by Kira Saito
“Oh touché.” His grin grew wider, his blue eyes sparkled, and deep dimples appeared on both sides of his face.
“Wait. I know you! I know you!”
“You do?”
“Yeah, you’re that guy that does those cheesy frozen food commercials.”
His smile faded a bit. “Wrong guy.”
“No, you’re him. You sing that stupid slogan about the frozen peas, potatoes, and ham that get lost in a snowstorm and then find shelter in a cabin only to be eaten by the family in the woods.”
“Wrong guy. What sort of commercials have you been watching? I’ve never seen that one before.”
“I’ll show you to your room, Kate,” Madame Queenie said interrupting our little showdown.
“Thanks that’ll be great,” I muttered unwilling to take my eyes off of this Chris character. Where did I know him from? His face was so familiar and not just because I used to be a secret diehard romantic comedy junkie. Admittedly, I used to have a crush on Matthew McConaughey when I had been an impressionable teen. Okay, maybe I still had a tiny crush on him.
I thought back to when Zoe and I used to have our four P and M nights which consisted of popcorn, Pringles, pizza, pajamas, and a movie. “Mom, no, not the Wedding Planner again,” she begged. “There are way better movies than this cliché, contrived, chick lit-inspired drivel. These characters have no realistic qualities about them. They do the stupidest things, make the most pathetic mistakes, and everything still manages to work out for them at the end. How is that possible?”
“I agree. We can watch a movie based on books by Tolstoy, Austen, Wilde or perhaps biographies based on inspirational characters such as King, Gandhi or Parks, but trust me, once you get to my age, you’ll appreciate the fact that sometimes you can make stupid mistakes, do silly things, and in the end, things will still work out for the best.”
She had stared at me quietly for a few moments with her big blue eyes. “Did you make stupid mistakes when you were younger?”
“I did, but I still managed to end up with you and your dad,” I said while shoving a fist full of popcorn into my mouth.
“I’m sorry I’m such a brat sometimes, Mom,” she said softly as she placed her arms around me.
“It’s okay, kiddo, my revenge will come when you have your own kids. They’ll pay you back for every crappy thing that you’ve ever said to me. That is if you decide to have kids or decide to get married. If you do, you’ll make the most intelligent and beautiful bride in the entire universe.”
“You are so corny, Mom.”
“You’re my daughter; I have the right to be corny when it comes to anything related to you and your future.”
The thought that Zoe may never have kids of her own pulled me back into the moment. The realization that she would never have a lifetime to make stupid mistakes, go to college, pursue her dreams, change the world, or wear a wedding dress was overwhelming. My legs started to tremble, the crystal chandeliers started to spin, and the air escaped my lungs. I fell to the ground and my eyes closed. Hot tears spilled out of my eyes and a swirl of memories, regrets, faded hopes, lost dreams, and finally suicidal thoughts began to emerge. I wanted to reach inside my purse and take a fist full of pills, but I was frozen. I could hear the voices around me. I attempted to move. This wasn’t the first impression I wanted to make. I didn’t want to destroy my chances of getting near Mrs. Dubois or assembling a story that would salvage my dying career.
“Kate.” Madame Queenie gently shook me, but my body refused to respond. “Watch her, I’m going to get a cool washcloth.”
I could hear Chris’ voice above me. “Sugar, come on the heat ain’t all that bad. It’s gonna get much hotter. You can fall to pieces, or you can choose clothes that are better suited to the heat. We can’t control the weather, but we can control how we react to it. I suggest a breezy cotton dress, the type my sisters and momma love to wear down in Georgia. I bet you’d look damn cute in one of those. Come on now, you can get up.” He started to whistle and gently sing. “Someone falls to pieces sleeping all alone someone kills the pain. Spinning in the silence, she finally drifts away … Someone gets excited in a chapel-yard and catches a bouquet another lays a dozen white roses on a grave … Someone finds salvation in everyone another only pain. Someone tries to hide himself down inside himself he prays. Someone swears his true love until the end of time another runs away.”
My eyes started to slowly open and more tears pushed to the surface because he was being kind when I didn’t deserve his sympathy.
“And on my deathbed, I will pray to the gods and the angels like a pagan to anyone who will take me to heaven to a place I recall, I was there so long ago … The sky was bruised
“The wine was bled. And there you led me on … And I sat in regret Of all the things I've done, for all that I've blessed and all that I've wronged In dreams until my death.” I sang under my breath. Audioslave had been one of Richard’s favorite bands and Zoe had eventually turned into a diehard fan. According to her, Chris Cornell was one of the last great legends. No one sang like him anymore. It was damn poetic that this Chris had managed to channel that Chris all while resembling Matthew McConaughey. It was a moment Zoe would have appreciated.
“Oh, sugar, you’re much too young to die. Life ain’t over just yet.”
A cool towel was placed on my forehead and I regained my sense of composure.
“It’s alright, sweetie,” said Madame Queenie.
Embarrassed, I rose from the ground. “Thank you,” I muttered giving Chris and Madame Queenie a quick nod.
“Come on now, I’ll show you to your room.”
I gave Chris another thank you as I followed Madame Queenie up the spiral staircase.
“I have a feeling that we are going to become great friends, sugar,” said Chris.
I smiled but didn’t look back. Deep down, I had a feeling that he may be right even if I detested the fact that he called me sugar.
Chapter Nine
Kate
“Amazing place, how long have your doors been open?” I asked Madame Queenie following her into a room.
“This gem has been around since the 1800s. It was designed by Thomas Sully for a wealthy tobacco supplier and his new bride. After the Civil War, it was on and off of the market for years until I decided to buy it in the nineties and transform it into the best bed and breakfast on this side of the Mississippi. What do you think?” Her voice was full of pride.
“It is impressive,” I said taking in the beautiful room with its tasteful modern décor, pine heart floors, high ceilings, and large French windows which overlooked Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.
“Mr. Dubois! Mr. Dubois! Can you comment on the last time you saw Charlene? What was she wearing?”
“Mr. Dubois, where is Mrs. Dubois? No one has seen her since the disappearance of your daughter. You two aren’t having marital issues, are you?”
“Mr. Dubois, please describe your relationship with Charlene. The police reports claim that you two often had disagreements.”
“Mr. Dubois, how are you?”
“Mr. Dubois! Over here! How is the disappearance of your daughter impacting business? I’ve read that company shares are down by three percent is that true?”
My attention turned to a mob of reporters who stood outside of the mansion across the street. A man who I presumed to be Mr. Dubois emerged from a black limo and shielded his face from the flashes that surrounded him. “Is it always like this?” I asked taking in the thin stylish figure protected by bodyguards.
“Oh, the circus, during the day they are shameless; however, at night they hide it better and tend to camp out in the gardens. Ignore them. Enjoy the room. You’ve got the Queen Prytania. It’s the best room in the house.”
“Really? Why is that? Don’t tell me it’s because I’ve got front row seats to the cemetery.” I glanced out the window again and took in the cross-shaped funeral procession area, magnolia trees, live oaks, and tombs in varying
types and styles. I scanned the area for Lestat’s metal tomb and made a mental note to visit it before I left. I had a favor to ask.
“Besides the view, Napoleon Bonaparte’s cousin was rumored to have died in this very room from a broken heart no less. The story goes, he fell in love with a wealthy plantation owner’s wife. They planned to run away to France and elope; however, on the night of their great escape, she never showed. He waited for her, made a scandalous visit to her house; however, he was prevented from ever seeing her again. Day by day, he grew weaker until his heart gave out. Guests who have stayed in this room have claimed to have seen his ghost, a handsome young man with a painful expression and blood dripping from his heart. Others have claimed to hear his voice whistling through the oaks whispering his love’s name over and over again. Josephine. Josephine. My sweet Josephine, you promised to meet me. Where are you? We are meant to be … You told me that the closest to heaven you’ll ever be is when I held you in my arms.”
The room started to spin again, and I momentarily forgot where I was. I took a seat on the Queen-sized bed and placed my hand over my heart.
“Are you okay?” Madame Queenie asked. Her voice was full of concern.
“Do you think it’s possible to die from a broken heart?” I asked. It was a silly question, not professional and had no relation to the task at hand. Sylvia had often pointed out that my articles were too emotional and not rational enough. What did she expect from someone who had grown up in a Harry Potter infused culture?
Madame Queenie took a seat beside me and eyed me intently for a few seconds before responding. “Yes, I do believe that it is possible to die from a broken heart. Our feelings are more powerful than we give them credit for. They have a certain force that influences everything around us from the tiniest cell within our body to the highest peak on earth. Words, feelings, emotions, they are all fluid and very much alive. Some people may try to fight them, numb them or ignore them; however, it’s my belief that if you don’t acknowledge them, they will manifest in one way or another. I know it may sound silly given the band-aid culture we live in where everyone wants to cover the pain without looking at the wound and how deep or infectious it really is.”
My hand twitched. I had an urge to reach into my purse and pop a pill. This conversation was heavy, real, and more than I could handle. The therapist I had gone to hadn’t quite explained the anatomy of emotions in this manner. We had focused more on how my prefrontal cortex had been impacted by the trauma of losing Zoe. Deep down, I knew that there was a certain logic to what she was trying to express. Maybe we weren’t born sick, and we were only made to believe that we were. Perhaps, the disease theory of addiction was outdated, and we had more power than we chose to take responsibility for. “When can I meet Mrs. Dubois?” I asked changing the subject and getting back to the task at hand. I wasn’t ready to feel or become an active participant in my own life.
“In a few hours, I have to prepare her for the session.”
“The session?”
She nodded. “You’ll see. I’ll come get you when she’s ready. In the meantime, you have time all to yourself. Isn’t that great? You can take a walk, explore the neighborhood or simply sit on the porch, sniff the magnolias, and have some sweet tea.”
I stared at her trying to understand how I would find joy in doing any of those things. The only happiness in my life was sitting in my purse, begging me to swallow it.
“Or you can play dress up.”
“Dress up?”
“Did you ever have tea parties when you were a kid? Remember how fun those days were? Putting on your momma’s pearls and lipstick? Wasn’t life full of endless possibilities and adventures? Didn’t it feel like all of your dreams were possible and that you could be anyone or anything you wanted? Wasn’t that an amazing time? A time when you believed in princes who didn’t turn into frogs and didn’t scoff at happy endings. You can be that happy again, I promise.”
I tuned out her inspirational babble and instantly thought of the last Halloween Zoe and I had shared. It had been her favorite holiday, so I made a huge deal out of it every year. The apartment would be fully decorated with tangles of cobwebs, life-sized dolls from The Nightmare before Christmas, flying bats, silent mummies, and any other creepy character that we were currently obsessed with. “Mom, I don’t want to be Jane Austen. I love her but I’m betting there will be at least two other Austen wannabes at the party.”
“Okay, then who do you want to be?” I asked.
“Hmmm. I want to be Beatrice.”
“Dante’s Beatrice?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Imagine having that much power. I mean, she and Dante met only four times, yet she inspired him to write intense poems as well as La Vita Nuova and The Divine Comedy. I want to be a famous writer, but I also want to be someone’s muse.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to dress up as Dante because baby you’ve been my muse since the day I found out you existed.”
“Oh, God, that is so corny,” she said letting out a flattered giggle in spite of her fake disgust.
“It’s true. You can’t even begin to imagine how your mere existence saved me.”
She let out a groan. “Here, Mom, eat some candy corn,” she said passing me the candy bowl.
“I love you, Zoe Givens,” I said wrapping her in a bear hug and smothering her with kisses. “When you become someone’s muse, you’ll inspire him or her to write, paint, sculpt, and sing masterpieces that will go down in history. You’ll be bigger than Beatrice. I promise.”
“Kate?” Madame Queenie stood beside the wooden closet which was now open. “You’re free to use any of the clothes in this closet. They are better suited for the weather. I figured that you’d be packing light and since you don’t know how many days you’ll be down here it is best if you have some backup.”
“Thank you.” I eyed the closet which was full of light, airy dresses in summery prints and shades. There was no way I’d actually wear any of them. They were too happy, too carefree, and too full of life.
She gave me a small wink. “Compliments of the Prytania Suite. I must be off, but I’ll come find you in a few hours. So you can meet Mrs. Dubois. Have fun.”
After she left, I automatically opened my purse and took out my phone and the bottle of pills. I popped a pill. I was running low, but I wasn’t worried because I knew that they could be bought on any street corner. If I ran out before making it back to New York, I would head into the French Quarter and get my fix. According to the deep web, there were several touristy shops that sold the stuff. It was ironic how ill-informed doctors and careless pharmacists had only fueled the illicit black market. If plan A and B didn’t pan out, then I could always resort to heroin until I got back home.
Logically, I knew that I should have looked over my notes and prepped for my interview with Mrs. Dubois or taken a walk or anything, but like any other addict, the addiction came first. It came before myself, work, family, friends, my sanity, and even my own soul.
I lay on the bed for a few minutes letting the sweet numbness devour me before logging into Instagram and stalking Richard’s profile. He had posted a new picture of him and Anita sipping champagne in his restaurant’s kitchen. They were surrounded by a group of local New York politicians. They leaned against the shiny counter while Sara sat between them dressed in a pink tutu, her tiny face was smeared in chocolate frosting and she held a spatula. I examined Richard’s face. His eyes sparkled, and his smile was whiter than ever as was Anita’s. Anita was stylishly dressed in a designer outfit; her hair was thick, and her skin was impossibly smooth.
They looked happy even though the photo was filtered to death. I studied Sara carefully. The little angel would have everything handed to her on a silver platter. She was blessed beyond measure. The longer I stared at the picture, the more bitter and angry I could feel myself becoming. Why I tortured myself this way, I couldn’t quite say. The caption read: #Amazinglu
nch #TalkingChange #Celebrating #RichieStarBistro before heading to the #BigEasy #Secondchances #Newbeginnings #Blessed. I did a double take and re-read the words Big Easy. They were coming here.
I tapped off a text to Richard.
Seriously, you couldn’t wait until I got back to New York? You have to stalk me to New Orleans? I’m flattered.
I instantly regretted typing those words. The only reason I knew that he was coming here was because I was the one stalking him first. Most people assumed that these petty games ended in high school, they didn’t, they carried on into adult life.
My phone buzzed. I was expecting a response from Richard, but instead it was a text from Detective Ryan. I sat up straight and read the words that I had been both eagerly waiting for and dreading.
Kate, how are you doing? Do you have time to chat? We can do it via text or phone. We’ve got new information on Zoe’s disappearance.
Chapter Ten
Kate
I got out of bed and paced the room for exactly ten minutes before processing what I had read. I opened the mini-bar and took out a bottle of rum. I chugged it back and chased it down with a Diet Coke and a pill which further numbed my body. Once I was confident enough that I could handle whatever Detective Ryan had to say I replied to his message.
Text is easier. I’m busy with the Dubois case in New Orleans. What did you discover?
I re-read my text several times before sending it off. My words sounded calm, healthy, and ready to face whatever life had to throw at me. It was vastly different from how I felt. I didn’t have the courage to listen to his voice. I would read into every syllable and every pause. He replied instantly.
Forensics did another scan of Jay Simmon’s laptop and found some disturbing images of Zoe. They match the description of the images that you claimed to have seen on Zoe’s laptop before it was destroyed.
