by Sarah Noffke
“Aren’t you going up to see your daughter and your grandson?” she says to me, giving me the same disapproving tone as that damn midwife.
“Eventually,” I say, my eyes on the stairs that I realize could lead me to my daughter, who I haven’t seen since she returned from the hospital.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I hear from the hallway. I turn to find my pops. He returned from Peavey shortly after Adelaide delivered the little monster. Pop has been here for a while now. Imposing his opinion on me about how cold and distant I am to Adelaide and the thing she brought into this world. He really should know he’s overstayed his welcome. Houseguests and fish are only good for three days.
“You’re coming up to meet your grandson, it’s overdue, son,” he says, hooking his arm through mine and tugging me up the stairs.
“Fine,” I growl, realizing I’ll have to face this moment sooner or later.
Mae takes up the spot behind us, which is for the best because being behind her going up the stairs would kill my remaining spirit.
***
The little monster is quiet when I knock at the door.
“Come in,” I hear an unfamiliar voice say.
The door creaks when I push it open. A woman who has no reason to be smiling is grinning wide when she sets her eyes on me. It isn’t polite to smile at strangers. It’s disingenuous and completely a waste of energy. The woman is rocking the little shit in her arms. She has black, blue, and pink hair, an obvious result of a bunch of hair dye and a really lame Saturday night. The atrocity of hair is tied up in a bun on the top of her head like a donut.
“Hi,” she whispers now, still smiling. “I’m the nanny, Cheryl Deariso.”
“And I don’t bloody give a damn,” I say, waiting for the woman who hasn’t grown old gracefully to make it up the fucking stairs and join us. I tap my foot and peer over my shoulder, looking for Mae.
“I just got the little tyke to calm down and take his bottle,” the woman whispers again, nodding to the thing in her arms sucking on a bottle.
I loathe whispering. It’s too low and soft and scratchy. A grunt falls out of my mouth in reply. I then turn my attention to Adelaide, who lies in a bed on the other side of the room. Her head rests on a pillow, although she sitting up and trying to make a show of being alert. However, I spy the exhaustion in her face.
“Hi,” she says, her voice coarse, but her face perking up a bit as she tries to pull herself more into a sitting position.
“I just came in to deliver Mae. You’ll remember her from the Institute,” I say, indicating the woman who has finally made it into the room. “I’m certain she can help you to feel better.”
“Oh,” Adelaide says, her voice dropping with repulsive disappointment. Why do people have to have expectations and hopes when it comes to me? I thought I’d firmly set standards, especially with Adelaide.
“Actually he came to see you and the baby,” my pops says with a chuckle, slapping me on the shoulder. He’s going to go to hell for lying.
I scowl at him to zero effect.
“Oh, you haven’t met your grandson, have you?” the nanny who I employ to take care of the runt and not speak says. She has the bottle propped up between her chin and shoulder. The woman stands from the rocker and shuffles in my direction. The thing in her arms is making repulsive noises as it slurps on the bottle of blood or whatever the demon drinks. The bottle makes a sucking sound when she pops it out of the thing’s mouth. The little monster immediately shows its dissatisfaction with that action by making noises that border on crying. The nanny turns the thing around to face me. “Meet your grandson,” she says proudly
“How do you do?” I say, not looking at it.
“His name is Lucien,” Adelaide says from the bed. Again that expectant quality is laced in her voice.
“Lucien,” I say, glancing at her. Mae is busy doing her voodoo, her hands hovering over Adelaide’s midsection.
“Yeah, do you like it?” she says and swivels her gaze to the thing in the nanny’s arms, but she doesn’t regard it with affection. Actually she looks somewhat afraid of the thing.
“Do you mean do I like its name?” I say.
“Oh, for all the king’s men, Ren,” my pops says, scooping up the bundle that is now wailing loudly. “Of course she means the name. And you don’t call a baby an it.”
“You might not,” I say too loudly, so I can be heard over the thing that obviously doesn’t have the underdeveloped lungs that the doctors reported.
“Tell him the full name,” my pops says to Adelaide while he bounces the little monster in his arms.
She sighs. “It’s Lucien Reynold.”
A cough is suddenly begging to erupt from my mouth. I swallow it down. “Well, congrats, Pops. She named it after you. I bet that makes you feel extremely proud,” I say.
He regards me under hooded eyes. “Ren,” he says, sounding to be punishing me with my own name.
“Well, if I’m no longer needed here I’m going to pop off,” I say, turning swiftly for the door.
“But don’t you want to hold the baby?” the nanny says to my back.
I turn and look at the woman who is either trying to taunt me with dumb questions or has entirely misread all my nonverbal cues. Then I regard the squirmy thing making sounds that are quickly draining my usually unending patience.
“No, I don’t hold babies,” I say. Then I swivel my chin in Adelaide’s direction, but don’t look at her. “Take care,” I say and exit immediately.
Chapter Fourteen
The receptionist’s office on the top floor of the Smart Solutions’ skyscraper is a crisp sixty-five degrees. The air smells of jasmine. And of course passing through security was a laughable experience. People really have no idea how powerless they are against me. I’m certain the receptionist will be zero trouble at all for me to bypass.
A woman with long red hair close to the shade of mine looks up at me when I breeze through the space. Her eyes do a double-take at me. The second one is coated in shock.
“Sir, you’re here!” she says, bolting to a standing position behind the desk. The lady hurries around the desk, smoothing down her baby blue pant suit as she does. “I wasn’t expecting you. It’s such an honor to meet you in person,” she says, extending a hand to me.
I narrow my eyes at the offered hand.
“Why? Why is it an honor and how do you know of me?” I say.
With a chuckle she drops her hand and smiles a bit indulgently at me. “Oh, mistress was right. You are fun,” the woman says.
I sneer at the insult. “By mistress you must mean Vivian and she is wrong. I’ve never been considered fun,” I say.
“Well, still it’s wonderful to finally make your acquaintance. I’m Jennifer Long,” she says like that should mean something to me, offering me her hand again.
“No one cares,” I say, looking at her hand like it somehow offends me. “Now since you obviously have a listening problem, I’ll repeat the question. How do you know me? This time answer the question and I want specifics,” I say.
She laughs like I’ve told a joke. Waves her hand at me. “You’re so funny. I’m Jennifer Long,” she repeats.
“That name doesn’t ring the bell that I suspect you think it should,” I say, growing more and more irritated by the redhead. We really are a different species. It’s strange to look at her, like I’m looking in a mirror. I’ve never shagged a redhead because it would be like doing it with myself. “I don’t know you, so how do you know me?” I say.
“Well, I realize we’ve never met in person, but I thought you’d remember my name since I’m your personal assistant,” she says.
“Say what?” I say. What is this woman talking about?
As though she hadn’t heard me she continues, her voice cheery and gross. “And since you’re also my mistress’s partner, I feel like I already know you. Well, and with all the arrangements I’ve made for you, I mean it seems like we’re best friends,” the red
head says. We really are the worst.
“I don’t have friends,” I say, eyeing the door labeled with Vivian’s name and then the woman in front of me. Having sufficient information is critical in this situation. So I’m going to plan my questions strategically and not give anything else away, even though my surprise is quite strong right now. “Arrangements?” I say. “Like what sort of arrangements do you make?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” she says, her eyes sparkling with pride.
I grunt at the question. It’s one of the worst ones ever. “Obviously I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jen Jen, or otherwise we wouldn’t be having this soul-sucking conversation.”
She presses her hand to her chest. “Well, maybe you thought I farmed out the work you assign me to an intern but I would never. I take pride in my job. And as your personal assistant, I make all of your travel arrangements, order your suits, and deliver your lunch. Just about anything that you request.” The nuisance then laughs, her nervousness showing. “As your personal assistant, I personally assist you,” she says in a cutesy voice that might make me vomit if it continues.
I loathe when people are cutesy, like dental hygienists who describe themselves as picky people. Worse are optometrists who say they’re happy to see you and then wink. And don’t even get me started on a proctologists who admits to being a pain in the ass.
“When and how have I made these requests?” I say, my voice articulate.
She giggles, covering her mouth. “Sir, is this a game? Am I being tested?”
I regard her blankly.
When I don’t answer she indicates to the sleek silver laptop on the desk. “You send me emails. And I hope I respond with my confirmation fast enough. You never reply when I ask if I’m meeting your expectations. I mean I like that you are clear and concise with your instructions. And I realize that you’re busy and don’t have time to answer my questions inquiring about your wellbeing. I’m sorry if it’s wrong to ask such things. It’s just that as your personal assistant…” She trails away and now her hands are fidgeting in each other. “Well, I feel like I should personalize my…” She pauses. Hesitates. Sighs. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I mean. I’m just so nervous now that I’m finally meeting you. It’s hard to get my words out. And I don’t want to say the wrong thing…” She trails off again, talking to me like one of Dahlia’s fans speaks to her. “Well, it’s just nice to finally meet you after all these years.”
Personal assistant? For years? This just got creepy. A shiver actually tickles up my spine. What the fuck is going on here? I knew Vivian was obsessed with me but this is bloody ridiculous.
“Mistress will be so delighted to see you. Shall I announce your arrival?” the woman says.
I shake my head. “If I know that bitch, she already knows I’m here,” I say, turning for the door.
And just as I near it I catch the pictures lining the space; a collage of framed images lines the wall next to the door. There are pictures of Vivian in various places. New York. Mexico City. Rome. Egypt. And beside her in all the photos is me. I blink rapidly at the pictures. Then I turn back to the lady who is dutifully standing by and watching me. I point to the photos. My mouth falls open but nothing comes out. I turn back. The poses look natural. Me standing, sitting, lounging. But they’re obviously photoshopped. Expertly done. The clothes I’m wearing. The way I’m positioned. These are photos from my life. Superimposed next to Vivian. And then the urge to back up and get the hell out of the building courses through me. I fight it and open the door in front of me at once, before I have a chance to change my mind.
***
The oversized office is colder than the reception area. Vivian is on the phone when I enter. Without a word she places the receiver on the hook, and then she just looks at me. Stares. I feel a seemingly unending desire to stay locked like this forever. Again she reminds me of Marilyn Monroe with her blonde hair and full lips. And her complexion would make an angel cry; it’s perfectly clear, wrinkle free and seems to be glowing. But I remind myself that this gorgeous women is half my age. Actually, she’s only a few years older than Adelaide, which is beyond bizarre.
A full thirty seconds pass where I study her and the office. In the corner sits an armchair strikingly similar to my much loved plaid one. It even appears to be worn in the same places. And the artwork and furnishings are all indicative of the ones in my flat.
“What the fuck is going on here?” I say.
Vivian rises from her leather desk chair, her actions composed and steady. The velvet forest green dress hugs her curves in a way that feels wrong. In a few paces she clears the distance between us, pausing only a few feet away.
“Whatever do you mean, my love?” she says in a voice that sounds like it alone could unlock a vault. And the look she regards me with also unfastens something inside me. It’s like she’s sizing me up for a feast.
“What. Do. I. Mean?” I say each word deliberately. “I have a personal assistant. This place,” I say, throwing an arm at the chair I could swear is mine but I know it’s not. “And the pictures out there.” I indicate the reception. “You’re fucking stalking me, you psycho bitch.”
A long smile takes its time unfurling on her face. “What can I say? I believe in immersing myself in the life I want to live. I fake having something until I do. I know pretending and fantasizing only brings that fortune about, and look, here you are,” Vivian says, tucking her fingers behind the lapel of my suit and swiping down an inch.
I lower my chin and regard her for a long few seconds. “This personal assistant,” I say.
“Jennifer,” she supplies.
“You’re the one sending her the emails?” I say.
“Naturally,” she says with a pleased grin.
“And where do the lunches she has delivered go? The travel plans? The suits?”
“Well, they are wasted, but that’s okay because they are in preparation for you, my love,” she says.
“You’re sick,” I say, zero disgust in my voice to my shock. It’s more of an observation.
“I’m different,” is all she says.
“And you’ve been watching me. Taking photos,” I say, again indicating to the lobby where the pictures of me line the wall. “For how long?”
“Not long,” she says, turning and walking off a few paces before stopping at her desk and pressing her hands down on it behind her, leaning back slightly.
“You’re going to stop now,” I say, my voice not nearly as stern as I intended.
“I won’t,” she says, all confidence.
“Vivian,” I say, and now I actually sound angry, which produces a satisfied grin from her.
“Yes…?” she says, drawing out the word.
I can’t ask her about the mole, since I don’t want her to know I’m privy to that trespassing. However, there are other questions I can ask her, that I intended to. It’s why I’m here. “You were educated at the Institute,” I say.
“I was,” she sings. “Do you recognize me?”
“Yes, although that experience isn’t really memorable,” I say.
She nods. “I wasn’t very captivating then. I was, as you probably know now, a dud. No powers.”
“It was the trauma of being abandoned,” I say rather than ask.
“You’ve done your homework,” she says in that voice that has a power even when she isn’t using it to control.
“When did you come into powers?” I say.
“When I left the Lucidite Institute,” she says.
“And how did you get your powers to come through? What did you do to overcome the trauma?”
And the nonchalant smile on her face is too endearing. Makes me like her when that should be an impossibility. “I think you mean who helped my powers to come through. And isn’t the answer obvious?”
“I don’t ask questions if something is obvious,” I say, trying to sound angry at her.
She pushes up off the desk, standing tall like a proud rac
e horse after a victorious run. “Of course it was you, Ren Lewis. You’re the one who helped me draw out my abilities to reflect psychic energy, voice control, and clairvoyance.”
And her admission touches a domino and they flip down one after another, creating the picture I’d been unable to see. Of course she is in love with me. Obsessed. I unknowingly fixed her. My photographic memory seeks to review the lectures I gave in front of her, searching for the answer of how specifically I saved her. But I impart a tremendous amount of wisdom in each of those sessions. How am I supposed to decide which piece of information I gave was most crucial for each individual, especially one as complex as Vivian?
I’ve been silent for too long, searching long ago memories, when she says, “My mother was afraid of me starting at a young age. She told me that my father, who I’d never met, was a powerful man. She was afraid I’d become like him one day, possessing a control over her. My mother never told me what that power was, just released me to the care of a filthy orphanage.”