Pretty Scars

by CD Reiss

  “Mom! I don’t want to go to Africa.”

  She pulled back as if I’d slapped her.

  “I mean… I want to spend time with you, but I made other plans.”

  “With whom?”

  I had a lie ready, but in the face of her desire for four weeks of quality mother-daughter safari time, it was a thin, wan excuse with the firmness of a wet noodle. I’d spent too long propping it up, swapping details, testing them against reality only to find them flimsy and easily contradicted. My silence was already suspect.

  Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone.

  “Can we change it?” I asked.

  “This is the last safari until September. It’s too hot after that.”

  “Can we change the place? It’s just… I’ve been to Rome, but I always wanted to see Venice.”

  She swirled the ice at the bottom of her glass and got another sip out of it. She didn’t say anything until she’d drained it of the last of the liquid. “It’s been brought to your father’s attention that you have a boyfriend.”

  I should have known it wouldn’t last. “You mean Gabriel Marlowe?”

  “Yes.” She raised her hand for the waiter. “Can I have another?” She turned to me. “Anything, dear?”

  “No.” I handed back the menu. When the waiter was gone, I started the first in a series of lies. “I didn’t want to introduce him until it was serious.”

  “Isn’t he going to Venice?”

  So much for keeping anything from my parents. They had teams of people whose only job was to know things. I was forty shades of red and I wanted to die rather than get caught in this web of lies. “Yes.”

  “I’m not taking you across an ocean to see him. That’s out of the question.”

  “He’ll be busy. But you can meet him. You’ll like him.”

  “You know your father,” she said after a resigned sigh, as if it was all Daddy’s fault. “He has seven daughters and he takes your choices seriously. I mean, in a way, we already lost Margaret, so… you? We’re taking extra care with you. We thought some time away would be good.”

  “I don’t understand. Why do I need time away? I’m fine.”

  “You are fine.” The drink came, freshly bubbling with a plump lime at the rim. She squeezed it and dropped the green husk on her napkin, which she pinched to dry her fingers. When she looked at me, it was with a new resolve, as if dressing her drink had given her confidence. “He—this boy? He is not fine.”

  “Mom. Really?”

  “He is inappropriate for you. You know that or you would have mentioned him.”

  “How? How is he ‘inappropriate’ for me?”

  “Carrie. You are second oldest. Your sisters and brother look up to you. You need to set an example for the right way. The Drazen way.”

  “You didn’t answer the question. How is he inappropriate?”

  She sighed and took a sip of her drink. “For one, artists cannot be trusted.”

  “That’s crap.”

  “Two, he doesn’t have the money to support you.”

  “He’s twenty!”

  “And his father committed suicide.”

  My mouth closed and my eyes widened. How did she know? Why did she know? And what else did she know?

  “Now, it’s a tragedy for any family. Look at the Carringtons. Those kids will never get over what their mother did to them. And Louie’s a broken man.”

  “He already remarried.”

  “The point is, young lady, this kind of disease is genetic. His family is broken. His children will be broken. And if your father and I can help it, he’s not going to trap you into that brokenness.”

  Rage mixed with disappointment and was flash-frozen by shock. In all that, I did a smart thing. Maybe the only smart thing from the range of choices that included dumping that gin and tonic in her lap before storming out.

  I took a deep breath and stayed in my seat. Asked myself what she wanted and how I could make her believe she’d gotten it.

  “I’m really pissed off,” I said calmly.

  “I know and we—your father and I—we knew you would be.”

  “I’m going home to calm down.” I stood.

  “I understand. Can you call me later? We can talk?”

  “Sure. I’ll be mad though.”

  “You’ll see it’s for the best. In no time at all, you’ll see.”

  “Bye, Mom.”

  Walking out with my head down, I gave the valet my ticket and waited for the car. I could go to Gabriel. Explain everything. Promise they wouldn’t come between us. We’d meet after the summer.

  As the valet closed the door for me and I put my car into drive, I wondered why my mother wasn’t worried I’d go see Gabriel right from the tennis club. How did she know I wouldn’t pick him up and drive to Mexico?

  There was only one answer.

  At the solo recital, maybe Dad had heard Gabriel was a finalist for a Caruso Fellowship.

  Or maybe Peter had mentioned it.

  Maybe Daddy had arranged for Gabriel to win, or maybe he didn’t have to.

  This was crazy. Insulting. I could tell them a thing or two about what was inappropriate around here.

  I wouldn’t be treated like a game piece.

  I was going where I wanted. I decided what happened with my life. I wouldn’t be manipulated or talked into subservience. My parents could try to get me to be their little pawn, but they were going to have to chase me over the ocean to do it.

  Chapter 19

  NEW YORK - 1995

  Loneliness was a physical thing. Sometimes it hovered nearby, glowering with menace. Sometimes it wrapped around my body and squeezed the breath out of me. Other times, it was small and sharp, pushing against my tender places like a pebble in my shoe.

  Standing on a street corner in a snowstorm, rewrapping my sister’s scarf, loneliness was a weight shackled to my ankle, slowing me down as I walked south on Amsterdam. The voices in my head needed someplace to go. They told me I was worthless and unlovable. That all the kindness I’d received had been malicious. That I was finally as alone as I deserved to be.

  The heavy weight was the wind in my face and the cold ache in my knees. But I pressed on, passing warmly lit coffee shops and department stores, dragging loneliness like a ball on a chain.

  My body knew better than my mind, and it led me to Margie’s office, where she took me in and gave me a cup of truly bad coffee. It was hot. That was what mattered.

  “Okay,” she said, closing the door of her tiny office. “What happened?”

  She sat across from me, leaning forward with her fingers laced together. She was in a lavender pantsuit and a white blouse, professional and put-together as if she wasn’t just an associate lawyer but a senior partner.

  “It was him,” I said.

  “Which him?”

  “Adam Brate. The license plate matched and…” There was so much to say, but I could only feel the shackle loosening. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Listening. Being here. I’ll make it up to you someday.”

  “When I need you, you’ll show up. I know it. Now tell me. Did you talk to him?”

  My knuckles ached as they warmed. “I banged on his window like a fool. Uncovered my face. He had to see me, but he drove off. If it was Gabriel, he would have opened the window.”

  Margie leaned back in her chair. “So. He’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing’s changed.”

  Gabriel was still dead. I was still alive. Peter was still my husband. Everything was the same as the weeks and months before the concert, when I accepted that my life was what it was.

  “Nothing’s changed,” I said.

  “Except for you,” Margie added. “You’ve changed.”

  “No. I’m still me.” Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. I wasn’t me. I didn’t even know who that was.

  “Do you want to be married to that man?”

  “
No.” The denial was barely a whisper.

  “So that’s changed.”

  “I can’t get divorced. I’d be disowned. And Peter works for Daddy.”

  Margie shook her head and waved at me. “First of all, me ‘living in sin’ with Drew is a big no-no, but they got used to it. The only thing our parents want is for the family to be together. The end. And let Peter quit. Or not. It doesn’t matter.”

  It all seemed so big. So unwieldy. Wider than my arms could manage. No handhold. Nothing to latch on to and heavier than my own weight.

  “He’ll find me,” I whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you do yet. What matters …” She leaned forward again. “What matters is what you decide. Once you decide, what you do about it is a practical matter.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Yes.”

  The shackle popped off my ankle and my loneliness turned from a dead weight into a balloon. Still present, but lighter.

  Now all I had to do was make a decision.

  Chapter 20

  LOS ANGELES - 1993

  When I got home from meeting my mother at the tennis club, the light on my answering machine was blinking. I hit the button before I put down my bag.

  “Hi, Carrie.” Andrea’s voice came over the speaker. “I need to talk to you. Lenny’s been being weird and it’s kind of freaking me out. Call me, okay?”

  In the two seconds between the beep of her message ending and the one that followed, I smiled, then frowned. Was he getting cold feet?

  The machine beeped.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Gabriel’s voice said. “The Fellowship changed the flight date. I’m leaving in a few hours. The plan’s the same. Same time. Same place.” He paused. “Every time I breathe, every time I blink, I’ll be thinking about you. Wear something that looks good in a pile by the bed.”

  The messages ended.

  I had my marching orders.

  No credit card? No problem. I opened my wallet. Two hundred and change. I kept an envelope of emergency cash in my night table. Three crisp hundreds. Would that be enough? And once I was there, would I have a dime? There was a good chance that once they realized I was gone, they’d shut the card completely in a fit of pique.

  I dug around the bottom of my underwear drawer, past the practical and sweet, where I had an old Prada change purse my mother had given me for my sixteenth birthday. It had had a few hundred dollars in it. Finding it, I discovered with glee that the cash was still there.

  Wear something that looks good in a pile by the bed.

  I flicked around my drawer. Underpants. Bras. Tights. It was all functional. Piled on the floor at the end of the bed, it would look like laundry.

  I called Andrea. “Andrea? Hey, it’s—”

  “He said he wanted to talk. Did he tell you anything?”

  I bit back a denial that would only make her worry more. “Yes, he did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Carrie, you—”

  “Listen, do you love him?”

  “Do I love him? Are you kidding? He’s my man, and if he breaks up with me, I will die. Do you hear me? Die.”

  Andrea wasn’t the dramatic type, so I believed she considered a life without Lenny a kind of death.

  I said, “I’m not going to tell you what he said because I promised not to. But I’m going to say that you have nothing to worry about. Not death or anything.”

  A slow tempo of deep breaths came over the phone. “I don’t like it. I don’t like secrets.”

  “I know. But it’s fine. It’s not a big deal. When are you talking?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “It’s fine.” I put all my money together. Eight hundred forty-four.

  “Is he going to Duke for grad?” Andrea asked. “Because my parents already put in the deposit for Georgetown.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

  “Carrie. Please.”

  “He’s my friend too. And I promised.”

  “How am I supposed to sit here and not know? I’m going crazy.”

  “You’re supposed to come underwear shopping with me.”

  “Underwear shopping?”

  “This is Jean-Paul Gautier.” The professional shopper wore a black Chanel skirt suit. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and tightly pulled back into a long ponytail.

  The little room had a couch where Andrea and I sat, a coffee table, carpet, soft lighting, and classical music. In front of the mirror, a model—who was exactly my size—showed off the cone bra cups.

  “A little postmodern, maybe?” the shopper asked.

  “A little,” I said.

  “I think we have the perfect thing.” She turned to the model. “The white Lacroix.” The model went back into the dressing room, and the shopper turned back to us. “More tea? We have wonderful English cookies today.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and the shopper smiled and went out the back door.

  “I forgot what it was like shopping with you,” Andrea said, stirring her tea.

  “Did you?”

  “Not really.” She lifted the cup to her lips.

  “Do you want something? I think you’d look great in the red one.”

  “I don’t even know if I’m going to have a boyfriend in two days.”

  She wasn’t. She was going to have a fiancé. But I swallowed the reveal.

  “I’m getting it for you.” I poured more tea for myself. “They cut off my travel but not my Nordstrom’s account. And I’m feeling spiteful.”

  I was actually feeling a deep terror at the unknown consequences of what I was about to do, but spite gave me a reason to give her a gift before I left. She’d listened to my story with the curiosity and patience of someone who wanted to get her mind off her own problems. But it was a long and involved tale. She deserved a medal.

  “They want what’s best for you,” she said.

  “I’m a grown woman.”

  “Using your parents’ money to buy lingerie.”

  I could tell she immediately regretted her words. It didn’t matter. She was my best friend. She was allowed to say whatever was on her mind, especially when she was right.

  “True,” I said before she could backpedal. “But they’ve been using that money to make sure I stay under their control, so you know what? I don’t feel bad.”

  The model came out in a white lace set. The bra pushed her breasts into soft curves, and garter straps bordered the lace panties. Two little bumps told me there were snaps at the crotch, and like a lightning bolt, I saw myself in that set.

  The shopper came back with cookies. “So”—she laid the china plate on the table—“what do you think?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Excellent. We’ll pack up a fresh one.” She waved, and the model disappeared behind the door.

  “Do you have a size ten model today?”

  “We do.”

  “I want to see her in the red Donna Karan.”

  “Done.” She left.

  “Carrie, really?” Andrea said.

  “Really.” I put my hand on hers, stopping her objection. “Let me do this. Please. I don’t know what’s going to change after today. Not with you. You’re going to be fine. But with me. And you’ve been such a good friend to me. A better friend than I deserve. This might be my last chance to show you what you mean to me.”

  “You don’t have to buy me expensive things to prove that.”

  “But I can. For now, I can.”

  I couldn’t sleep. I read until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but as soon as I put my book down, my heart pounded and my mind wove one possible scenario into another, making a web of possibilities ranging from “just fine, nothing to worry about” to “everything’s broken.”

  How mad would they be if I wound up in Venice instead of on safari in Africa? Mom would despair, explaining her failures to the women at the club. I
f Margie was right, Dad would be furious at the loss of an asset and the harm to the Drazen family brand. I wouldn’t feel guilty about their feelings, but what would they do?

  They could cut off the money, not pay my grad school tuition, leave me high and dry. I’d figure that out. Being broke was such a foreign concept, it didn’t seem unmanageable.

  But what if they cut me off from the family? What if they found Gabriel so inappropriate that I couldn’t bring him to Christmas dinner? From Margie and her stupid advice to little Jonathan who, at eleven, wasn’t so little anymore? Theresa with her mannerly poise and Leanne with her crazy hairdos? How could I not be one of them?

  What if I really had to choose between them and Gabriel?

  What if his mother couldn’t bear seeing him with a Drazen? I would blame her less for her disapproval, which was based in grief, than I’d blame my parents, whose condemnation was based on appearances.

  And there was Gabriel, with his fingers curled over a bow, levitating with song. His soft lips. His commanding voice in moments of intimacy. The knowledge in his mouth when it touched my body, the sure stroke of his hands, the rightness of his kiss.

  I could lose everything, and yet, by two in the morning, I knew I didn’t have a choice.

  Chapter 21

  NEW YORK - 1995

  I left Margie’s office more settled and, at the same time, more disconcerted. She’d tried to get me a cab, but I wanted to work the decision through my bones. So wrapped in my scarf and hood, gloved hands shoved deep in a stranger’s coat pockets, I walked.

  The snow had lightened into fat, vertical clusters that settled onto the wet street until they were stepped on, making a slushy, gray soup. I walked across town, turning randomly, letting my doubts fall and mix with my assurances like the slush on the sidewalk.

  When I’d gotten home from Venice, I was a shell of a woman. The Italian hospital had released me when my body was healed, but my mind was at the bottom of a well.

  Peter was there. He was always there. When I was in darkness, he pointed upward to show me the bright circle at the top of the pit. He showed me hope. He told me I could climb out. He waited for me, throwing down a rope over and over until I had the strength to grab it.