Beyond the Pale Motel Page 4

  “If I could pick the perfect godmother, it would be you,” he mumbled.

  “I love you, Sky.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I love you, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you stay for a little while?”

  “Of course.” I lay down next to him with my feet dangling off the side of the bed because I still had my Jordans on.

  A little while later he whispered, “Catt?”

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “You can go now because I’m technically asleep.”

  “Okay, baby.”

  Thank God Sky was there. Making me smile in the dark. Keeping at bay the ghosts that danced in the old Doc Martens Dash had left behind.

  #3

  When Cyan came to the door the next morning, it was raining. It rarely rains in Los Angeles, and there is a certain dirty-sweet smell that rises off the sidewalk, which accompanied him. He wore a wet, deep blue hoodie that matched his eyes and reminded me of the famous raincoat in that old, old Leonard Cohen song. In stature and with his shaved head, Cyan was so like Dash that I took a step back.

  “Catt.”

  “Cyan.”

  We stood staring at each other for a few seconds before I gained enough composure to invite him in.

  Tears pricked at me, fighting for an entryway, and I inhaled them back. “Why are you here?” I finally said.

  He shifted his stance and shook raindrops off his shoulders. “I was just in town. For some work.” I knew he had spoken to Dash. “May I sit down?”

  I apologized and offered him coffee or orange juice, told him I was about to make pancakes for Sky. When I had people to care for, it helped me forget myself. Cyan only wanted green tea.

  “You sure I’m not disturbing you?” he asked, when I offered him a seat at the kitchen table.

  “No, it’s fine. Sky’s happy watching cartoons with the cat. You’ve met him before. My friend Bree’s son?” Skylar had been staying over when Cyan visited a couple of times.

  “Your godson?”

  “Exactly. He’s definitely sent from God.”

  As if on cue, Sky appeared in the doorway in Spider-Man pajamas and slippers. I gave him a hug; he always seemed to fit perfectly into my arms. “Hungry? They’re almost ready. Remember Cyan?”

  Sky stared at him.

  Cyan nodded. “Nice to see you, Skylar.”

  “Hi. Auntie Catt, can I eat breakfast while I watch TV?”

  “Sure. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

  He shuffled out.

  “He’s staying with you? Where’s his mom and dad?”

  “It’s just some nights. Baby Daddy isn’t around much. Sky’s mom had a date or something. I’m glad he’s here.”

  “How you holding up?”

  “So Dash told you?” I cracked an egg into a bowl. The sizzling of butter in the pan and the sunshine and the sound of cartoons, the man in the hoodie seated at my table, made everything seem normal, but it wasn’t of course.

  He nodded, leaning forward, squinting into my eyes with his blue gaze. For the first time I was self-conscious—no makeup, hair a mess, ratty T-shirt. I’d been too preoccupied to notice when he’d arrived. “I was coming to town for work and I called to see what was up, and he said he’d moved out. That’s all I know.” He took off the hoodie and his biceps—not as big as Dash’s but still impressive—flexed. “You okay?”

  “Great. I’ve got Skylar.” I tried to laugh but it made the bones in my chest ache. But what about when Sky goes home? I was pathetic.

  “You look thin. I hope you’re going to have some of those pancakes?”

  Thin? I wasn’t thin. But I was flattered anyway, even if he really didn’t mean it as a compliment. “They’re just for Sky. And you if you want.”

  “You look too thin. Have you guys talked at all?”

  I shook my head, no, and dropped some pancake batter into the frying pan. Even the sweet, buttery smell didn’t give me an appetite. The husband-leaves-you-diet. “Will he talk to you about it?”

  “Not really. He’s very defensive. I told him he’s an idiot, though. You are by far the best—”

  “Don’t say it.” I glared at Cyan. “I can’t deal with you being kind to me right now.” I didn’t add, Because you look so much like him, because you are so good-looking, because I need someone to make it better so badly. He’d never said anything that personal to me before. Well, once … at my wedding to his brother.

  “He met someone. I had no idea. I’m such an asshole.” I turned away from the stove, fanning my face and biting my lip. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t call yourself that. Just don’t.” He stood up and came over to me. I could smell the lemon soap he’d used that morning.

  “Tell me about you. I can’t stand to talk about this anymore. There’ll be tears in the batter.”

  Cyan was there from Seattle for a photography gig. Some bands wanted to shoot with him, and he’d booked a few head shots as well. Usually he only worked in black and white, artsy portraits and landscapes, but he came to LA every so often to pay the bills.

  I hadn’t spent much time with Dash’s older brother. He didn’t visit often and we’d only been to see him in Seattle once, when Dash had a gig there. Cyan was Dash’s only living relative, but they weren’t close. Dash said Cyan was a recluse, and a bit of an eccentric; I didn’t know much more than that about him. I’d always secretly wondered if Dash was jealous in some way. He almost seemed to want to avoid his brother.

  When I first met Cyan, we talked about Diane Arbus and Dare Wright; Bree had recently lent me both of their biographies, and I showed Cyan Love Monster posts I’d done on both of them. Cyan and I also talked about Cindy Sherman, whom I especially admired. Bree and I shared a love of photography, but Dash never wanted to go with us to see the exhibits, even the 1980s LA Punk that featured one of my favorite shots of all time, and a onetime header for Love Monster—Exene Cervenka when she was very young, arms and legs akimbo like a broken doll with black eyeliner and hacked-off hair.

  The whole time Cyan and I had talked, Dash sat with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. I rubbed his back, wanting to make him feel included, and I remember Cyan observing that, looking pleased by it maybe. Afterward I’d asked Dash why his intelligent, interesting brother was still single. I was thinking about fixing him up with Bree, who was in the off-agains with Baby Daddy and a good, if amateur, photographer herself.

  “Why get tied down? He has the best job in the world photographing all those models,” Dash had said with an edge to his voice that at the time I’d interpreted as jealousy of his charismatic brother, not a reflection of something lacking in me.

  Thinking of the comment now made my stomach flip like the pancake in my pan.

  I was relieved to see Cyan in spite of his resemblance to Dash and the memories it brought up and I didn’t really want my guest to leave right away. There was something comforting about the way his body filled the small space of the bungalow, the smooth-planed, almost monastic beauty of his face.

  “Where are you staying?” I asked.

  “I got a motel. I’m good.”

  “A motel? Is that comfortable?”

  “I love motels. I’m doing a photo series on them. The older and more run-down the better.”

  “Cool. I’d like to see them. The photos, not the motels. My sheets are nicer, I guarantee it.”

  The corners of his mouth pulled up slightly; he had very full lips. “I don’t doubt that. It’s fine. But I’m going to be checking up on you, Catt. Seriously.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And if you need a haircut, I’m your girl. On the house.”

  He laughed, smoothing his fingers over his shaved head, so well shaped it looked like an Egyptian statue’s. “If I ever actually need one, yes.”

  “Do you want to stay for pancakes?” I really wanted him to.

  “No, you have company. You two need the nutrition mor
e than I do. You better eat some. And I have to get going anyway and hit the gym early.”

  “The gym? Instead of pancakes?”

  “I need it to de-stress. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

  “Of course. Where are you going to work out?”

  He wasn’t sure so I told him about Body Farm and gave him a guest pass I’d had in my wallet for months.

  His hands were cool and strong, with large, smooth nail beds and oddly flexible thumbs, and I let him hold my hand in both of his, for a moment, before he left.

  * * *

  “Dash’s brother? The hot one?” Bree said when I told her. She was an hour late to pick up Skylar, so I’d fed him dinner and helped him with his homework for the next day.

  “There’s only one, Bree.”

  She had met Cyan at my wedding and flirted with him of course, telling him about her interest in photography. “I’m obsessed with an art form entirely based on light,” she had said.

  “And its absence,” he had corrected her.

  Nothing came of it; she was solid with Baby Daddy at the time. I remembered Cyan’s placid expression when they were introduced, so unlike the reaction most men had to Bree, figured he was just being respectful of Baby Daddy. But that cool regard was probably another reason why Cyan had stuck in her mind. A challenge.

  “Does he have a secret crush on you or something?”

  I pushed her hand away—she was trying to brush my hair out of my eyes.

  “What?” She pouted at me, innocent gaze, incensed mouth.

  “He just wanted to see if I was okay. All you think about is—”

  “Sex. Yes, I know.”

  This made me flash on Dash with his sex-addict meetings and I flinched. Cyan seemed so different from his brother.

  “And also, why else would he have ignored me at your wedding?”

  She had a point there.

  Our Love Monster–documented, punk-rock wedding had been at Dash’s friend’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Dash’s band played and everyone brought food, which we later called “pot bad luck” since it was basically a mess of fruit salad, hummus, guacamole, and chips with no real main course. The dessert was good, though—our favorite homemade chocolate chip cookies and a pink-and-black skull-and-crossbones cake festooned with frosting roses. The bride and groom were a Day of the Dead skeleton couple. We hung white gauze and pink twinkle lights in the trees. I wore a white satin corset dress with layers of pink and black tulle underneath that Bree had designed and made. Bree with her artist’s eyes and hands also went downtown at dawn to buy a truckload of pink and white peonies, and calla and Stargazer lilies, at the flower mart, arranged them in her collection of pretty wine bottles, put my hair in a pompadour, and did my makeup all cat’s eyes and pink and white glitter. Very Adele, although no one had heard of her yet. (When she came on the scene I was happy to have a beauty icon I could identify with.) Cyan was the photographer that night and didn’t really talk to anyone. But I remembered him coming into the dressing room where I was applying my pale pink frosted lipstick.

  “May I photograph you now?” he said in the mirror. “The light is perfect.”

  I turned to him, smiling. The picture is still my favorite—my eyes bright with hope, lips parted with anticipation.

  “Catt?” I turned to him. “Your face is so full of love. It’s like you can see the love in everything.” I didn’t want to acknowledge it at the time, but the way he had said that, the way he looked at me, there was something more there, more than what was in the eyes and voice of my husband when we stood in front of all our friends and said our vows. It was a cool evening above the fraught, shining city, and I hadn’t been able to stop shaking throughout the entire ceremony, as if my body knew everything that was to come.

  #4

  “Good-looking guy, right?” Scott said.

  He had gotten me to Body Farm by telling me I had to show him pictures of Skylar’s tryouts. Scott and Skylar adored books, baseball, and each other (not in that order), so I knew Scott really wanted to see the pictures and would normally have come to me. But he was trying to get me to work out instead of staying home under the covers with Sasha.

  The last picture was of Sky and Jarell. We’d found out that Skylar was on his team. Practice started in a few days. I had to admit that I was looking forward to it.

  Rick, on the treadmill beside me, chuckled at Scott’s comment. Good-looking guy. He and Todd were always teasing Scott about being secretly gay. It never seemed to bother him much.

  “I guess so. If that’s your type,” I said.

  Scott knew me too well to buy my playing-it-cool attempt. He laughed, but it was weaker than his usual chuckle. “Yeah, right.”

  “I prefer shorter white guys with glasses,” I teased him, like usual, but he didn’t smile, which was a little weird. Like everything lately. To be honest I had always preferred tall, bald guys with tattoos, but at least one of them wasn’t any good for me.

  “You mean Harry Potter?” Rick said.

  We told Scott he looked like Daniel Radcliffe. He insisted people had always said Johnny Depp.

  “Abs now, Rickster.”

  “Aww, Scotty, really?”

  “You need to get that six-pack going.”

  “Let’s see yours,” I teased Scott. “Show us how they’re supposed to look.”

  “Yeah,” Rick chimed in.

  Scott shook his head. “Nah. I’m not in the best shape right now.”

  What? That wasn’t like Scott. He always enjoyed the opportunity to show off his muscles. I frowned at him but I didn’t say anything. My head felt a little light. Maybe I just needed water? Or to go home and get in bed. Try to touch myself while fantasizing about Skylar’s new coach, use him to keep visions of Dash away.

  Rick finished his set and huffed off.

  “Hey, Catt.” Scott reached for my wrist and I stopped the treadmill, wiped sweat from my face with a towel, and turned to him. There were dark circles under his eyes, just visible beneath the rim of his Harry Potter glasses.

  “You okay?” I asked. But I asked too casually, I know that now. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but what good does it do you?

  “Yeah, I think I’m coming down with something. It’s no big deal. I wanted to talk to you.”

  I was always so comfortable around Scott, but for some reason I felt the desire to back away. “Sure. What is it, honey?”

  “I just … I really want you to have everything you deserve,” he said. “I want you to be happy.”

  “Thanks, Scotty. Me, too.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Okay. You sure you’re okay, though?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m going to make you some Chinese soup with lots of ginger and garlic. Can you come by tomorrow?”

  “Thank you. And then maybe I can show you my new space.” Scott had moved out of his girlfriend Emi’s apartment a few weeks earlier. I still didn’t quite understand why he had broken up with her. They’d met when she applied for a job as a trainer at Body Farm, although she’d turned it down because she didn’t want to work for Big Bob. She was only in her midtwenties and Scott had alluded to some sexual issues between them. I didn’t know if she was just shy and inexperienced or if it was something with Scott. In some ways he was a mystery to me. Not that I thought he was gay, but it felt like he was hiding a part of himself, holding himself back. We had flirted when we first met at Body Farm, he was my best friend besides Bree, we loved each other, but there was always this distance. And it had grown worse in the last year. I’d thought it was Emi, but now that they’d broken up, he was just as remote, if not more so.

  Big Bob was at the door with the hot new girl. Her name was Leila Reynolds; Scott had introduced us. He had been training her at first, until Bob saw her and decided she was his. I wondered if Dash’s new girlfriend looked like that, except with tattoos and piercings probably. “Looking good, Catt,” Bob said.
“Losing some weight there?”

  He hardly ever talked to me. I stared at him blankly. “Thanks.”

  “Tell Bree to come see me,” he said.

  Something about him reminded me of taxidermy—the sewn back face-lift, the dead glass eyes. I realized that without Dash I was much more afraid of just about everything and everyone, which made no sense. I told myself then that I should have been afraid of Dash all along.

  * * *

  The next night Scott came by for soup and homemade spring rolls, which we ate on the couch, sitting cross-legged facing each other, wearing our socks. We hung out awhile and then drove over to Scott’s new apartment. It was just a studio in a French Normandy building on Franklin, and he’d sold almost all of his furniture. I asked him why he’d downsized so dramatically.

  “It’s a fresh start. I need to be ready for change.”

  “What kind of change?” I asked. “You’re not going on some big trip without me or something, are you?”

  “Maybe.” He smiled and walked over to me, his hands in his sweatpants pockets. “But it won’t be forever.”

  Scott was a big homebody so I had no idea where he’d go. His family lived in Ohio but he rarely visited them. He didn’t get along with his dad (who was sure Scott was a “queer, living out West with the queers, the Jews, and the Mexicans”), and he worried that if he had too much contact with his mom, she would have to deal with her husband’s anger. Scott had told me how much he worshipped her, though. I’d seen pictures and we’d talked on the phone once or twice when I was over visiting him; she looked like a mom in a TV show and had written a bestselling vegetarian cookbook called Corn Fed.

  “Scott,” I said, “did I do something wrong? I already blew it once with Dash. I can’t lose you, too.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. It had been a while since he’d touched me and I calmed down immediately, the way Pinkie used to when I pet her, before the seizures started. “Of course not. You’re perfect. Dash was a loser. I love you. End of story.”