of the night.
“Señora Harrison is the hero I told you about,” he told them. “She is the woman who tried to save your sister and risked her own life.”
They thanked me, rushed over, and hugged me, as if grabbing onto a remnant of their sister. Finally, we all sat down.
“Did she say anything?” Rose asked.
“Before she fell?” Emily completed her question.
I saw Claudia clinging to the railing, felt unsteady. “No. She just tried to hang on.”
“But how did she get out there?”
“We don’t understand what happened.”
I looked at Sergeant Perez. How was I supposed to deal with these questions, this grief? I felt set up. Cornered. Perez watched me, said nothing. Was he testing to see if I knew more than I’d told him? Should I call Susan?
“I don’t know what happened.” I clutched my beach bag, took a deep breath. The air felt thick. “When I first saw her, she was already hanging onto the railing.”
“But didn’t you see anyone with her?” Rose leaned closer, sounded bereft.
“You didn’t hear anything?” Emily sounded doubtful.
“As I’ve told Sergeant Perez,” I looked at him again, “I’d heard voices earlier. A man and a woman. But I don’t know what they were saying or who the man was. Really, I’m sorry. I wish I could have saved her. It’s a terrible tragedy, but I have no idea how it happened.” I thought about how to excuse myself and escape. What should I say? Certainly not, “nice to meet you.” Or “enjoy your stay.” What should I say? Why couldn’t I think of anything?
And then I’d lost my chance. Emily started talking again. “You see,” she went on, “you’re our only link. You saw her last.”
“Our sister wasn’t like us,” Rose explained. “Emily and I got married young and had families.”
“You were young. I was twenty-four.”
“That’s young.”
“You were only twenty. That’s young.”
“There’s not that much difference.”
“Anyhow, we both live normal lives.”
“Boring lives.” Rose nodded.
“But Claudia was different.”
“She was the strong one. A risk taker.”
“She traveled all over the world. She had romances.” Emily smiled.
Rose laughed. “Lots of romances.”
“She got these operations to increase her appeal.”
“As if she needed to.”
They reflected for a moment.
I didn’t know what to say. Said nothing.
“The point is that Sergeant Perez asked if our sister might have harmed herself. We know that she never, ever would have,” Emily said.
“Not ever.”
“We know that she didn’t go over that railing on her own.”
“No. Claudia loved her life.” Rose dabbed her nose.
“She loved herself.” Emily’s chin quivered.
“She wasn’t the depressed type, but if she’d have been depressed—”
“She’d have called us.”
“That’s right. No question.”
“She was our baby sister.”
“We were always close.”
“So we’re positive. Whatever happened to Claudia—”
“It wasn’t suicide.”
“No. Someone killed her.”
They faced me with twin expressions of painful certainty mixed with suspicion. I told them I was sorry but I had no more information. Sergeant Perez watched as I wished them well, took their hands in mine, and repeated my condolences. Then, I nodded at Juan Alonzo, gave Sergeant Perez a long hard look, and skedaddled out of
that small close room, not stopping until ocean air flew into my lungs and sunlight hit my face.
I went all the way to the edge of the property, finding a secluded spot under a thatched umbrella. Rose and Emily were on my mind. I spread out my towel, slapped on sunscreen, stretched out, closed my eyes, and listened to the water, trying to fall asleep, but their questions—their sadness clung to me. And I had some questions of my own. Such as, why hadn’t Sergeant Perez warned me of the meeting? Did he have some hidden agenda? Was he hoping to implicate me in Claudia’s death?
No, he couldn’t—I’d had no motive. Still, I should talk to Susan about it. But Susan was busy at the clinic with Jen; it could wait until later. After all, it wasn’t anything urgent. The talk with the sisters had most likely been just a courtesy to the bereaved. Nothing more.
I closed my eyes, but their faces haunted me, their questions persisted, and I kept revisiting the railing, the last moments of Claudia’s life. I turned over, made myself think instead about something else. Like Jen and her surgeries.
The morning had been frenzied. Jen had been anxious to get to the clinic, had made Susan leave a full hour before her scheduled appointment. Jen had fidgeted and complained while Susan had dashed around the suite, searching for her phone, tossing her computer, a banana, a granola bar, a notebook into her bag. We’d exchanged hurried hugs, and they’d gone, returning only seconds later because Susan had forgotten her room key. I’d offered again to go along, but Susan had again turned me down, insisting that she’d be working and I’d be of no use.
I’d said that I wanted to go anyway, to be there for moral support, but Jen had cut me off.
“J fucking C, Elle,” she’d tsked. “Cut the drama, would you? It’s not like I’m having heart surgery. It’s no big deal, okay? I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Just go to the damned beach or something.”
I hadn’t moved. Had felt a pang.
She’d rolled her eyes, then reached out and hugged me. Her eyelashes had tickled my cheek. “I don’t mean to be a bitch. I fucking love you, okay?” She pulled back, looked at me. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
When they’d gone, I wandered the suite, my mind thick and addled, sleepless for two nights. I made instant coffee, ventured outside onto the balcony to drink it. Down at the pool, the staff was busy, preparing for the day. At seven a.m., they were testing the water, trimming hedges, hosing down the deck, restocking fresh towels and glassware. Beyond them, across the fence, the ocean glowed with golden light, offering peace and comfort. Come down, it seemed to say. I’ll soothe you to sleep.
