Heights of Desire

by Mara White

  My blood is slamming through my veins like a dam unleashed, rushing too fast and hard, but at the same time, feeling insufficient to meet my needs. I can’t even imagine how my face reads. My arms break out in gooseflesh and my arm hair stands on end. I’m so close to him now, and I swear I can feel the proximity. At least I’m in the optimal location for passing out.

  “Can I help you?” A nurse, or possibly receptionist asks me. She’s maybe fifty, hair gone gray, bright fuchsia lipstick bleeding slightly into her wrinkles. She barely looks up from her paperwork. I notice she’s drinking coffee and it’s three o’clock in the morning.

  “I’m from the Post. Wanted to get some names from the officer watching the Inoa case.” I push my glasses up my nose and try giving her my very best bored and unaffected face.

  “Slow night?” she asks, again barely breaking eye contact with her paperwork.

  “Seriously. How’s it been for you?” I smile at her and roll my eyes in commiseration.

  “Soon as I say ‘yes’ I’ll jinx it and the crazy‘ll get started so I’ll just leave it at that.”

  I laugh and add “I hear ya!” I might possibly be the world’s worst actor.

  “Sign the log and I’ll need to see your press card.”

  “Sure,” I say feeling the sweat and nerves instantaneously reappear.

  I rummage through my purse intently and mutter “Shit!” under my breath, making sure it’s loud enough for her to hear. She looks up at me again, this time taking in my face, my hands, her eyes linger on my designer purse.

  “It’s in the car. Right on the passenger’s seat. I can see it. Used it to park downtown. Forgot to put it back.”

  “You need one of these,” she says lifting her photo ID off her chest and dangling it from the cord where it hangs around her neck.

  I nod and hold my breath. She smiles and waves her hand at me tossing the sign-in log up onto the counter.

  “Only because you missed the boat. About eight of your counterparts have been at him already. Story’s long gone bone dry.”

  “I’ll take whatever I can get,” I say and snatch the pen that swings from the clipboard like a pendulum before my heart stops beating. I scribble something illegible and put the pen down gently.

  Thank God for you Ms. Night Nurse. Story hasn’t dried up. In fact, it’s about to get a whole lot juicier.

  I’m riding high on adrenaline and I let the heel of my leather boots clack against the floor. I beeline for the lone police officer perched on a cafeteria chair outside of what must be room 408. He’s engrossed in his phone and looks up when he hears my heels making contact with the laminate floor.

  “I’m from the Post,” I say from halfway down the hall hoping that my distance will lend some authority to my truly pathetic ruse. I didn’t even bring a damn notebook. “Any chance of getting a few questions with Inoa?”

  He stands and slips his iPhone into the pocket of his uniform. He gauges me, looking me up and down with what appears to be a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. It’s definitely amusement and something else too. If I weren’t in such a heightened state of awareness I might miss that he was checking me out, but no, it’s there. He’s amused and he’s checking me out. My heart sinks because I realize he knows something and my impromptu plan isn’t going to work. I just hope I can back out as easily as I walked in. He crosses his arms and smirks at me as I reach him.

  “You’re Kate,” he says smugly.

  I say nothing but can feel the surprise ripple across my face. I take him in, my eyes roaming all over him to try to assess the situation. Will he call it in? Have I broken the law? Is Robert going to have to bail me out again? The officer is young and handsome; he looks Italian. I know the papers didn’t get a good shot of my face.

  “Who are you?” I demand.

  “NYPD, Ma’am,” he scoffs, obviously affronted by my question.

  My blood is surging around again and my ears are ringing. I know I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. The fainting feeling is back even stronger and I’m afraid I’m about to face-plant at his feet.

  “Whoa!” he says and grabs me by the biceps, swinging me around to lower me into the chair he was sitting in.

  I put my head between my legs.

  “Is it that obvious?” I manage to squeak out.

  “What? Oh, that you’re Kate? No. We’ve been talking. I’ve been sitting with him when he’s not sleeping. He told me what you looked like.”

  “Talking to Jaylee?”

  “Yeah. Not about the case. Can’t do that, but you know, about baseball and music, about working out.”

  “Talking about working out?”

  “Whatever makes the ten hour shift go by. And the kid can’t shut up about you. Christ! That’s how I knew it was you. Both got that same stressed out look in your eyes. Wouldn’t want to get in between the two of ya’s. Fucking Post reporter, Ha! Too classic.”

  So he’s befriended Jaylee. I get the feeling that he likes him too. Maybe he’s sympathetic to our situation. Maybe the stars are aligning perfectly tonight.

  “Does this mean you’ll let me see him?”

  A lazy grin spreads up one side of his face.

  “Fuck the both of ya’s. Romeo. Yeah, I guess. Nobody’s around.”

  I’m on my feet and pulling him into a frenzied hug without even thinking that it could draw attention to us. My heart is doing flip-flops in my chest.

  “Five minutes, ‘cause they check his vitals like every ten seconds. If anyone does come you better be a fucking Post reporter.

  “Five minutes,” I say and flash my palm out to him with all five fingers flexed like a preschooler. Tonight I did bring the magic.

  I push the door to his room open and step inside retreating to push it closed with my back. My hand automatically flutters to my heart when I see him.

  The light is on but his eyes are closed. He’s not handcuffed to the bed like Oscar said but he’s hooked up to an IV and a monitor. He’s shirtless and the sheet rests low on his hips. He looks so breathtakingly beautiful that it hurts. So beautiful, my Jaylee. He’s changed since I’ve seen him. He’s bigger, his muscles are even more defined than before. His abs are tighter, every contour clearly delineated. His pectorals are more lifted and powerful, his biceps look huge. He’s been working out. Like a maniac. His virility, which before was already so overwhelming to me, has somehow increased. He’s now a magnified version of the man he was before. I wonder if the swagger has increased too, the confidence, the stamina . . . My eyes trail downward from his tapered waist and I inhale sharply remembering his stamina.

  His eyes fly open.

  It takes no less than controlling every millimeter of myself in order not to throw my body onto his. I don’t know how he feels about me anymore. We’ve had no contact in over six months. I don’t know if he’s angry, or even worse, over it. His eyes are dilated and darker, a burnt honey color. He looks confused. It must be from the pain medication for his hip. I bring my hand to my mouth in a lame attempt to stifle the tears that fall freely down my face. When he speaks his voice is raspy, a whisper.

  “Get over here, criminal.”

  Then his smile, the one that makes the floor fall out from beneath me, spreads slowly across his face. When it hits its full expression he reaches his arms out to me.

  I run to him and crush his head to my chest. I want to kiss him, to tell him I love him, but all I can do is hold him to me and cry and laugh at the same time.

  “You don’t return my calls or texts for six fucking months and then you go all Bonnie and Clyde on me, Kate? You a drug dealer now?”

  I’m only laughing now, kissing him and running my hands through his hair and over his worked out chest. He pulls me easily up onto the hospital bed so that I’m cradled into his shoulder, sustained by his athletic arm.

  “Which side?” I ask.

  “Left,” he nods toward it and then lifts the sheet back to reveal a large area obscured by gauze and medical tape. He
’s completely naked in the hospital bed and already erect just from kissing me.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask.

  “Which?” he says laughing and pulls my mouth to him, kissing me deeply.

  “I can’t stay, your friend, the guard, gave me five minutes.” My tears have wetted his face and I wipe them away with my fingers. I can’t make myself say goodbye to him . . . to us.

  “Don’t apologize, Negra. I’m so fucking happy you came. You have no idea how happy.”

  “I’m posting your bail. I just have to have some things arranged financially and I’ll have it taken care of.”

  “No, baby. I’m fine. I don’t need your money.”

  I shut him up with a kiss. I want to taste him so that I can always remember what he tastes like. I want to drink in his kiss, to lose myself in his arms, his smile, his scent. I want to say a thousand things to him and if he goes to jail I’ll never have the chance. I want to commit to memory the sound of his voice, his breath, his heartbeat. I’m completely undone, trembling and delirious in his arms.

  “There’s nothing you can say to me, Jaylee. I won’t let them put you in jail. I can’t.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t been there before. Bail’s gonna be like a million bucks. Just forget it, I’ll be fine.”

  My mouth opens to refute but there’s a rap at the door and I spring off of the bed. I straighten my shirt and kiss my two fingers and touch them to his perfect lips. He grabs my wrist and presses his face into the palm of my hand.

  “Can you stop acting crazy and try to keep yourself safe . . . for me?”

  I nod and squeeze his fingertips. What must be, shall be.

  In the hallway two nurses are approaching with their mobile vital signs cart. Everything appears routine. Jaylee’s newfound accomplice is again perusing his phone. He looks up and gives me a thumbs up. I mouth the words ‘thank you’ and fight the impulse to hug him again. He’s just given me so much more than he’ll ever know. I square my shoulders and leave in the opposite direction of the oncoming nurses. My head and chest feel swollen with adrenaline and pure joy. This drug I’m so unbelievably high on is also called love.

  CHAPTER 18

  Robert chose a couple’s therapist on the Upper East Side. I loathe this neighborhood; it’s the one I grew up in. To me, it represents everything that was wrong with my childhood. I was sheltered and privileged – held captive in the denial that the rest of the world existed – hell, that the rest of Manhattan existed. My younger sister Emily, still lives like this. She lives up here, just buildings away from my parents, near the townhouse we grew up in. She has yet to visit me in the Heights; I doubt she ever will. She spends more money on her dog than most people in my neighborhood have to feed their families.

  I’m a hypocrite because, in truth, I’d never been to my own neighborhood until college. The farthest I’d ever ventured into Harlem was Columbia University, which is really just an outpost of wealth and power bellied up against reality.

  “I know how much you hate it up here, but this woman comes highly recommended. She’s supposedly one of the best and has written books about marriage as an institution and how to make it work,” Robert says.

  “Oh, have you read any of her books?” Marriage as an institution. Sounds warm and loving, very promising.

  “No, but we’ll get some.” He reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

  I smile at him but it’s an empty smile. Of course I’ll try this if it’s what he wants. I’ll try anything to make our family work – to get back to where we were before. It’s my fault that we ever strayed.

  Robert drops me off in front and goes to park. It’s a large building that appears to be both commercial and residential with the lower floors dedicated to doctor’s offices and the upper to old wealth luxury living. Anita Thompson Psy. D.’s office is on the second floor. The elevator opens into a quiet hallway that must house multiple therapists, each with a white noise machine just outside the door filling the air with mechanical whispers. My palms are sweating. I press the buzzer and the door unlocks loudly as she buzzes me in. Her office is nothing more than a single large room decorated like someone’s den aside from a desk and filing cabinets nestled into one corner.

  “Mrs. Champion,” Anita Thompson says coming across the room and reaching her arms out to grab both of my hands in greeting.

  “Call me Kate,” I say. What a strange way to say hello. She’s way too young and pretty to be counseling people on relationships. She has big and bright brown eyes and beautiful natural curls falling over her shoulders. She’s petite and fit, dressed in a tight, peach colored shift dress. My eyes search out her hands – no ring – not married. Either that or she gives her rings to her boyfriend.

  “Robert just notified me that he’s parking so why don’t we get started on your intake since he’s already done his. That way he can just join in when he get’s here.”

  “Sure,” I shrug. She’s too bubbly and enthusiastic. This isn’t the gym. We’re here because I’m having an affair. I sit down on a leather sofa that I recognize from the Restoration Hardware catalogue while she perches cheerfully on a chair across from me, notebook in hand.

  We go through all of the dysfunction questions about suicidal or homicidal feelings, depression, abuse, trauma and drug use. If anything, I’m painfully boring for a psychologist. I don’t carry much baggage, I wear very few scars. She won’t be able to find the secret motivation for my infidelity if that’s what she’s looking for. I don’t think one exists. Jaylee just happened, like the big bang, like the immaculate conception.

  Robert is silently beside me about half-way through. He holds my hand. He’s so serious about the therapy. He’s on a real mission to fix us.

  “So Kate, Robert contacted me hoping that the two of you could benefit from not only talking about the problems you’re facing in your relationship, but also by coming together to make a plan for the future.”

  “Okay,” I say. It’s impossible for me to match her enthusiasm.

  “Robert has expressed to me that he wants to stay in the marriage, to make it work between the two of you. Do you feel the same way?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, then if I may, can we speak openly about your infidelity and the problems that have arisen from it? Are you okay with that?”

  “Yes,” I say. I can’t commit to more than one word answers.

  “So I’d like to ask you if you’re still actively engaging in a romantic relationship with your lover? What’s his name, can we use his name?”

  “Jaylee,” I whisper his name. I don’t want to share it with them. It feels so heavy and tangible on my tongue. “I kissed him when I saw him in the hospital. I plan on bailing him out of jail. Other than that it’s over.”

  “Do you want it to be over?”

  Oh, God! No, not at all. I want him so badly. It’s crushing me. “I know that it has to be over.” Anita’s brow furrows, unsatisfied at my answer.

  “Robert told me that there is a significant age difference between you and . . . Jaylee.”

  “Twenty years,” I say. It no longer sounds shocking to me. I own it.

  “Do you think that the age difference is inappropriate?”

  “Maybe it would be if I were the one to pursue him. But that’s not what happened. He’s never given me any indication that he’s uncomfortable with our ages. If he did, then yes, it would be inappropriate.”

  “Do you think it says anything about you?” she asks.

  What? I’m immature. Having a midlife crisis? I’m taking advantage of Jaylee’s Oedipal complex? “I don’t think anyone finds it strange when the genders are reversed. A forty-two-year-old man going after a twenty-two-year-old woman? It happens all the time.”

  “I actually agree with you there. But if you truly desire to repair your marriage – then why go to the hospital. Why involve yourself in his bail?”

  “Because if he’s suffering, I suffer. I�
��m connected to him. I did it to ease both of our suffering.”

  “But what if by doing so you are inflicting pain on Robert and your daughters? Maybe you need to mediate your actions in terms of working towards prioritizing your family.”

  I feel like an asshole. She’s so pretty and it makes me feel even worse. She’d never do anything as ugly as I’ve done. She’s perfect and I’m a mess. How come everyone in my life is perfect? Robert, Dr. Thompson, my parents, my sister. I’m the only one failing at being an adult.

  Robert has been rubbing his thumb continuously over the same spot on the back of my hand to the point that my skin is irritated and raised. I look at him and he seems lost admiring Dr. Thompson.

  “I’m not sure Robert is in pain. What if I think he likes me better this way? What if he wants to love me more and fuck me more and keep me more than he ever did before?”

  “Is that what you think is happening?”

  Robert crosses and uncrosses his legs. He sighs in frustration. I know it irks him that I’m swearing.

  “I know that’s what’s happening. What if my unfaithfulness is the only thing keeping our marriage together?”

  Robert shakes his head but says nothing.

  “I doubt Robert would have contacted me if that were the case. What it sounds like you’re describing is a destructive level of co-dependency going on between the two of you.”

  “Sometimes I just want something that’s mine and mine alone. Robert is managing to steal even this from me.”

  “Maybe that’s something you could explore in your academic endeavors.”

  “I can’t believe you just fucking said that!” This is my sore spot. Of course Robert must have told her about my ABD status when they were psychoanalyzing me during his intake.

  “Kate, let’s try some restraint. Can we be civil?” Robert says, placing his hand on my arm.

  “What do you want, Robert, really?” I turn my body to face him. “You invite him to babysit, you give him money to stay away from me, and then you show up at the hospital to lawyer him while he’s questioned? And now Janinie is your new best friend?”