by Davis, Kyra
And all of a sudden my father thinks that Dave wasn’t such a great guy after all. He never thought he was right for me. I shouldn’t sell myself short, aim high; that’s what he always says. If this Mr. Dade can make an honest woman out of me—
“Stop,” I say. I don’t shout the word but it comes out with enough force to bring my father to silence. My mother is by my side, the tears drying on her cheeks. She looks at me curiously.
“It doesn’t matter if Robert Dade puts a ring on my finger or not,” I say quietly. “The man who helped me deceive another can never make me honest.”
“All right, but what I’m saying—” my father begins, his brown eyes still glittering with hope and ambition.
But again I interrupt. “What you’re saying is that it’s okay to cheat and deceive as long as I get something good out of it. Something that will last. I wanted to believe that, too, but I don’t.”
My mother puts a hand on my knee, gives it a comforting squeeze. “Kasie, don’t be so hard on yourself.”
I stare at her, at her hand wrinkled but soft due to an excess of lotion. My father’s hands aren’t much bigger. Neither of them have a single callous.
I used to think these were hands of virtue, that like the scales of justice they could weigh the weight of another’s guilt and come up with a fitting sentence. My sister had deserved to be rejected, hated, cut off. She deserved it because my parents said so. If I took that path I’d deserve it, too.
But now, sitting here on this couch, confessing my sins, an idea is dawning. It’s an idea that changes everything.
“She needed help.” I say the words slowly, tasting them.
“Who?” My father asks.
I look at him with new eyes. I note the way his stomach hangs a little over his pants, his receding hairline, the gray carefully coated with light brown dye. I look down at his shoes. My mother and I are barefoot, to protect the carpet. But not once has my mother ever asked my father to take off his shoes upon entering the house even as she asked the rest of us to.
I never thought about why that was before. I suppose I just assumed he was the king of the castle and was therefore granted certain privileges.
But now that I think about it, perhaps he wears shoes because when he’s the only one who isn’t barefoot, it gives him the illusion of height.
“Melody,” I finally answer. “My sister. When you caught my sister with that boy in her room, having sex, doing drugs . . . she needed help.”
My mother’s hand quickly pulls away; my father reddens with anger. “Do not mention that person’s name in this house.”
“That person?” I ask, incredulously. “That person was your daughter. She was my sister and she needed help.”
“Kasie, please,” my mother breathes. The tears are fresh again. “Let’s not relive this. You are not your sister.”
“No, I’m not. I used to worry I’d become her. I worried that I’d make a horrible mistake and you’d cut me off, exile me from the family just like you did with her. I think I worried about it as recently as yesterday,” I say with a bitter laugh. “I know my role. I know I’m supposed to help you live the illusion. I’m the accomplished, well-behaved daughter who will marry well. You can point to me and prove to the world that anything that happened with Melody was a fluke. None of it was our fault. Her death wasn’t the consequence of our rejection. It wasn’t because we refused to acknowledge that she was sick, that she needed psychiatric help!”
“She was a dirty whore,” my father says, his eyes now glued to his elevating shoes. “She rejected discipline, had no moral center . . . I swear sometimes I wonder how a woman like that could share my genes!” He raises his eyes to my mother, flashes her an accusing glare. “You know she didn’t look anything like me—”
“Oh for God’s sake, she was yours!” I snap, raising myself to my feet. “You don’t get to just invent new ways to deny her! She was your flesh and blood, your responsibility, she was more than you were ready to handle and you fucked up.”
“Kasie!” my mother cries as my father mutters something about my language.
“You fucked up!” I say again. “We all did. We didn’t know anything about mental illness or addiction. We were confused, disoriented, and most of all we were afraid. So we made a whole slew of mistakes and now she’s dead.”
“Kasie!” This again from my mother. “You can’t blame your father for her death!”
I give her a withering look. “This isn’t about blame, but if it was, I wouldn’t just be blaming him.”
“Kasie!” this time from my father.
“This is about living with consequences. We made mistakes with Melody. Maybe if we can accept that, we can work through it. Maybe we can stop denying that she existed! I came here because I accept my mistakes, the mistake of accepting Dave’s ring, the mistake of getting involved with someone else before ending it with him . . . oh, and I’ve made so many mistakes in the way I’ve handled myself with Robert Dade. I fucked up and it’s affected every aspect of my life. I quit my job because of all the mistakes I’ve made.”
“Wait a minute,” my father says, his anger quickly switching to concern. “That’s the top consulting firm in the country! Unless they’re demanding your resignation—”
“They’re not but I can’t stay. Everyone there knows what I’ve done; they don’t trust me, don’t respect me, and don’t want to work with me. That’s the consequence of my actions. And maybe it’s not fair but that’s life. I want to live life, Dad,” I say, my voice breaking ever so slightly. “I want to live life the way it actually is. I’m so, so tired of illusions.”
My mother reaches for me again. “Sweetie, you’re overwrought. If this Mr. Dade fellow is as successful as you make him sound, and if he does care for you, well maybe you could make a go of it. No one needs to know how it all began. And you wouldn’t even have to work! You could get involved in a charity! You could say it was a choice you made because . . .”
She keeps speaking but I can’t hear her anymore. She’s just painting another pretty picture, a portrait of me that skips over my flaws . . . my strengths, too, for that matter. I stare at the mantel above the fireplace. There are pictures of me, of them, of my grandparents. . . .
There will never be a picture of Melody there. No one in this room is equipped to teach me how to face up to reality. I look at my mother as she speaks, my father as he stews . . . there’s no point in being angry. It won’t get me anywhere.
I let go of my mother’s hand and take a deep, cleansing breath to help me regain my composure before I kiss my father on the cheek. “Thank you for letting me talk,” I say quietly, resignedly. I lean down and give my mother a kiss as well. “I love you,” I say to both of them.
I gather up my purse, head to the foyer where my shoes wait for me. My mother makes a little cry of confusion but it’s only my father who follows me.
I sit down on their quilted leather armchair and fasten the buckles of my heels.
“It wasn’t our fault, you know,” he says, his voice soft but determined. “She simply refused to listen. A psychiatrist couldn’t have helped us with that. I tell you, there’s nothing we could have done differently. Not a damn thing that would have helped. If there was . . . I would have known. I wouldn’t just . . . I would have known. Nothing to be done.” Each word is a little meeker, a bit more desperate.
I stand up, give him a hug that’s a bit too hard and lasts a moment too long.
“Of course not,” I say. “You did everything you could.” And then I kiss him again and say good-bye.
Because I can’t change him. And because this is an illusion he wears as a life vest and I don’t have it in me to take it away just to see him drown.
CHAPTER 16
AND THE DAYS continue to pass. I go into work, do my job. Mr. Costin keeps the whispers behind closed doors. Even Asha’
s stares don’t shake me now. That’s what happens when you face the truth, when you choose to live with the pain for a while. It’s so hard to hurt someone who’s already in agony.
But I can’t get too lost in my depression. There are things to be done. I just quit my job and though I can get by for a while, I will need to get another one. I know that I can go to pretty much any consulting firm I want. Mr. Costin wouldn’t dare give me anything short of a glowing reference, and let’s face it, after my current position anything else would be a step down. As my father said, this is the best global consulting firm in the country. Unless I become an expatriate I’m going to have to settle for something less.
It’s all right though. I rather like the idea of being a big fish in a small pond.
But boy, how I miss him. That’s the loss that has me opening up a new bottle of wine every night. I’ve heard people say that when they lose someone they love, they keep thinking that they see him. Like when a stranger walks by, they’ll have to do a quick double take to make sure it’s not him. They’ll hear his voice in a café only to realize that what they heard was the sound of some baritone DJ on the radio.
But I don’t have these hallucinations. Robert’s voice, his look, his everything . . . it’s too unique. I would never mistake someone else for him. And since he was driving an Alfa Romeo it’s not like I can mistake other people’s cars for his.
He’s just gone.
The realization hits me when I’m at home, alone, halfway through a bottle of 1996 cab. Too good of a wine to get drunk on and yet I’m tempted. This breakup, it doesn’t feel temporary anymore and the emptiness of the room fills my heart with a similar feeling of vacancy.
Even when I’m not with you, I’m inside of you. I can touch you with a thought.
He had told me that once and I close my eyes, try to believe in it again. I lean back into the cushions of my sofa, put my hand against my breast, pretend that it’s him.
Are you thinking of me, Robert?
And suddenly I’m enveloped with such a strong sense of sadness, I literally cry out, crumple over under the heaviness of it. I don’t know if the sadness is wholly mine or if I’m sensing his wretchedness from afar, mingling it with my own and giving it new strength. Either way it’s more than I can handle alone. My hand reaches for the phone and I dial Simone.
It doesn’t take long for her to arrive. She’s become accustomed to these last-minute calls for help. She doesn’t show up with a bottle of sin this time. “You’re in the middle of a breakup,” she explains, taking the cabernet out of my hand and closing it with a stopper. “Alcohol’s great for anxiety but it sucks for depression.”
“I’m not depressed,” I say sullenly; she laughs, sits cross-legged on the couch, and beckons me to take a seat beside her. “What happened, Kas, did you get lost?”
I nod, my eyes welling up with tears.
“Has he called since it happened?”
To this I shake my head.
She sighs, closes her eyes as if in meditation. “He misses you,” she says sagely. “He’s just scared.”
“How do you know he’s scared?” I ask, surprised.
She smiles, her eyes still closed. “Because men always are. They’ll sing about bravery, tell you they’ll keep you safe, but at the first sign of emotional conflict, they run for the hills like a bunch of frightened rabbits.”
I sigh, lean my head against my knees. “Robert isn’t a rabbit.”
“All men are rabbits,” she retorts, her eyes flying open. “They sniff around, fuck whatever’s available, and then they run off. Fucking rabbits. And we’re Elmer Fudd, inadvertently blowing up our own lives while obsessively trying to hunt one down.”
I giggle. It’s the first time I’ve even come close to laughing in a long time. It’s a small victory for Simone, one she acknowledges with a gentle sigh.
“Are you sure it’s over?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I’m not ready to say the words aloud but my tears answer for me as she wraps her arm around my shoulders.
“I think maybe I didn’t advise you well, that night with the vodka-laced milk shakes.”
“Oh?”
“I told you about my ménage à trois, I suggested that you could indulge in those kinds of things if you had a strong sense of self. But what I didn’t point out is that you don’t.”
I wince at the insult.
“Oh don’t get me wrong, you will and soon. But right now you’re in the self-discovery phase.” She pauses before asking in a slow, measured voice, “How’s work?”
“I quit.”
“Thank God.”
I roll my eyes. “You told me that I should stay! You said that I should see things through, accept power without respect! That was you!”
“No, what I said is that you could either see it through or you could leave and go somewhere else. I suggested you work for yourself.”
I shake my head, stare at my wineglass, now drained except for a few drops of red liquid at the bottom. “I’m not equipped for that,” I say. “And my firm has a habit of punishing those who try that route, particularly if they suspect you might be poaching their clients or posing new competition for them. They’ll bury me before I get off the ground.”
“Um, yeah, they’re not gonna do that,” Simone laughs.
“Simone, I’ve seen them do it to other . . .” but my voice trails off. Of course they’re not going to do that. Like his cologne that lingers on my skin after we make love, the scent of his protection is still there. People can smell it. They know what it means.
“How would that be different?” I venture. “If they’re afraid to attack me because of him—”
“Kasie, we all have our advantages and disadvantages in life. A kid living in the projects uses his athletic ability to get out of there. The woman with bad teeth uses her family’s money to go to an orthodontist. The politician with a weakness for redheads uses his influence to cover up the scandal.”
I give her a sideways look and she laughs again. “Okay, maybe the last is taking it too far. But you’ve had your fair share of disadvantages.”
“Like what?”
“Like wounds that will never heal,” she says quietly.
We both fall silent. Outside the wind makes the branches of the trees scrape against my window. For a second I imagine them scratching out the word Melody into the glass.
“He can’t build your business for you,” she says. “Considering the circumstances I doubt he would even try. But your past relationship with him can protect you from unfair attacks. Your firm doesn’t have the right to undermine your new endeavors. Don’t invite them to do so.”
I look down at the hard floor beneath us, only partially covered by the Persian rug. “We made love in my office.”
“You and offices.” Simone laughs, thinking back to the last time I told her about having sex with Robert on his desk.
“This was different.” I reach my foot forward, feel the softness of the rug. “This wasn’t brutal or playful or choreographed as it sometimes is with us. This was just me and him, touching something inside each other, those wounds, the ones that won’t heal. . . . It was so raw and tender and . . .”
I don’t finish my sentence. I feel the memory more than see it. I feel the warmth of his mouth against mine, his hands against my bare skin. I feel my face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, the salty taste of his tears still on my tongue. Wrapped up in his powerful arms I was the protected and the protector and for just a brief moment it felt like the whole world was falling into place. Things made sense, I knew who I was, what I needed to do, what my purpose was in life.
And I knew where I was meant to be. Right there, on the floor of my office, in his arms, making everything just . . . right.
Simone’s watching me. I don’t even have to look at her to sense the concern.
“It’s another wound,” I say quietly. “And it hurts. It hurts so bad, I can barely stand up, barely breathe.”
“But you are breathing, Kasie,” Simone says. She rubs her hand up and down my arm in an act of comfort. “You’re breathing through the pain.”
I nod and then collapse again in tears. But this time I have Simone there to hold me.
Simone. My sister.
CHAPTER 17
DAYS PASS INTO weeks, weeks into months. I don’t hear from him. The wound stays where it is, carved into my lungs so I feel it with every sigh.
But I don’t sigh quite as much anymore.
Initially I thought Simone’s suggestion that I start my own business was silly, even stupid. Isn’t that why Robert and I had broken up? Because he wanted me to play by my own rules and I had wanted to play by rules that were already set in stone by others?
It took me a few weeks of unemployment to realize that no, that wasn’t it at all. Robert had wanted me to play by his rules. Dave had wanted me to play by rules that were set in a different time, in a different place, in a world that only truly exists in those men’s clubs he can’t get into anymore.
I don’t want that either. And that’s when I realize that for once in my life I don’t have to live in the extremes. I don’t have to make fear my lover but I don’t have to run from it either. If I can just face it, a little at a time, find that illusive middle ground . . . that place where you set some of the rules but not others . . . then maybe I’ll be okay.
So I take the leap, decide to work for myself. I start small, a little office leased out of a big building. I seek out clients whose profits are still modest, businesses with untapped potential, fledgling entrepreneurs whose ideas can be spun into gold. I give them my ideas and they give me their money. And little by little the success grows, slowly, like drip-brewed coffee. It takes a while but the unhurried process just makes the coffee a little richer, better, and a hell of a lot more satisfying.
