by Katy Regnery
Day #8 of THE NEW YOU!
Dear Diary,
Big day.
BIG FUCKING DAY TODAY.
I took the kid shopping on Rodeo for shits and giggles and because FUCK MY LIFE I needed a break from feeling like shit. So I put on this ridiculous Zimmermann romper from last season that practically showed off my cooch and I told the kid she could borrow whatever she wanted from THE closet. Of course she chooses my 24” Alexander Wang jeans because she’s a skinny little cunt and she knows I can’t fit into them.
Cue mother-daughter magical bullshit, strutting our stuff on the Drive, when this dickhead in a limo pulls over and rolls down his window.
Kid is licking an ice cream and staring at headphones in the B&O window, so I step over to the car and lower my Gucci aviators. WELL?
Fucking asks me, HOW MUCH? like I’m a pro.
What a douche.
HOW MUCH? I ask him back, HMM. FIVE MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS AND A MANSION IN THE COUNTRY.
DONE, says the fucker, looking at the kid, then back at me. I’LL BE IN TOUCH.
Smiles at me, rolls up the fucking window, and drives away.
Okaaaaaaaaay. Weirdo.
I turn around and see this little rich bitch walking toward the kid. Zero style, fat as fuck, but she’s got a light pink Fendi bag on her shoulder and fuck if my kid doesn’t deserve a Fendi bag too.
I grab her arm and we go to Fendi, but FUCK ME my cards don’t work and they get out the goddamn scissors to cut them up. I pitch a fucking fit because WHY YOU GOTTA BE A BITCH, MARY? They obviously know who I am because they ask security to escort “Ms. Tig” from the store.
The kid gets all nervous, pulling my arm and saying she doesn’t want the bag anyway. So I throw that shit right at the cash register lady and tell her what I think of her. The kid drags me out the door, gets us a cab, and gives the driver our address before the cops can come.
I DON’T NEED A FENDI BAG, she says, like I’m a useless piece of shit, and it takes everything inside me not to smack that self-righteous tone out of her voice.
I call Gus to see where we’re going tonight, but he doesn’t answer. Fucker’s probably getting it hard from some homicidal thick-dick with daddy issues. He needs to be more fucking careful.
When we get home, the light on the answering machine is blinking.
Fuck my life, please let it be work.
And it IS.
Well, sort of.
It’s a different kind of job altogether.
Get this . . .
The Hollywood Matchmaker, Chanel Harris-Briggs—side note: WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF NAME IS THAT?—wants to set me up on a date with the guy from the limo. His name is Mosher and he’s loaded. IF I AGREE, he’ll send his FUCKING JET for me on Saturday, so we can have dinner in NEW FUCKING YORK.
IF I FUCKING AGREE? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
SURE, I say. I’D BE DELIGHTED TO DINE WITH MISTER MOSHER.
ROWMAN, she says. MOSHER ROWMAN.
GREAT, I say. SATURDAY IT IS.
So she tells me about how a limo will pick me up at four o’clock, we’ll be dining in Manhattan at nine, and I’ll be home in LA the next morning on the red-eye.
MR. ROWMAN IS HAPPY TO SEND OVER A NANNY FOR THE CHILD, says Chanel FUCKING Hairy-Tits.
But the kid would rather have Gus be her babysitter because she likes his gay ass way better than she’s ever liked me, so I say NO THANKS, IT’S COVERED.
I hang up the phone and I have to admit that maybe Mam was right.
GOOD THINGS HAPPEN TO PEOPLE WHO DON’T DESERVE THEM.
I just might have found myself a fucking sugar daddy, just in the nick of fucking time.
Tig
Xxxxxxx
Day #11 of THE NEW YOU!
Dear Diary,
FUCK.
FUCK FUCK FUCK.
What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do?
I’m at the Hillendale Treatment Center in Irvington, New York. I got here today. How? FUCK! Buckle up. Here’s how.
Remember the guy from Rodeo Drive? The old guy who I went to New York to meet? That was two weeks ago and a fuckload has happened since then.
He asked me to marry him that night. On our first date.
I figure he’s fucking around, so I said, OKAY.
I mean, everything had gone according to schedule. His jet had picked me up at LAX. A helicopter flew me from Newark to Manhattan. I walked into the swankiest restaurant in town only to find out he’d rented out the wine cellar.
Caviar? Yes, please. Champagne? Don’t mind if I do. Filet mignon? My favorite.
And get this—he doesn’t lay a hand on me the whole time. Pulls out my chair. Buys me dinner. Doesn’t say much, and no, he’s not exactly a looker, but fuck, it’s like being on vacation.
He’s drinking his wine at one point, but he pauses and looks at me over the rim of his glass.
I WANT TO MARRY YOU, TEAGAN, he says. I’LL GIVE YOU FIVE MILLION TO BE MY WIFE.
Thinking he’s kidding, I shrug and say, OKAY.
REALLY? he asks. YOU’LL MARRY ME?
That was when I realized he was serious. Like, totally, 100% serious.
Huh. Okay.
I did some quick thinking . . .
I have no work coming in. I’m broke. I’ve already sold most of my cool bags and shoes on eBay. Thank God I keep my jewelry in the bank, or that’d be gone too.
I’m basically at the end of my rope, and like the good guy in an old Western, this rich motherfucker pops up out of the fucking blue and says that he’ll give me five million if I marry him. The kid and I can move into his mansion in New York. He’ll take care of us.
That’s what I wanted, right? Five mil and a mansion?
Right.
TWO WEEKS, he says, still staring at me in this intense fucking manner. YOU COME BACK TO NEW YORK IN TWO WEEKS AND MARRY ME.
I smile at him and ask him for ten thousand to hold me over until the wedding, half wondering if he’ll tell me to go fuck myself. But, nope. He snaps his fingers and some dude leaves the room where we’re eating and comes back with the cash.
Fuck.
Then it was REAL real.
Anyway . . . I go back to LA, party for two weeks like my hair’s on fire, and spend the ten grand. He sends people to pack up our shit and yesterday he flies us out here. Except, when we got to the airport, Mam and Tad are waiting for the kid and Mosier is waiting for me.
TAKE ASHLEY TO THE HOTEL, he says to my parents.
Then he takes my arm, escorts me to a limo outside, and we’re off.
OKAY, I think. We haven’t even fucked yet. Now that I’m here for good, he wants some time alone.
WHERE ARE WE GOING? I ask him.
YOU’RE GOING TO DETOX, he says, staring down at his phone as he sits across from me in the car.
Detox? Did I fucking hear him right?
WAIT. WHAT? I DIDN’T AGREE TO ANY—
I’M NOT HAVING A CURVA JUNKIE FOR A WIFE.
CURVA? DOES THAT MEAN FAT?
IT MEANS SLUT, he says, looking up from his phone.
I’ve only met him in person once, but we’ve talked on the phone a few times, and he’s never used this tone with me. All we ever talk about is how much he can’t wait for me and the kid to move in and be a big happy family. A chill goes down my spine, but I’m pissed too, and I concentrate on my anger, letting it build up quick.
WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? I scream, lunging across the seat at him.
But this fucker, for all his considerable girth, is fast. He reaches out and grabs my neck, squeezing it just enough to make me dizzy.
SIT BACK, he says softly, leaning me back against the seat. AND DON’T EVER FUCKING DO THAT AGAIN.
I blink at him because my eyes are burning. I can’t get a deep breath.
YOU’RE GETTING CLEAN, he adds, kneeling on the floor between the seats as he stares up at me. His eyes are cold. His voice is quiet. His fingers hurt.
Finally the pads of his
fingers release and I take a deep breath.
What the fuck just happened?
I reach up and massage my neck. His fingers are going to leave marks.
MY WIFE DOESN’T ACT LIKE A SCORPIE CURVA. He sits back in his seat, unbuckles his belt, and unzips his pants, taking out his semi-erect dick. NOW SUCK ME OFF.
I stare at his cock for a second before skipping my eyes to his. WHAT?
IT’S AN HOUR TO THE PLACE. He glances down at his penis, which is getting thicker by the second. SUCK IT.
FUCK YOU, I whisper.
This guy is fucking crazy. I’m getting out of this. I’m not marrying him. Fuck this.
YOU HAVE A LOT TO LEARN, he says.
He reaches for the back of my neck and yanks my head into his lap, my cheek landing against his meat. I struggle, but he keeps his iron grip on the back of my neck.
IF YOU BITE ME, he says softly, I’LL KILL YOU. I’LL SLIT YOUR WRISTS AND MAKE IT LOOK LIKE SUICIDE. NOW SUCK IT.
I felt like I was going to pass out again, but I licked my lips, reaching for his cock and guiding it into my mouth.
I’m surprised I didn’t snap the fucking hinge of my jaw.
I had his dick in my mouth for at least forty fucking minutes before he growled and clenched, cumming in hot jerks down my throat that made me gag.
His hand loosened on the back of my neck and I leaned up, backhanding my lips and wiping away the tears on my face as he stared at me.
I don’t know what I expected. A compliment? Thanks? Something?
But he just stared at me, finally reaching down to zip up his pants and refasten his belt as the limo pulled into the driveway of the treatment facility.
Mosier kissed my cheek in front of the attending physician and said he’d be back in a week. A FUCKING WEEK.
MY KID? I asked him, realizing I’d barely thought of her since the airport.
AT A HOTEL WITH YOUR PARENTS UNTIL THE WEDDING, he said. Then he tilted his head to the side, gently caressing my cheek with one stubby finger. SHE WILL BE BEAUTIFUL, I THINK . . . LIKE YOU.
Everyone always said shit like that to me. She’s my spitting image. It’s true.
It occurs to me that he’s told me I’m beautiful in a roundabout way, and this is the nicest thing he’s said to me since I fucking arrived, and it makes me feel something. What? I don’t know. A little less scared, maybe. And that’s the first time I realize it: I’m scared of him.
BE A GOOD GIRL, he says, his eyes going cold again as he drops his finger from my face. BE A GOOD GIRL, TEAGAN.
They didn’t take this diary away from me. In fact, Dr. Kazmaier said journaling was a “step in the right direction” and told the orderlies to let me keep it.
I’m in my room here and it’s plush, but there are fucking bars on the window and the door is locked from the outside. It feels more like a jail than any other treatment facility I’ve been in.
I have no phone in my room and they took my cell away and after two weeks of hard partying I’m starting to feel like shit. Shaking and hot and cold and like I have to throw up. Fuck. Withdrawal. It’s fucking starting already.
Maybe this won’t be so bad? Maybe detox will be good for me? Maybe an older man like Mosier will be good too?
I don’t fucking know.
I only know it feels way too late to turn back now.
Tig
CHAPTER SIX
Ashley
“Miss . . . miss, wake up. I think this is your stop?”
I open my eyes with a soft groan, wondering who’s shaking my shoulder. Leaning my head away from the window, I turn to the older woman sitting beside me.
“Hmm?”
“We’re stopped in Westport. Isn’t this your stop?”
I whip my head to look out the window at the train platform.
“Yes!” I drop my knees from the seat in front of me, and Tig’s journal falls to the floor with a smack. I lean down, scrambling to grab it, and shove it into my backpack.
“You better hurry, honey. We’ll be leaving in a second.”
“Thank you,” I say, hefting the pack onto my back and standing up.
The older woman sidesteps into the aisle, and I follow her, turning to grab my small suitcase from the overhead shelf.
“Good luck, honey,” she says with a sympathetic smile.
“Thanks,” I say, knowing how much I need every bit of luck I can get.
I rush down the aisle to the door, blocked by a conductor who’s approaching from the other direction. He grins at me. “Losing you here, princess?”
I look over his shoulder at the door. “Yes.”
He clicks his tongue. “Shame. You were nice to look at.”
I have heard versions of this sentiment, from the syrupy sweet to the retch-inducing crass, since I was a little girl, so I let it roll off my back.
“Thanks. Can I . . .?”
His eyes get mean for a second, like I did something wrong, like I didn’t hold up my end of a bargain I never agreed to. “Sure.” He leans halfway out of the aisle, but still blocks it enough that I will have to slide my body against his to reach the door.
I clench my jaw, sucking in my breath so I will touch him as little as possible.
“Bitch,” he mutters softly as my face slides by his.
Inside, I feel the ugly word like a punch and blink in surprise, but otherwise I don’t register any emotion. I stare at the floor as I walk the few steps to the sliding door and step out onto the platform just as the warning bell rings. I keep my back to the train as it whooshes by, finally leaving me in quiet darkness.
Father Joseph researched my route for me, and I know that the ferry terminal in Essex is a twenty-minute ride north. The last ferry to Charlotte, Vermont, leaves at 9:30 p.m., so I don’t have much time. I find a pay phone and dial the memorized number for a cab company. They tell me they’ll have someone there to pick me up in two minutes, so I sit down on a bench and wait. Reaching inside my backpack, I find the Mets baseball cap smuggled into my backpack by Father Joseph, twist my hair into a bun, and stuff it into the hat as I smush it on my head.
The parking lot is dark and empty, and I gulp nervously, hoping I’m safe here for a few minutes.
Safe.
Safe.
The word, the most coveted I know, brings sharp and painful tears to my eyes. Will I ever know what it feels like to be safe? For most of my tumultuous life, safety has been a distant and unattainable dream.
When I lived with my grandparents, I felt their scorn.
When I lived with Tig, I felt her indifference.
When I lived with Mosier, I felt his malevolence.
When I lived with Father Joseph, I felt his impermanence.
And now . . .
My grandparents are gone.
My mother is dead.
My stepfather is a monster.
My confessor is far away.
Here, in the dark, a transient figure in a town I don’t know, I am utterly alone, and for a desperate and terrible second, I am positive I will never know safety. Scorn, indifference, malevolence, and impermanence? Yes. Sure. Safety? No. Never.
My hand clutches the handle of my suitcase until my knuckles turn white in the light of the buzzing overhead lamp.
Trust in God.
Father Joseph’s warm and welcome voice washes over me, calming my racing heart just as headlights approach. A taxi stops in front of me, and I scramble from the bench into the backseat, lugging my suitcase in with me.
“Ferry terminal, right?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“Come in on the nine o’clock train?” he asks, pulling away from the curb.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir, huh? Hmm. Manners. That’s new.”
I push the button under the window, and it lowers, the evening breeze cool on my face.
“So,” he says, “you’re headed to Vermont, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You seem kinda young. To be trave
ling alone, I mean.”
I don’t answer because there isn’t anything to say. I am young. I am alone.
“Not chatty, eh? Well, do you mind music?”
“No, sir.”
“Heh. ‘No, sir.’ Okeydokey.”
He leans forward, and pop music fills the car.
At school electronics are frowned upon. There is no cellular signal on campus, and Wi-Fi is available to students only from seven until eight in the evening, so if you want to text someone or look at your Instagram page, you have about an hour after supper.
If you need to call someone, there’s a communal telephone in Mother Superior’s office, or you can ask to make a call in the rectory. There’s no TV in the common room either—only puzzles, books, and games—and no audio system.
So I haven’t heard much pop music, except during the rare time I spend at Mosier’s house. And even then, only my mother ever listened to Top 40 music, and my stepfather and -brothers hated commercial American music in favor of Europop with words that I didn’t understand.
I’ll be there, sings the voice on the radio, and I take a deep, bracing breath of the wind blowing on my face. I’ll be there for you.
I have no idea who the singer is, and maybe her words should amplify my loneliness, but they don’t.
Trust in God.
The words make me feel strong for some reason. Maybe because, as much as Father Joseph was only on loan to me, he still facilitated this escape. And as much as Gus doesn’t know I’m on my way to him, he will welcome me with open arms.
I could let my past get me down. I could do that, but sitting here in the back of this taxi, driving through the night to a ferry terminal that will take me across black waters to an unknown town in another state, I make an important decision:
I don’t know what lies ahead for me, but I promise myself I will come out whole on the other side. And when I do, I will find the safety I crave, even if I have to create it myself.
***
We pull into the small ferry stop at Charlotte thirty minutes later, and after the boat is docked, I walk from the lower level onto the dock with three other foot passengers. There is no terminal here, as the ferry is mostly used by commuters, but there is a small ticket booth, and I’m relieved to see that there’s someone inside. I knock on the window, and an older woman looks up at me.