by Cate Holahan
Watching the sea foam below made my stomach churn. I had the sudden urge to splatter the lifeboat beneath my balcony with the scant contents of my lunch. I hadn’t felt much like eating since we’d gotten on the boat. Nerve-related nausea. I’d vomited the morning before we left and then, again, on the plane.
Bile rose into my throat as I looked at the curved hull of the upside-down dinghy, hanging one floor down beneath and to the right of my balcony. I’d need to jump on the left side to avoid slamming into it. The thought of cracking a rib against the lifeboat brought the acid up into my mouth. I retched and spat over the side.
“You’ll psych yourself out.” Tom kissed the top of my head. I took a panting breath and tried to relax into his chest behind me. He was right. No point overthinking the fall. It would be over in less than a second.
The breeze rippled a white sundress against my thighs. I’d dressed up, applied makeup. Tonight would be my last as Ana Bacon. We were going to my farewell dinner. Tomorrow night, I’d jump.
Tom’s thumb caressed my cheek. He pecked my lips. “Shall we?”
I stole one more glance at the sunset, trying to settle my swimming stomach. A wave of nausea overtook me. I broke away from my husband and ran through the balcony doors toward the closet-sized bathroom. My right side clenched. I threw back the toilet seat and hurled into the bowl.
*
The dining room was modeled on the Titanic but styled for Vegas. Two staircases spiraled up to an LED-lit platform fit for show girl debutantes. Gold velvet covered the walls. Fortunately, the sunset outside softened the gaudier aspects of the décor. It flooded through staggered picture windows, bathing the room in a hazy glow.
The dying daylight flickered on Tom’s face. His blue eyes had melted to a sea-glass shade. “You look beautiful,” he said as we waited for the host to take us to our table.
I accepted the compliment, even though I doubted its veracity. I’d cleaned up and reapplied my makeup after getting sick, but no amount of foundation could cover the sallow undertone in my skin.
A tuxedo-clad server escorted us to an empty round table, set for four. Our dining companions arrived before Tom and I picked up the menus. They introduced themselves with the enthusiasm that Yankees like my husband and I could never manage. Dennis and Kim from Atlanta, though she’d grown up in a small Louisiana town whose name I promptly forgot as soon as she’d said it. Both were business consultants. They’d met at work and married a decade ago. Their two boys, nine and six, were staying with Kim’s parents. Friday would be their tenth wedding anniversary.
We hadn’t asked for any of the information. They’d volunteered everything as soon as we’d said hello, as if filling out a verbal questionnaire. Name, hometown, occupation, reason for trip.
Tom patted my thigh beneath the table. He joined in their mostly one-sided conversation in a way that only I would recognize as poking fun. Oh, which firm? Nice. I have a friend there, John Smith in accounting. No, I guess you guys wouldn’t have many dealings with the pencil pushers, huh?
I shoved a piece of bread in my mouth to keep from laughing. John Smith? Could he be any more transparent? Tom didn’t know a John Smith any more than he knew Pocahontas.
“And what brings you guys on the cruise?” Dennis asked.
Tom and I smiled at each other. “Vacation.” Our secret made conversation more fun. We weren’t ordinary spouses. We were coconspirators.
“Vacationing from . . .” Kim trailed off. She expected us to fill in our respective occupations and then, presumably, continue with the name game. Oh, you work for this company? So does my brother-in-law. Small world.
Unemployment wasn’t a good answer. My husband sipped his water in response. I knew he wished for wine. Where was our waiter?
I piped up before Tom’s silence could be misconstrued for rudeness. “We haven’t taken a trip without our daughter since she was born. Nearly four years. We needed some time with just the two of us. With everything that goes on in life, a distance can develop if you’re not careful. You know?”
Kim placed her hand over her husband’s. “It is important, isn’t it?”
Tom set down his water glass, watching my speech. “If you don’t take time to bridge the gap,” I said, “you can really end up lost. Sniping. Blaming each other for things. One day you look at your spouse and think, who is this that I married?” I leaned my head onto Tom’s shoulder. “We don’t want that to happen to us.”
Kim and Dennis raised their water glasses. “To not getting lost.”
A white-clad cruise employee appeared out of nowhere with a camera. He asked if we wanted a photo. Cruise personnel were always snapping pics in hopes that vacationers would scan through the kiosks at the end of the trip and purchase the shots for an obscene amount.
“Why not?” Kim said.
The man clicked as we clinked glasses. Tom didn’t toast. Emotion, raw as a skinned knee, seized his face. He stood from the table. “Bathroom,” he mumbled.
By the time he returned, my first course was cold. I caught the scent of whiskey on his breath. The smell turned my stomach and aggravated the heck out of me. He hadn’t gone to the restroom. He’d hit up the bar.
I forced myself to hold my tongue. So he’d needed a drink to calm his nerves. Who wouldn’t? If I hadn’t been so ill, he’d have asked me to join.
I’d ordered in his absence. A crab cake drizzled in an orange tartar sauce decorated the table in front of him. I tried not to look at it. The smell of shellfish was unsettling my stomach. “I figured you’d want the crab.”
A smile pinched the corner of his lips. “That’s fine. Just what I would have gotten.” He glanced at my plate. “You don’t like yours?”
Grilled shrimp lay untouched upon a bed of cooked spinach. The sight made my stomach do somersaults. I began coughing. The violence of it threatened to send the bite of shellfish I’d forced down moments ago into my lap.
Tom pointed me in the direction of the bathroom and I ran. Less than a minute later, chewed shrimp floated in the ladies’ room toilet. I held the sides of the porcelain bowl as I hurled, trying to get a grip.
When I returned to the table, Kim donned a wary smile. “Seasickness?” she asked in a low tone, leaning forward, as if the answer might embarrass me.
“Must be.” Tom sat straighter in his chair, seizing the opportunity to lay the groundwork for my fall. He might have even believed that my latest bathroom trip had been for show. “She’s been sick all day. Isn’t that right, babe?”
Kim considered my face and then retreated into her seat. “Motion sickness is rare now, because the boats are so big. Are you sure it’s not a virus? The last vacation we were on, I caught something. Ruined the whole trip.”
Was the flu a better excuse for falling overboard than seasickness? Which reason would an insurance company prefer? “I’m guessing it’s just the motion,” I said. “I’ve gotten super sensitive to it suddenly. I was even ill on the plane.”
“That happened to me when I was pregnant.” Kim fluttered her mascara-coated lashes. Her cheeks puffed into a conspiratorial smile. “Could you be?”
The question turned all eyes on me. I didn’t know how to answer without revealing too much truth to perfect strangers. My period was a week or so late, but I’d always had an irregular menstrual cycle. The fact that my monthly visitor would be MIA during a time of intense stress was normal. Besides, celibate people didn’t get pregnant. I’d only had intercourse once in the past six months. And although Tom and I hadn’t used protection, people didn’t get knocked up from a single mistake . . . except, of course, when I’d unintentionally conceived Sophia after a week of spotty birth control consumption.
“I’m sure it’s just the motion.” I didn’t sound sure.
Tom put a hand on my back and stood. “Babe, you want to dance?”
His request tore me away from silly what-ifs. A four-piece band played “You Don’t Know Me,” the slower Cindy Walker version rather than Ra
y Charles’s jazzier rendition. We walked to a ballroom floor sandwiched between the stairs. My husband pulled me close to his chest. I rested my head against his pectorals and mimicked his two-step, listening to his heart’s drum. Only Tom and I swayed in the center of the floor, the bride and groom at the beginning of the wedding reception. I caught our tablemates smiling at us. They weren’t the only ones. I could feel the room’s eyes on my back. Watching. Admiring.
Would people remember this moment after I died?
*
Tom and I stopped at the ship’s convenience store before heading to our stateroom. On the off chance that motion sickness did worsen my nervous stomach, saltines and a Sea-Band could help. He wanted a bottle of whiskey, ostensibly to replace the cheap Jack in the minibar, but, more realistically, to supplement it.
The commissary was near the main dining room on the upper deck, a pantry-sized store stocked with over-the-counter hangover helpers. Acetaminophen. Ibuprofen. Pepto-Bismol. Gatorade. Raw ginger. Something called RU-21. Feminine products lined the shelf beneath the pharmacy. A few pregnancy tests were stacked beside the tampons, all with the same box. First Response: Rapid Results. The Only Brand That Tells You Six Days Sooner Than Your Missed Period. 99% Accurate.
Kim’s comments made my eyes linger on packaging. I glanced at the price. Maybe once I would have wasted $13.99 to confirm something I already knew, but not now.
I moved on to a snack shelf, selected a box of water crackers, and then wandered around the store in search of the second item on my list. The Dramamine and Sea-Bands ended up right beside the cash register along with a rotating display of condoms. For her. For him. Hot. Cold. Ribbed. Microthin. Scented. Flavored. I laughed to myself. Pleasure cruise.
I grabbed a Sea-Band and waited at the counter while Tom found his Scotch. He paid with the debit card, funded with Michael’s money. The bill came to sixty dollars.
Tom cracked the bottle of Glen-something-or-other as soon as my keycard went into our door. He set the cap atop a vertical steamer trunk and headed out to the balcony, apparently not expecting to close the bottle for the rest of the night. I joined him outside. The plastic bag stocked with stomach remedies dangled from my wrist.
The sound of the sea filled my ears, drowning out whatever calypso music may have spilled from the upper decks above. Two Adirondack-style deck chairs lay on the balcony. Tom lounged in one, staring out into the ocean, cradling the Scotch in his palm. The faint scent of alcohol and the day’s lack of food made me light-headed. I sat in the free chair and tore into the saltines.
A mouthful later, I tackled the Sea-Band package, ripping open the cardboard to reveal two pink wristbands reminiscent of 1980s dance workout videos. The directions explained that the bands needed to be placed over something called the Nei-Kuan point, an acupressure spot on each wrist located beneath the pointer fingers. Pressure on the area, according to the directions, cured motion sickness and also morning sickness in two-thirds of tested pregnant women. I slipped them on as directed and lay back in the chair, inhaling the salty air and silently counting the stars, waiting for my stomach to settle.
The water undulated beyond, a black, silk sheet covering two lazy lovers. The air felt like a warm water bottle. It was at least eighty-five degrees. What temperature would the ocean be tomorrow? Would it be this dark?
Tom’s complaints interrupted my useless train of thought. Spending fifty dollars for a Scotch with such an overly oaky nose was, apparently, an outrage. “All I can taste is wood.” He held out the bottle to me. “Try it, see what I’m talking about.”
I wouldn’t have messed with my recovery for the bottle of Ghost Horse, let alone a sip of something my spouse couldn’t stop ragging on. “I’ll pass.”
Tom frowned at the bottle and took another swig. So this was to be my last night as Ana Bacon? Watching my husband drown his fears in alcohol before I jumped overboard. Not if I could help it. I rose from the chair, fighting off the sleepiness brought on by the sea’s white noise. My movement startled Tom. He bolted upright, arms extended, as though he might need to stop me from hurtling over the railing on the wrong evening.
I grasped both his hands and wrapped them around my waist before pressing my lips to his. It took a moment for him to return my passion, as though he were still worried I intended to say good-bye sooner than planned. As we kissed, I pressed my hands into his chest, urging him to return to his chair while I remained standing.
I lifted my dress and quickly removed my thong, a peep show before the main event. Then I untied the halter string behind my head. The sundress fell to my breasts. I wiggled it the rest of the way down while Tom pulled off his clothes.
I’d intended for us to make love on the chair. Tom had other ideas. He picked me up and wrapped my legs around his waist. My thighs pressed against his sides as he slipped his palms beneath my buttocks. His biceps flexed. He lifted and lowered me onto him, like curling weights at the gym.
Heavy weights. After a couple minutes, the strain of supporting my hundred and fifteen pounds on his forearms began to show. His neck and face reddened to a deep sunburnt color. He stepped toward support. The wooden railing pressed into my lower back. I understood Tom’s need for additional aid, but I didn’t want to be this close to the ship’s edge. I lowered a leg, trying to touch the deck boards below. Tom moved faster. He lifted me higher, too close to finishing to realize my danger.
“Tom.”
He continued hammering away, bouncing me higher with each thrust. I wrapped my arms around his neck, clasping my hands in a vice behind his head, trying to hold on. He leaned back and banged into me hard. My torso tilted over the edge. “Tom,” I screamed.
The deck light in the neighboring cabin turned on. I could see a man slide open the balcony door. Tom finished with a dying moan and placed me back on the deck. His chest rose and fell as though he’d just run a marathon.
I stepped forward until I stood safely in the center of our balcony. “What were you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“I could have fallen.”
Tom pointed to the neighboring cabin and then put the same finger to his lips. Our neighbors’ voices penetrated the wall separating our decks. That meant they could hear us.
“I had you the whole time,” he whispered.
Had he? His hands had never left my bottom. If I had started to really fall backward, he could have easily grabbed my thighs and pulled me back onto the ship. But he was sweaty. What if I’d slipped from his grasp?
“My butt was above the balcony.”
He draped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me to his side. “No, it wasn’t. Your weight was pitched forward, babe, and your hands were around my neck. You weren’t going to fall.” He scooped his boxers from the floor and slipped them on. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I just got caught up. It’s been a while.”
Ten days had passed since we’d last had intercourse. And given the assault by my boss hours before our last go, that experience hadn’t exactly been passionate. Maybe the combination of fear and arousal had made my husband reckless. Or maybe my nerves and the wind had made me sense more danger than I’d actually been in. Still, I didn’t want to be outside anymore. I pulled back the sliding balcony door and fell onto our king-sized mattress.
The door didn’t close behind me. I looked out to see Tom back in an Adirondack chair. He stared out at the sea. The whiskey bottle had returned to his hand.
“Aren’t you coming to bed?” I called through the open door.
“You rest up,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be in shortly.”
I slipped beneath the sheet and watched him drink. Ultimately, the sound of the waves and my semistarved state trumped my ability to wait up. My last sight before my lids sank toward my cheeks was the shadow of my husband, elbow on the railing, head in one palm, bottle in the other.
31
December 1
Ryan examined the sign shimmering in the afternoon sun. T
his was the place. Albeit, not the kind of establishment that he had expected.
Fun by Design wasn’t a strip club or high-end lounge with poles and no windows. Ryan found himself looking at a window display of carved wooden dolls seated around a dinner table with fine miniature china and a faux, trussed turkey. The shop could have belonged to Geppetto. Old-fashioned marionettes hung by strings on wall hooks. Elaborate wooden puzzles and sculptures lined the shelves. Ryan didn’t see anything plastic. Nothing with Mattel or Playskool stamped on the side.
A toy store was a strange place to meet a man whose name he didn’t even know. Ryan scanned the shop for a dude with dark hair and a blue shirt, the description the contact had given. A sales clerk with gauged earrings stretching his lobes checked his phone behind a counter. A skinny woman in tight jeans and one of those fabric baby carriers bent over a pile of wooden kazoos. The infant inside was tied tight to her bosom with a lilac swaddling cloth and tucked between the open sides of her half-zipped puffy jacket.
Ryan hovered by a row of model airplanes. A small, white price tag on one showed a number that he swore was a misprint. Fifty-five dollars for an unpainted wooden airplane with wheels? Surely they meant five dollars and fifty cents.
The bell jangled behind him. A full head of dark hair, spiked high, ducked inside the store. A blue shirt peeked from the center of the new patron’s open biker jacket. The man was thin and short, but he carried himself with the swagger of someone much bigger, someone who got laid. A lot.
Suddenly, it dawned on Ryan why his contact hadn’t offered a name. He was an actor. He played the heartthrob on some teen TV series. Don. Dan. No. Daniel. That was it. He had two first names, if Ryan remembered correctly. Daniel Matthew. Ryan had never watched his show, but the actor was always on the cover of supermarket checkout magazines, usually with some model on his arm.
Ryan put up his hand, drawing the actor’s attention. The man returned a tight-lipped smile and walked casual-like to the same display.
“Apologies about the locale, mate. Nephew’s birthday on Saturday.” Daniel pointed to the door and lowered his voice. “Probably the only place the paparazzi won’t follow me into as well. Manhattan Tiger Moms frighten them off.”
