No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Of course it wasn’t only the one tiny thing. He was like an addict, always wanting more, just one more tiny thing, one more tiny thing. And the worst thing was seeing myself vanish. I had no idea who was looking back at me in the mirror. Lips, cheeks, face lift, I didn’t look like myself. He made me change my hairstyle and my hair colour. My babies hated it. Harry asked me once, ‘where’s mommy? I want mommy,’ he said. ‘I do too, baby, I told him, I do too.’”

  “How could your sister let this happen?” Tracey asks. “My sister would never have put up with that. She would have belted my husband.”

  “Eventually even my sister hated it. She told me he was turning me into a freak. Even she used that word—freak. She said she’d talk to him and make him stop but by then, you must understand, I was too tired to fight. The pain of all those surgeries was grueling. And I had lost myself. I could never get the old me back. And if I lost Richard, how would I support myself and the babies?”

  “He would have had to pay child support,” Tracey argues. “You could have sued him for mental and physical cruelty.”

  “And paid for a lawyer how? I didn’t have any money. My sister didn’t have any money. Both our parents were dead. I was trapped. And there were days when I was happy, or I told myself I was. We went on a cruise with the babies and it was lovely, and I even forgot my troubles for a short time. Richard was loving, and I thought I would never be unhappy again. I told God I was sorry I had been ungrateful and miserable when I had so much in life. But then I overheard people whispering about me, and pointing, and saying I looked like that cat woman who had changed her face and that I was a freak and I should be ashamed. And it went on and on and I went to the cabin and cried and I wouldn’t come out.

  “Richard thought I was being ridiculous. He said they were jealous of my beauty. Who cares what people think? he said. He said I was perfect, I was his beautiful lady doll and he loved me with all his heart. That’s what he called me, his ‘lady doll.’ He made me come out of the cabin and it was terrible. All I could see were people laughing at me.

  “But he paraded me. And when we got back home, I had to carry on going to dinners and balls and galas to be shown off, his finest piece of artistry.

  “I told myself that it wasn’t me. I pretended I was wearing a mask, that the real me was behind the mask, but when you can never take a mask off and you can never look at the real you, well, then you don’t really exist anymore, do you?”

  “Grace,” Isabelle says urgently, “you’re beginning to fade. We must bounce together, where do you want to go?”

  “Let’s go to the Rain Room,” Grace says and she gets up and we follow her out into the corridor. “I need that gloominess if I must finish this story.”

  “Come on,” I say and I put my arm around her, but she flinches.

  “I hate being touched,” she apologizes. “Don’t take it personally. It reminds me that I am trapped inside this body that isn’t mine.”

  “I understand,” I say “I’m sorry.”

  We get to Rain Room and settle down on the giant red pillows in the glass gazebo. Grace is right, it’s a perfect place for her sad story and she continues.

  “I found a walk-in clinic and I told the doctor the whole story. I told her that I couldn’t let my husband know I was seeing her and I explained that I needed anti-depressants and she happily obliged. Richard was right about that, how casually she prescribed them.

  “I never took them but I kept filling the prescription. I also stockpiled the sleeping pills, painkillers, and tranquillizers that Richard gave me. He never used to give me much money but I saved small amounts here and there, until I had enough for a hotel room.

  “It had been more than ten years since the first surgery. I didn’t want to leave my babies, I loved them. Harry was fiercely loyal to me. His friends would tease him about his freak mommy and he got into fights in the playground, and he’d come home bloodied and battered, which devastated me. I’d comfort him and then I’d go to my room and cry.

  “Richard was a good father. He helped them with their homework, he took them cycling, he played baseball with them, he took Beatrice to horse riding lessons, and ballet.

  “And he was faithful to me until one day I saw the way he was looking at one of Harry’s teachers and I knew that I would lose him. I would lose everything. It was only a matter of time. How could the children grow up to love and respect me, after what I had let their father do to me? I was weak and pathetic and a bad role model. What kind of person was I for Beatrice to look up to? How could she learn to love her own body and her own face? And, much worse, what if Richard wanted to ‘fix’ her? I wouldn’t be able to stop it from happening. I was a joke, a clown.”

  I look at her. She is struggling not to cry. I feel terrible. I had thought those things about her, that she was a freak and a vain narcissist who couldn’t bear the thought of growing old.

  “Oh, Grace,” I say, and she knows I am apologizing, and the others nod.

  “What did you do?” Isabelle asks.

  “I went to a hotel, a good hotel, and I got a room with a lovely view of the city. I had started taking the anti-depressants a few days earlier, so they would be in my system along with the tranquillizers and sleeping pills. You see, I never took the anti-depressants, but I wanted to lay the blame on them for me having killed myself. Richard was the first to say they caused suicides and I wanted him and the children to think that I had become depressed and unbalanced by them. I wanted the children to have a good reason as to why I killed myself, something other than my weakness. The last thing I wanted was to give them another reason to hate me.

  “I wrote each of the kids a note telling them how sorry I was, and I wrote to Richard, saying that I had been feeling depressed for some time but I was too afraid to tell him. I told him I had been prescribed anti-depressants by another doctor, and I knew how he felt about them, so I kept it a secret. But, I said, instead of making me feel better, they made me feel even worse, until I couldn’t face being alive any longer. I said I knew he’d find another wife who’d be a good mother to the children and that I was sorry to let the children down, but I just couldn’t bear to live any more.

  “I left my phone at home, so he couldn’t track me and I had the nanny drop me at a mall to do some shopping and I told her I would take a cab home. I took a bus to the hotel and there was no way anyone would be able to find me. I had only checked in for the one night, so I knew housekeeping would find me the following day.

  “I left the notes on the dresser and a note on my purse with ‘call the police’ on it and Richard’s cellphone number.

  “And that was that.”

  She falls silent and stares ahead, and I look at her perfect nose that is the twin of mine with its little upturned tip and those tiny pinched nostrils.

  My Candice Bergen nose, my surgeon had called it. “One of my most popular,” he said, “and one of my personal favourites.”

  I force my attention away from Grace’s nose and I try to think of something comforting to say to her.

  “I’m sorry Grace,” Tracey says. “I said a lot of shit I shouldn’t have.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Grace says lightly. She bites her lip. “I just want to see what happened to my babies,” she says. “I need to know. That’s why I can’t move on. I don’t know if I’ll end up in Heaven or Hell. I don’t think God can look too kindly on me for being so weak as to let someone destroy His work, dismantle and reshape the face and body that He gave me. I don’t think I’ll be forgiven for that. But it wasn’t as if He protected me, did He? I prayed so hard. God, I said, please, make him stop. I am weak but You are strong. Help me, please help me. But there was no help, not from anyone. And God will no doubt stand in judgment of me, like everybody else and I will be condemned to live my afterlife with everybody laughing at me for my weakness and my stupidity.”

&nbs
p; “That’s a load of bullshit,” Agnes says. “I don’t know God too personally but I do know that what you just said is rubbish. You were the victim, Grace, it wasn’t your fault.”

  But Grace cannot hear her.

  We sit in silence and when Grace begins to fade, we let her go and we all silently bounce in different directions.

  21. ISABELLE, ENO, AND BOWLING

  I END UP WITH BEATRICE. She finds me in the Makeup Room. “C’mon, sad sack,” she says. “Get up and let me whip your sorry ass.”

  I follow her and we find the room with large red leather armchairs. I watch her shaking the bag of letters, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. “Beatrice,” I ask. “What’s your take on God?”

  She exhales a plume of smoke. “Never met him,” she replies. “Not my pay grade.”

  She holds out the bag. I get the “z” and she gets an “i.”

  “I do believe the tables have turned,” I grin and she scowls at me.

  I win the first three games with speed and witty precision. I am so proud of myself, I nearly inflate to twice my size, while Beatrice seethes with annoyed fury.

  “Did you know,” I say, thinking I had better ask about Grace’s Viewing before things deteriorate further, “that you and Grace’s daughter share the same name? You’re both Beatrice.”

  “Only I was named for my granny, not for some ponced-up rich royal brat. And the answer is no.” There is no pulling the wool over her eyes. She knows what I am after.

  “Yeah, well,” I deflate slightly, recalling who is in power here. “She’s desperate, Beatrice. She really is.”

  Beatrice doesn’t reply, she just holds out the bag and I take a letter.

  I win the next game but barely, and then Beatrice rebounds to win the following two. “Y’all come and see me tomorrow,” she says, “after your Starbucks convention and I’ll see what I can do, okay? But no promises. If she’s not ready, she’s not ready and I can’t change that.”

  “Great!” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And now you’re due at Cedar’s.”

  “I’m thinking of skipping a day,” I say. “A lot came up yesterday and I’m not in the mood.”

  “Suit yourself,” Beatrice says and she leaves.

  The only trouble is, I don’t know what to do with myself.

  I decide to find the Clothes Room to pick out something else to wear. Tracey is right. I look like I am wearing pajamas. I manage to get to the room and to my surprise, I find Isabelle poking around, trying on stiletto heels and admiring herself in the mirror.

  “Manolo Blahniks,” she says happily.

  I flick through the cocktail dresses and find a black and white sequined Chanel number that I recognize from Vogue and I look at myself gloomily in the mirror.

  “You look fantastic!” Isabelle compliments me. “You’re so beautiful.”

  She brushes her fingers through my hair. “Let’s go to the Makeup Room and I’ll do your face for you. Come on, you look like you need cheering up.”

  “I do feel down,” I admit. “Grace’s story made me terribly sad.”

  “None of us is here because we lived happy lives,” Isabelle says. “Most people’s lives aren’t happy.”

  “Everyone thinks they’re entitled to happiness.”

  “And then we screw up, trying to find it. I thought I was happy, having sex with a bunch of men I’d never met before. And look where that got me. It got me killed. When all I really wanted was a nice guy, a house, and babies.”

  “How did you die?”

  We reach the Makeup Room and I lie down in a chair while Isabelle smooths moisturizer on my face. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed being touched by another person, and my whole body relaxes.

  “Some guy had this Bettie Page fantasy. We went to a sleazy motel and he had me put on a wig and the rest of the bondage crap that she was wearing in that one photo— you know the one, she’s on her hands and knees and she’s trussed up like a turkey and she’s got that ball in her mouth? Well, like that. So he ties me up, he jerks off on my back and then he leaves.”

  “He left you tied up?”

  “Yep.” She was dabbing foundation and tapping it on with her fingertips.

  “The bad news was that I had eaten KFC and fries before, because I had no idea what he had planned, he only showed me when I got there and I didn’t want to say no. I didn’t think what I had eaten would be a problem anyway. But he leaves and I throw up, it’s got nowhere to go and I choke. Pretty embarrassing really. I had friends at work but they never checked up on me, everybody thought I went off with a guy or something, I don’t know. That’s why I’m not interested in a Viewing, who would I look at?”

  “Does it make you sad? That you had no one?” Immediately, I know it is a tactless thing to say and I wish I could take it back. She was brushing powder onto my face and she falters. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “That was a very stupid thing for me to say. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she tells me but her voice is unsteady.

  “Beatrice said we could go and see her after coffee tomorrow,” I say, trying to change the subject. “She said maybe she can get Grace a Viewing.”

  “Good,” Isabelle says, but I have lost her with my thoughtless remark.

  “I didn’t go and see Cedar today,” I babble, trying to find any topic to bring her back to me. “I couldn’t face it. I had the realization that I was having an affair with my boss and I got fired. I got to the bit where I was in a cab, going home and I couldn’t face more yet.”

  “You were fired?” I feel her cheer up a little. “What happened?”

  I tell her the whole story.

  “I was such an arrogant bitch,” I say. “I thought I was invincible and there I was, going home all by myself. Kicked out before lunchtime. That job was my life. I’d been there for nearly seventeen years. Seventeen years. And they kicked me out in half an hour. Some smelly fat stranger showed me to the door. And I saw him, Junior, on his way into a breakfast bar and he was laughing, that fucker, and he looked so happy.”

  “Wow. What did you do? Keep your eyes open and look up.” She is brushing mascara onto my lashes.

  “I don’t know what came next. I don’t want to know. I can’t face it. Clearly, it wasn’t good. I don’t want to go there. I may avoid Cedar for a while.”

  Now I am the one who is subdued and Isabelle is once again cheerful.

  “There, you’re done,” she dusts me off. “Sit up, I’ll brush your hair.”

  I do as she says but my mood doesn’t improve.

  “Let’s go and find Tracey’s kitchen,” she says. “You need a fresh cookie.”

  I follow her in silence. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts although I can’t seem to escape them no matter how hard I try. The only thing I can see is me hiding behind that marble pillar, and Junior laughing and walking away and leaving me so alone.

  “Hey, looking good!” I hear someone drawl and who should we bump into but Armani Jaimie. He’s got some skanky looking fellow in tow.

  “A Chanel frock is way more you,” he says. “Sweatpants are for depressed housewives. I never got your name.”

  “Julia,” I reply, and I try to send sexual vibes his way, just to test if it is at all possible, and I am rewarded by a big, solid nothing. Yep, sex is clearly banned from the province of Purgatory.

  “I’m Isabelle,” Isabelle sticks out her hand, nearly elbowing me out the way.

  “Jaimie.” He kisses her hand and she giggles. “What are you two delectable ladies up to?”

  “Just hanging,” Isabelle says. She has brightened up even further with the appearance of the two boys, whereas my mood sinks.

  “This is Eno,” Jaimie introduces the skanky fellow.

  “You in the mood to do something?” Eno asks.

&nb
sp; “Yeah, like what?” Isabelle asks. “Come on, wow me.”

  She is batting her eyelashes at him and swinging her hips and it’s strange to see her in flirtatious action. I hadn’t seen the side of her that liked to have sex with strangers but I recalled her stripping down to her panties to show me her tattoo when we met, and I shouldn’t be surprised by her manner now. But I wonder what the point is, unless she’s just looking to extend our circle.

  “I scored myself PRIVILEGES, dude and dudettes, to … wait for this … a bowling alley in the sky!” Eno is overjoyed.

  “Bowling?” I cannot understand his enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, yeah, bowling! I made some realization or shit and I got REWARDED!” Eno is dressed like a skater punk, his jeans are torn and hanging low on his ass, an oversized black hoodie frames his face and his sneakers are Yeezy’s that cost a small fortune on Earth. He pushes back the hoodie and looks at us earnestly. He has a goatee, a long narrow nose, and big soulful eyes that are slightly too close together. With flashy sideburns and his hair brushed flat across his forehead, he’s street-cred personified. When he talks, he accents a word now and then with doubled enthusiasm and adds an extra drawl and weight to it.

  “Wait. You two hang out?” I am surprised. “Cover boy, skater boy, what do you have in common?” Purgatory is making me tactless. Actually, I was pretty tactless back on Earth too. I wonder if this observation counts as a realization but there are no bells or whistles or free cigarettes falling from the sky, so I guess not.

  “DEATH, lady,” Eno says. “Death is what we’ve got.”

  “How’d you die?” I ask Eno. “I know Jaimie the brain surgeon went water skiing when he couldn’t swim but how about you?”

  “Man, she’s a righteous bitch,” Eno comments to Jaimie.

  “Yeah, but she’s gorgeous,” Jaimie points out.

  “You want to come bowling or WHAT?” Eno asks, and Isabelle and I look at one another and shrug.

  “Yeah, sure, why not,” I reply and we follow them down the hallway and Eno opens a door.