by Ryan Schow
“What are you?” she asks me. Her voice sounds like the voice inside her head.
“A different version of you,” I admit, my skin drenched with sweat, my body in so much discomfort it’s either too hot or too cold, I can’t tell.
“No,” she says. “You’re something else.”
“I’m just like you,” I say, my bones feeling melted, or crunchy, too soft or too pliable to be real. “I’m someone’s experimental doll. Someone’s guinea pig.”
Scooting off the couch, I say, “Move,” and she moves. Like it’s no big thing. Up front in the reception area, I wait. When Rebecca joins me, she’s in shorts, a black tank top and a pair of sandals that look too big on her. She’s too pretty for such a slapdash ensemble.
“Before we leave town,” I tell her, “we’re getting you some new clothes.”
“These are fine,” she says. She sounds drugged. Like maybe she was given a sedative, even though I know she wasn’t. I take the keys on the reception desk and we start to leave when Quentin stops us.
“I don’t want you taking my car,” he says, somehow materializing out of thin air.
“We sure as hell aren’t walking.”
“Take Holland’s Porsche. It’s at the apartment and it’s on the way. Brooklyn will have the keys ready for you.”
“I kind of like the Jag,” I tease.
“I like it more,” he says, totally serious. “Take the Porsche.”
9
Brayden got in the hearse (which he was so ready to give up driving now) and headed for Palo Alto. On the way there, he called his father and said, “How are you?”
“Hey son, I’m doing good, you?”
Brayden thought about it for a moment, then said, “Conflicted.”
“About?”
“Life, girls, this freaking death mobile I’m driving.” His father promised him a new car and he was more anxious than ever to get it, but that wasn’t why he was calling.
“Well I can’t help you with the meaning of life, and it’s great you have problems with girls because that means there are some in your life—”
“True.”
“The car issue, however, I can help you with. My assistant is flying into Sacramento today to pick up your new Mustang, as requested.”
“Really?” Oh, thank God, he thought. “That was quick.”
“Per your request, I purchased an electric blue Mustang GT, and I had it customized the way you wanted. I saw the pictures of the car this morning and it looks…wow. You’ll love it.”
“Really?” he said, hardly able to contain his excitement. “Send them to me.”
“I’d rather you see it in person,” he said. Brayden could hear him smiling on the other end of the phone. “It’s totally boss.”
Brayden laughed out loud and said, “Yeah? How so?”
“It’s dropped almost two inches and set on concave wheels. Twenty inch Vossen’s. The windows are blacked out and I had a cold air intake and a performance chip installed.”
“Which means it’s fast as shit and gets nine miles to the gallon,” Brayden said, in awe. He couldn’t wait to see the thing. It sounded sick.
“Yes, but only in the city. You’ll get fifteen on the highway.”
Sometimes, when the world seems to be raining diarrhea, something as simple as a new car can really lift your spirits. “Thank you, dad. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Brayden wondered, it’s the least he could do for what? For me not seeing him or my two moms, for not being a part of the business he one day hoped to give to me, or for me taking a lot more than I’m giving?
“Why are you so good to me?” he heard himself ask.
“Because you’re my son.”
“I’ve screwed up pretty good over the years though,” he said. The things his father knew about him, they were nothing compared to those things he was still hiding. “I feel like I’ve done nothing but disappoint you.”
“You don’t stop loving your kids because they make mistakes. Hell, that’s part of life. If you knew how many times I made bad decisions and stupid decisions, you might feel a whole lot better about your own life.”
Thinking of what happened in Santa Monica, how he’d taken his father’s Christmas gift of learning the art of pick-up and used it to have sex with hot women he later hurt, how he could not stop obsessing about the pre-dead Abby, he knew his father’s oversights more than paled in comparison to his.
“I hacked into the FBI, dad. I got arrested by the Feds.”
“We fixed that.”
“I just, I don’t know. I’m feeling pretty disappointed in myself right now.”
“Don’t worry about that shit,” he said. “You’re just finding your own way. Every kid does it. It’s one of the many cycles of life.”
His heart swelled, which surprised him, and all the sudden he really missed his family, his home. “I love you, dad.”
“Me too, son. Me, too.”
Brayden arrived at Abby’s home and was walking up to the front door when a gorgeous pearl white Mercedes-Benz S550 coupe with tinted windows drove up. It was lowered on 20’s and looked brand new. A 2016. So new to the market and so rare, he’d never even seen one in person. Looking at it, unable to see the driver because of the reflecting sun, he was thinking the best cars are always customized. Just like his new ‘stang.
The front door to the house opened even before he knocked and a very stunned looking Christian Swann stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you about Abby. We need to get our stories straight when it comes to Abby giving her official statement to the police. I’m assuming she hasn’t done that yet.”
Behind him, he heard a car door open and shut, and then the chirp of the alarm. When he turned around, strutting up the walkway was the sexiest, most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. She wore a black pencil skirt with black heels, a charcoal satin blouse and a floppy black sun hat, the oversized kind you see in the Hamptons with the brim curved down over half the face to cover one eye.
“Oh my God,” he heard himself say. He couldn’t help that it just came out, but he wasn’t embarrassed either. He stopped being embarrassed in front of girls and women in Vegas.
She gave a triumphant smile, seeing his reaction, and even a little laugh. She looked like a commercial for something fizzy and fun, something light and airy that might later lead to a bar and drinks and über triumphant sex. She put out her hand and said, “I’m Orianna.” He took her delicate hand in his and she said, “Brayden, I presume?”
“You presume right,” he said, exhilarated that she knew who he was. Perhaps it was the shitty old hearse out front. It certainly wasn’t his good looks.
“Your reputation precedes you,” she said, her voice so silky soft you could almost feel it on your cheek.
“I certainly hope not,” he chortled. “My reputation’s a bit questionable these days.”
She laughed along with him and said, “Charming, too.”
“Trouble is what he is,” Christian announced. Brayden didn’t let go of her hand, and she was in no rush to get it back. “Ten more seconds of you holding on to her hand,” Christian said, “and it’s going to be sexual assault.”
“I’ll let go in nine seconds then, Christian,” Brayden replied. “I think this might be love at first sight. That maybe such a phenomenon does exist.” He said all of this looking right into Orianna’s sparkling eyes.
“There are plenty of cute girls at Astor, I’m sure,” Orianna said.
“Yes, but…you’re no girl. You’re a woman. A woman so incredibly…attractive…mere words fail to do your beauty justice.”
Behind him, Christian groaned. “Jesus Christ, Brayden. Stop gushing or you’re going to piss me off. And let go of her hand already. It’s been ten seconds.”
“No offence, Mr. Swann, but Orianna and I are having a moment here.”
Orianna laughed agai
n, then leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, “C’mon Christian, don’t you remember what it was like to be young?”
“Don’t encourage the boy,” Christian said. Orianna let go of his hand, then she walked around Brayden and said, “Now where is that lovely daughter of yours?”
And that’s when Brayden snapped out of it.
Inside, Abby hugged Orianna, then said, “I’m so glad you came.” Looking at Brayden, she frowned and said, “You, however, I did not expect to show up.”
“Unannounced no less,” Christian added.
If they’re trying to make me feel bad, Brayden wondered, then they’re succeeding on all fronts.
“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Orianna said, coming to his defense. “Please come in and enlighten us as to the nature of your visit.”
“It’s about Santa Monica,” Christian said.
“Oh,” Orianna said. “That.”
“You know about Santa Monica?” Brayden said, reeling.
“There are few secrets between Christian and I,” she said. “We have been friends for entirely too long for that, haven’t we, dear?”
He took her hand and said, “It’s true.”
“I don’t know if I’m more bummed that our business is no longer private or that you’re holding his hand,” he said to Orianna.
“Easy, hustler,” Christian laughed. “This one’s out of your league.”
“There you go,” he teased, “stepping on my dreams again.”
“I’m going to talk to the police today,” Abby announced. “Christian prepped me.”
“Really,” Brayden challenged, wondering why Abby was calling her father Christian and not “dad,” like she usually did. “I want to know exactly what you’re going to say, and if it’s not matching my story, there’s a good chance we could go to jail. You know that, right?”
“She knows,” Christian said. He was giving Brayden that look again. Like Brayden was the problem and his daughter was just an angel in a bind.
“You know she wanted to go down there herself and kill that guy, right?” Brayden said. “You know he would’ve killed her if I hadn’t intervened?”
Christian held up his hands and said, “I never wanted the details. Don’t tell me any more of them.” Beside him, Orianna lost her jovial look.
“You keep acting like I’m the problem, when it’s her, man. No offense, but Abby’s the problem.” The carefree tone of the day, it was fading fast.
“Why do you keep helping her?” Abby said, “I mean, me. Why do you keep helping me?”
“Yes, why?” Christian echoed.
Now everyone was looking at him. He considered his answer, took a quick measure of the consequences and thought, screw it, they need to know the truth.
“I was in love with her,” he said, looking at Abby when he confessed this. “You do not know what your daughter became, not that any of this matters anymore. She’s not herself. She isn’t anyone I recognize. And she has no idea what we’ve been through, the things we survived, the sacrifices I’ve made for her.” Now, pointedly looking at Christian, he said, “And neither do you, for that matter.”
“That’s enough,” Orianna said, and Brayden had to admit, the order meant more coming from her than it did Christian or Abby.
“You’re right, Orianna. That’s the other thing I came to say. I can’t keep putting myself in jeopardy to protect her. To save her from herself. I won’t do that anymore. I’m done.”
The four of them fell perfectly silent. Brayden’s ringing cell phone broke the silence. He recognized the number, felt himself being swallowed into the darkest hole ever, again.
“Yes?” he answered in a shaky voice.
Orianna went to Abby and held her. Christian broke off to the kitchen to pop the top off a fresh beer. Everyone was listening to him, though, because he knew it was rude to answer his phone in the midst of a heated and very revealing conversation.
The masculine voice in the phone skipped any pleasantries and said, “It has come to our attention that you are being investigated in connection with the murders of Demetrius and Bryn Giardino.”
“They killed each other. Check with the investigating officer. His name is—”
“We know his name,” the voice interrupted.
“Then why are you calling?”
“To let you know we know. If you somehow violated the provisions of our arrangement, you will be charged for a very long list of crimes, and punished to the full extent of the law. We were generous with you, Mr. James, because the influence your father yields. But if anything in this investigation stinks, we will open a new investigation of our own.”
“Yeah? That’s what you’re going to do? I’ll tell you what, I did nothing wrong, and I did nothing to circumvent the provisions of our agreement, so if you’re yearning to investigate something, why don’t you investigate the backside of my nuts.”
And then he hung up, steamed.
“Feds, I presume?” Christian said, barely containing his laughter.
He nodded. “Everything federal and electronic is interconnected now. Domestic privacy is gone.” Holding up the phone, he said, “Here’s the proof.”
“Can they do that?” Abby said. “Spy on us like that?” She looked very dumb asking the question. Ever since George Bush Jr.’s presidency crossed the Constitutional lines into domestic spying, the Fourth Amendment—our right to privacy—it’s practically gone. Christ, he couldn’t help wondering, didn’t everyone know that?
The corners of his mouth turned down and he felt his entire face shift into a frown. “And there’s your proof that the old Abby is gone. The old Abby would never ask such a preposterous question.” He shook his head in disgust, then said, “Orianna, it was more than a pleasure to meet you, and Christian, it’s always so invigorating. Abby,” he said, and she stared dispassionately at him, like she’d missed something important and was waiting for someone to enlighten her as to what it was. He just poured out his soul to them and she was waiting for a punch line.
When he left, it was a rock solid good-bye, an “I’m never coming back” sort of good-bye. Netty was right. Abby had an impossible hold over him, and he would miss her, but the Abby he knew died back in San Francisco. He kind of expected this of her, though. Orianna, however, he didn’t expect. And then seeing Holland’s Porsche SUV pull up to the house? For the love of our Lord and savior, Brayden didn’t expect that either.
He thought, what is he doing here? But it wasn’t Holland driving. It was someone else entirely. Someone he most definitely had to know.
10
The drive to the Swann residence in Palo Alto is not a long one. Rebecca, however, uses up every bit of the ride asking me questions. She starts the drive off with, “Why are you helping me?”
“Like I said, Rebecca, people care about you.”
“And you’re one of them?”
“Of course,” I tell her.
“But you don’t know me,” Rebecca says.
“Actually,” I say, “I know you better than you think.”
“The only person who really knows me is Abby.”
“I told you, Abby’s memories are gone and they may not return.”
“So Abby doesn’t know me, but you do?” Rebecca said. “I don’t think so.”
I knew something like this would happen, but what I learned a long time ago is there are things and circumstances you simply can’t prepare for. I like to think honesty is the best policy, but it isn’t always the right policy.
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Rebecca asks, turning her entire body to face me. I don’t like how she’s putting me on the spot. Lying is a necessary evil, especially if you’re protecting the sanity of those you love. Still, I hate lying. Especially now. When I was Abby, I didn’t lie to her. You just don’t lie to the people you love.
“I’m not telling you a lot, Rebecca. It’s for your protection. Since you�
�ve been under, a lot of bad things have happened.”
“That’s bologna,” she says, crossing her arms, facing forward again.
Is she…pouting? OMG, she is! I almost erupt with laughter at her tweener bitch fit until I remind myself she is in fact twelve years old, mentally. She looks twenty, a full grown woman, and a super hot hottie at that. But her mind never had the time or circumstances to develop itself beyond twelve because she was put in stasis and used as an experimental baby-making machine, and God knows what else.
“Nobody says that anymore, Rebecca. People say, ‘That’s bullshit.’”
She doesn’t say anything. She just turns and looks out the passenger side window. After a few minutes, she says, “So why don’t I know you, and how do you know so much about me?”
“I have…abilities.”
“Like what?”
When you’re going to talk about the impossible with a child in a woman’s body, you tend to be judicious with your words. Slowing at a yellow light, I say, “The landscape of your mind is an open book to me.”
“You can read my mind?” she says, jumping around in her seat to face me again.
“I can sift through it and know your entire past. Everything about it. All the things you remembered and a few things you don’t.”
“Like what? I mean, tell me some things. So I know you’re not full of…bullshit.”
Smiling, I correct her. “Full of shit. You say, ‘so I know you’re not full of shit.’”
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.”
“I know you lost almost a decade of your life, that you were put into the pink goop when you were eleven or twelve, and now you’re somewhere near twenty in physical age. I know you woke up as someone different, the same as me. I know you saw your father murder your mother. That he wanted to kill you both because he blamed you two for ruining his big dreams of being a country singer. I know you were kidnapped by a rogue CPS asset, a shitty woman who sold you to Dr. Heim, the same asshole who kidnapped you from Abby’s after she saved you.”
At the mention of Dr. Heim, her eyes flash wide with panic. “Where is he? The doctor?”
