by Joy Fielding
“It was his voice,” Kristin said after a brief pause.
“His voice?” Will repeated.
“On the phone. The way he said Suzy’s name. It was just . . . different.”
“Different?”
“They’re sleeping together, Will,” Kristin said.
Will leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, his chin in the palms of his hands. “Yeah,” he agreed.
“Try not to take it personally,” she advised him after another moment’s pause. “I don’t.”
Will swiveled his head toward her. “How can you not take it personally? Your boyfriend is sleeping with another woman.”
“It’s really no big deal.”
“I really don’t believe you.”
This time it was Kristin who shrugged. “Fine. Don’t believe me.”
“I think he’s crazy,” Will said. “To cheat on someone like you.”
“He’s Jeff,” Kristin said. He’s a man, she thought.
“I’d never do something like that.”
“No?”
“Not if I had somebody like you.”
“You don’t know me very well, Will.”
“I think I do.”
“What do you know?”
“I know what I see.”
“And just what is it you see when you look at me?” Kristin asked, suddenly needing to know. “Beyond the fake boobs and the dyed blond hair and the false eyelashes? Tell me what you see.” She saw Will’s eyes travel across the planes of her face.
“I see a woman with a beautiful soul,” Will said.
“You see my soul?” Kristin tried to laugh, but the laugh caught in her throat and her eyes stung with tears.
“I’ve upset you.” Will’s fingers fluttered toward her face, stopping when they got close. “I’m sorry.”
Kristin covered her mouth with her hand. “I think that’s probably the sweetest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”
“Sweet,” Will repeated, his hand dropping into his lap. “That word again.”
“Nothing wrong with being sweet, Will.”
“Except I’m not.”
“And I don’t have a beautiful soul.”
“I think you do.”
“Then like I said, you don’t know me very well.”
“I know all I have to know,” Will insisted.
“No,” Kristin said, taking his right hand in hers and lifting it to her breasts. “I’m a human Barbie doll, Will. Plastic from the toes up.”
“No,” he said, his fingers trembling.
“They’re fake, Will. I’m fake.”
“I can feel your heart pounding. Don’t tell me that isn’t real.”
She shook her head. “It isn’t important,” she said.
“You don’t believe that.”
Kristin loosened her silk robe, took Will’s hand, moved it across her bare breasts. “You want to know what I feel when you touch me here?” she asked, guiding his fingers from one nipple to the other. “Nothing,” she answered before he could respond. “I don’t feel anything. You know why? Because all the nerves were damaged by the surgery. So my breasts look great—hell, they look fantastic—but I don’t feel a whole lot. Don’t get me wrong,” she added quickly. “I’m not complaining. It’s fine by me. I consider it more than a fair trade. I learned a long time ago that feelings are way overrated.”
“You don’t feel anything when I touch you?” Will asked, his hand now moving on its own, gently massaging first one breast, then the other.
“Not really,” Kristin said, trying to ignore the slight stirring between her legs.
“How about here?” Will leaned forward to kiss the side of her neck.
Kristin heard a moan escape her lips as Will’s tongue brushed against her ear.
“Or here?” His lips touched down tenderly on hers.
“Remind me to get my lips done,” she said hoarsely.
“Don’t you dare do anything to these lips. They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
“I’m not,” she insisted.
“Tell me you don’t feel anything now,” he said, pushing her robe away from her shoulders, his mouth replacing his hands on her breasts.
“I don’t feel anything,” she whispered, unconvincing even to her own ears, as she arched her back to accommodate his lips.
“What about now?” His fingers traced a line from her belly button to her pubis, disappearing between her legs.
Kristin groaned, a mixture of both pleasure and recognition. Despite her best efforts, she found herself comparing Will’s tentative advances to his brother’s more assured touch. And soon, an unwanted image began tugging at her brain. In her mind’s eye, she saw Jeff with Suzy, felt his deft hands on her bruised flesh, his expert tongue seeking out the folds of her most tender places even as she felt Will’s tongue teasing at her own. No, she thought, shaking her head from side to side in an effort to rid her mind of such images, the thought taking shape and acquiring sound, becoming a word. “No,” she said as she felt Will fumbling with his zipper. “No,” she said louder as she pushed him away. “No,” she said, crying as she gathered her robe around her and sobbed into the palms of her hands. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
“It’s okay,” she heard Will say, his voice small, as unsteady as her own. “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”
“No. I’m the one who—”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I tried to seduce you,” she admitted.
“Why do you think I came in here?” he asked.
They laughed, although the laugh was one of shared recognition rather than of joy. “I just kept picturing the two of them together,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face, digging her long fingernails into her scalp, as if trying to physically remove all such images.
“My brother’s an idiot,” Will said, pushing himself to his feet.
“Agreed.”
“Guess we have that in common, at least.”
“You’re not an idiot, Will.”
“And I’m not my brother,” Will acknowledged sadly.
You’re better than he is, Kristin was about to say. But before she could form the words, Will was gone.
HE WALKED INTO the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee. What the hell? He wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight anyway. Will sucked the aromatic steam into his nostrils as his fingers wrapped around the cheap ceramic mug, a pink flamingo emblazoned on its side, its handle the crooked leg of the ungainly, yet beautiful, bird. WELCOME TO MIAMI was scrawled in bold black cursive lettering across the bottom.
Welcome to the Wild Zone, Will thought.
Proceed at your own risk.
Which I did, he thought with a shake of his head. And was shot down in flames.
Will took a sip of coffee, felt it burn the tip of his tongue. Even that did nothing to diminish the taste of Kristin on his lips. He took another sip, letting it scald the entire cavity of his mouth. Served him right for being such a jerk, he thought, for thinking he could be a stand-in for his brother. His older, better brother, he thought bitterly. “What’s the matter with me?” he asked out loud.
What’s the matter with you? his father had demanded when he’d been suspended from Princeton after the pathetic episode with Amy.
What’s the matter with you? his mother had echoed. Who do you think you are, acting like that—your brother?
No chance of that, Will thought now, returning to the living room and grabbing the TV’s remote control from the ottoman as he sank down on the sofa. Kristin’s rejection had proven to him once and for all that he was no substitute for the real thing.
The Chosen One, he scoffed, recalling Jeff and Tom’s derisive nickname for him as a child.
Except if he was truly the chosen one, why were women always choosing someone else?
Someone like Jeff.
He flipped through the channels until he came to a movie starri
ng Clint Eastwood, one of those great old spaghetti westerns where Clint, the Man with No Name, prowled the barren terrain wearing a Mexican serape and a withering squint, not saying much, just shooting anything that got in his way. Will turned the volume down so that the sound of gunfire wouldn’t bother Kristin. No point in disturbing her any more than he had already. Seconds later he watched as Clint raised his gun into the air, smirking with satisfaction as he pointed it directly at his enemy’s head and calmly pulled the trigger.
He thought of Tom’s gun, wondered idly where Kristin had hidden it. He wondered what it would be like to shoot another human being. He fell asleep to the sound of bullets whizzing past his head.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JEFF WOKE UP TO the sound of screaming outside his window.
“Quiet!” a woman yelled immediately. “Joey, stop hitting your sister!”
“She hit me first!”
“Did not. He’s lying.”
“Both of you, stop it. Be quiet. People are still sleeping. Now get in the car.”
The sound of car doors opening and slamming shut. Jeff propped himself up on one elbow and glanced at the clock radio beside his bed, noting that it was barely seven a.m. He sat up, pushing the bedsheets to the floor to join the quilted bedspread he’d kicked off sometime during the night and catching sight of his reflection in the shell-framed mirror over the dresser. I look awful, he thought, wiping the sweat from his bare chest. The heat of the approaching day was already combining with the leftover stuffiness of the night. It was going to be a real scorcher, he thought, climbing out of bed and heading for the bathroom.
He ran the shower, was disappointed to discover that the water pressure was flagging at best, dripping from the showerhead in an uninspired stream. Apparently the motel’s nautical theme didn’t extend to the plumbing, Jeff thought, trying to work some lather out of the thin, round bar of white soap. He positioned himself directly under the showerhead, letting the tepid water drip down his face and into his ears. In the distance, “The Star-Spangled Banner” began to play.
It took Jeff a few seconds to realize it was the sound of his ringtone. Shit, he thought, grabbing a thin white towel and wrapping it around his torso as he raced back into the main room, scrambling to recover his phone from the pocket of his black jeans. “Suzy?” he shouted into the receiver, even before the phone was fully opened.
But the call had already been transferred to voice mail. “Damn it,” he said, slapping his wet thigh with the palm of his hand, silently berating himself for not having taken the phone with him into the bathroom.
“You have one new message,” his voice mail informed him seconds later. “To listen to your message, press one-one.”
Jeff pressed in the numbers, waited for the sound of Suzy’s voice. “Jeff, it’s Ellie,” his sister said instead. “Please call me as soon as you can.”
“Shit.” Jeff threw the phone onto the bed, ran his hand through his wet hair. His stepmother had probably called Ellie to tell her of his surprising late-night visit. You mean he didn’t call you to tell you he was in town? he could almost hear her say as he reached for the phone, his hand freezing in midair. He’d be seeing his sister soon enough, he decided. He’d explain everything then.
Half an hour later he was sitting in McDonald’s, sipping on his second cup of coffee and chewing unenthusiastically on an Egg McMuffin, wondering again what he was doing in Buffalo and repeatedly checking his phone for messages he knew weren’t there. He pushed aside his tray, then crumpled his paper napkin into a ball and let it drop from his fingers to the table, where he watched it unfold like a parachute and float to the floor. He bent over, scooped it up, then smoothed it out, wondering how much more time he could waste before going to the hospital to see his mother. She’s dying, for God’s sake, he told himself. What was he so afraid of? How much more damage could she possibly do?
He glanced toward the window, saw a booth full of teenage girls eating French fries and giggling. One of the girls—curly brown hair, pink button lips, green and white checkered skirt hitched up around her thighs—kept looking his way. He watched as she extricated one of the fries from its red cardboard package and lifted it provocatively to her mouth, pushing it slowly between her lips. If Tom were here, he’d probably bet Jeff on how long it would take him to get his hand up that silly girl’s skirt. Does your mother know what you’re up to? Jeff wondered, staring at the girl until she blushed a deep, embarrassed crimson and turned away. He finished the last of his coffee and pushed himself to his feet. Ultimately, he thought, and almost laughed, it all came down to mothers.
It was after eight o’clock by the time he reached Mercy. The hospital had been constructed in 1911 and looked every one of its almost one hundred years. True, a glass and marble wing had been added to the mustard-yellow brick main building since Jeff had last seen it, but the cream-colored marble was already scarred with graffiti, and the glass was stained with soot and neglect. It looked as tired as he felt, Jeff thought, pushing his feet up the half-dozen front steps as if his legs were encased in cement.
“Can you tell me what room Diane Rydell is in?” Jeff asked the receptionist at the information desk in the middle of the front lobby.
“Room 314,” the woman said without looking up. “Third floor, east wing. Turn right when you get off the elevator.” Without raising her head, she pointed toward a bank of elevators next to a small gift shop down the hall.
“Thank you.” Jeff wondered if he should buy his mother some flowers or maybe a magazine and was glad the gift shop was still closed so he didn’t have to decide. He hadn’t bought her anything since he was a child, he remembered, picturing the bottle of perfume he’d purchased from the drugstore for her birthday one year. He’d saved up his allowance for months to buy the pretty star-shaped bottle, only to watch his mother sniff at it disdainfully, then push it aside. “His father probably helped him pick it out,” he’d heard her complain to one of her friends over the phone later that night. “Smells like one of his whores.”
“Okay, don’t do this,” he muttered into the collar of his black shirt. Not now, he continued silently. He hadn’t come all this way to reopen old wounds. There was nothing either of them could do about the past. It was what it was, and the good thing about the past was that it was over. Yes, his mother had made mistakes. Plenty of them. And maybe it had taken her all her life to realize how wrong she’d been, that it had been cruel and selfish to abandon him, but she realized it now, and she was truly sorry for everything she’d done. Please forgive me, he heard her beg, her dying eyes filling with tears of regret. I love you. I’ve always loved you.
What would he do? Jeff wondered, proceeding cautiously down the hall as if navigating a dense fog. Would he be able to say it back? Would he be able to take her frail hand in his and look into those pleading eyes and lie to her, tell her that yes, despite everything, he loved her, too? Could he do that?
And would it really be a lie?
Jeff found himself holding his breath, as if trying to block out the unpleasant combination of hospital odors, the smell of antiseptic vying for control over the smell of the sick, he thought, as he stepped into a waiting elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. Before the doors could shut, four more people suddenly hurried inside, including a young man whose name tag on his white coat identified him as Dr. Wang. He looks barely out of his teens, Jeff thought, remembering that when he was a little boy, he’d had dreams of becoming a doctor. Maybe with a little encouragement . . . Or maybe not, he decided, remembering he’d also had dreams of becoming a fireman and an acrobat. He released the air in his lungs as the elevator opened onto the third floor, and he stepped out, turning right as he’d been directed and proceeding down the hall until he came to room 314.
He stopped in front of the closed door, trying to gather his thoughts as he looked up and down the empty hall. I should have called Ellie, he was thinking, made arrangements to meet her here. Then they could have gone in t
ogether. He wouldn’t have had to face his mother alone.
“Don’t be stupid,” he whispered under his breath. She’s dying, for God’s sake. She can’t hurt you anymore.
He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly as he pushed open the door, trying to arrange his features into an impassive mask as he stepped inside the room. “She doesn’t look anything like you remember,” he recalled Ellie telling him during an earlier phone conversation. “You can hardly recognize her anymore. She’s lost so much weight, and her skin is almost transparent.”
Jeff braced himself for what he was about to see, concentrating on a square of vinyl flooring as he tried mustering his strength. Only after several seconds and a few more deep breaths was he able to raise his eyes from the floor.
The bed was empty.
Jeff stood there for a minute, not moving, not sure what to do.
Of course, there’d been a mistake. Either the woman at the front desk had given him the wrong room number, or he’d pushed open the wrong door. But even as he was returning to the hall to check on the room number, even as he was hurrying down the corridor to the nurses’ station, even as he was asking the pretty, dark-skinned nurse to tell him where he could find Diane Rydell, even as he was pondering the highly improbable possibility that Ellie might have registered their mother under another name or taken her to another hospital, he knew that the information he’d been given was correct, that no mistake had been made.
“I’m so sorry,” the nurse was telling him. “Mrs. Rydell passed this morning.”
Passed? Jeff thought. What do you mean, she passed ? Passed what ? “What are you saying?” Jeff demanded impatiently, taking an involuntary step back as the true meaning of the euphemism sank in. “You’re saying she died?”
“At around five thirty this morning,” the nurse elaborated, a look of concern flashing through her deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry. You are . . . ?”
“Jeff Rydell.”
“You’re related?”
“I’m her son,” Jeff said quietly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize she had a son,” the nurse said.
