Coda

by CD Reiss

  “Not to be dramatic.”

  “I’ll get a samba band in here if you like. Cha cha chadda.” I swung my hips to the rhythm, with my piece of bread out.

  He grabbed my wrist and held it still. I froze. Had I insulted his masculinity or something?

  He locked eyes with me then tore them away. He kissed down the inside of my arm, my wrist, and took the bread in his mouth. He chewed. I waited. He had zero change of expression, and I smiled a little.

  He swallowed. “I feel like my face is burning from the inside.”

  “Well, you look gorgeous.”

  He let my hand go and screwed the top back on the chimichuri. “You’re just seeing a free man.”

  “Oh, right, Margie came today. Did you get rid of everything?”

  “I gave up every hotel from A to J. I kept the one where I met you. I’m sentimental like that.”

  “Did she tell you about the Swiss thing?”

  He froze. I swallowed. Was it more complicated than I thought? Was it too expensive an investment?

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Really?”

  “I—”

  I had an explosion I couldn’t control or foresee. All my pent-up feelings went off like controlled detonation, except the building didn’t collapse but took off like a rocket. I threw my arms around his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist.

  He was thrown back a step catching me. “Jesus, Monica.”

  “Happy birthday, baby.” I kissed him seven times. I couldn’t stop, but then I had to talk. “They’re so close they just need a push. I know it’s a lot of money but it’s worth it when they figure out the rejection thing it needs its own special rejection meds which they’re also developing and then a healthy testsubjectwhois—”

  “Whoa whoa.”

  “Young, with no secondary problems.”

  “Monica.”

  “It’s you. You. Especially if you fund it, then they have to make it you. And it lasts forever. You’ll have to get hit by a bus when you’re a hundred and ten.”

  He loosened his grip until my feet hit the floor. “Do you know what the odds are of it working?”

  “Great!” I stuffed the bread back into the bag. “The odds are great. I mean, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. But the odds of the one you have lasting even twenty years are worse, since they’re, like, zero.”

  I felt like a giddy schoolgirl. I wanted to sing and dance, and my smile was totally involuntary. I could barely contain myself. I felt as if the past seven months might be erased, put away in some jar in the china cabinet where we could ogle how cute and silly it all had been.

  Jonathan leaned against the counter, clicking the ice in his water glass and staring into it as if it were a problem. I felt crazy and childish in comparison. I cleared my throat, choking back the relief and trying to find that worry again. But it wouldn’t go away. I was over the moon, and he was still on the earth.

  I breathed deeply, trying to calm down. I was overreacting for sure, but it was his heart, his life, his chest. If he was somber over it, then I could take it down a notch. I moved the bread bag three inches. I touched a pan, shifting it on the stove. I smiled as I turned a knickknack a quarter way around. My mother had given it to me. It said BELIZE.

  “I thought you were going to eat something,” Jonathan said.

  “Fuck it.” I stood in front of him. “I want you for a snack.” I dropped to my knees and yanked down his sweatpants.

  “Okay, Monica—”

  I gave him big eyes from below. “You don't want me to suck your cock?” I felt him harden in my hand.

  “I’d love a blowjob, thank you. I have to take a handful of pills. Then I’m going to shower. So I need you to go upstairs, take your clothes off, and be ready for a quick go before we leave. And when I say ready, I mean mouth open and hands behind your back.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said through a smile.

  “Your legs should be open all the way this time. I mean it. We’re on a tight clock.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have I mentioned how much I love being married to you?”

  “Not today.”

  “Let me finish up here, and I’ll show you.”

  chapter 13.

  JONATHAN

  I loved being married to Monica—at least, I did once we had reestablished full participation by both parties. The weeks following my visit to the studio, minus the constant medication, had been exactly what I’d wanted from the honeymoon we never had.

  Things would get back to normal soon, whatever that was. I still couldn’t find a taste for the food I used to like. Anything spicy tasted like poison, and I craved sour foods as if I were pregnant. I thought less and less about having a strange piece of meat inside me. My chest didn’t feel as heavy with attention as often. I was in a routine with Laurelin, the medicine, the nutrition, and my odd addiction to jogging which made the team of doctors happy.

  Normal. For somebody.

  But at least I could still make plans for Monica’s body and execute them. If I couldn’t eat the spicy chimichuri, which we apparently had a never-ending supply of, at least I could spoon-feed her while she was on her hands and knees.

  I’d overheard her fielding calls from the people she worked with, putting them off, apologizing. She was an artist, and she’d need to get back to it soon. We still hadn’t talked about how to manage that part of our lives because when we did, I’d have to admit for the first time that I didn’t want her to travel so much. I didn’t know what to do about that.

  The visions of my heart leaving my body persisted. Sometimes it flopped around the floor and squirted blood; sometimes it only came halfway out; and sometimes, when I scratched the itchy scar, my fingers went through the soft tissue and touched the foreign, beating thing, and in response, it detached and slid into my palm.

  Monica was always there in those waking dreams. In the easiest ones, she was simply horrified. In the worst of them, I was driving and killed her when I died at the wheel. But traveling? I was convinced the heart would stay on the ground if I flew, as if it weren’t tethered to my body but to the state of California. I’d ruin her trip and probably her life. I was never scared of my own death. I’d dealt with that already, but its effect on Monica would be shattering.

  None of it was rational. None of it made sense. And my nearly physical ache for children made the least sense of all the crazy nonsense I believed. Knowing that didn’t shake the fear or the longing away.

  I’d managed to wiggle out of traveling until we drove down to Sheila’s place in Palos Verdes. The June sunset left the sky palette-knifed in orange and navy, and the temperature hung between inoffensively cold and completely generic. With the top down and Monica next to me in the Jag, twisted in her seat, the weather was perfect.

  “Are you going to sit like that in front of my sisters?” I asked.

  “Hey, if you wanted me to sit straight, you should have been a little gentler.”

  “You didn’t marry me for my gentle ways.”

  She poked me in the ribs and I laughed, but she sat straighter.

  “Is there any country in the world you haven’t been to?” she asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Any one you want to go to?”

  “Iceland. But I’m not cleared yet.”

  “Yes, you are. You haven’t asked Dr. Solis at all. We could send a bunch of shit shakes ahead and make sure whatever cardiac unit there was knew you were coming.”

  I didn’t answer right away. We were communicating, but I shouldn’t answer rashly. I pulled off the 110, slowing my car and my thoughts. “The thought of it is…” I knew what the honest answer was, but it was hard to speak aloud.

  “We can do everything to make it less scary—”

  “I didn’t say I was scared.”

  “Well, I am.” She took my hand, looking out her side of the car. “Anyway. The food’s really bl
and there. You should like it.”

  I reached under her arm and tickled her. She squealed and twisted away. What was I going to do with her? Besides spank her raw and love her senseless? At some point, I would keep our honesty promise and break it to her that even if I funded the artificial heart, I wouldn’t test it. But her relief and happiness were too precious and delicate. I hoped some other obstacle would present itself in the meantime. Blood type, body size, anything.

  I went through the gate and parked in front of Sheila’s house, pulling the emergency brake. “About the Swiss thing…”

  “Yeah?”

  “If it’s not what you think or if it doesn’t work out, you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “It’ll work out. I know it.”

  She didn’t wait for me to come around. She just opened the door and got out, bouncing as if it were someone’s birthday.

  chapter 14.

  MONICA

  Jonathan followed me, flipping his keys in his palm, spinning them around a finger, flipping again. Spin. Flip. Spin. Flip. All in the rhythm of his gait, like a perfectly tuned instrument of movement and sound. He wore a white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and jeans that fit as if custom built for him. Jogging miles every morning had toned his legs and added grace to his gait.

  I rang Sheila’s bell. The door was wide enough to fit two adults walking abreast, so I didn’t know how he was supposed to get in without seeing everyone. But it hadn’t been my job to hide everyone. It had been my job to get him there on time.

  He slipped his hand across my bare shoulder and grasped me by the back of the neck, saying nothing and owning me completely. I relaxed right into the warmth of his hand.

  The door opened. Sheila wore a pair of skinny jeans and a lavender hoodie. Bare feet. Hair brushed for a change. “Happy birthday!”

  “Thanks.” He kissed her on the cheek, leaving his other hand on me as if I’d run away.

  Was the party off? Had something happened? Where was the big opening salvo? Sheila stepped out of the way. Jonathan guided me in the door, and I greeted her. Looking over her shoulder, I caught sight of the buffet and felt more than saw the presence of other people.

  After Jonathan stepped in and the door closed behind him, the shout of “Surprise!” came all at once, at incredible volume, from an impossible number of people. They appeared from the hall, behind the couch, the patio, as if a switch had been flicked.

  Jonathan stood in the doorway a second then clutched his chest and stepped back. Mouth open, eyes wide, as if in shock and surprise at the pain.

  I went blind, reaching for him, everything shut out but the sounds of the beeping machines, the stench of alcohol, the shadowed lines of the blinds falling across his white face in the afternoon.

  Hands on me. Strong arms, and the sounds of the room pierced the veil of terror.

  Laughter. A few dozen people laughing hysterically, and a collective awwww.

  Jonathan held me up, looking at me with a smile.

  “You asshole!” I said.

  “Come on,” he said. “It was funny.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I whispered softly so he’d know I was serious. I dropped my register and changed my inflection to sound like him when he didn’t want an argument. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  “I think it was that bite of chimichuri.” He rubbed his stomach and smiled.

  I didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t give him anything but ice cold anger.

  He looked pensively at me, pressing his lips together, before he said, “I’m sorry.”

  I was still shaken. I couldn’t forgive him. Not yet, and luckily I didn’t have to, because Leanne put a drink in my hand.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “He’s a fucker.” For a fashion designer, Leanne usually dressed in clothes that were no more exciting than the average plain Jane’s, and to be honest, she was kind of a slob. But that day, her jeans were rippling with shades of blue and the creases in her hands were deep indigo.

  I swished the drink. It was a yellow, juicy thing with ice. Behind me, Jonathan gladhanded and laughed.

  “What happened to your hands?” I asked.

  “We’re doing denim tie-dye in India.” She indicated her jeans, which went from deepest indigo to pale sky in irregular patterns.

  “Hm,” was all I said.

  “Not perfected yet, obviously. And it’s messing with the sideseams.” She grabbed her belt loops and yanked up her pants.

  “God, I wish you’d brush your hair,” Margie said to Leanne from behind me.

  Leanne’s bracelets jangled when she extended her silver-ringed middle finger at her sister. They tormented each other for a few more seconds, Drazen-style, and I twisted around to look for Jonathan. I found him chatting with Eddie and another guy, perfectly happy, no chest pain, arms gesturing without stiffness. He wasn’t having a heart attack.

  As if summoned by my attention, he looked at me through the crowd and winked.

  Asshole.

  Gorgeous asshole.

  I excused myself and went to the kitchen. Staff buzzed around, slapping the oven open and shut, speaking the language of waitstaff I knew all too well. Eileen Drazen stood by the sink in sensible tan pants and a jacket, throwing her head back as if she’d just taken a pill. She sipped whiskey and turned around.

  “Hey,” I said. “How are you doing?”

  I reached in the cabinet for a glass. She and I had met under terrible circumstances, and once I understood that, and she understood that I wasn’t after her son’s money, she was still made of ice. But at least she was only cold, rather than cold and dismissive.

  “Fine. You?”

  “I’m getting over the psychotic break I nearly had a few minutes ago.” I filled the glass from the fridge door.

  “Yes. On the scale of inappropriate jokes, that was deep in the red. You should make him suffer for it.”

  “Where’s Declan?” I wanted to avoid him. He’d laughed off the three-doctors incident as simple misinformation, and I didn’t have a fact to hold against him. Sure, he could have innocently told me three doctors exiting the operating room meant the patient had died because he’d thought it was the case. To a certain extent, it was true. But it had been two doctors and a patient advocate. So that was explainable. And he might have not known that the anesthesiologist was expected to sit through the entire transplant to manage the induced coma and, thus, would exit with the other doctors. Sure. It was all plausible. But his smile of satisfaction when I dropped? That was totally subjective and completely real.

  So like the rest of his children, I simply didn’t trust him.

  “My husband’s around.” Eileen waved her ring-thick hand. “Everyone is here somewhere. I lose count of all of them.”

  “Have you seen Leanne’s jeans?”

  I said it to get a reaction, and she shuddered as if it was scandalous. My mother-in-law was such a backward prude that sometimes I wondered if it was all an act to protect a burning sexuality.

  “I think they’re cute,” I said, sipping my water.

  “You would,” she said without reproach. “I’ve learned to stop concerning myself with my children’s tastes. They get away, and then, poof, they’re not your responsibility. They’re just people who invite you over for holidays.”

  I nodded.

  “How many does he want?” Eileen asked.

  “Ten or more,” I said, putting my empty glass in the grey bus pan.

  Eileen barked a little laugh. “Men.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They figure if they have the money for a staff, they can breed to their heart’s content.”

  “You didn’t want eight kids?”

  “I wanted seven. Though the eighth?” She shrugged with a smile. “He’ll do. It was nice to have a boy. Broke up the catfights over who used the last of the conditioner.”

  I laughed. “Really? With all your staff? You ran out of conditioner?”
r />   “Your husband was pouring it down the sink,” she said. “The joker. No matter how much Delilah bought, he dumped it or hid it.”

  I caught sight of Eddie in a tan suit and red tie.

  “Ed,” Eileen said. “Nice to see you.” They double-kissed.

  “You too, Mrs. Drazen.”

  I rarely saw Eddie Milpas in his social setting. He knew Jonathan from college, but to me, he was the guy in the engineering room who made everyone else nervous. So I nearly burst out laughing when he called Eileen Mrs. Drazen.

  “Come to check on the catering?” Eileen asked.

  “Came to steal away this lady,” he replied, cocking his head toward me.

  “Do we have to talk about business?” I asked.

  “If you’d call me back—”

  “My cue to leave,” Eileen said. Without another word, she was gone, leaving me with Eddie and the constantly moving catering staff.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was going to call you on Monday.”

  “Which Monday, exactly?”

  “This coming—”

  “Look, I know you have other things on your mind. So I’m not going to sit here and watch you fidget.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m not fidgeting.”

  “Can I give you a piece of friendly advice?”

  “No.”

  “Professional advice then. One hundred percent free. Get yourself an agent to filter your damn calls.”

  I laughed softly at the irony. That was exactly what I’d been trying to do when I met Jonathan.

  Eddie continued, “If I wasn’t friends with your boyfriend—”

  “Husband.”

  “You’d miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime if I didn’t happen to be at this party.”

  “Okay, you’ve got my attention.”

  “Your EP is releasing in a few weeks. Right about then, Quentin Marshall is doing another charity song. Single cut. Wide distribution. Like the Christmas one for the drought in Australia. Everyone’s on it.”