Fear of Heights

by Mara White

  While the girls decorate the cupcakes with buttercream frosting, I cajole Carmen into giving me some details. It doesn’t surprise me that my father spoke accusingly to both Carmen and Janet; he’s an anti-immigration libertarian at best—at worst, a racist—and he’s not at his best when his daughter’s disappeared. The cops were predictable, citing standard procedure and counting down the top reasons that spouses go missing.

  What surprises me in her account is that Robert, Janinie, and Janet all said nothing about Emily’s stolen items or the mistaken identity. Not a single mention of the trip or even the drugs. According to Carmen, they acted as if Emily suddenly disappeared into thin air without any hint of motive or cause.

  Carmen recounts what sounds like a hostile exchange between Janet and Robert. I guess they’re both stressed, and I’m sure Janet wasn’t happy to be included in any meeting that involves the police.

  “I don’t understand why they even brought Janinie and Janet to the meeting if they weren’t planning on telling the truth. Why bring Jaylee’s family into it, then?”

  Carmen shushes me quickly as Robert walks into the kitchen. But of course it’s too late and Robert has been listening to our conversation.

  “Carmen, could we please give it a rest? Kate’s been through a lot and needs time to recover. I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from the gossip.”

  She inhales sharply at the jab but remains silent. I have the sudden fear that Carmen could leave us. Why should she even go through all this with us, if she’s under unfair suspicion?

  “You. Bed. Now.” Robert says, pointing a finger at me. “I’ll be upstairs in the study if anyone needs me.”

  Carmen throws him the same dagger eyes that I gave him earlier and goes to the sink to dampen a towel, then cleans batter off Ada’s fingers until Ada yelps, “¡Ow, Carmen, eso me duele!”

  Carmen takes Ada’s fingers and kisses them sweetly as Robert leaves.

  “I guess I’ll lie down on the sofa,” I say.

  “Kate!” Carmen says, wiping her brow with the back of her wrist, her thick golden rings visible from the underside of her hand. “¡No confíes en él!”

  “No te preocupes, Carmen.” I know all too well that I can neither trust him or beat him.

  Later, after the girls are tucked in, I make my way to Robert’s study. He’s staring at the computer screen, with his elbows on the table and his fingers massaging his temples.

  “Do you think we can talk? About why I’m being excluded?”

  “Kate, I’ve got deadlines to make and it doesn’t help that today I wasn’t in the office. I missed time last week over this debacle in DR and I’m about at my wits’ end.”

  “Robert, Emily is my only sister. I know we’re not close, but I can’t just sit back and watch when it’s my fault they took her.”

  He turns around and levels a look at me that makes me inadvertently shrink back.

  “Kate, you know what this is really about? It’s about your need to always be the center of attention.”

  “What? I just want to help, and do something besides lie around in bed. I’m not trying to make this about myself, Robert.”

  “Really? Because I could swear that you let yourself get knocked up by some delinquent hoodlum, then ran off to a developing country to undergo a questionable abortion.”

  He’s not done being angry. This is just the beginning. How is any of that relevant to Emily’s kidnapping? I shudder at his accusations and his callousness. This is how my husband sees me now: as someone who screws things up on purpose to get attention from others.

  “Don’t tell me you weren’t trying to play on everyone’s sympathy so they’d take pity on you! How do I know that this last charade isn’t your doing? Everything else up until now has been.”

  “Robert, I—“ I stop and my mouth gapes open like a fish. I realize he’ll misinterpret everything I say.

  I’m stuck in a marriage that’s running on anger and resentment. With the deals we’ve been making, it looks like I’m in it to stay.

  That evening, Robert comes in and makes some excuse about why he has to go to the office. I nod my head without any protest. The real reason he’s leaving is that he can’t bear to lie next to me. He’s called Stephani, our babysitter, to come over, because he doesn’t want me to get out of bed.

  “I’m not feeling so weak anymore, Robert. I’m fine. I’ve recovered.”

  “If you’ve recovered from your lapses in judgment, I trust you won’t try to meddle in what no longer concerns you.”

  He’s talking about Jaylee, Janinie, Emily—all of it. It sounds like a warning. Maybe even a threat.

  “It’s almost painful to stay in bed when I know she’s out there in danger.”

  “I’d feel better if I knew you were resting. You need to take a break—not just physically, but mentally,” he says and plants an icy, closed-mouth kiss on my lips. He straightens his tie and pushes back off of the bed.

  He wants me to lie down and shut up. Apparently, I’m hysterical, even crazy. I’m making everything up. Why don’t you tie me to the bed and gag me, Robert? Because that’s what your “caretaking” feels like: being a prisoner.

  When I hear the door downstairs click, fury releases thorough my body. I throw the pillows at the door and punch my fists into the mattress. I’m so full of despair, part of me wishes I’d died with my baby.

  Chapter 6

  Ten minutes later, I walk out the front door and charge up Broadway. I’m not even sure where I’m going. I just want to run away from the pain and leave behind this disaster of a marriage. I feel self-injurious. I want to punch myself in the face—inflict black eyes and bruises—in exchange for broken hearts. I want to throw myself into traffic. The pain of losing my child is hitting me again so hard. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to keep the baby. But now on my chest lies a fucking freight-load of grief. But I can’t even let myself grieve yet because things keep going wrong, and I have to fix them. Maybe I should be heading toward the hospital to check myself in.

  Somehow I’m drawn to Jaylee’s house on autopilot—even though I know perfectly well that he’s not there. I need solace. I want Jaylee’s arms around me. I need him to be near. I want someone to hold me, to erase everything that hurts.

  Then I remember that someone else is here, maybe even waiting for me. Maybe he can help. Ideal, the calm voice in the dark. He soothed me once and now I need him again.

  I have thought about ending my own life more times than I want to admit. I think about throwing myself off of a bridge, or walking directly in front of an oncoming train. I couldn’t do that to Ada and Pearl. I could do it to Robert.

  The girls are the only thing holding me back from self-destructing. But now I’m starting to think that maybe they’re better off without me.

  There’s no way for me to grieve for Jaylee, for our baby. I’m not allowed to mourn the loss of something I was never supposed to have. I can shut it up, lock it in, but it’s pounding so hard for escape right now that my chest can’t contain it; I’m leaking sadness with every step that I take. Behind my sadness, anger rages, and I feel volatile, reckless. I’m the most fucking dangerous I’ve ever been. I’m scared of myself.

  I storm toward a group of corner boys gathered outside the barbershop on 158th Street. They’re gambling, tossing quarters and exchanging rapid-fire encouragements and chiding comments that quickly turn to insults and laughter. Jaylee called it rayita. I watched him play it a few times. That man could charm money out of a total stranger’s pockets; not once did he lose.

  Their Caribbean accents are thick and heavy; they make me long for Jaylee’s voice. His is steady and low, raspy when he’s emotional. The longing invades my body as a dull, physical ache. I’ve stopped walking entirely and now I’m just staring like an idiot, mesmerized by their exchange.

  As I close in on their circle, one baby-faced man elbows the guy next to him and nods his chin in my direction. Their voices go hushed and the circle spli
ts and pulls back into a formation that looks like a receiving line. These boys have no idea how close to the edge I’m hanging. Then again, maybe they know. My private life is public knowledge in this neighborhood.

  I purposely make eye contact with as many of them as I can. I silently dare them to do or say anything. Just give me a little push. Have you heard I’m a madwoman? Want to watch me go off? None of you can stop me.

  But instead, their faces, their posturing, and their attention focused strictly on me—these all awaken something else. A familiar fire sparks: desire.

  I’m appalled at myself. I need to keep moving.

  I’m almost safely past them when a voice calls, “Hey!” I can’t tell if it’s accusing or inviting.

  It must be him. Time to put a face to the name.

  When I turn around, I search their faces for Jaylee because I can’t stop looking for him—in every voice, in every man, in every reflection I see.

  “Hey, Kate.”

  His eyes are dark and sultry, framed by two perfectly arched brows. He steps closer to me, and I see that the downward slope of his left eyebrow has two neat divots made with a razor.

  He does in fact know me. His hair is longer now, twisted back into intricate cornrows, but I’d still recognize him anywhere.

  He’s the man from the park-house bathroom.

  We’ve made eye contact before and my face reddens in recognition, my lips part in surprise. He grins at me. It’s a non-threatening expression. His eyes flash dark but his face is relaxed, even inviting. And me? I’m running on fumes. I think my only sustenance for days now has been fear. I’m terrified by what commands me now under his gaze—it’s pure, uninhibited desire, and it’s pooling right between my legs.

  How quickly and accurately Ideal reads me: he takes a few swift steps, grabs my wrist, and pulls me around the corner, out of sight of the street and the other men. I can hear their banter resume with extra ruckus over this new development. They must all think they know what I came for.

  But I’m strangely immune to everything in this moment except for this man, the recognition in his face—and his base and unconcealed need for me. My own desire is sweet and delicious, seeping into my bloodstream, blocking out everything else, offering me precious relief. I know I didn’t come for sex—but now I can’t remember what I came for.

  All I feel is honeyed desire that promises to drown me and suffocate the hurt, and oh, how I long to be drowned! If each breath hurts, I no longer want to breathe. But if you make love to me, maybe then I can just be.

  His hand slides down from my waist to the curve of my hip, signaling his intentions. He pulls me into the building, away from the street, but just a few feet from where the corner boys were gathered. He speaks to me, his voice echoing throughout the foyer and its grubby glass. He’s asking questions. I don’t bother to answer. Please. We don’t have to speak.

  I register nothing but his greedy hands all over me, his mouth converging with mine. In his kiss I search deeply for some delicate connection to Jaylee. A thin thread of memory, because once, this man bore witness to our love.

  “I saw you were missing on the neighborhood fliers. Now it’s your sister on the news.”

  This almost pulls me out. But I won’t let it; I’m too far-gone to let go of my one single chance at oblivion.

  “I don’t want you to talk to me, please. I just want you to take me. Make it hurt if you can—maybe it will help me—stop me from hurting.”

  I don’t care if he thinks I’m crazy.

  I look into his eyes pleadingly. His are afire but they grow distant at this. The distance signals to me that this man is in control. That’s what I want; it’s precisely what I need.

  He pulls me into a small, dingy elevator and I place my hands on his shoulders and bury my face in his neck. I definitely don’t want to look at him. His hands are rough; he’s grabbing my ass, and begins biting and sucking on my neck. I want him to stop, but deep inside I’ve already given him permission. Knowing how quickly I surrendered, the victory cannot taste very sweet.

  He smells so unfamiliar to me, like a complete stranger, and it spikes my adrenaline higher. His hand slips inside my pants; he brushes his fingertips along my sex, and I quake involuntarily against him. I’m ashamed of how wet I already am.

  I gasp for air as soon as we leave the elevator. He pulls me down a long corridor to the very last apartment, and digs deep into his jeans pocket until he comes up with keys. He opens the door into a wide living room that smells strongly of fresh paint. There is an elderly man perched on a plastic-covered sofa, wearing only boxers and an undershirt, staring vacantly at a television.

  “Papá,” says the young man from the park-house, “Te va’ a morir de frío.” He quietly covers him with a faded fleece blanket from the back of the couch, tucking it around his legs to make sure it won’t slip off.

  This display of compassion is too much for me; I don’t want to be this person who’s so full of need.

  The old man slowly moves his gaze from the muted television screen to me and mouths the word, “Buenas,” his lower lip trembling with age.

  “Buenas,” I whisper back. He doesn’t realize it’s nighttime.

  I can see my sister’s name in the yellow ticker across the bottom of the screen, even on the Spanish channel. I have no idea if this is my father’s doing, or Robert’s, or the city’s. I only know that the never-ending repeat aligns perfectly with my grief. My sister is everywhere and nowhere—her disappearance on a loop, as city leaders scramble to find her before they’re forced to admit who took her. They’ll do anything to prevent the image of power this will hand to the streets. Washington Heights is falling back into the hands of the bad guys. But we all know that the supply is tailored to meet the need.

  I shouldn’t have come here.

  A sob escapes me and I fall to my knees. Ideal swoops in and grabs me gruffly, lifting me like a package over his shoulder. He’s likely determined not to lose this fragile fuck that is quickly deteriorating over unforeseen events.

  “Let me go!” I shout. He kicks open a door and tosses me onto a low bed, and my body bounces and jerks in weak protest.

  “I don’t want you. I want to die,” I wail, swallowed by misery.

  “Shut the fuck up. I remember you. I know what you need,” he answers, stripping down.

  I pull my knees to my chest and look away out the window toward the fire escape. The sky is dark. The pigeons are asleep. I’m not sure I can go through with this. I don’t really know sex without love. I’ve fought to get back so many times now. It makes no sense to be seeking out places from which I can never return. Dark, dark places. Slow, slow burn.

  “Hey,” he calls gently.

  And I reluctantly turn my head to look at him. He’s naked and magnificent, his hard cock gripped ruthlessly in his hand. I do want his hands on me. I especially want his mouth. But I don’t know how to ask for it, and I am so incredibly ashamed. I roll onto my stomach and groan.

  He reaches down and grabs me roughly underneath the armpits, pulling me until I’m kneeling on the bed, his stunning erection hot against my cheek. I press my body into his in desperation and he guides my mouth to exactly where he wants it to go.

  I can lose myself in this. I can easily forget. His hands are rough, and they tug wildly in my hair. He pulls and yanks my head as he takes my mouth fast and hard. I shouldn’t like it, but I do. Something about the harshness and urgency speaks to the depths of me—it communicates with my own raw, emotional state. I suck and lave and take him as deeply as I can, trying to syphon some drop of my own pleasure from his pleasure.

  This is reckless abandon. I suddenly and profoundly understand what that means.

  He drags me up along his body and smashes his mouth into mine. It’s hot and foreign to me, kissing a stranger. I kiss him back with a longing that borders on pathology. I seek in the depths of this kiss some remote and ephemeral connection to Jaylee. A thin silver thread. Anything it could
possibly mean to have this man bear witness to our love—to have shared it, in some way. If what he retains is no more than a momentary snapshot I’ll take it. I’ll take absolutely anything I can get.

  He pulls my hair back and bites into the tender flesh of my neck, right below my ear. His hands find the clasp of my jeans and he undoes them and pushes them down to my knees. His hands capture my ass possessively and his breath comes heavy on my neck.

  “Get on your stomach and stick your ass in the air,” he says.

  I do as I’m told.

  He doesn’t even bother with my breasts. That’s fine with me. I’m not here for romance; I am here in hopelessness. I’m here in a furious desperation, to rid myself of this need.

  “You look fucking hot like that. I can’t blame Inoa for getting hooked when I see you like that.”

  I flip around, almost falling because my knees are tethered together with my jeans. I sit up quickly and slam the base of my palm straight into his chin.

  “Fuck!” he bellows, reeling back and gripping his chin defensively. His gaze on me intensifies. He likes the fight. His erection swells more, his desire heightened by my reaction. Then he’s on me like lightning, and I’m flailing, my arms hitting at the air as much as they’re hitting him. He crushes me down onto the mattress and pins both of my arms at my sides, my face millimeters from his.

  “¡Shit, Diablo, Mami! ¿Tú quiere’ o no?”

  “Don’t talk about him. Don’t even say his name!”

  I’m crying and choking and sobbing, all the while still bucking against his body and trying to wrestle free from his weight.

  “Dime que tú no quiere’ y te suelto!” he says.

  But I can’t tell him no, because the truth is that I do want him. I need him. And despite trying to throw him off, my hips are grinding against his, and I’m soaked with my own contemptible desire. Drowning in my own ghastly need.