by Melody Mayer
“Kiley McCann.” Her mother's voice was low and intense. “I did not raise my daughter to be a liar and we have been down this road before. I warn you, do not lie to me. It's you, isn't it?”
She nodded glumly, and then realized that of course her mother couldn't see that. “Yeah,” she whispered. “It's me.”
“Tell me what happened, Kiley. I have a lot of experience with this.”
Kiley got off her bed and paced. “It happened today. In the pool. When I first went underwater in a scuba diving class. It was horrible. I felt like I was dying.”
Just those five sentences made Kiley's stomach roll over.
“Oh, honey …I feel so bad for you. First your grandmother, then—”
“What?” Kiley had never even met her maternal grandmother, who'd died before she was born. “You never told me that!”
“Why put it in your head? Besides, you've always been so fearless, Kiley. You were such an independent little girl. I thought you were immune.”
“When did hers start, do you know?”
“When she was a teenager. That's what she told me.”
Kiley felt like barfing. She already knew that was when her mother's problems had started, too. She sagged back onto her bed. First her grandmother, then her mother, then her. If she had a kid, she'd probably pass it down too. What a gift of the generations.
“I feel terrible for you, Kiley. It's my fault—”
“Of course it's not your fault,” Kiley insisted wearily.
As her mother went on, sharing a detailed history of her teen experiences with panic disorder, somehow Kiley felt the stirrings of a new resolve. There had to be some way to beat this. Her mother had never taken anything but ineffective herbal remedies because she had been raised a Christian Scientist.
“There are doctors who specialize in this, you know,” her mother was saying. “And medications.”
Medications? Had her mother, who didn't even take aspirin, just said medications?
“But Mom, you—”
“Kiley, you are not me. I don't want you saddled with this.” Her mother's voice was firm and loud in her ear. “You go to that good university and find a doctor who specializes in this. Do you hear me?”
“UCLA, you mean.”
“Yes. Make an appointment with the best doctor you can find. Do whatever you have to do, Kiley.”
Kiley was taken aback. She'd never, ever heard that kind of steel in her mother's voice.
“I will,” she promised.
“And try not to worry. Worrying makes it worse. Besides, maybe it won't be as bad for you as it was for my mother and me.”
After sharing “I love yous,” they hung up. Kiley lay back on her bed again, contemplating the same spot on the ceiling as before she'd phoned home.
Maybe it won't be as bad for you as it was for my mother and me.
That could be true. Maybe it wouldn't get as bad as with her mom, for whom every little thing outside her comfort zone—from a late taxicab to a room key that didn't work to escaped convicts in Chippewa Falls—could set off a full-bore anxiety attack.
There was, of course, another possibility. Maybe it would get worse.
“Aunt Kat?”
Kat looked up from the kitchen table, where she was doing prep work for her upcoming broadcast of the U.S. Open for ESPN. All across the table, she'd set out small cutouts of tennis courts, along with file cards listing the matches that would take place on those courts, and at what time. As Lydia looked in, she realized how much effort Kat put into her career. It broke Lydia's heart to have to say to her aunt what she was about to say.
“Yes, Lydia? I hope this is important. I'm trying to keep fifty-six matches straight here.”
“It is.” Lydia stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the marble counter. She already knew this conversation was going to suck. But after thinking about it long and hard, she'd decided that her loyalty was to her aunt, who deserved to know the truth about the cheating bitch she'd married. Unless, of course, she already knew, which would make this conversation a mega-embarrassment to all involved. Shit. There was no way out.
Kat smiled thinly. “You look as if someone died. Hopefully it's not that bad.”
“No one died,” Lydia assured her. “But … it's bad.”
“You're pregnant,” Kat guessed.
“Lord no!”
“Okay. You've got my full attention anyway. Go.” Kat closed the black loose-leaf binder that was directly in front of her.
“Remember what you told me a few nights ago—I mean, remember what you asked?” She could barely get the words out. “About … Anya?”
Kat nodded.
Suddenly, Lydia realized that one of the children, or even Anya, could come waltzing into the kitchen in the middle of this conversation. She slid into the chair closest to her aunt.
“Something happened. Something weird.”
Kat turned her palms up. “Enough with the melodrama, Lydia. Just say it.”
Lydia did, in one long monologue that began with her walking past the open doorway of the moms’ bedroom and ended with her verifying that Kat hadn't been at the other end of the call. She tried to avoid giving a sentence-by-sentence repetition of what she'd overheard, but Kat wanted details. So Lydia ended up recounting the one-sided conversation as best she could.
Kat paled, which meant that Anya's phone sex wasn't anything that she knew about. Lydia felt horrible that she'd been the bearer of such shitty news. Here was a perfect example of why people shouldn't get all bent out of shape about sex. If you just thought of it as a recreational sport, you couldn't get your heart broken. Of course, if Billy had sex with someone else, she might have to do the girl serious bodily harm. Lydia knew this was illogical, but she didn't care.
“Do you have any idea who was on the other end of that conversation, Lydia?”
“No. I thought maybe Oksana?” Lydia guessed. “That's not based on anything except that she hit on me right after I arrived. Of course, if it had been Oksana, wouldn't they have been speaking Russian?”
“Oksana hit on my straight-out-of-the-jungle-teen niece?”
“Oh, it makes no nevermind. I'm the adventurous type. But you—”
“I'm the married, monogamous type. I thought Anya was, too. Thank you for telling me. I need some time alone now.”
“Sure.” Impetuously Lydia leaned over and gave her aunt a quick hug, and then hurried out of the kitchen and out to her guesthouse, thinking how people got so danged nuts about sex. Like that stupid oversized dinner invitation from Luis that she had so carefully ignored. One drunken night of sex she couldn't remember and the boy thought they had a relationship?
No. Her situation was nothing like the moms'. Nothing at all.
This was hard. Really, really hard.
Kiley lay on a chaise lounge near the family pool at the country club, a copy of Rolling Stone open in her lap though she hadn't read a word. Over at the adult pool, scuba class was under way. Bruce, Jerry, Sedah, and all the others were doing underwater work with Roger cheerleading and teaching. Meanwhile, she was here alone watching Sid, Serenity, Jimmy, and Martina take part in a kids’ swim meet.
“Time to eat, sweet pea,” Lydia trilled. “We're talking major feast.”
The club was jammed on this hot, sunny summer afternoon, and the poolside waiters were insanely busy, so Lydia had made a run to the club restaurant and had just returned carrying a tray fit for a four-star restaurant. This was no real surprise, since the club had recently hired away Le Bernardin's sous chef to take over its kitchen. To say the change in the kitchen was a popular move was an understatement. Since the arrival of Jean-François, membership applications had jumped by five hundred percent. There was now a seven-year waiting list, even assuming you could get the unanimous approval that the committee bylaws required.
Kiley looked up at Lydia dully. “What?”
“Eat,” Lydia repeated. “We've got raw oysters—purported to be quite the aph
rodisiac, although the Amas had better stuff—pan-roasted squab for two, asparagus hollandaise, and mesclun salad. I have no idea what mesclun is but it came highly recommended. You know, signing privileges here is one of the great advantages of my life.”
“No thanks.”
“Aw, come on. I even got you a Vernor's soda,” Lydia cajoled. “It looks like carbonated piss but I know you love the stuff.”
Kiley shrugged. “I'm not hungry.”
“Or I can go back and get you a burger, fries, and a shake. They still offer that stuff on the kids’ menu.”
Kiley just sat there, so Lydia set down the tray anyway.
“You're turning down food from a girl who dined on monkey. Food has deep meaning to me.”
“Sorry.” She swung her legs around, using her hand to block the brilliant sun. “Is Esme here yet?”
Lydia scooped up an oyster, tilted her head back, and slurped it into her mouth and down her throat. “Not bad. Anyway, Esme said she'd be here by one. She and Tarshea have the afternoon free. She's been prepping Tarshea for her interview with Ann Marie. I think it's tomorrow.”
You go to that good university out there and see someone who specializes in this, Kiley.
“Kiley!”
“Yeah?”
“We're gonna figure out a way for you to beat this thing, you know. Don't you worry.”
Kiley nodded without enthusiasm. She'd told Lydia all about her problems in scuba class, and even talking about it was physically painful. Lydia, though, was the kind of person who never looked on the dark side. No matter how bleak the problem, Lydia believed that the application of a great brain, finesse, and prodigious imagination could set anything right.
Lydia dropped another raw oyster down her throat. “Damn. Beats peacock bass sushi any day of the week. Did you know that in Texas folks eat something called prairie oysters, which are actually bull testicles?”
Kiley laughed in spite of herself. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Very little, but it did lighten the mood, chickadee. Now, eat some of the squab before I put some on my fork and play here-comes-the-blow-dart.”
Again, Kiley laughed. Then she forked up a piece of the squab and chewed. “It's good.”
“Good? Good? It's orgasmic. Well, almost.”
“Your mind is a very scary place.” Kiley swung her legs around to keep half an eye on Serenity and Sid. Both of them were standing by the side of the pool with their friends, waiting to be called for their events. Martina looked quite a bit slimmer, Kiley noted. She hoped the girl wasn't dieting.
“Look on the bright side. You'll never die of the bends.” Lydia wagged an impaled morsel of squab at Kiley. “And don't you go givin’ me that evil eye of yours, either. You have to try.”
Kiley knew Lydia was right. But it was damn hard. The night before when she'd been unable to sleep, she'd surfed the Internet and researched panic disorders because she hadn't done any looking at the subject since junior high school. There'd actually been a fair amount of new research. Some of it was encouraging, and some of it was depressing as hell.
Onset—there were always exceptions, of course—was commonly between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four.
Gee, lucky me, Kiley had thought glumly. My onset was a year early.
More women got it than men. Doctors were prescribing Paxil and Zoloft to help sufferers and were getting decent results if the cases weren't too severe. Psychotherapy was an option, too. There was also something called aversion therapy, where you tried to do whatever it was that panicked you while under the supervision of a trained therapist.
As she pushed the expensive food around on her plate, Kiley told Lydia everything she'd learned.
“You know, panic is not unknown in the Amazon basin. I'm telling you, a short guy with his penis tied to his belly and a spear in his hand who gets into a tizzy can be a mite dangerous. Here. Drink this.” Lydia popped open the can of Vernor's and handed it to Kiley.
“I bet.” Kiley took the soda.
“It's not like we could run to the nearest drugstore for a prescription. But there are some herbal things that can really chill a person out that I bet your mother never tried.”
Kiley could only imagine. She'd once seen Lydia temporarily paralyze a guy with some of her herbs. But she wasn't about to resort to ingesting unknown substances from Amazonia. At least not yet.
“How about if I tell you something that's really worth panicking over?” Lydia asked as she polished off the squab.
“Anya's cheating on my aunt.”
Kiley nearly dropped her soda. “You're kidding. How do you know?”
“Heard her having phone sex. That woman knows a thing or two.”
“Okay. First of all, eww. Second of all, are you sure the moms don't have an open … whatever you'd call it? Marriage?”
Lydia shook her head. “I told my aunt. I could tell she was flipped out to hear that Anya is a big ol’ ho.”
“Hey, don't be so harsh. Maybe Anya just made a mistake. Like you did,” Kiley added pointedly.
“Please,” Lydia scoffed. “Am I on the phone with Luis talkin’ about what I want to do with him and in what position behind Billy's back?”
“I don't know. Are you?”
“All day, every day.” Lydia's tone was sour.
“Joking,” Kiley assured her. “I feel bad for your aunt. Who do you think it is?”
“No clue, which is what I told Kat.” Lydia wiped her hands on the scarlet linen napkin, and then reached into her Michael Kors toffee leather satchel for her sunglasses.
Kiley frowned. “Is that bag new?”
“Yep. Kat gave it to me. Well, she loaned it to me and never asked for it back. Where was I? Oh yeah, Anya's ‘friend.’ ” She put on her sunglasses. “Anya travels in that whole Hollywood jock-gay-mafia thing. Those women aren't afraid to play musical beds.”
Kiley made a face. “How do you know?”
“Kiley, open your eyes. Don't you see who's hanging with whom over at the adult pool? You gonna finish your squab?”
Kiley pushed her plate toward Lydia. “Maybe it's Evelyn Bowers. I hear she's available.”
Lydia guffawed. “Now see, your life cannot be utter misery if you're still making jokes.” She glanced over at the swim meet, and then toward the far end of the pool. “Check it out: Here comes the third musketeer. And she's not alone.”
Kiley turned to see Esme heading toward them. She was definitely not alone. Jorge was with her. He wore black jeans and a navy T-shirt, and carried a small black backpack.
“Welcome to the club, Jorge!” Lydia called.
“I invited Jorge as my guest, since I don't have the kids until later,” Esme explained when she reached them. She was dressed simply, in long black shorts and a long-sleeved white T-shirt.
“Where's Tarshea?” asked Lydia.
“In the club salon. Diane's paid for a manicure/pedicure for her before her interview. I offered one to Jorge,” she joked, “but he refused.”
“And miss this show? I wanted to see how the other half lives,” Jorge joked. “Okay, now I've seen it.”
Sugar on a shingle, Kiley thought, which was something her mom would say when someone broke a dish at the Derby. Kiley had resolved to talk to Jorge, to tell him that she'd had a chance to give it a lot of thought and that her heart was telling her they shouldn't go any further than being friends. She didn't buy Lydia's theory about having Jorge as an FBG, either. Having had her panic attack was liberating, in a way. She was sure she wanted Tom. She didn't know for sure if Tom wanted her. But if he didn't want her, she wasn't going to settle.
Kiley knew that Esme would easily handle a talk like this. Lydia could do it in her sleep—she might even make up some lie to make the whole thing go easier. But Kiley had very little experience when it came to boys. Plus, she really liked Jorge. He had been nothing but wonderful to her, especially during those first terrible days after Platinum's arrest, when Kiley had
lived at his parents’ bungalow in Echo Park. The thought of hurting him filled her with dread.
“How are you, Kiley?” he asked.
“Okay.”
God, this was awkward.
He smiled as if they were part of a secret society of two. “Can we talk?”
“Umm … sure.”
“Alone?”
Damn. He was going to ask her out again, she was sure of it.
“Sure,” she said again, realizing that she sounded stupider than a stupid girl, and she loathed stupid girls.
“Great. Why don't you show me around? It's my first time here and I want the whole corrupt experience.”
Kiley excused herself, and started Jorge on a shortened version of the Brentwood Hills Country Club grand tour. The restaurants, arts and crafts center, playroom, locker rooms, grass and clay tennis courts, eighteen-hole golf facilities with driving range and putting course, shuffleboard courts, adult game room for cards and billiards, day spa—they saw blissful Tarshea under the meticulous care of a rotund manicurist— meeting rooms, and lush green gardens designed and personally planted by Patrick Chasse, the first curator of landscape at the Gardner Museum in Boston. Kiley mostly talked, and Jorge mostly listened. But try as she might for an opening to broach the subject of their future relationship, or lack thereof, the topic never came up.
He broached it for her, as they stepped out of the breezeway between the pools. “Hold up a minute. We need to talk before we go back. About us.”
Double damn.
“Okay.”
“That night at the Conga Room … kissing you …it was nice.”
She nodded, but couldn't find her voice. It had been nice. And she was attracted to him. How could she explain that she didn't want to lose his friendship, that—
“But I think we should just be friends.”
Kiley blinked. What did he just say?
“This isn't easy for me. I have a lot of respect for you, Kiley. You're smart, and you're beautiful, and you've got a lot of guts. Not many girls from Minnesota—”
“Wisconsin,” she corrected, very aware of his arm still around her.
“Sorry, Wisconsin—would come to California like you did, and stay here by themselves because they're determined to go to Scripps. The way you love the ocean … it's like a passion for you. I know what that feels like.”
