by K. Bromberg
His balls slapped my clit, and his dick plowed against it. I was going to come. I felt it in my muscles, and when they tensed and clenched, it was a release, not a joy. Just a job well done.
He came with an oof, and I rolled my eyes.
He stroked my back from neck to ass. “Baby—”
“Get out. I have shit to do.”
“Why’s it gotta be like that?” He got the condom off and rolled it up in toilet paper.
I stood up. “How else should it be?”
“You don’t want me to be nice?”
“You thought you were the one using me? Funny.”
“You some kinda weirdo?”
“You’re in a mental ward, dude. Come on. Get the fuck out of my bathroom.”
Condom stowed in his pocket, pants zipped, girl disinterested, he got the hint and opened the door. He was almost out, but being a man, he needed the last word.
“Slut.”
fourteen.
“Last session,” Elliot said. “How do you feel?”
He looked relaxed, clean-shaven, happy. I hadn’t realized how troubled he’d looked during our last session.
“I’m okay. Are you going to let me go?”
“I can only make a recommendation. After this session, I’ll type it up, and we’ll meet with Frances and your lawyer. Give me an hour after we’re done. Your mother and lawyer are already here.”
I sit on the couch. “Are we doing hypnosis again today?”
He shrugged. “Sure, if you’re up for it. I’d like to try to find more recent memories. Track back to the last thing you remember.”
I laid back. “We tried this before.”
“Maybe things have changed.” He sat next to me and got out his pen.
I wished I could have met him under different circumstances. When he was a seminarian, before I was a happy little fuckdoll, when things could have been kind of normal. That absurd sense of humor would drive me insane while my affluenza frustrated him.
“Things have changed,” I said, though I couldn’t define them.
“Keep your eyes on the tip of the pen.”
***
Are you relaxed?
I am. I feel a freedom I hadn’t felt before. I feel hopeful and generous, sweet and melancholy. Emboldened and encouraged, ready to start a new journey, a life after this incident.
I want you to think about the ride here, to Westonwood. Can you remember that?
I don’t. It’s not even a blur; it’s blank.
Go back a little further. To the stables. You were given a shot. Do you remember the pain in your arm?
The black goes grey, and I feel something in my arm, as if I’m being poked with a rigid finger. I feel something else, a pounding in my chest, a confusion that I’m separate from. I can’t tell what’s happening, besides the feeling of being restrained.
Go back further. Before the shot.
I don’t want to. I feel the resistance binding me to my forgetfulness, the comfort of not knowing. If I lean into it, just a little, maybe I can see what happened without feeling it. Maybe I can observe coldly, like a reporter noting facts for relevance, not profundity. If I let myself accept that fear, I’ll know. So I relax into where the rope of my fear pulls and binds me, dropping into some unknown graphite-colored place in my head. I expect to go back in my memory a minute, two minutes, half an hour, but intuitively, though I can’t tell the whens and wheres, I know I’ve gone back further.
His breath falls on my cheek, and a pain in my arm runs from my wrist to the sensitive side of my bicep.
“You did not,” he says from deep in his throat. He’s naked, stunning, the stink of sex and blood on him. He pins me to the wall, the friction screaming against the open skin on my ass.
Regret. Pounds of it. Miles wide. Regret to the depth of my broken spirit.
“I’m sorry.” Am I? Or am I just saying it?
“Why?”
My wrist hurts. He’s pressing it so hard against the wall, as if I’d leave, as if I’d ever turn my back on him. Yet I want to get away, to run, to show him that I can abandon him the way he abandons me.
I wiggle, but he only presses harder and demands, “Why?”
“Get off me!”
“Tell me why!” His eyes are wider, his teeth flashing as if he wants to rip out my throat. “Why?”
“I need it!”
The words come out before I think, and they’re poison to him. Before I expect it, he slaps me in the mouth. He lets me go, and I fall to the floor. When I look at him, he’s cradling the lower half of his face as if he can’t believe what he’s done. He’s slapped me plenty, but not in anger. Not without me halfway in subspace and high on dopamine. Never outside a scene.
But that’s nothing compared to what he does next. The ropes of my fear try to pull me away, back to safety, and I let them.
What is it? What does he do?
I must have been silent too long. I must have watched Deacon’s face, frozen in my memory, for a second too many. The sense that he is going to do something terrible is all I have, but I don’t remember what it is. When Elliot asks from the present what Deacon does, I stay to see it.
“I’m sorry,” Deacon says.
I don’t say anything. My face hurts, and I taste liquid copper. We stay like that forever, or time is stretched in my memory. This is the moment I can tell him it’s okay, or the moment I can be angry, or I can have a reaction that will make him not do what he’s going to do.
But I don’t do anything. Not a word or gesture.
He walks out.
I don’t know why there’s a finality to it that I haven’t ever felt before, but there is. When the bedroom door clicks behind him, that’s it.
I want to wake up. I don’t want to observe my emotions, even as a time-traveling bystander.
You’re fidgeting.
Pinkerton Pinkerton Pinkerton
Okay, on three, you’ll wake rested and happy.
Amanda’s next to her hot pink Bugattti. Pinkerton, before it became the assassin of the 405. She tips, holds herself straight, smiles at me. Oh, no. I don’t think so.
One.
I snap the keys from her and give them to Charlie. I open the passenger door in the front, even though it’s her car. Let her sit in the back. I don’t want her puking on Charlie when he’s driving.
Two.
I’m not in the mood to die.
Three.
***
“You associate those two things,” Elliot said. “Amanda dying, and Deacon hitting you.”
“He hit me all the time. It was a turn-on.”
“Hard enough to break a molar?”
I heard him shift in his chair. I wanted to sit upright, but my body felt like the inside of a broken egg.
“Did you usually sit in the back of Pinkerton?”
“If Charlie was driving and it’s Amanda’s car, I should be in the back. That’s just social mores. But Amanda got aggressive when she drank too much, and she was doing God knows what else. I just didn’t feel like worrying about her having a psychotic break while Charlie was driving, because it wasn’t like he was in much better shape.”
“And Deacon hitting you?”
“He left. That was the painful part.”
“Why did he leave?”
I sighed. It had been the sore point between us. Our thing. “He went away for a few days to hang a show in San Diego. And I swelled, so I needed to fuck, and I got it where I could. I tried not to. I tried to be good, but I failed, okay? And he found out, which was lying on top of cheating. I packed my shit and left. That was the last time I saw him. Until the stables, which I still don’t remember.”
“So you feel responsible for him leaving?”
“I was. We stopped sharing and fucking around. We agreed.”
“I think you need some therapy after you leave here. I don’t think you’ve worked through your feelings. We haven’t had time to touch on anything in your past.”
/> “Sure, Elliot. Sure.”
“And I know you don’t have access to the outside world in here, but the press is being unkind is probably the nicest way to put it. You’re going to need somewhere to go to talk about it.”
“I’m sure I can find someone.”
“It’s been nice talking to you, Fiona. I’m pretty sure I know what you think of yourself, but I want you to know that you don’t have to believe it.”
I twisted around until I could see him. He looked the same as always, relaxed and confident, middle finger on his upper lip as if he couldn’t think without it.
“Believe what?” I asked.
“That you’re useless.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re sensitive. You’re bright. You’re brave. Can you believe that?”
He pissed me off. He had no right to tell me about me, not after three days. But if I argued with him, if I put him in his place, it would be another reason to let me rot in that grey room.
“Thanks, Doc.”
He stood and opened the door. “I want you to remember that when you see your mother. She’s in visiting.”
fifteen.
Margie caught me in the foyer, on the way to the visiting room.
“Have you seen Mom?” I asked.
“I have no idea what she’s doing here. I told her to stay home. Jonathan’s a wreck over his girlfriend, and Theresa’s no better. They’re mad at Dad, but won’t say why, which is fucking typical Drazen bullshit. You sure you don’t want to stay in here?”
“I’m sure.”
“Between you and Jonathan, the press is going apeshit.”
“Fuck them.”
“I wish I could get myself committed. “ Her phone dinged, and she tapped it. “Hang on, this came from the prosecutor.” She scanned the email. “Provided you’re cleared to leave here, you agree not to contest the charge and waive the preliminary hearing. We accept aggravated assault. Community service. I’m inclined to tell him to fuck off. Deacon’s denying it all, so bail and a grand jury appearance is my guess.”
“What does the press want?”
“They want you turning on a spit.”
“Take the plea.”
“As your attorney, I wouldn’t advise it.”
I shrugged. “I’d rather not have this over my head. Or have Deacon change his mind after I see him and beg forgiveness. Just take it and be done. A little community service won’t kill me.”
“As your sister, I approve.”
I sneered at her playfully, and she hid her smile.
***
The garland and lights were gone from the visiting room, as if Christmas had been mentioned once and wiped away. Mom paced in front of the window, a wisp of a thing with a bent neck, tapping her finger on her chin.
“Hi, Mom.”
When she faced me, I knew she wasn’t there to join me for the therapist’s recommendation. Her eyes were on fire, her jaw set. She sat down like it was her job.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“How are you?”
“I’m f—”
“Did your father ever touch you?”
“Mom!”
“Answer me!” She slammed her palm on the table.
I held my hands up and sat back. It was too much. I needed time to think, to talk to people. To breathe, for Chrissakes.
“Fiona, tell me. I’ll protect you. I’ll put myself between you and anything. But just tell me. Did he ever touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable?”
“No, Mom. He never touched me inappropriately.”
“Your sisters?”
“Why now? I’m twenty-three years old. What happened?”
She sighed then pursed her lips, a series of facial tics that meant she was holding in an emotion, any emotion. I said nothing. My heart was pounding too fast.
“There’s talk that he’d had a relationship with the girl who just died.”
“Jonathan’s girlfriend?”
“Previous to that, when she was a bit younger, but yes. Your brother didn’t know until recently, and he’s not happy with it. So.” She sat up straighter. “Did he ever touch one of your sisters?”
I wished for time, and my wish was not granted. The clock still moved. Things had been said in pledge. We’d held our hands up and made promises, and though I’d broken plenty of promises in life, I’d never broken pledge. None of us had. We had a code of silence, and inside of it sat our denials, our shame, our bonds.
“I can’t say,” I said. “Not directly.”
Mom’s face melted, constricting, as if her tears shrunk and crinkled it. I snapped up the ubiquitous box of tissues and put it in front of her.
“So it’s true,” she spit out before the sob choked her.
“It’s complicated, Mom. It’s not what you think, but I can’t say. It’s not my place.”
“You think you’re protecting someone, but have you thought that the way you all are… that you hurt each other with this wall you put up?”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”
“What are you all afraid of?”
Afraid? I wasn’t afraid of being cut off from their money. I had more than I needed, and it couldn’t be touched. I wasn’t afraid of being cut off from my siblings, because we were strung together with strong twine.
I was afraid of Dad.
Dad had a way of making things happen. He had a way of using his relationships and his money to create chaos or order, as he saw fit.
But Mom was in distress, and how much worse could it all get? I was already up a creek; what would be the difference if I threw my paddle in the rushing billows of shit?
“You should talk to Carrie,” I said, instantly regretting it, yet feeling the release of something I hadn’t realized I was holding so close.
“It was Carrie?” she squeaked.
“Talk to her.”
She wiped her eyes, but her tears barely abated. “God damn that big house.” She folded and refolded the tissue. “God damn the corners. You can’t see what’s happening. You can’t hear. We avoid each other. Did you see how that happened? How we went to the far corners?”
“There were eight kids, Mom. You needed a big house. What were you supposed to do?”
“Pay attention. I was supposed to pay attention!”
Mom looked up and behind me. I followed her gaze.
Margie stood in the doorway. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Mom thinks I’m a disappointment and a failure.” I may have been ready to break pledge, but I wasn’t ready to get busted for it. “Let’s get this done. You’re buying me dinner at Roberto’s. I’m hungry, and I need a drink.”
“You’re too young to need a drink,” Margie said, getting out of the way of the exit.
“Well, I need something.”
“How about a job?” she replied, putting her arm around Mom.
I stuck my tongue out at her.
sixteen.
We waited.
On the hard, squared-off modern couch in the common room, we waited. I imagined Elliot typing, his middle finger rubbing his upper lip. I waited for Mom to come back from the parking lot and throttle me into saying what I knew, which was nothing. I swear, I knew nothing except that Carrie had talked to Deirdre and Sheila about something in pledge. That was it. Nothing I could build a case on.
I shook a little. I was getting out. The press was out to skewer me and possibly my brother. My little coterie of fuckbuddies and hangers-on were going to steer clear of me and the media attention I dragged behind me. My relationship with Deacon was in a sick holding pattern. Amanda was still dead. I’d broken, or at least fractured, a lifelong bond of trust between me and my sisters and brother.
A little community service would go a long way to distracting me.
Bored, yet jumpy and upset, I went into the cafeteria. Dinner was starting. The staff placed trays of deluxe meals into the steam tr
ays. I’d never see them again, those chattering people in hair nets, and I hadn’t even gotten to know their names. I said good-bye in my mind to the cafeteria, the patio, the holes in the camera matrix. I said so long to the grey painted over everything, the flat lighting, the sterile corners. Karen came in, all unkind angles and protruding bones. I excused myself from Margie, who waved me off, and stood next to Karen as she plopped her journal on the tray.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m getting my recommendation in, like, twenty minutes, then I’m outtie.”
“It was good to see you again,” she said flatly.
“You should call me when you get home. I mean it.”
“I don’t think I can do an Ojai again.” She poked through a basket of perfect yellow bananas as if unable to choose one, though they all looked the same to me.
“Yeah, me neither.” I said it, but did I mean it?
Deacon had kept me away from the life for months, but I didn’t know where he and I stood. He might be out of my world forever, and if that was the case, then what did I have left but more of what had gone before? I found I wasn’t looking forward to anything. I was terrified of speaking to Deacon, of being in my big empty condo. I didn’t care to see Earl or Charlie. Didn’t want to delve into what had happened with Martin or Debbie. But mostly, I wasn’t looking forward to partying. Didn’t want coke, but knew I’d snort it when I got bored. Didn’t want sex, but knew I’d need it when I got sad.
Karen got to the bottom of the basket. The banana at the end was black and soft. No one would want it. She picked it up and put it on her tray instead of all the firm, ripe ones.
I’d figure it all out once I was home. I might figure it out licking the base of some guy’s cock or tied to the ceiling like an enraptured side of flesh, but I’d figure it out. I just had to go deeper. Harder. Full throttle into whatever tornado I’d walked into. Yet when I spoke, something completely different came out.
“Something has to change,” I said. “I don’t think I can live like that anymore.”
“Yeah,” Karen said pensively. “If I knew how to stop doing this, I would.”
“It’s a problem. Me, I mean. I have a problem.” I said it with a little laugh, as if to disavow it even as I said it. I was taking a practice run at thinking I had something to fix. It was like an audition for recovery to see if I had the talent to pull off the role.
