Beyond the Pale Motel Page 5

  “So what do you mean about going away?”

  “Maybe I’ll go to paradise.”

  I kissed his cheek and he blushed where my lips brushed him. “You mean LA’s not paradise?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Yeah. Especially now,” I said. And thought of Dash. Los Angeles had once been our city of quartz, of Chandleresque lakes, Didion’s highways, and Westian bungalows. I’d written about it in Love Monster as our Garden of Eden, where wild parrots nested in flowering trees, sidewalks glittered with mica, and you could smell the ocean even all the way to the east when the winds were right. When I got sober, it was imperative that I made myself see magic everywhere, but now I was struggling to find it. Without Scott it would be even harder. “Don’t you dare leave me, too.”

  “Well then, you have to help me make this place livable,” he said. The walls were white stucco, the carpet cheap and gray. The only furniture was his futon, a table and chairs, a chest of drawers, a very small bookcase—he was using Kindle almost exclusively now. Various ashtrays reminded me of the medical marijuana Scott smoked for the pain he sometimes felt in his leg. The flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall. Scott usually had it tuned to ESPN.

  “You’ve given everything away. How am I supposed to make it livable? Do you want to go shopping? We could get you some candles and pillows.” Candles, pillows, and flowers were my solution to most problems. At least decoration problems. I wished the problem in my heart were as easy to fix. It felt like an empty room in my chest. Caving walls and splintered floors. “A cat would be nice, too.”

  “No. I can’t take care of anybody. But I’ll take Catt with a capital C and two ts. For as long as possible.”

  * * *

  Bree had dragged me out of the house on a Thursday night. I would have much preferred to hang with Skylar while she went, but it was one of those rare occasions when Baby Daddy had him and she insisted.

  The excuse of staying home and fantasizing about her son’s baseball coach or crying about Dash wouldn’t have worked. Even though I didn’t say anything, she knew what I was thinking because she told me I needed to get a life.

  “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “Long enough. We aren’t getting any younger. And you look like a widow,” she said.

  I felt like one. “At least I don’t look as fat in black.”

  “You are not fat.”

  She wore her over-the-knee, studded boots and a T-shirt with a lavender unicorn on it. I had dyed her hair three graduated shades of light blue. Ombré, the latest trend. We pulled up in her Jeep, parked, strutted out. Or she did; I could never imitate that strut. We were going to have a few sodas, hear some music, maybe hit on a couple of guys, Bree said. I had no intention of hitting on any guys, but it wouldn’t hurt to distract myself.

  Bree swore to me later that she had no idea that Sliver Lake was playing at Outer Space that Thursday and I believe her, but it was too late by the time Dash came onstage. Surprise guests. I felt my dinner backing up into my throat. Bree and I had eaten tacos from a food truck.

  I grabbed her wrist, digging my nails in. “We have to get out of here.”

  Dash—slicker than I’d ever seen him in leather pants and biker boots, shirtless on the small stage under the low ceiling. He looked like he’d been pumping iron; his abs were a neat sixer. Even as I was trying to leave, I checked around for the girlfriend; she had to be there. The strobe lights falling over me felt like eyeballs cascading from the sky. Cold air on the back of my neck. Outside there was some big paparazzi moment going on. A limo had pulled up and a girl got out. As she walked in, the lights flashed so it was hard for me to see her clearly. Just long, bare legs and a short dress that looked like it was made out of thousands of tiny silver safety pins hanging off of her collarbones and shoulders. There was so much light it hurt my eyes. I wanted to be home in the dark bungalow watching the city lights from a distance, as if I could control them, put them out with a pinch of my fingers.

  “Darcy London,” Bree said, nodding at the girl.

  “Who?”

  “The starlet du jour. That cable crime show she’s on is a joke. It’s called Cold Cut or something.”

  I’d heard of it; Dash had recorded a song for the sound track, but he’d told me they’d only used a tiny clip and that the show was trash.

  Bree rolled her eyes. “Seriously?” she asked no one in particular, or perhaps some invisible network executive.

  It was such a hot night, way too hot for April. The cruel month. The brief rain that had brought Cyan to my door was over, and you could smell the fires that were raging through the hills. Burnt brush and possibly flesh. They’d evacuated the museum on the hill that day. I wondered casually about all the art. And the animals. Sometimes fire drove wild things down into our yard. My yard. Once Dash saw a coyote watching him through the glass of the back door. Leering at me, he’d said. I wondered if animals leered or if it was only people.

  When Bree dropped me off (she was going to meet her latest conquest, the Vampire, who had been elevated to semiboyfriend status), I wanted to open all my windows, but thoughts of Mandy Merrill and Adrienne Banks made me keep the windows locked. The rooms steamed like a glass hothouse. I undressed, took out my pink Rabbit vibrator, put on my headphones, and pretended Skylar’s coach, Jarell, was there with me. I lay naked with my legs spread for him, touching myself, watching as he unzipped his jeans. Then he flipped me over; my ass was in the air. He was stroking me from behind, tugging on my hair, parting my lips, sinking his fingers in, prepping me, saying, “Not Kitty Cat. Maybe I’ll call you Pussy, baby. My nice, juicy pussy. Man, my dick’s going to like it in here.” In the fantasy Dash sat on the armchair in the corner naked, watching us, jerking off. I looked up at him, squeezing my breasts and arching my eyebrows, wriggling my now small round ass for Jarell. In the fantasy Dash was pale—deathly—and he was crying with jealousy and humiliation.

  The sight of him in my mind made my clit retract and it hurt to touch myself anymore. Eyes tearing with frustration, I dropped the vibrator, causing Sasha to dart out of the room, and I rolled into a ball on the bed, rubbing the insides of my thighs to alleviate the tension.

  The next morning I went online to read some celebrity-gossip shit about Darcy London, as if a masochistic instinct had driven me there, so it was really my fault that I found out the way I did. If I hadn’t been wasting time like that, I would still have found out, probably from Bree, but at least I wouldn’t have been alone with the news. That sick feeling of falling through cyberspace by yourself. Everything there is so cold.

  It was an article about Darcy London’s baby daddy. She’d lost all the baby weight in two short months and looked fantastic. How did she do it? Yoga, Pilates, raw, vegan food, green-tea supplements, too! The baby had big blue eyes and a round, pale head. I just stared at the picture. Darcy London wore a pair of tight, faded cutoffs revealing the lost baby weight and a necklace made out of Barbie-doll parts over her bare chest. Her breasts were huge with milk. The baby lay in her arms like an expensive gift she had just received. I was surprised it didn’t have a Tiffany blue bow stuck to its head or under its chin like a bow tie. The article said, “I’m not ready to share his name yet because when we met, he wasn’t really able to commit himself fully for various reasons, but since Python’s been here, well, he’s just taken to fatherhood so naturally. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, really. I still can’t reveal who he is, but I will say that we met when he recorded a song for Cold Cut.”

  Cold. Cut. I felt a bang of blood in my head. Like I’d just had to put on the brakes to avoid running over a dog in the road. Except the dog was me. I was already run over. Dead meat. One down and eight to go would make the total of Catt’s lives nine.

  The baby looked like Dash.

  I called Bree. “Did you see that article on Darcy London?”

  She was quiet. “You saw it?”

  “Yes, just now.”

  Silence like the line w
as dead. You know that feeling when a call drops and you’re just talking and the other person doesn’t say anything, and you think maybe they are mad at you or you said something stupid, and finally you say their name and the line is dead and you are sort of relieved and also sort of ashamed?

  “Yeah,” she said. “You okay?”

  “So you think it’s his, too?”

  “Should I come over?” Bree asked. “I’m just here with Vampire Doctor but—”

  “No,” I said. “Really, I’d rather be alone.” I couldn’t see Bree. I couldn’t look at anyone. My husband had never wanted a child with me; now he had found a woman he loved enough. There was no longer the possibility of denying that he was irrevocably gone

  And what was more gone was our baby. The fetus curled up inside of me, his alien profile shadowy in the ultrasound photo on the refrigerator door. His newborn face scrunched against my breast. His milk-filled belly warm in a blue terry-cloth onesie, as he slept in his crib in the room painted with clouds.

  This was what brought me to my knees onto the kitchen floor as if I were miscarrying.

  I cried most of the night, but in the morning, when the sun shone through the same window where a coyote once lurked, I told myself it was not Dash that I had loved, as much as the idea of Dash and what I believed he could give me.

  I put Dash’s Docs in a bag for the Goodwill and threw his toothbrush away. I could mourn for the child that would never be, but I could no longer mourn for Dash.

  I made myself meditate and eat a good breakfast. I went early to the gym. After work I picked Skylar up and took him to practice. Bree had a late-afternoon client and was going out for happy hour after that. (“Agave-sweetened cucumber-kale lemonade only, of course.”) This was good; I loved being with Skylar, and the idea of seeing his new coach wasn’t too bad, either, I told myself.

  But at the field Jarell looked busy with the kids so I parked and read my Frida Kahlo biography for my next Love Monster post while Skylar practiced. I could always spot him easily—he was one of the smaller boys, but the way he squared his shoulders and planted his feet, you could just see every cell poised in concentration. As I sat there, in the shade of the trees, trying to focus on my book and how hot Jarell looked and not on how big and cold my bed felt now, I got a text.

  I’m going to be in your area tonight. Would you like to have dinner? Want to make sure you don’t waste away.

  My heart slammed out of the ballpark and I had to catch my breath. Was Dash texting from another number? Until I recognized the area code and realized it was Cyan, of course. I’d given him my cell phone number before he left.

  I didn’t mind the idea of sitting across from him and staring at his face while we shared a meal. He wasn’t Jarell but it was for the best; I knew I wasn’t in danger of getting carried away with Cyan. I wanted to distract myself with sex but it was a bad idea. When I was younger and slept around, I always ended up crying as soon as the guy was inside me and scaring him away. This was before I really had all that much to cry about.

  Sure, I wrote back. At Sky’s practice. Done by 7:30. I’ll cook, though.

  No, I insist. Dinner on me.

  A little later the sky was turning a deep pink and Skylar came loping over, flushed, his bat bag swaying on his shoulder, way too big for him. I got out of the car and helped him put the bag in back, hoping Coach might see me and come over, but he didn’t.

  It’s okay, you’re going to see Cyan. You can ask about Dash. Stupid, Catt, stupid. You think this will change anything?

  * * *

  It was Bree’s whole demeanor that changed when she came to pick up her son and saw my brother-in-law. Ex-brother-in-law? Her eyes got bigger, she pushed out her chest; it was a reflex with her. I was so used to disappearing around her that I just accepted it. Something was different this time, though.

  “This is Cyan. Cyan, this is Bree. You’ve met before. At the wedding.” I couldn’t say our wedding.

  Cyan shook her hand. I looked closely at his face—not a glimmer of change, let alone the sea change I was used to when she entered a space. As if he still didn’t really see her. Strange.

  “The photographer,” she said, holding his hand an extra second, until he moved it away.

  “Yes.”

  “You have a really good eye.” Little-girl teeth and dimples.

  “Thank you.”

  “That picture of Catt getting ready is my favorite.”

  “It’s all your makeup, Bree,” I told her. Then, to Cyan: “And good lighting and angles.”

  “It was all you, Catt,” Cyan said, face placid.

  She stood staring at him, seemingly unfazed that he wasn’t playing her game. “I’d love to pick your brain about photography sometime,” she said. “People have asked me to model, but I’m more interested in the other side of the camera, honestly. Sometimes I’ll just model in order to learn more about taking pictures. You can learn a lot that way.”

  He nodded, then turned away from her chatting to me. “I made reservations at eight.”

  Bree’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, okay.” She pulled her son against her hip as if she’d just realized he was there. He’d been busy with his iPod and didn’t seem to mind either way. “Let’s get going, Skylar.”

  “I fed him a big meal before and a snack after,” I said.

  “Thanks, Catt, you’re the best.”

  I loved how Sky still threw his arms around me with abandon when we hugged, and I hoped it would continue for as many more years as possible. I pushed his still-damp hair back off his forehead, which, hidden from the sun, was a shade paler than the rest of his face. “See you soon, buddy.” When I opened the door the night air, oversweet with jasmine blossoms, felt cool on my face. I was tired from the day but suddenly I wanted to go out.

  Cyan drove us to Palm Latitudes, a restaurant in an old, pink adobe building; we sat in the courtyard beside a fountain, among potted palms strung with chili-pepper lights. I asked him to take some pictures of the place for my blog.

  He ordered ceviche and tamales with mango salsa and I watched him across the mosaic table, thinking how much he looked like Dash, and yet how different they were. I’d only seen one childhood picture of the two brothers because Dash said his mother hardly took any to begin with and he’d thrown away the rest.

  “Why?” I’d asked, and he’d said his childhood wasn’t worth remembering and could we talk about something else?

  I knew only that his father had died when he was three and his mother was crazy, that alcohol had killed her. That Dash and Cyan weren’t that close, but that Cyan had been protective in some ways and Dash was grateful to him for that.

  In the one remaining picture, Cyan pulled chubby-baby Dash and a white Siberian-husky puppy in a small, red cart.

  If Dash and I had a child, he would have looked like the baby in the photo.

  “You okay?” Cyan brought me out of the fantasy. “Eat your food.”

  A waitress walked by with a tray of beers and sangria, and I had to keep myself from staring. I was suddenly wicked thirsty and not for the mineral water he’d ordered. “Thanks. How’s your work going?”

  “I got some more gigs. Bands mostly. No one wants to pay much these days, though, except for weddings.”

  “But you’re so good,” I said.

  He thanked me. “It’s just that with digital, everything’s different. People don’t understand the cost.”

  “How’d you get into it?” I was trying hard not to think about Dash anymore.

  “Taking pictures as a kid, nonstop. I guess I got into it the way any artist starts doing art—to make the world look the way you want it to. Like in your blog. Isn’t that why you do hair, too?”

  I laughed. “Well, I don’t know if it’s an art. And no. It’s to make people feel better.”

  He scanned my face, tapping his cleft chin with his index finger. There was a slight growth of stubble. “Of course it is. I forgot who I was talking to for a second. Th
e caretaker.” No sarcasm edged his voice.

  “You should know. Why else would you be feeding me like this, checking up on me?”

  He shook his head no. “It’s for selfish reasons. I don’t want to lose my only sister. Free haircuts and everything.”

  “You don’t really need much hair care.” I reached to touch his polished-smooth scalp but decided against it. Inappropriate, Catt. “I thought we’d established that.”

  “Too true. The male-pattern-baldness shave I can do myself. But still.”

  We made small talk for the rest of the evening, and I almost got away without asking about Dash, even after the “not losing me” comment. Got away with not asking, that is, until Cyan drove me home. I couldn’t help it; I invited him in and we sat at the kitchen table drinking tea from the Botanic Garden patterned cups he’d bought for our wedding present. A Björk song came on, “All Is Full of Love.” That did it.

  “Okay. What did Dash say?”

  Cyan rubbed his eyes with his fists. Tired. “Good song.”

  “The best. Not to mention the Björk-bot video. I posted it on Love Monster once.”

  “I was wondering if you were going to ask.”

  It took me a moment to remember what we’d been talking about. Björk was an easier topic. “I tried not to.”

  “He’s an asshole, Catt, I’m sorry. I know he’s my brother, but he’s screwing it up.”

  I looked away, feeling the tears again. Damn. “I don’t understand why.”

  “I don’t think he does, either. Fear? I don’t know. Cliché alert here. But you were the best thing that ever happened to him, seriously.”

  “No. He was. To me.” I’d been safe, it seemed. Not anymore.

  Cyan sat quietly for a while, long fingers wrapping the mug with the purple and white passionflowers on it. Passiflora caerulea. My cup had the pink-blossomed virgin’s-bower vine clambering around its circumference.

  “What should I do?” I blurted.