by Joy Fielding
I reached down, stilled her hand. It lingered on my thigh. “Stain’s gone.”
She was instantly on her feet. “Sorry. There I go again, everything in extremes, that’s the only way I seem to operate. Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” I asked, genuinely curious. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t? That’s a relief.” She laughed, sank down into the other chair, her face flushed.
“What happened with your marriage?” I asked gently, fighting a gnawing unease in my gut, a sensation that was undoubtedly trying to warn me that Alison Simms might not be the charmingly uncomplicated young woman she’d first appeared to be when I’d handed over the keys to the cottage at the back of my house.
“What usually happens when you get married at eighteen,” she said simply, lowering her gaze to mine, no trace of a smile. “It didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. We tried. We really did. We split up and got back together a whole bunch of times, even after our divorce was final.” She impatiently pushed the stray hairs away from her forehead. “Sometimes it’s hard to stay away from someone, even when you know they’re all wrong for you.”
“And that’s why you came to Florida?”
“Maybe,” she acknowledged, then flashed the glorious smile that obliterated all traces of sadness or self-doubt. “What’s for dessert?”
THREE
I was fifteen when I lost my virginity,” Alison was saying, pouring herself a second small glass of Baileys Irish Cream. We were sitting on the living room floor, our backs against the furniture, our legs splayed out carelessly in front of us, like two abandoned rag dolls. Alison had insisted on cleaning up after dinner, washing and drying the dishes by hand before returning everything to its proper place while I sat at the kitchen table and watched, marveling at the deftness of her touch, the speed with which she worked, the instinctive way she seemed to know where everything belonged, almost as if she’d been in the house before. She’d found the Baileys at the back of the dining room cabinet when she was returning the wineglasses to their shelf. I’d forgotten I even had it.
I don’t know why we chose the floor over the sofa. Probably Alison simply plopped herself down and I followed suit. The same way with the Baileys. I’d certainly had no intention of having any more to drink, but suddenly the delicately sculpted liqueur glass was in my hand, and Alison was pouring and I was drinking, and there you have it. I suppose I could have said no, but the truth is I was having too good a time. You have to remember that my days were normally spent in the company of people who were old, ill, or in some form of acute distress. Alison was so young, so vibrant, so alive. She infused me with a sense of such profound well-being that whatever niggling doubts or petty reservations I may have had flew out the window, along with my common sense. Simply put, I was reluctant to see her leave, and if drinking a second glass of Baileys would prolong the evening, then a second glass of Baileys it would be. I eagerly proffered my glass for more. She promptly filled it. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that,” she said. “You’ll think I’m a slut.”
It took me a minute to realize that she was referring to her lost virginity. “Of course I don’t think you’re a slut,” I said adamantly, as relief washed across Alison’s face, like a paintbrush, almost as if she’d been waiting for me to exonerate her, to forgive her the sins of her sometimes errant past. “Besides, I’ve got you beat,” I offered, trying to make her feel better, to prove I was hardly one to sit in judgment.
“What do you mean?” She leaned forward, lowered her glass to the carpet. It disappeared inside the pink petal of a woven flower.
“I was only fourteen when I lost mine,” I whispered guiltily, as if my mother might still be listening from the upstairs bedroom.
“Get out. I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.” I found myself eager to convince her, to show her that she wasn’t the only one with a past, with skeletons in her closet, however small and insubstantial they might be. Maybe I even wanted to shock her, just a little, to prove to her—and to myself—that I was more than I appeared at first glance, that underneath my middle-aged exterior beat the heart of a wild child.
Or maybe I was just drunk.
“His name was Roger Stillman,” I continued without prodding, conjuring up the image of the lanky young man with light brown hair and large hazel eyes who’d seduced me with ridiculous ease back when I was in the ninth grade. “He was two grades ahead of me at school, so of course I was monstrously flattered that he even talked to me. He asked me to the movies, and I lied to my parents about where I was going, because my mother had decreed I was too young to date. So I said I was going to a friend’s house to study for a test, and instead I met Roger at the movie theater. I remember it was one of the James Bond movies—don’t ask me which one—and I was very excited because I’d never seen a James Bond movie before. Not that I saw much of that one either,” I recalled, remembering Roger’s tobacco-scented breath on my neck as I’d tried to follow the movie’s convoluted plot, his lips grazing the side of my ear as I’d strained to make sense of all the double entendres, his hand sliding down my shoulder to the tops of my breasts as James coaxed yet another willing female into his bed. “We left before the movie finished. Roger had a car.” I shrugged, as if that said it all.
“Whatever happened to Roger?”
“He dumped me. No surprises there.”
Alison’s face registered her displeasure. “Were you heartbroken?”
“Devastated, as only a fourteen-year-old girl can be. Especially after he bragged about his conquest to the entire school.”
“He didn’t!”
I laughed at Alison’s spontaneous outburst of indignation. “He did. Roger, I’m afraid, was a rat of the first order.”
“And whatever happened to the rat?”
“I have no idea. We moved to Florida the next year, and I never saw him again.” I shook my head, watched the room spin. “God, I haven’t thought about any of that in so long. That’s one of the amazing things about being young.”
“What is?”
“You think you’ll never get over something, and then, the next minute, you’ve forgotten all about it.”
Alison smiled, twisted her head across the top of her spine, stretching her swanlike neck until the muscles groaned and released.
“Everything has such urgency. Everything is so important. And you think you have so much time,” I said, almost forgetting I was speaking out loud as I watched her, mesmerized by the motion.
“Anyone interesting on the horizon?” Alison rolled her head from side to side.
“Not really. Well, there’s this man,” I confided, although I’d had no intention of doing so until I heard the words leave my mouth. “Josh Wylie. His mother is a patient at the hospital.”
Alison’s head returned to the middle of her shoulders. She said nothing, simply sat and waited for me to continue.
“That’s it,” I said. “He comes up once a week from Miami to see her. We’ve only spoken a few times. But he seems very nice, and . . .”
“And you wouldn’t mind getting to know him,” Alison said, finishing my sentence for me.
I nodded, deciding that was a mistake when the room continued bouncing around me like a rubber ball. Reluctantly, I struggled to my feet. “I think I’m going to have to call it a night.”
Alison was immediately at my side, her hand warm on my arm. She seemed steady, as if the alcohol hadn’t affected her at all. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I said, though I wasn’t. The floor kept shifting, and I had to balance against the side of the sofa to keep from falling over. I made an exaggerated show of checking my watch, but the numbers danced randomly across the dial, and I couldn’t tell the small hand from the large. “It’s late,” I said anyway, “and I have to be up very early.”
“I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome.”
�
�You didn’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure. I had a really nice evening.” I suddenly had the strange sensation that she was about to kiss me good-night. “We’ll do it again soon,” I said, lowering my head and leading Alison through the living and dining rooms to the kitchen, where I promptly walked into the table and all but fell into her arms.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked as I struggled to x recapture my balance, if not my dignity. “Maybe I should stay and make sure you get into bed all right.”
“I’m fine. Really. I’m fine,” I repeated before she could ask again.
Alison was half out the door when she stopped suddenly, reached into the left pocket of her black pants, and spun around. The motion left me reeling. “I just remembered—I found this.” She held out her hand.
Even with my head spinning and my focus blurred, I recognized the tiny gold heart at the center of the slender golden thread in Alison’s open hand. “Where did you get this?” I reached for it, watching it unravel. The delicate necklace hung from my fingers like a forgotten strand of tinsel on a discarded Christmas tree.
“I found it under my bed,” Alison said, unconsciously assuming ownership of the contents of the cottage.
“Why were you looking under the bed?”
Surprisingly, Alison blushed bright red. She shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other, the first time I’d seen her look truly uncomfortable in her own skin. When she finally answered me, I thought I must have misunderstood.
“What did you say?”
“Looking for bogeymen,” she repeated sheepishly, lifting her eyes to mine with obvious reluctance.
“Bogeymen?”
“I know it’s ridiculous. But I can’t help myself. I’ve been doing it ever since I was a little girl and my brother convinced me there was a monster hiding underneath my bed who was going to eat me as soon as I fell asleep.”
“You check underneath the bed for bogeymen?” I repeated, thoroughly, if inexplicably, charmed by the notion.
“I check the closets too. Just in case.”
“Do you ever find anyone?”
“Not so far.” She laughed, held out the necklace for me to take. “Here. Before I forget and take it home with me.”
“It’s not mine.” I took a step back, almost tripping over my own feet, and watching the room rotate ninety degrees. Sixty-five ladies’ head vases tilted on their shelves. “It belonged to Erica Hollander, my last tenant.”
“The one who still owes you several months rent?”
“The one and only.”
“Then I’d say it belongs to you now.” Again Alison tried to hand over the necklace.
“You keep it.” I wanted nothing more to do with Erica Hollander.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Alison said, but her fist was already closing around it.
“Finders, keepers. Come on, take it. It’s very . . . you.”
Alison required no further coaxing. “It is, isn’t it?” She laughed, wrapping the thin chain around her neck in one fluid gesture, securing the tiny clasp with ease. “How does it look?”
“Like it belongs there.”
Alison patted the heart at her throat, strained to see her reflection in the darkness of the kitchen window. “I love it.”
“Wear it in good health.”
“You don’t think she’ll come back for it, do you?”
It was my turn to laugh. “Just let her try. Anyway, it’s late. I have to get some sleep.”
“Good night.” Alison leaned forward, kissed my cheek. Her hair smelled of strawberries, her skin of baby powder. Like a newborn baby, I thought with a smile. “Thanks again,” she said. “For everything.”
“My pleasure.” I opened the back door and took a quick glance around.
There was no one waiting, no one watching.
I breathed a sigh of relief and waited until Alison was safely inside the cottage before closing the kitchen door. My hand brushed against the spot on my cheek where Alison’s lips had grazed, as I pictured her walking through the small living area to the bedroom at the back. In my mind’s eye, I watched her kneel to look under the bed, then check the closet for any stray monsters who might be lurking. I thought absently of the man I’d seen standing in front of the house. Had there been anyone there? And had he been watching me—or Alison?
Such a sweet girl, I remember thinking. So childlike. So innocent.
Not so innocent, I reminded myself as I painstakingly made my way up the stairs to my bedroom. A teenage hellion. Married at eighteen. Divorced soon after. Not to mention she could hold her liquor with the best of them.
I vaguely remember getting undressed and into my nightgown. Actually, I remember this only because I put the nightgown on backward the first time and had to take it off and put it on again. I don’t remember washing my face or brushing my teeth, although I’m sure I did. I do remember the way my bare toes sank into the ivory broadloom as I walked toward my bed, as if I were wading through thick clumps of mud. I remember the heaviness in my thighs, as if my legs had been anchored to the floor. The queen-size bed that sat in the middle of the room seemed miles away. It took forever to reach it. A colossal effort was required for my arms to pull down the bulky white comforter. I remember watching it billow around me like a collapsing parachute as I climbed underneath the covers. I remember the pillow reaching up to catch my head before it fell.
I expected to fall asleep immediately. That’s the way it always is in the movies. People drink too much, they get dizzy and disoriented, they pass out. Sometimes they get sick first. But I didn’t get sick and I didn’t pass out. I just lay there, my head spinning in the darkness, knowing I had to get up in a matter of hours, desperate for a sleep that stubbornly refused to come. I flipped from my left side to my right, tried lying on my back, and even my stomach, before I gave up and returned to my original position. I brought my knees to my chest, threw one leg atop the other, twisted my body into shapes that would have made a contortionist proud. Nothing worked. I thought of taking a sleeping pill and was almost half out of bed before I remembered it was a mistake to mix pills and alcohol. In any event, it was too late for sedatives. By the time they took effect, my alarm clock would be shaking me awake, and I’d spend most of the next day in a dreary fog, like the worst kind of rainy day.
I thought of reading, but I’d been struggling with the book on my night table for weeks and still hadn’t made it past the fourth chapter. Besides, my brain was as tired as my eyes, and trying to digest anything at this hour would be an exercise in frustration and futility. No, I decided, I had no choice but to lie there in bed and wait patiently for sleep to come.
It didn’t.
Half an hour later, I was still waiting. I took several long, deep breaths and improvised a half dozen yoga exercises I’d seen illustrated in a magazine, although I had no idea if I was doing them correctly. The hospital offered yoga classes, but I’d never quite gotten around to signing up. Just as I’d never quite gotten around to trying Pilates or transcendental meditation, or sending away for the AB-DOer I saw regularly advertised on TV. I made a silent vow to do all those things first thing in the morning, if only I could fall asleep right now.
No deal.
I thought of turning on the television across from my bed—undoubtedly there was a rerun of Law & Order on somewhere, but decided against it, choosing to replay Alison’s visit instead. What on earth had possessed me to tell her the things I had, information I’d never shared with anyone before? Roger Stillman, for God’s sake! Where had that come from? I hadn’t even thought of him since I’d left Baltimore.
And what had she really told me?
That she’d lost her virginity at fifteen.
What else?
Not much, I realized. Alison may have opened memory’s floodgates, but she’d remained resolutely outside them. No, I was the one who’d rushed eagerly inside, throwing caution and good sense to the wind. That was one of the m
ore interesting things about Alison, I decided, as a low buzz settled behind my ears. She only seemed to be confiding in you. What she was really doing was getting you to confide in her.
That’s what I was thinking when I finally fell asleep. I don’t remember drifting off. I do remember dreaming. Nothing substantial or particularly meaningful. Silly little vignettes: Roger Stillman imitating James Bond in the backseat of his car; Josh Wylie’s mother smiling at me from her hospital bed, asking me to put the bouquet of yellow and orange roses her son had brought with him from Miami into a vase; my mother warning me I hadn’t set my alarm clock.
It was this realization that I hadn’t, in fact, remembered to set my alarm that woke me up at two minutes past four in the morning, sent me stretching toward the night table at the side of my bed. My hands reached out in the semidarkness, my eyes opening only with the greatest reluctance as my fingers searched for the clock radio.
It was at that moment that I saw the tall figure at the foot of my bed.
At first I thought it must be some sort of apparition, a trick my wine-saturated brain was playing on my senses, perhaps a dream that had failed to disperse upon waking, a haunting mixture of moonlight and shadows. It was only when the figure moved that I understood it was real.
And I screamed.
The scream sliced through the darkness like a blade through flesh, scraping at the surrounding air, leaving it tattered and bleeding. That this insane, inhuman sound could emanate from my body scared me almost as much as the figure moving slowly toward me, and I screamed again.
“I’m so sorry,” a voice was whimpering. “I’m so sorry.”
I’m not sure exactly when I realized the stranger in my room was Alison, whether it was the sound of her voice or the glint of the small gold heart at her throat. She was holding her head, as if she’d been struck, and swaying from side to side, as if she were a tree being buffeted by the wind. “I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.”