“Crap?” Leilani screeched. “You’re insulting my beliefs.”
“Which you pick up like a box of tampons from the store.” I shook my head. “You’re going from one religion to another but you’re not giving any belief enough time to—”
“Since when do you have the answers?” Leilani asked, her eyes hot with anger. “Has Jesus told you why Truman was killed in some freak accident? Or why you think he’s haunting your bed? Or why you can’t sleep, or why you have headaches—”
“I was doing fine until we strolled into the Sexy Second Circle of Hell.”
“What-the-fuck-ever, Nicole. You sit here and be miserable. I don’t care anymore. I can’t care cuz you know why? I have to start healing. If you wanna pick at your scabs, go ahead. But I can’t let you pick at mine.” She left the table, and returned to the bar top to wiggle along to Beyoncé.
Can you get me bodied?
I wanna be myself tonight.
I wanted to be myself tonight, but who was that? Scab-picker, according to my sister-in-law.
Yeah: what-the-fuck-ever.
I chugged my glass of water, then headed back through the mirrored entrance to the casino, and into the smoky air. Older gamblers crowded the slots and video poker machines. The younger ones—faces flushed from Scotch and Cosmopolitans—hung over blackjack tables and roulette wheels. Tourists wearing ill-fitting shorts and damp T-shirts raised their cameras to take pictures of big-boobed co-eds writhing to Duran Duran’s “Rio” and performing body shots on a bar counter.
I glanced at my cell-phone. Fifteen minutes before twelve.
Just make it to midnight, then call it quits.
I trudged towards the center of the casino, following the music of a live band playing Blondie. I plopped down at an empty table. A pretty waitress wearing a laced-bodice dress swiveled to my table. Her plastic nametag said ‘Satin.’ She shouted over the music, “Can I get you something?”
I shouted back, “An Amaretto Sour, please.” So much for the ban on booze. Times like these called for something stronger than water. Times like these actually called for something stronger than Amaretto. But I was medicated.
She nodded at a menu card that stood on my table, and asked, “Anything to eat?”
I didn’t move to pick up that card but saw “Quesadilla.” And that’s what I ordered.
As that invisible band played “Heart of Glass,” Satin returned with my Amaretto and quesadilla. She slipped my bill beside the plate, and as I handed her two twenties, a square of paper slipped from my wallet.
After Satin left, I unfolded that square torn from National Geographic eight years ago. A beaten wood plank-way cutting across shallow turquoise waters, and ending at a white-sand atoll in the middle of the Laccadive Sea.
“That’s where we’ll retire,” Truman had promised, tapping his finger on the picture.
Since then, I’d take out that photo and long for the day we’d reach those sandy beaches and pristine waters, hard work and everyday life a part of our past.
I slipped the picture back into my wallet and sat silently for a moment. After taking a deep breath, I devoured the greasy tortilla in seven bites, then guzzled my watered-down drink. The band started “Raspberry Beret,” and I stood up from the table to begin my march towards the elevators.
Glanced at my cell-phone again: six minutes to midnight.
I wandered to a blackjack table, and with the encouragement of the four other players, found myself seated in the first position. A black guy with a graying goatee occupied the seat next to me. He smiled, and I noticed his chipped front tooth. His body reminded me of Mike Tyson’s—bull-dog, stocky, short. His features—eyes, nose, mouth—sat too close together, as though God had decided against using the entire canvas.
He said, “How you doin’ tonight?” Stacks of chips towered near his thick hands.
I said, “I’m okay,” then nodded at his pile. “But I think you need 100 more.”
He winked at me. “Maybe you’ll bring me luck.”
I slid $50 to the dealer. “I’m as lucky as a cricket.”
His eyebrows scrunched—huh?—and he offered me his hand. “I’m Chris.”
“Nicole.” We shook.
His eyes were kind, his handshake firm. He gazed at me and I busied myself with chips.
The dealer slipped two cards before me–11.
I turned to Chris, and said, “Is it me, or does the dealer look like Captain Picard?”
He laughed. “You a Trekkie?”
“Kind of. You?”
He shook his head. “Hate that show. All of ‘em. But you know what?” He held up his beer bottle. “Here’s to the next generation.”
“So, Chris. What do you do for a living?”
He doubled-down on my bet, then said, “I’m an electrician.”
I nodded. “So you give people power?”
The dealer slipped a queen of clubs on top of my eleven.
He motioned to my cards. “And I got you double your money.”
“Appreciate it,” I said. “And where do you light up lives?” My cheeks flushed. Was I flirting?
“Tennessee. I’m here for a bachelor party. We’re leaving tomorrow. I started not to sit down and play, but I’m glad I changed my mind.”
Chris had recently divorced. He had one child—a seven-year boy named Jalani. His ex-wife worked as a letter carrier. He missed being with someone, he said, even if it had been someone he couldn’t stand. “I still don’t get that.” He nodded at the rings on my finger. “What about your husband? Looking at those rings, I see he’s a big baller.”
I shrugged as my mind filled with explanations. Instead of saying, My husband died and I haven’t slept since June 26 and I’m on Klonopin for anxiety and I can’t take off my rings yet because that’s like giving up, I said, “Not too different from your situation.”
After he had won all he could, Chris suggested that we find a place to talk. He took my hand and led me to another lounge. We ordered drinks—Midori for me and Bailey’s for him. The more we talked, the closer we sat.
I liked The Simpsons.
He watched mostly sports and news channels about sports.
I liked playing videogames.
He stopped playing them once the era of Pac-Man ended.
I read 100 books a year.
He flipped through Sports Illustrated, and the Sports page of the newspaper. “Wow,” he said. “This is crazy. Can’t believe I’m sittin’ here with a nerd.”
Wide-eyed, I grabbed his arm. “Oh, crap. The dress didn’t fool you?”
“You’re a sexy nerd, though. That’s kinda nice.”
I smirked.
“But you are,” he said. “Don’t act all nonchalant about it.”
I dropped my eyes to the unnaturally-green drink in my hand.
“Why do you do that?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Look away. Every time I compliment you, you look away. I’m flirting with you now, and you’re shutting me down. Is it my breath?”
I laughed, then met his eyes. “I’ve been through some things lately.”
We gazed at each other silently. Don’t know what he saw in my face, but he took my hand. He leaned forward, and as he moved to kiss me, someone shouted “Chris!” A chubby guy hoisting two beer bottles plopped in the seat across from us. “What’s up, man? We’ve been all over the place looking for you.” He nodded at me, and said, “How you doin’, miss?” Before I could answer, he said, “Sorry for interrupting, man, but time to hit the next spiz-zot!”
“Dang. Already?” Chris glanced at his watch. “Y’all give me a minute.” As his friend danced back to the waiting revelers, Chris stood and said, “This is depressing. We were just getting to know each other.”
“It’s not depressing,” I said. “You have no idea what you’ve done for me.”
“Call me if you want to light up your life.” He placed his business card in my palm, then kissed my hand, “Good night, Nicole.�
�
I watched him join the group, and waved to him before he disappeared into the crowd.
I retreated to the elevator banks that would take me to my room. My feet hurt and my face ached from smiling. Two hours. That’s all it had taken for someone to make me feel something other than pain. Had to be a record somewhere.
From our suite’s window, I glimpsed the neon-hot Strip only a mile away. America’s Playground. Truman and I would always stay at the Mandalay Bay. We would eat at Emeril’s or Nobu, and drink martinis and red wine by the bottle. We’d stagger to the roulette wheel or to the blackjack tables, and play until our eyes and lungs could no longer take the cigarette smoke. Then, we’d return to the suite—always a suite—and we’d…
I yanked the curtains together and stepped away from the window.
I exchanged the dress for shorts and a T-shirt, and then, I washed my face. I settled into the king-sized bed and clicked off the lamp.
Complete darkness.
I sat up and listened.
Silence.
I yawned, then lay my head on the pillow. My eyes closed. I dreamed of slot machines and green bottles of Pellegrino floating in the Laccadive Sea.
40
I awoke to silent darkness—the blackout curtains had helped me find sleep and stay there. The digital clock said 10:11 a.m., and I sat up in bed, more refreshed than before. Las Vegas was a magical city. By the time we returned to Los Angeles, and with the help from my new drug, I would be my old self again.
I padded to Leilani’s room, and whispered, “Lei, you’re a genius.” She didn’t answer and I flicked on the light switch.
Her bed was empty.
Maybe she had come to the room late and left early this morning, I thought. Klonopin and fatigue would’ve prevented me from hearing the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade marching past the foot of my bed.
But the gold comforter was tucked, and the pillows were still high and fluffy.
I wandered around the suite. She wasn’t standing out on one of the balconies, or relaxing in the sunken bathtub. The half-full bottle of Moët we had popped open before going to Rain remained on the tray, untouched.
I showered and dressed.
Leilani was still missing.
She’s an adult, I told myself. And I’m an adult. We don’t have to baby-sit each other.
At a café downstairs, I ordered breakfast without her. Eggs. Corned-beef hash. Toast. Cups of rich, brewed coffee. I ate as though I hadn’t eaten in months. In many ways, I hadn’t. I had stuck pasta or chili or grits into my mouth, and I had moved my jaws to process it, but I had tasted nothing, and had enjoyed it even less. Now, though…
My cell-phone rang and I glanced in the display before answering. It was Leilani. “Where you at?”
“Girl,” she said. “Where do I even start?”
“I’m having breakfast at the café downstairs,” I said. “But I’ll sit with you if—”
“On my way.”
Five minutes later, Leilani stumbled to my table. She wore the same skank-wear from the night before. Her bloodshot eyes were rheumy, and the insides of her nostrils were crusted. She smelled like she had been baptized in Courvoisier, then forced to run ten laps. “What are those?” she asked, then stabbed a fork into the middle of my plate.
“Eggs.” I stared at her as she continued to eat. “You can order your own, you know. They serve blacks now.”
She winked at me. “Where’s the fun in that? And I don’t have time. We need to get back to L.A.”
“What? Why? We just got here.”
She stuffed her mouth with toast, then said, “I know, but I got a call about a job. Interview’s tomorrow.” She paused, then added, “Are you keeping me from fulfilling my brother’s last wishes? Are you keeping me from reaching my full potential? I have a BMW to pay for.”
Disappointed, I shook my head.
She took a few more bites of egg, then stood. “I need to wash up. Meet you back in the room.”
I sank in my chair and wished that Monica had come with us. I would’ve stayed then. Caught a Cirque show. Had a fancy dinner, maybe at Nobu. Shopped at Caesar’s and the Bellagio. Maybe even played a game of roulette. Put it all on black in Truman’s honor.
Another time. Soon.
I strolled through the bustling casino, its air swirling with clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke. Barely-legal waitresses in short crimson dresses shouldered trays of Scotch, bloody Marys and Coronas through the already-boozy crowd. Smoking geriatrics with glazed eyes threw their Social Security checks down the gullets of slot machines. Many had been seated there a while—several drained cocktail glasses were stacked near their liver-spotted knees.
I sat at a Blazing 7’s slot machine and slipped a $20 bill into its mouth. On my fifth pull, a trio of red, white and blue sevens slammed into the slot window—500 quarters. I giggled and my heart leapt at winning $125. As I waited for my voucher to print, I watched a group of giggling girlfriends pull their veiled bride-to-be pal through a bank of video poker machines.
Used to be Mo, Lei and me. Young, beautiful, easy to please. Excited about our futures, about our careers. So eager to become adults, to find husbands, to start our happily-ever-afters. Too eager to even think about worst case scenarios, like our Prince Charmings dying at forty.
41
I drove as Leilani slept off her sex-booze-coke-filled night. Didn’t mind the quiet—I enjoyed the quiet and the vast desert stretching into the horizon. Maybe Lei could drop me off at the airport, I thought. I wouldn’t even go home. Straight to LAX. Vegas or bust.
Having fun, Nicole? Flirting with electricians and gambling away your husband’s hard-earned money? Is that what you’re about now? Truman is out there somewhere… not having fun.
I turned onto Rockcliff Drive.
The house was waiting.
I pulled into the driveway, and shook Leilani from her sleep.
She yawned. “We’re here already?”
I grabbed my bag from the backseat and climbed out of the car. “Thanks for the getaway. I needed it.”
Leilani scooted over to the driver’s side. “Are you gonna make an appointment with Zephyr?”
I shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”
“Trust me. She’ll change your life.”
My life was waiting for me on the other side of the front door.
I disarmed, then re-armed the burglar alarm, and dropped my bag in the foyer.
Now what?
The silence made my skin prickle and my face flush. My shoulders had tensed in less than ten seconds, and I stood rigid against the door. I took a deep breath, then kneeled beside that growing pile of mail. Tasks, even stupid ones, offered moments of not thinking, not fearing. I sorted through bank and credit card statements, subscription notices, direct mail appeals…
Nope. Couldn’t do it. But closer to doing it than before.
I shoved the pile of mail to the wall, then roamed through the living room, dining room and hallways, deciding at each whether to turn on the light or leave it off.
Turned all of them on.
I climbed the stairs, but halfway up, I froze in my step.
Crap.
The Panamanian mola that Truman had brought home for Baby Baxter, the mola that had been left in the guest room, now hung on the wall. Breathless, I stared at that framed piece of cloth, knowing—absolutely certain—that I had not—
What was that?
I snapped my head to the left and looked up the staircase.
Heavy, rhythmic breathing… Snoring… Someone was sleeping in one of the rooms.
An intruder?
Impossible. I had armed the alarm before leaving for Las Vegas. It would have had to be deactivated because the security company would’ve called otherwise. Leilani was the only other person who knew the code, and she had been in Vegas with me.
Does Jake know the code? Did he sneak in?
Why would Jake break in and fall asleep in my bed? That didn�
�t make sense.
I plucked the mola from the wall, then marched up the stairs to grab the mandala near the security panel. I deposited both in the guest bedroom, then trekked down the hallway to the bedroom.
A figure hid beneath the covers. The comforter rose and fell with each breath.
I yanked at the comforter, and something icy grabbed my fingers and slashed through my hand like a frozen knife blade. I shrieked and twisted away, stumbling to the floor. I scrambled towards the nightstand, then covered my head with my hands. I hid my face in my lap. Eyes squeezed shut, I stayed in my protective armadillo-ball until my mind cleared.
It’s okay. You’re okay. Look again. Just look again.
I loosened from my clench, and peeked out.
A bed. An empty bed.
With weak arms, I crawled over discarded shoes, jeans and sweatshirts to the bathroom. I grabbed the sink and pulled myself up from the floor. I opened the medicine cabinet: Paxil. Valium. Nyquil. Neosporin. Dental floss. Zaditor… No Klonopin. Crap. The Klonopin vial was still packed in my overnight bag. And my bag was downstairs. Too far. I needed something now.
I grabbed the Paxil vial, and popped one, then another. I turned on the tap to wash away the bitterness and—
Whiskers in the face bowl.
I splashed water around the bowl until it was clean again. I charged back to the bedroom, and scooped a pair of dirty sweats and a T-shirt from the floor. I changed clothes in the hallway, starting a new pile with my discarded jeans and shirt. I could sleep downstairs in the living room. Or I could check into the Sunset Marquis. But as I negotiated the stairs, my knees wobbled and my pulse raced—I was now under the influence of two hastily-swallowed Paxil. Too high to drive.
The kitchen was empty and silent. No snoring. No ghosts. No shavings left in the sink. The metallic taste in my mouth remained and I wobbled to the cupboard for a drinking glass, but stopped in my step.
My last refrigerator message to Truman had disappeared. Almost all of the magnetic words sat on the left side of the door. Only a few words remained in the center.
Storm watch for frantic princess
She lies to live smooth
Hide goddess
The View from Here Page 15
