Bait

by M. Mabie

  Bridesmaids walked. I watched them out of my periphery.

  Reggie and probably Blake's other brother, Shane, walked to the back of the seats to collect their mother.

  Violins played.

  She walked down, arm in arm with them to the first row, and sat. Two other people walked by, probably his parents; they sat on the other side. I kept my head toward the grass and only looked up with my sunglass-covered eyes.

  The violins stopped.

  Everyone turned and stood.

  Violins played the wedding march, the saddest song I'd ever heard.

  I didn't stand. I literally couldn't stand for that. I forced my heavy head to turn and I looked past the people in my row.

  Flashes of her laughing at me, leaning in with her eyes closed and her mouth puckered for a kiss, and her flushed-pink nose…they all taunted me. The smell of her, taste of her, feel of her all at once hit so strongly that it crippled me.

  Violins fucking played.

  They walked by. It was so fast. I didn't know what I was hoping for. Maybe she'd be looking for me. Maybe she'd turn around and run. But they simply walked past row after row until I couldn't see them through the standing guests anymore.

  It got very quiet and everyone sat, putting the vision of my wildest fantasy and my worst nightmare in front of me all at once.

  The priest spoke loud enough for all to hear. We were gathered there that day by God. Good, maybe he would share some of the blame.

  I felt sick.

  Catholic ceremony. Stand-up. Sit-down. Peace be with us all. Peace wasn't with me. That was one thing I would forever be holding. For someone else I guessed.

  They gifted each other metal rings.

  They said the Lord’s Prayer.

  And then violins played.

  They were pronounced husband and wife. He kissed his bride. My Betty. My Honeybee. She kissed me goodbye.

  The sun was bright. What a terrible day for a wedding.

  I stood too soon. I couldn't stay a minute longer. The couple parted from their inaugural kiss as his and hers. Her hair and veil blew as a breeze passed me and touched her. She looked straight at me.

  I took one last look at her. I kissed the palm-side of my fingers, as she watched me standing there like a fool. The luck of it was that I was in the back and everyone was looking at them. Her face froze on mine.

  Grant smiled at his parents.

  She stayed still in her spot as he started to walk them forward and the opposite way down the aisle. But in her distraction, she paused. He noticed and looked at her and followed her gaze to me. He whispered something in her ear, shaking her concentration and breaking her connection with me.

  She shook her head, rattling her thoughts. She turned to him.

  My brother caught it, too. His head looked over his shoulder and directly at me. It was a look of shock and then pity.

  My feet were steadfast and moved without my telling them to. Into the car. Onto the road.

  I heard my cell phone ring. I suspected it was Cory and let it ring to voicemail. I'd text him later.

  I drove south. Toward home.

  I stopped for gas in a small town hours later and refilled the rental. I didn't even have a real tie to the vehicle I was escaping with. Escaping. That's what it felt like.

  I thought the further I got, the more miles I put between us, that the pain I felt in every cell would dull. It didn't.

  I could still hear the violins.

  “Casey, it's me. I don't know where you went. Shit. Why did you come? Why did you do that?” I listened to Cory's voicemail. He sighed then went on, “I know you were there. Dammit. Just…just call me when you get this. Text me or something. Let me know where you are. I'm sorry. I love you, brother.” Then he hung up.

  I'd driven straight back to San Francisco. I didn't arrive in town until around six thirty in the morning. When I walked into my apartment, the sun was coming up and I was thankful to be so tired. My eyes gave in and I fell asleep the second my head hit the couch.

  When I awoke around three that afternoon, I listened to my voicemail from Cory again and read the texts he'd sent.

  Cory: Would you text me already? Where are you?

  Cory: Are you okay? You're pissing me off.

  Cory: TEXT ME!

  If I could feel anything, I would have felt bad for freaking him out.

  I had the rental picked up and I headed to the bar. Hindsight would show that the Hook, Line and Sinker was a terrible choice. It was only early afternoon, but I had a lot of things to drown and I needed to get started.

  Me: Home.

  There I'd sent a message to Cory.

  Then I sent a message to Nate asking if he was working tonight. It was a Sunday and I knew he worked every other one.

  Nate was working at HLS and I was glad. I had every intention of drinking until I was kicked out, and at least I could talk him into serving me past when everyone else would cut me off.

  “Hey,” I said to him as I walked in. He sized me up, not saying anything. There were only a few others in the bar playing darts and two were shooting pool. No one sat at the bar.

  I chose the stool in front of where he was stocking bottles and changing out the nozzles on the liquor. He had most of the bottles on the bar so he could clean the glass shelves and mirrored wall behind them. He still didn't say anything, but he examined me pretty closely.

  He reached under the wooden bar and pulled out a double-shot glass, sliding it to me. I stopped it with my hand.

  “Troy or Cory coming?” he asked.

  “Nope.” My eyes landed on the bottle of Remy Martin and I thought how fucking appropriate. Without a second thought to the glass, I opened the bottle and tipped it back. It was strong and it burned going down. Accustomed to the taste, Remy being a once upon a time friend of mine, he bit me back when I rushed him down my throat.

  It was raining, fitting, and I'd really dressed up for my night out. Flip flops, brown tattered cargo shorts, white T-shirt, and a zip-up Bay hoodie. I showered quickly, but didn't shave. I didn't even look at my hair and let it dry like it was. I'm sure I looked really fucking mental. I was a book worthy of being judged by my cover.

  “Looks like I'll need another bottle of Remy for the shelf, you just bought that one.” He chuckled, not having a care in the world, and joked like the world wasn't on fire. I supposed his wasn't, but there was enough smolder coming off me that he could at least tone down his chipper fucking tone. “You're the only guy that drinks that stuff anyway.”

  I hadn't drunk it here since that first night. I looked at him squinting. “Same bottle?”

  “Same bottle,” he said, walking to the back room for its replacement. It was still mostly full. I both hated it and loved it at the same time. I didn't want to empty it. It was pitifully ironic.

  When he returned with the new Remy bottle and a few others, he sat them down on the bar in front of me.

  “Can I get a glass of ice?”

  He threw about five cubes into a Glenciarn glass and handed it to me. I said, “Play some music, would ya? Something louder than these violins in my head.”

  I walked myself, the glass, and both bottles of Remy Martin to the booth in the back. After emptying my hands of my chosen mind eraser, I unscrewed the light bulb a quarter turn so that it went out, burning my numb fingers, my reflexes already slow, so the pain didn't hurt. Maybe I'd hit my deductible on pain.

  Nate turned music on and what a good man. The beginning riff to Bulls on Parade pumped through the speaker that sat right behind that very booth.

  I opened the new bottle, poured the amber cure over the ice and swirled it.

  I looked at the old bottle. It was short, round and clear. I ran my thumb over the staff wielding sitar and hours passed.

  Nate left me to it, not bothering me much, only coming over to switch out my glass with a fresh one with ice. He brought me a glass of water the last time. I'd slowly drunk a giant's share. I sipped the room temperature
cognac and swallowed memories and fantasies alike.

  My head in one hand, my finger circled the rim of the glass, I was officially Hemmingway drunk.

  “You look like you need a friend,” said a sympathetic woman's voice.

  Aly.

  I didn't respond. My eyes were hot and when I looked up to see her they felt dry for having stared at the same spot on the table for hours.

  She sat opposite of me and looked around the room.

  “It's hopping in here,” she said sarcastically. “I can't believe I almost missed this party.”

  “I'm not in the mood, Aly,” I croaked and took the last drink within my glass, immediately reaching to refill it.

  “Oh, I'd say you look like you are in a mood. A bad one, too.” I looked at her blankly, trying to show her this wasn't a good time to play an angel. I was still missing the devil.

  “Listen. I don't know who called you to come down here. I'd rather they hadn't.” I heard my words run together, my head lulled a bit. My drinks were gaining on me and they caught up to me all at once. Maybe I hadn't noticed since I hadn't spoken or been forced into logical thought for a while. It was almost peaceful letting my mind sink to the bottom of the glass.

  “Nate called your brother. Cory called me.”

  “How cute. You have a Casey's Drunk calling tree.” I patronized her and slapped the table.

  She jumped.

  I pulled my hood up over my head and yelled at Nate, “Thanks!”

  He lifted his head from the draught he was topping then flipped me off and went back to the beer.

  “Casey, don't be a dick. They're worried about you.” She reached her hand across the table and it touched me.

  I recoiled. “Don't. Hey, I got myself into this. I wonder if everyone will throw me a I-Told-You-So Party. Yeah, that'd be awesome. I can get all of these Poor Casey, you knew this was going to happen, and what did you expect talks out of the way all in one shot. Well, did you guys ever think that I didn't think this was going to happen? Did ya? I WAS WRONG!”

  Nate made quick time to the table and shoved me over on the bench, backing me up against the wall.

  “Listen. You don't have to yell at her. We get it, man. This shit sucks. But this is life. You made a choice and shit didn't turn out. You've got tonight to get ripped. Sit here all fucking night until you pass out. Be my guest. All the time you need. Tonight. That’s life, man. Wake up!”

  “I don't want to wake up,” I growled back like a rabid dog.

  “That's your choice. This shit will lose you a lot more than some girl.”

  “The girl, Nate. The. Girl.” I slumped, brought my thumb and index finger to the bridge of my nose and took a breath. “I'm drunk. Just let me be drunk. Please?”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Sure, no problem. I'll get you some more ice. He stood to return to the bar, grabbing my empty glass. “Don't yell at her again.” He pointed to Aly with the hand that held the glass and gave me a threatening look. “Got it?”

  He didn't wait for me to answer. We both knew it wasn't really a question.

  Aly didn't say anything. Her eyes looked red, but she smiled at me. It was more toothy than sincere.

  “Just. Leave.”

  Was everything from then out going to be make believe?

  Sunday, May 24, 2009

  THE WHOLE THING FELT like dress-up from when I was a child. Make believe. I was the bride and Grant was the groom and we got married and we were going to live happily ever after. Everyone else believed it, why didn't I?

  I saw Casey at the wedding. I was glad that my mother gave me a Valium when she found me like she had still sitting in the chair.

  She'd heard everything. So, I didn't feel the need to tell her anything more. She kissed my forehead and simply asked, “Are you ready to go?”

  I said no, but got up anyway. I loved her for not asking more about it.

  The wedding breezed by. The reception did the same. We danced. I drank and then I drank a little more. Micah took care of me while she was there, but she left a little after ten, and I couldn't blame her. They had little Foster to take care of.

  The night went on and on.

  Finally, we went to the hotel and Grant put me to bed. He took care of me.

  “Thank you,” I said as he pulled my shoes off and pulled the covers up over my dress.

  “You're welcome Mrs. Kelly.”

  Then I puked.

  We flew to St. Bart’s the next afternoon. I was well and truly hung-over and Grant was delicate with me. I wore my sunglasses and admittedly was zero fun.

  When we arrived on the island I'd asked him if we could rest up the first night and he agreed. It was the first night of our honeymoon, the second day of my marriage, and I would have given anything to be anywhere else.

  “I'm sorry, Grant. This can't be that much fun for you,” I told him on the second day we were there.

  “It's okay. I just want you to feel better. Maybe we can do some stuff tomorrow. Go out. See the island a little. Maybe do some snorkeling or something. To be honest, it's been kind of nice not doing anything.” He sat at the opposite end of the couch and rubbed my feet as I lay there watching television.

  “Okay. I'll be better tomorrow. I promise.” Then I pretended to fall asleep until I actually did.

  The next morning, I woke up and felt much better everywhere except in my chest. I expected the pain that had taken up residence there wasn't from overindulging at our party.

  I decided to take a walk and clear my mind. Get my head straight.

  I wrote Grant a note letting him know where I'd gone, grabbed the hotel’s stationery and pen, and left.

  My crazy mind concocted this crazy notion that if I wrote everything down and threw it into the ocean that I could let it go. I think some old tribe somewhere used to do that with dead people. They'd set them free. That was my plan.

  I desperately needed to do that the memories of Casey and the part of my heart he lived in. I kept replaying over and over the things that he'd said to me before the wedding.

  He told me that he loved me. He told me that I was his. Deep down, I knew that was the truth. But, why hadn’t he told me sooner? Why hadn’t he offered permanent before? He told me he got me, so surely he should have known that was what I wanted all along.

  I sat there on the sand, popping all of the stupid fake nails off my fingers. My nails weren’t pretty, but at least they weren’t fake.

  I thought about the word fake and how it applied not only to the nails I wore, but the wife I already was. I didn’t want to be a fake wife. A fake anything.

  Clarity came to me on the beach as I wrestled cheap acrylics and bit at dried glue.

  Then I wrote. I wrote everything that I hadn't ever let myself admit. Pen to paper my secrets leaked out.

  I must have been gone for hours. When I returned to the room, Grant was getting out of the shower. He was attractive and fit. He looked every bit the put-together, perfectly groomed, and shaved blond man who I'd known for so long.

  “So you're feeling better then, Betty?” he asked and I could have died. Had he literally just called me Betty? I didn't know what to do.

  I laughed, and said, “What?”

  I stuffed the letter that I didn't have the heart to throw into the ocean, into an envelope and then into the front compartment of my luggage, while I waited for him to clarify or prove that I really had lost my mind.

  “Betty. You signed the note this morning with Betty. Is that something new?” He grinned.

  “Oh, that,” I said. I'd signed a letter to my husband with a pet name I used with him. That was a new low for me. “I was playing around. You know. Seeing if you were paying attention.” I acquiesced.

  He sauntered toward me with nothing on but a towel.

  “Well, I like it. Betty. I think it suits you.”

  Every time he said it my body reacted. Some twisted sensory thing misfiring inside my libido.

  “You don't have to
call me that. It was just a joke.” I felt embarrassed, and honestly it felt so wrong.

  “I could call you Mrs. Kelly,” he said, as he wrapped his arms around me and kissed my neck.

  “Well, I am Mrs. Kelly,” I told him. “So, maybe we try out Betty while we're here.” It was so immoral, but hearing it made nerves react and my blood flow like it hadn't in so very long.

  “Betty it is then,” he said.

  We made love and he called me Betty throughout. I would deal with the shame of it later. At the moment, I was enjoying the memory.

  When he said it as he came, surprisingly I did too. I didn't have to fake it. I just had to fake who gave it to me.

  I didn't pretend to be Betty. I was her. My brand of wrong started with imagining he was Casey and ended with me biting my cheek to keep from letting Grant know.

  In the mornings, before Grant woke up, I'd go into the town. I'd shop around and it was nice. Grant did a lot of work after he woke up on most days, so he barely noticed I wasn't there. I bought two bronze ships that reminded me of Casey and me. Always passing, never headed in the same direction. That was the problem. We never had the same goal.

  In an island off the coast of somewhere sunny, I changed my direction.

  Everything was all wrong. Up was down. Left was right. Only a few days before, I'd made vows to this man. And on the beach one morning, I made vows to myself to undo them.

  I had but one goal. If it wasn’t too late.

  Monday, May 25, 2009

  MY MAIN GOAL WAS letting her go. And a few days after May twenty-fucking-third, something entirely different stole my focus.

  I walked into my mom’s house and found her lying on the couch, something that I couldn't ever remember seeing her do. She was napping. In the middle of the day.

  I went to her and sat down on the hardwood floor.

  I shook her gently.

  “Hey, Mom. It's me. Are you okay?” I asked as I sat on the floor beside her. She looked sick, and not at all like the last time I'd seen her. When was that? A month ago? The hospital when Foster was born?

  She looked a little thinner then, but not really ill. She hadn't mentioned anything when we talked on the phone.