Vegas Girls

by Heather Skyler

  “I know I didn’t need to,” he said. “I wanted to. And fifty stitches is not fine, by the way.”

  “It’s only twenty.”

  “Okay, then, twenty. I’ll go home.” He turned and began to walk away.

  Ivy laughed and called out for him to come back, which he did, grinning. She could tell, however, that the grin was forced, and she understood then how worried he was. He pulled up a chair next to Ramona’s and leaned forward to take Ivy’s hand. “I called your dad to let him know.”

  “Why would you do that?” Ivy asked.

  “Believe it or not, parents like to know when their kids get hurt.”

  “But he can’t do anything for me. He’ll just worry now.” Ivy sighed and leaned her head back against the pillow. That was all she needed: her father driving over to fuss. Ever since he’d stopped drinking, he’d become a worrier. It was not unusual to get an article in the mail that he’d clipped out, detailing the dangers of rubber bands, or describing the death of a family swept off a cliff in Maine by a giant wave.

  A nurse appeared at the edge of the curtain and asked Ivy how she was doing.

  Ivy was about to say she was okay when Frank said, “It’s sort of depressing in here. How about some music? Or better lighting?”

  The nurse looked at him and smiled. She was young and pretty, curvy beneath her white and lavender scrubs. “I forgot my candles and boom box,” she said with a smile and shrug, obviously flirting.

  “So when can we get her out of here?” he asked, tilting his head toward Ivy. “What’s the holdup?”

  “I’ll check and see what’s taking so long,” the nurse said, then smiled and left the room.

  “Thanks for coming,” Ivy told Frank, squeezing his hand. Her leg was beginning to ache through the haze of drugs, and the tightness of the stitches was unpleasant, alien. She had never had stitches before, and just thinking about the skin laced together over her wound made her stomach churn. She pressed the button to increase the drug coursing through her, then sank deeper into her pillow and closed her eyes. Her mother’s face swam over her, and Ivy reached up to touch her features, or she thought she was reaching up—she wasn’t sure. The blonde hair was thinner now and shorter, going white at the crown. As she watched her mother’s face shift in and out of her half-dream, she could hear Ramona and Frank talking. Their low murmurs were a comfort and reminded her of being young and in bed, listening to her parents talking in the living room. She had been loved then and happy, but she hadn’t even realized it. If she’d known how tenuous that feeling was going to be for the next ten or twenty years, she would have cherished it, held the emotion close and memorized its every slope and valley.

  JEREMY

  The grocery store was practically empty. Jeremy pushed his cart down the aisle, scooping up champagne grapes and fresh figs, cucumbers, mangoes, and raspberries. Six perfect pears, a ripe mango. This was the Vons where he’d run into Ivy only three days earlier. It felt as if a lifetime had passed since then.

  He didn’t expect to see her today, thinking that would be much too lucky, but he had driven across town to shop here simply because he liked the idea of having Ivy nearby. Also, the drive helped him to think about what he could make for the sweet sixteen party he was catering tonight. The girl’s mother had been vague about what she wanted, saying only that he should make snacks and dessert for twenty-five people and “nothing spicy please.” He’d devised several possible menus, all of which were shoved into his back pocket, but he was buying on impulse now, imagining the birthday girl’s homely, freckled face as he threw in blue cheese, goat cheese, Brie, Edam, fontina. Eggs, pickles, onions, bacon. He would need honey, he decided, and also some type of flatbread that he would bake himself.

  Back out in the parking lot, he began to sweat as he loaded the bags into the backseat of his car. The sun was high and sharp today, burning the parking lot to a faded husk. Inside his car, he rolled down the windows, realizing the drive had been foolish because the fruit would overheat, and the cheese might begin to soften, which would work all right for the Brie, he guessed, but not the others.

  He was almost out of the lot when he saw her—the older blonde woman who was or wasn’t Ivy’s mother. She was loading a bag into the front seat of a white car, and he couldn’t get a good look at her face. This might not even be the same person he’d spotted last week, but something told him to wait, so he did, idling close to the exit.

  When she drove by him, he recognized her large tortoiseshell sunglasses, and on impulse he followed her out of the lot and to the right, toward Eastern. She drove slowly, as if uncertain of her destination, pausing at a stop sign for an inordinately long time. His honk made her jump, and he felt guilty for startling her. The white car was a rental, and he’d been right about the make; it was a Monte Carlo.

  She screeched away from the stop sign, as if propelled by his honk, then he was forced to wait for a slow-moving pickup truck, and when he crossed the small intersection, the white car was no longer in sight. He was in Ivy’s neighborhood now, and he looped through the quiet streets, seeking out the Monte Carlo. He saw a couple of white cars parked in driveways, but not the same rental. A blonde woman trimmed her pomegranate tree on one front lawn, and Jeremy slowed, but when she looked up he saw it was a different person. The fruit in the backseat was beginning to smell overripe, its sweetness signaling its doom. Soon he would need to turn around and drive to the kitchen as quickly as he could.

  Just when he’d given up, he passed a small pocket park, and there was the car, parked and empty at the curb. He pulled in behind it, looking for the woman through his window, but the park was shaded with several large mulberry trees blocking his view, and he couldn’t see beyond the bathroom in the park’s center, so he cut the engine and rolled down his windows, then stepped outside.

  He found her sitting on top of a picnic table just past the bathroom. The paper bag from Vons sat beside her, and she was making a sandwich from its contents. First, she lifted out a loaf of bread, then a package of lunch meat, a block of white cheese.

  Approaching her slowly, he tried to decide if this was Ivy’s mother. She was definitely familiar, though smaller than he recalled, and thicker around the middle. She was wearing white tennis shoes, dark jeans, and a red T-shirt that said THE BIG APPLE. New York’s smoky skyline was etched beneath the white letters.

  He tried to remember her first name. It was something strange and foreign-sounding, like Ostrich. Astrid. That was it. It was a name he’d never heard before or since. He said it softly to himself, then stepped closer and said the name again, “Astrid?”

  She looked up from making her sandwich, then pushed her sunglasses back onto the top of her head and stared at him. Her eyes were the same giant gray-blue as Ivy’s.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “I think maybe you do,” he said. “It’s Jeremy, Ivy’s old boyfriend, from high school?”

  The information made her smile, a wide, apple-cheeked smile he hadn’t expected. It made her face instantly younger. “Jeremy, of course,” she said, getting down from the table and walking over to stand directly in front of him. “I always liked you.”

  “You did?” She didn’t hold out her hand for a shake, and Jeremy wondered if she was expecting a friendly embrace, but decided against any contact.

  “Of course I did. Remember that show we used to watch together, while Ivy was getting ready? It was a game show of some sort—I haven’t watched TV in years—but I do remember that one.”

  “Wheel of Fortune,” he said, recalling now how they used to sit together on the couch, figuring out the words while Ivy curled her hair, applied her mascara, spritzed on perfume. “You always knew the answers.”

  She shrugged. “It was a useless talent. But fun.”

  “Does Ivy know you’re here?” he asked, knowing of course that she didn’t.

  Astrid shook her head. “And please don’t tell her.”

  “How long have you bee
n in town?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  She returned to her seat atop the picnic table and patted the space beside her. “Join me?”

  “I can’t,” he said, remembering the food in his car, but it was more than that. Sitting beside Ivy’s mother and eating a sandwich would be a betrayal. He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous, and asked, “Where have you been? All this time?”

  She shrugged again. “Oh, here and there. Most recently Phoenix.”

  Phoenix. Such an ordinary place to escape from your family. He had always imagined her in Paris or Rome, sitting at a sidewalk café sipping wine, an image instantly erased by the word Phoenix.

  “When are you going to go and see Ivy?”

  “When I’m ready.” Astrid had finished making her sandwich and she took a large bite, then closed her eyes as she chewed and swallowed. “This could really use a pickle,” she said and opened her eyes. “Or red onion.”

  He had both of those items in the grocery bags in his car, but he said nothing. Why was she acting as if meeting him in a park after twenty years was an ordinary experience? Her nonchalance unnerved him. “I saw you,” he said, hoping to jar her into the moment, to coax out a stronger reaction. “You know, the night you left. I was standing across the street. I should have told Ivy about it, but I never did.”

  She raised her thin, blonde eyebrows, as if waiting for him to say more, then bit into her sandwich again. When she finished chewing, she said, “You did the right thing. It wasn’t your place to say anything and it’s not your place now. So keep out of it.”

  There was a threat in her sentence, despite her continued calm, her sugary tone. Jeremy took a step back, glad to have elicited a greater show of emotion, though now he didn’t know what to do with it. He had to ask her something important, gain crucial information for Ivy’s sake, so he tried the simplest route: “Why did you leave?”

  “Why did I leave?” she echoed, then nodded, and looked down at her knees. A fine peach fuzz of hair was lit by the sun along the curve of her cheek, and her face had tightened into concentration or pain. “You wouldn’t understand,” she told him finally.

  Though this was likely true, it struck him as unfair. He hoped she would not give Ivy the same answer. “Where are you staying?” he asked, trying for the next best thing, a solid piece of information to offer Ivy.

  “A friend’s, over in Henderson.”

  “What’s the address?”

  She gave him a long appraising look, then said, “None of your business.”

  “Okay.” It was true, he guessed. It was none of his business. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said, and waved, feeling foolish. The exchange was too mundane, and he found it difficult to believe that this was it. They had talked about nothing, and now he was waving good-bye. But there was nothing left to be done, so he turned, walked across the grass, and got into his car.

  The smell of ripe fruit was sickening now, and he drove quickly through the streets, hoping the groceries could be salvaged. Guilt overwhelmed him as he hit Eastern and headed toward his apartment, which was closer than the rented kitchen. He should have said more to Astrid. He should have yelled at her, cussed her out, pushed her onto the grass, done something to express the rage he’d felt toward her, that both he and Ivy had felt toward her all those years ago. Instead, he’d chatted pleasantly about Wheel of Fortune.

  His apartment building appeared sooner than he’d expected—traffic was light today—and Jeremy parked in his spot, then climbed to the second floor of the beige stucco building carrying all four bags of groceries and setting them down on the concrete hallway to unlock his door. He carried his groceries inside and quickly put half the items in the refrigerator, which was empty except for a jar of capers and a bottle of Tapatío sauce. The fruit and cheeses appeared to have survived the journey.

  He flopped onto his overstuffed chair and stared at the ceiling, thinking. He should call Ivy to tell her about Astrid. This duty sat in his gut like a stone. It would be best to tell her in person, but he couldn’t afford the time to do that until tomorrow. Still, a phone call would be awkward. Her voice would be wary; he would be unable to read her face; she might even cry. It was possible she would be angry about the delay if he waited until tomorrow to go over there and tell her, but he had a lot to do before the party he was catering in seven hours. He closed his eyes, and a menu began to take shape in his mind, clearing away his other worries: fig and goat cheese crostini, deviled eggs with horseradish and red onion, a cavatappi pasta with bacon and blue cheese that everyone always liked, as his safety. A fruit plate that would include the champagne grapes and mango. His assortment of cheeses and olives. Dessert would be a gingered pear pandowdy he’d been wanting to try and a simple chocolate mousse for the less adventurous. He’d make extra mousse in case the pandowdy didn’t work out. The ingredients for all of these things drifted in his mind, pictures floating through his vision with a vividness lacking in the rest of his life. He got up, poured himself a glass of water, then got to work.

  RAMONA

  She was looking forward to dinner at Jane’s house. Ramona had always liked her friend’s parents, and it felt good to leave that new, sterile neighborhood behind and travel back into the overgrown trees and uneven sidewalks of the older section of town, the one that felt more like home. Ivy had stayed behind to rest, still drugged up and sleepy, and Frank was so good at caring for her that Ramona and Jane were practically in the way around his competence.

  “I hope your mom makes those spinach crepes with goat cheese,” Ramona said. “I always loved those.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Jane advised. “I don’t think they eat cheese anymore. Lactose intolerant.”

  “Both of them?”

  Jane shrugged. “Not sure, but they’re a united front. If one is lactose intolerant, then they both are.”

  “That’s sweet,” Ramona said.

  “And a little bit annoying.”

  “I feel sort of bad leaving Ivy,” Ramona said.

  “She probably wants to be alone to sleep. That was an outrageous cut. I thought she was going to bleed to death for a minute. The shirt I tied to her leg was soaked through.”

  “I know,” Ramona said, shaking her head. Recalling the sight of Ivy hobbling toward her across the red rocks, Ramona felt again the dread of that moment. If anything happened to Ivy or Jane, who would she have left to love? She supposed there was Nash, and the possible baby, but would they be enough?

  They turned left and headed into Jane’s old neighborhood. This had once been a fairly well-kept area, with tall leafy elms and neat lawns, and Ramona was surprised to see how much it had changed. Cars were parked on grass. Chain-link fences were erected here and there to keep in large, angry looking dogs. Dusty front yards held plastic play sets.

  At the end of the block, Ramona saw that Jane’s old home was still a haven of cool green trees. The house was painted a bright, sky blue now—it was gray when she’d last been here—and the cheery color only served to emphasize the decay of the homes around it. “No offense,” Ramona said, “but this house should be airlifted out of here.”

  “I know. Sad, isn’t it?” Jane said, parking at the curb and cutting the engine.

  “What’s sad?” Rocky asked.

  Ramona turned, surprised to hear his voice. She’d completely forgotten the kids were in the backseat. This forgetfulness struck her as a bad omen, a mark against her potential as a future mother.

  “It’s sad that the neighborhood where I grew up looks so crappy now,” Jane said, stepping out of the car.

  “I like it,” Rocky said, getting out and stepping onto the lawn. “I like the trees.”

  “The trees are nice,” Ramona agreed, looking up into the broad arms of the elms.

  Fern had fallen asleep, and Jane was trying to carefully lift her out, so Ramona took Rocky’s hand and led him to the front door.

  Jane’s mother, Sheila, answered, wearing an apron with
the name of a vineyard on it. The green cloth was spotless, as if she hadn’t actually worn it while cooking. “Ramona!” she cried and pulled her into an embrace. “Look at you,” Sheila said, holding her at arm’s length. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  The attention made her blush, and she smiled, then said, “You haven’t either,” though of course she had. Her light brown hair was striped with gray now instead of blonde, and her skin had a nice crêpey softness that it hadn’t back in high school.

  “Nonsense,” Sheila said. “I’m an old lady now.” She smiled to reveal even, white teeth.

  “Ancient,” Jane said, coming up behind Ramona and leaning to kiss her mother on the cheek before moving past her into the house. Rocky and Fern each grabbed Sheila around one knee and she leaned down to coo at them.

  Inside, the house was just as Ramona remembered: green walls, parquet floors, and the clean lines of pale Swedish furniture. A Matisse print called Blue Nude hung over the fireplace, and Ramona recalled that she’d planned to buy that print one day and hang it in her own home, something she hadn’t yet accomplished. She made another mental note to do so, but couldn’t quite picture where it would fit in her tiny apartment. There must be a smaller version of the print, but that wouldn’t be the same, would it?

  In the living room, Jane’s father, Gary, sat on the couch holding a glass of white wine and talking to Jane’s brother, Russ. Ramona stopped when she saw Russ and felt a brief flush of nervous wings beat through her. She hadn’t known he was going to be here tonight.

  Both men rose to greet her, first bestowing a kiss on Jane, then hugging Ramona and telling her how good she looked after all these years. She wasn’t sure she actually looked very good at all—her hair definitely needed cutting (Ivy was right) and she could feel a painful blemish forming on her chin—but she guessed this was the standard offering to a friend, or a friend of your daughter’s, whom you hadn’t seen in twenty years.

  “You guys aren’t looking too shabby yourselves,” she said, gratefully accepting a glass of wine from Jane’s mother and sitting in the coral-colored armchair beside the couch.