by Caitlin Sara
She was also horribly imprisoned in her own mind. The thought of Brad’s body spending eternity tucked six feet under the ground caused her own body to ache with anguish. The depressing finality of the culture’s version of resting in peace. Wasn't it more romantic to scatter one’s ashes at sea? Toss ourselves from our favorite bridge in one last true effort at freedom and wanderlust. The morbid act of locking our loved ones in an overpriced box, tossing a few handfuls of dirt and leaving them at the will of a gravedigger to pat down the dirt and finish the deed curdled her stomach.
After, the group returned to the Bugia’s home for Chardonnay and a cheese plate, comforted in the thought that Brad would want them to smile and feel happiness. When in reality, everyone was silently relieved they weren’t the ones buried under ground.
Ara didn't think for one second that Brad would’ve wanted her to smile. If there was an afterlife, there was no way Brad was up there wishing her well. He had grown tired of her here. There was no way in heaven or hell that after being released from his human responsibilities he was thinking of her at all. Wine in hand, she wondered if everyone who clutched her shoulders and offered their condolences had seen through the flaws in their marriage from the beginning. Brad was looking for a way out. And ironically, in death, he got one.
The Bugia’s walked through the motions of supportive in-laws, even though Ara knew, they would have avoided her all together if they weren’t obsessively maintaining their reputation. They never said it publically, but made it clear through their actions they thought she had something to do with Brad’s death. At one point, from across the room, she swore she saw the congressman ask Lane if he thought she did it. Lane’s eyes caught hers, and he offered a kind smile before excusing himself and crossing the room to meet her.
Embracing her in a friendly hug he whispered, “You’re doing fine,” before continuing to greet the mutual friends scattered about the room. An off remark, but she guessed he saw through her façade and into her true discomfort in the situation. The attention on her alone was too much to bear. Let alone the vicious stares from those who were convinced of her involvement.
Her mother, on the other hand, wanted Ara to get back to a ‘new normal,’ as she called it and made it quite clear she did not believe in wallowing. The dirt had barely settled over Brad’s grave, and there was her mother telling her it was time to saddle up and stop moping, she needed to find a man to take care of her. “I could have wallowed when things went south with your father,” she’d said, “but I powdered my nose, fixed my hair and found myself Peter. Now look at my life and all that I have! Losing your father was practically the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“You left Dad for Peter, Mom,” Ara had spit through clenched teeth. “You left both of us. Not the same as coming home to find your husband shot dead in your living room.”
Her mother had shrugged and busied herself folding clothes and picking up around her stepdaughter’s apartment. Ara was surprised she didn’t have her on Meet.com days after the memorial service. However, if left to her mother, it would probably be millionaire matchmaker. Ara was over wishing their relationship was different—that her mother would provide some sort of real comfort like others did. Other mothers were not Arabelle Ridener.
“All I am saying is that you have no idea what is even out there. I thought your father was it for me. Same for you and Brad. But oh my, Peter! The things he did to me that your father forgot all about. He’d have me against his desk. Here I would be thinking he was just in it to get off, and he’d drop to his knees and lift my skirt . . .”
“Mom!” Disgusted, Ara had heard enough.
“Darling, you need to grow up. It’s just a little oral.”
“Ugh! Who even uses that word!” Ara pushed the covers off of her and pulled sweatpants over her Target brand, full butt panties. Even if Raina could shrug it off, hearing these words coming out of her mother’s mouth made her want to throw up, and she was content with that making her the prude of the family.
“Maybe if you let Brad explore you down there, wore some lingerie instead of whatever those things are,” she said pointing toward Ara’s granny panties, “things would have been different.”
Ara swallowed the obvious words begging to torpedo from her mouth. No amount of head on either of their parts could have stopped Brad from being murdered in their own home. It did not matter if he’d wanted more from her in the bedroom, he apparently had no problem getting what he wanted away from home.
Thankfully, her mother helped in other ways. She filed the life insurance claim despite Ara’s desperate pleas that doing so would only make her look guilty. But her mother demanded.
“He had this insurance for a reason, Ara. So that if, God forbid, something like this happened to him, you would be taken care of,” she had said. “He wouldn’t want you to suffer any more than you had to.” He was a good man in that respect, her mother would chirp as she excitedly spoke of her thirty-year-old daughter starting over. Arabelle viewed Brad as a financial transaction from the start, not once pretending they would live happily ever after and was quick to point out the obvious downfalls to dating one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.
“There is no such thing as a faithful man who looks like that with pockets that deep,” she would say “they don’t have to be good to you or respect you. Women wait in line to screw ‘em,” she’d say, crossing some imaginary mother/daughter boundary Ara set up in her head.
Whether he was all good, part good, or no good, Ara did not want what she thought of as Brad’s blood money. No matter how many times Raina or her mother reassured her that was not what it was, she could not get past that he had to die for her to receive the payout. Sure, the million-dollar policy was nice but she would pay double to get him back and have the life they were supposed to. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him, despite knowing he would have a typical Brad Bugia, well-practiced defense so reasonable she wouldn’t be able to do anything but agree with. At least she could have heard it directly from him.
To no one’s surprise, the police called within days of the policy being filed and began looking deeper into the couple’s financial affairs. Too bad “I told you so” had zero effect on Arabelle. Even when wrong she would fight imprudently that she was right.
At least, to Ara’s knowledge, there was nothing for the police to find. Brad may have had his secrets when it came to women, but she would know if they were financially in trouble, wouldn’t she? It’s not like she planned on spending a cent of it anyway.
When the congressman texted her that he was glad his son was at least prepared financially for his death, she could practically taste the sourness in his words. If the family and its posse were closed off to her before, it was bound to only get worse with Brad’s death.
CHAPTER 11
Arabelle was on her way back to California, promising to return within a few weeks to ‘check up on her.’ Ara knew better than to expect a repeat visit, and settled into a life with Raina’s couch and DVR. Tuesdays were Ara’s favorite. Such an insignificant day to the rest of working America that the television networks were practically begging for viewers. Hoping some desperate housewife was home feeling as unfulfilled as she was, the stations would play syndicated ‘classic’ shows that hooked the thirtysomethings and dragged them right back into their own adolescent, carefree years. Oh, to have the problems of the wealthy teens on The O.C. and One Tree Hill.
The Orange County high school lovebirds, Ryan and Marissa, were foolishly quarreling over another miniscule early 2000s conflict when Ara heard a knock at the door. Raising the volume, she was now a master at ignoring any type of interaction with the outside world. The knock rang again and this time she recognized the voice on the other side. “Ara, open the door.” It was Lane.
Pausing the DVR, she sluggishly walked to the doorway and was greeted with his warm smile.
“Hey there, princess. Can I come in?”
Already slightly
irritated by his sarcasm, Ara said, “Sure. If you never, ever call me princess again.”
“Deal.” Lane brushed passed Ara, unfazed by her remark as she followed him back through the living space and returned to her spot on the couch. She pointed the remote and un-paused the television only for it quickly to be paused again by Lane.
“I am here to take you out. You need to get out of this apartment. Anything you want, we will do it,” he said placing a hand on hers.
Ara pushed his hand away and leaned back on the couch. “Please don’t do this, Lane. I just want to sit here and watch ridiculous television with ridiculous plots and not think about the fact that my husband is dead,” she said, her voice shaking slightly when saying the word: Dead.
Lane looked back at her like he was expecting that answer and retreated toward the front door, grabbing two brown bags that he carried back into the apartment.
“I had a feeling you would say that, so here’s Plan B.” He placed the bags on the coffee table and removed a large bottle of one of Ara’s favorite California reds, a bottle of scotch, and Chinese takeout. “Pick your poison,” he said.
Drinking before noon was not a typical Tuesday afternoon for her, not even for this “new normal,” but she was surprised to find herself considering her options. Times had changed, and she embraced the opportunity to numb her mind. Never a scotch drinker and a self-proclaimed wine-o since her early twenties, she was even more shocked when she reached toward the heavier, quick-hitting option. She needed something strong.
Lane poured two large glasses of scotch into the red solo cups he had in the brown bag and handed one to Ara. He playfully clicked her plastic cup before consuming a large sip. Ara mimicked his motion and took down a large gulp of the bitter drink, the scotch burning the back of her throat in a surprisingly satisfying way.
Lane opened a few of the Chinese takeout containers and handed her the lo mein, Ara’s favorite dish.
“Let’s eat it like in the movies. Right out of the container,” Lane said as he threw a pair of chopsticks in Ara’s direction.
Ara laughed a little as she fumbled with the utensils and said, “Why do they always do that, anyway? I mean, I’ve never actually seen someone do that in real life.”
Lane took a second sip of scotch and chased it with a heaping portion of pork fried rice. “Well, apparently, we do.” His eyes locking with Ara’s, he smiled.
Again, Ara mimicked Lane’s motions and laughed, feeling more comforted than she had felt in weeks. Lane was the closest thing she had to Brad, and it helped that she had always genuinely felt at ease with him.
“So what did I miss?” Lane asked as he adjusted himself on the couch.
He stayed there through much of the afternoon. Chuckling occasionally at the pure nonsense of the show and the unlikely conflicts the main characters found themselves in.
By three in the afternoon, Ara was heavily intoxicated and almost enjoying herself for the first time in weeks. Lane seemed uncharacteristically into the teen drama, hanging on the edge of his seat each time one of the show’s regular couples broke up for the umpteenth time.
Ara allowed herself to lean on Lane and found solace in his toned, inviting arms. Maybe it was the scotch, or the overall dramatics of the teen soap playing out in front of her, but for the first time in weeks she let down her guard.
“They think I killed Brad, Lane,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know they do.”
“Who is they, Ara?”
“The police, his parents. I feel like everyone thinks I had something to do with it.”
Lane hesitated carefully considering her statement. “Well, did you,” he said, not quite as a question before adding, “of course you couldn’t have. You loved him, Ara. Everyone knew that.”
The two sat in silence, both contemplating the thought.
“You’re wrong, Lane. People have been known to kill those they love. And to be honest, I think I could have if I needed to,” Ara said, staring blankly ahead, her eyes dry. Lane grabbed the scotch from her hand.
“Stop saying stuff like that, Ar. You could not have. And you didn’t need to, so what you need to do is stop saying things like that.” Lane pulled at her shoulders until she was facing him. His eyes desperately searched for any emotion on her face.
“He was with someone else. I know he was, I don’t know who, but I know there was someone else,” Ara said, turning back to her Johnny Walker.
“Stop it, Ara. Where is this coming from? Maybe this nonsense isn’t good for you,” Lane said, waving at the TV, “watching this dramatic shit all day. You should be seeing someone, speak to a therapist.” He put his hand back on her knee.
Leaning her head to his chest, she said, “I’m talking to you. Therapists, they don’t do anything for you except make it worse and bring up old shit you don’t want to talk about.”
Lane smiled and gave her thinning frame a squeeze. Ara reached for the scotch bottle with her free hand and took a drawn-out sip, feeling a sense of peace.
She had been too afraid to confront Brad and find out who he was seeing because her dreams of starting a family with him were finally coming true. She had hiked those stairs in her beautiful new heels that she adored and had paid for herself. By the time she got to the top she knew the answer to the question she had been toying with in her mind for weeks. She had an idea who he was going to leave her for and all she needed from him was to confirm it. Say it to her face.
“Let’s trade fortunes,” Lane said, clearly changing the subject in an attempt to break the awkward silence. They each scooped a cookie in their hands and handed each to the other.
Ara’s fortune looked back at her from the tiny sliver of paper: Welcome the beautiful changes coming into your life. Beautiful? She crumpled the fortune, tossing it in the garbage bag, and took another swig from the bottle.
“Not a good one?” Lane said.
“It’s just a cookie,” she replied, retreating back into silence.
CHAPTER 12
She stopped at the corner liquor store before going back to her and Brad’s old apartment, expecting the bottle of wine she purchased to at least make her groggy. Sleeping seemed more of a luxury these days than a necessity. Back here, her world was too cold and uninviting for something as relaxing as sleep and rest. It wasn't the bed that she and Brad once shared, and it wasn't that she was afraid to turn off the lights or even that someone could take her own life as easily as they took Brad’s. Ara was afraid to turn off her mind, fearing the vulnerability of sleep. Now more than ever, she needed to be in control, to be calculated and clear. Not muddled down with feelings. Every emotion she allowed the world to see needed to be in check and on par with the expected behaviors of a new widow, taking every proper step on the road to a life after a loved one’s death. That was how to reclaim normality. Do this, and others can provide their sugary stamp of approval. She could be back to the “normal” everyone was so desperately yearning for her to return to.
Ara could still remember the exact moment she realized the power of her female sexuality and the control she could wield with it. After many sleepless nights filled with Googling anything and everything about sex and educating herself through whispers of pornography and late-night episodes of MTV’s Undressed, she’d finally felt ready to seduce the man she adored. She was sure Dr. Dan felt exactly as she did but had more than a few reasons to restrain himself from giving in to his urges. His reputation, professional license, and freedom, to name a few. But Ara was confident she could break though his shell and inhibitions. She wanted to feel control.
And she could reclaim that control now hopefully, back in her apartment, heading back to her same old job, and back to what was a glimpse of her old life. To the world, she was recovering at an acceptable pace. How sad. Ara wasn't exactly sure what emotions of hers were real and which ones were simply part of her plan to get out from under the microscope that was her mother and Raina. Almost six weeks at her stepsister’s apartment was far t
oo long. Now back in her own place she could have some sort of control over her life, and she welcomed that. At times, she missed the control more than she missed him. She needed control. She breathed in control like oxygen, keeping her alive until the next breath.
Now here she was, lying awake in the middle of the night, her mind blurred from overanalyzing her past and her morbid future of being alone. Memories of then swirled in her head, mixed with the pain of her present situation. How did she manage to lose her father, who she never gave a chance, and her husband, who she gave too many?
But oh, how she missed Brad. Despite her mother’s attempts to erase him from the apartment with expensive cleaning crews and interior designers. She longed for the life he’d promised—the comfort of it. Someone to witness her own life. Someone who made her normal. All of it now taken from her in a single instant. In a blink of an eye her life had changed forever. There was no going back now.
Ara’s phone shook against the rich oak nightstand. A text from Lane flashed onto the screen.
Let me guess . . . Sheep 1,176,524. After a few nights of casual texting, he knew she would be awake at 2am.
Lord knows what the actual count would be if she had actually been counting sheep, but she typed back, spot on.
Ara felt a little guilty that she and Lane were closer than ever since Brad’s death. It was one of the things Arabelle and Raina would definitely have something to say about. Maybe that was why she welcomed it, or maybe it was that Lane reminded her of Brad. Or maybe the mutual pain from Brad’s death lingered between them, connecting them like long lost lovers. Either way, Ara didn’t care what people thought at this point. Lane brought her comfort.
Her phone buzzed again. I’m in the area, I can stop in if you’re lonely.
Hoping that he was already on his way, she playfully waited to respond, less than patiently.
