Beauty

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Beauty Page 21

by Christina Chiu


  “Please, Ma. Just talk to him.”

  I watch Jeff sleep. He seems unassuming, vulnerable. I’m suddenly overcome by a sense of compassion. “Okay,” I say. “But no promises. You know how strong-willed your father can be.”

  Alex brightens.

  I glance through the sequence of sketches and it hits me: I’ve drawn the “model’s body.” That’s it! My target audience is not 6 feet tall and 110 lbs, and while I love the high heel, the woman buying my clothes shouldn’t have to rely on it to look good.

  From my purse, I take out the circles and ovals templates, along with the metal ruler. I open my artist’s book and sketch freestyle, segmenting the body using my own dimensions. Before I know it, the sketches are coming alive; they are apprearing to me in 3-D. I’m so engrossed that I’m not sure what happens first.

  “Asshole,” Jeff yells. He throws punches at Alex. “I’ll kill you!”

  Alex deftly dives across the limo, landing on my lap. The sketches crumple. Jeff punches the back of the seat. Then, as quickly as it started, it’s over. Whatever “it” is. Jeff’s asleep, again, his head lolling toward the window.

  “What—” I gulp “— was that?”

  “He won’t talk about it,” Alex whispers into my shoulder.

  “This has happened before?” I say, shifting away.

  “Sometimes a couple times a night.”

  Just as I’m thinking it’s not possible—Alex must be mistaken—it happens again. Jeff screams and beats the specter in the empty seat beside him. His eyes are open like he’s awake or sleepwalking. “I’ll kill you!” he repeats, vehemently.

  I push Alex off my lap and onto the seat beside me. “Jeff!” I yell.

  Jeff’s fist pounds and pounds.

  “Jeff!”

  “Dad!” Alex screams.

  Jeff startles and wakes. He blinks the sleep from his eyes. He glances from me to Alex, then back to me again.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “It was just a nightmare.” Jeff straightens his jacket by the cuffs, but he seems lost and disoriented.

  Nightmare? Jesus Christ. That’s no nightmare.

  Alex crosses his legs on the seat, hugs his arms around his knees, and stares out the window. The road sign says, “Massachusetts Welcomes You.” The limo crosses the imaginary line into a different state.

  Harvard. Stately, red-brick buildings. Cathedral ceilings. Cast iron gates. Sprawling quad. The Charles River. It’s the moment Alex has worked harder than anyone else for, and yet, now, even when Jeff promises he can have his car on campus by January if he keeps up the grades, Alex barely breaks a smile. None of us does. We unpack Alex into his room, meeting his squash-playing, hair-gel obsessed roommate from Philly, and then walk through the campus to the chapel. Jeff moves slowly, attributing the stiffness in his legs to the long walk he took in Central Park yesterday.

  The Dean’s “Welcome” is arranged in such a way that students face the Dean whereas the parents sit behind him. There’s no mention of famous alumni—former U.S. Presidents, politicians, business magnets, entrepreneurs, or actors—which I find surprising, given that every person I’ve ever met who went to Harvard makes it known he went there within the first five minutes of meeting. The actual content of the Dean’s message slips by as I start to fret. What happened with Jeff in the car? How will Alex fare on his own without all the supports from me and Jeff? Who will take care of him if a bad migraine comes on? Why hasn’t Toby called or texted?

  Finally, when the Dean arrives at the juncture of his speech when parents are asked to leave, Jeff and I walk the quad together. He remarks about the architecture. I ask about getting a ride home with the driver today and suggest that Jeff return to New York also. “Alex will be fine,” I say.

  “I know.” Jeff stands, arms akimbo. His pride and love for Alex radiates off him. Charisma, I realize, is like sunlight. Everyone leans toward it. Even now. Even me. It’s Jeff Jones, the man I met at the party all those years ago, the man I fell in love with on the beach at Cape Cod.

  “And we do have matters to discuss,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, we really do.”

  In the limo on the way home, he gets straight to the point. “What occurred earlier is a result of a condition referred to as RBD—REM Behavior Disorder,” he says. “It’s not so bad in it of itself, but, unfortunately, for many people, myself included, it’s a precursor for LBD—Lewy Body dementia.”

  “Dementia?” I say. “You?”

  “More specifically, it’s an umbrella term for two related conditions—dementia with Lewy bodies and Parkinson’s.”

  I stare, mouth agape.

  He starts to go on about plans he’d like to make with Alex over the next couple of years. Trips to Vietnam and Thailand. A safari in Africa. The summer at The Cape. Over the years, he’s gotten closer with one of his daughters. Now, he’d like to try again with the other; forge a relationship, if possible. He talks about stepping down as CEO of his company, moving the buyer from his SoHo store to his design team, and possibly having me take over her position. “Would you like that?” he asks.

  Parkinson’s. How is it possible? The words don’t match up with the man in front of me.

  “You’ve had a second opinion?” I ask, which is stupid because this is Jeff. “Well, maybe you should get a third.” I reach for my purse. “I’ll call Georgie—”

  “Amy.”

  I rummage through my purse, taking out the folder of sketches, wallet, keys, pencil case, makeup bag, the tangled earbuds, gum. Where is the damn phone?

  “Amy Wong.”

  Something pinches inside my chest. How can Jeff do this to me? Now that Alex is gone, I finally get to move on. Finally I get to stop caring. So then why do I care so much?

  “Time out,” he says, making a T with his hands. “I’m not demented yet.”

  It’s not the least bit funny, but we both crack up laughing. When we finally settle down, he says, “Look, I know I can’t change the past, but at JJ NYC, you’ll get tons of experience while getting to know our customer, so in a year or two—”

  Oh, my god. After all these years, Jeff finally sees me. For a moment, I’m that girl again—the one trying on her wedding dress. Hopeful, brilliant, youthfully naive.

  “Actually, I start FIT next week,” I say, returning the contents of my purse back where it belongs.

  He nods at the folder I’m stuffing into my purse. “So that’s what the sketches are about.”

  “It’s a new start.”

  “You don’t need another start. You and I will work very closely together, and with all the doctor’s appointments—”

  Doctor’s appointments?

  “There’s this promising experimental trial,” he continues.

  So that’s what this is about. Maybe he can feel the change of barometric pressure because he adds, “But, I suppose if you want to go part-time, it’s possible to flex your hours in the store.”

  “You don’t need a buyer, Jeff. You need a personal assistant. Or better yet, a nurse.” I expect him to criticize and say how “cold” I am, how selfish.

  “No, I’ve deliberated a great deal about this, and what I need is a wife.”

  “Well, it’s a little late for that.” I’m not sure if it’s revulsion or pity, but nausea rolls over me like a wave. It’s possible I may just vomit on him.

  The phone rings, and I see that it’s Toby. “Where have you been?” I ask.

  “Sleeping—but don’t worry. I feel better. I’m at Amanda’s. Is it okay if I have dinner here?”

  “Sure.” I glance at my watch. “Good. Just hang out there. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”

  Jeff waits expectantly. “Toby,” I say by way of explanation.

  “Yes, Alex told me what happened,” Jeff says.

  My fac
e prickles with shame. Why would Alex tell Jeff that Toby no longer wants me to file for adoption? Doesn’t he realize how badly I feel about it?

  “I always thought that guy was bad news,” Jeff adds.

  I feel myself relax. Jeff is referring to William and his abuse toward Toby.

  “In fact, I never could figure out why you married that guy,” he says.

  “Well, it’s simple. He was there.”

  Jeff squints his eyes, unable to comprehend the logic in what I said. Frustration balloons inside me, and then I’m sitting in a bath of resentment, which I know isn’t fair. Jeff is Jeff. He’s a narcissist—vainglorious, self-centered. So much so that he doesn’t realize that, while he isn’t overtly abusive, nor obviously controlling like William, he has those exact attributes.

  “Let’s see, now,” I say. “After the divorce, I was homeless, in debt, and jobless. As soon as I got my foot in at Monarch, when I finally turned things around—with no help from you, by the way—you told me it was my turn to ‘step up’ with Alex so you could get back to work.”

  “The company was in terrible shape,” he defends.

  “No, I was in terrible shape, Jeff. Didn’t you realize I borrowed money from Georgie so I could take the internship, hoping it would lead to a job? And my mom co-signed a loan on the car.”

  “Of course I realized. That’s why I give you money every month.”

  “You give me money? I was a budding designer when I married you, but if you remember correctly, you felt it was more important for me to raise Alex. Like I could always get back to work later. And then when I finally do it—and I go into debt to make it happen—you declare it’s my turn to care for Alex.”

  “I always said you could take classes or find something during the day—”

  “Really?” I say, glaring at him. “Really?!” I feel myself about to cry and have to turn to the window. It was a mistake to ride back together; how stupid to think I’d come away unscathed.

  “You gave up,” Jeff finally says, sighing. I’m about to ream him with a litany of expletives, when he adds: “For that, I’m sorry. I truly am.”

  “Sorry for what?” It’s the first time he has ever apologized.

  “For taking away your wins,” he says.

  I’m stunned. “Are you in therapy?”

  “As a matter of fact,” he says.

  “Wow.”

  “I know,” he grins, and laughing at himself, adds, “The great Jeff Jones.”

  “The great Jeff Jones,” I say. Like magic, or maybe god, we connect just as we are disconnecting.

  “Look, just consider the position. You don’t need to be my nurse. Or my wife. It’s not a part of the job description.”

  My phone rings again. It’s my neighbor. “What’s up, Jenna?” I answer.

  “I was just packing up the car,” she says, cracking her gum. “And, well, Toby’s outside your house right now—”

  “No, he’s at Amanda’s,” I say, checking the time on the phone. “I just spoke with him about an hour ago.”

  “Uh, he’s at the end of your driveway. I can see him right here from my living room, and your ex-husband’s there, too.”

  It’s happening again.

  I swallow. “What’s going on?”

  “It looks like Toby is trying to block him from getting close to the house.”

  “William wants to get close to the house?” I ask. “Why?”

  “Oh, goodness,” Jenna utters, and suddenly, she yelps.

  “Call 911, Jenna!” I check highway signage outside. We’re just passing Milford, Connecticut. It’s at least an hour away. “Jenna, hang up,” I say, my hands shaking. “911! Now, call right now.”

  When our connection goes dead, I hang up and count backwards from 60. I don’t want to risk disrupting Jenna’s call to the police station. 58, 57, 56… Jeff moves to the facing seats to speak with the driver. “We have an emergency,” he tells the driver. “We need to get to her house as quickly as possible.” 50, 49, 48…

  The limo starts to pick up speed. On my phone, I search for the local number for the police station. I ring them, clarifying who I am, that my neighbor must have just called because my son’s in danger, and that I’m en-route from Connecticut about half an hour away from home. I say my neighbor indicated my ex-husband and son are in my driveway, and that there must have been some kind of confrontation; I explain that my ex has a restraining order against him and is not permitted near Toby.

  The officer tells me a car has already been dispatched to the scene. Just then, another cop radios into the dispatcher. “Man down,” he says.

  “Code 3, possibly 10-9,” the dispatcher radios back, allowing me to listen to their conversation. “There’s a restraining order against the father.”

  “Stand by,” the officer radios. “No sign of assailant.”

  “Copy that,” the dispatcher says. “Advise if an ambulance is needed.”

  “We’ve got a young Caucasian male, not conscious.”

  I start to cry. Time stands still. I glance at Jeff, feeling terrified, helpless. First Alex. Now Toby. Why am I always away from my boys the moment they need me most?

  “He’s breathing,” the officer radios in. “11-41, copy that?”

  “Copy,” she says, pausing. Then: “Ambulance on the way.”

  “10-39,” the cop says, coming back on the line. “Suspicious activity in the backyard. We need backup.”

  “10-4,” the dispatcher says.

  “Copy that, 10-17,” another officer, a woman, radios in. “We’re en route.”

  The cop radios in again: “Dispatcher, notify the fire department. There’s smoke. Do you read?”

  “Copy,” the dispatcher says. He’s silent for a minute, then says, “Engine 229 on the way.”

  “10-4,” the officer responds. “Ambulance is on the scene.”

  “Dispatcher, 10-23, we’re here,” the female officer states. “We’ll investigate the back of the house.”

  “10-4,” the dispatcher says.

  “Hello? Dispatcher?” I yell into the phone. “Is he okay? My son?”

  “Just hang in there, Ma’am,” he says. “They’re doing what they can.”

  “Victim is now conscious,” the officer radios in. “He’s conscious.”

  “10-4,” the dispatcher says. Then: “Copy that, Ms. Wong?”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “We’ve got a fire over here,” the female officer radios in. “What’s the timing on 229? It’s looking like arson. Standby, 229 may need backup.”

  “Patient being taken via ambulance to the hospital,” the officer reports now.

  “10-4,” the dispatcher says. Then: “Did you hear that Mommy? You can meet the ambulance at the hospital.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I manage to say. I dial CPS. They take the information and tell me to contact the social worker directly, so I try her next, leaving a message when I get her voice mail.

  At the hospital, we pull up behind the police car. Jeff follows me into the ER waiting room. He goes straight to the window to speak with the nurses, and almost immediately, I’m being rushed into the ER. “I’ll be right out here,” Jeff says, and I nod, grateful he cares enough to stick around. Just then, Jenna calls again. “I’m at the hospital,” I say.

  “Good,” she says. “I wanted to be sure you knew.”

  “Thank you, Jenna.” I swear to God I’ll never think a bad thought about her again.

  “The fire department came,” she says.

  “I heard.”

  “Everything’s fine.” She sniffles. “There was a little fire in the back of the house, but they put it out. It’s nothing.”

  “And William?”

  “Cuffed and in the back of the patrol car.”

  I lose reception as the nur
se takes me into the emergency room. We pass an officer in the hallway writing out a report, and then pause outside a curtained room. I step inside. The second officer is in the room with Toby, asking questions. Toby’s lying in bed. He has a pack of ice behind his head and one at his temple. What is it with the head injuries? I wonder. The doctor’s flashing light into Toby’s eyes. “I was so worried,” I whisper, getting on the bed and hugging him to my body.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” he says.

  I lift the ice pack at the side of his head, revealing a large lump the size of an egg. “Oh, my god. He did this to you?”

  “It’s over,” he says. “We can move on, now.”

  “What—what’s going on, Toby?”

  “Just dust.”

  “What dust?” I ask.

  Toby retches, and I quickly lean him against me so that when he vomits, he won’t aspirate. It seeps through my blouse and bra.

  “Concussed, not speaking cohesively,” the doctor says, ordering an X-ray. The nurse grabs a bunch of paper towels and hands them to me.

  “What happened?” I ask the officer, brushing at the muck on my chest.

  “From what I gather, his father struck him with a blow torch.”

  “Blow torch?” I turn to Toby. “What?”

  “He thought you were inside,” Toby says, holding his head in his hands. “I told him you were sleeping, you took a pill.”

  None of this makes any sense.

  “He said if you went through with the adoption—” Toby utters, squinting from the light. “He had a plan.” The doctor switches off the light, which seems to make it easier for Toby to see. He looks at me. In his eyes, I see a sadness so deep and raw, it’s crushing. I glance at the officer by the door, taking notes.

 

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