by Liz Newman
Skye returned to her room at the Grand Marmont Hotel and stared at the empty bed. “Of course, you’re not here,” she said aloud to the empty room. “That would be far too chivalrous for this day and age.” She sank down on the embroidered coverlet, clutching a heating pad to her stomach. The feeling of detachment resulting from the pain pills kept her company, and she spoke her thoughts aloud.
“Can I stop failing, please? I’ve failed at everything but my career. I’m a lousy friend, have no lover, and my head is a mess of fear. Maybe I was always a failure at these things. Maybe I don’t care. Why do I care now? Who does it hurt for me to be a failure? No one. Absolutely no one. So, is being a failure ever…a good thing?”
The crashing waves of the cold Atlantic ocean answered her, one long soliloquy of agreement and repute. A crash of thunder sounded in the distance.
Chapter Ten
The heavy door of the church blew shut once again. Father Nolan used his battering ram of a body to shove the door open and greeted windswept guests as they ran into the church. Last night, the skies showered snow on the sidewalks and rooftops, the white mass blanketing the frozen streets of the sleepy, riverside town. A heavy breeze blew the frozen powder back into the air in tufts, and a soft, unintentional peal sounded from the bell of St. Augustine’s cathedral. The wind tore umbrellas from hands and into the street, and one came to rest at a late model, primer gray car parked at the curb.
A stocky man emerged from the gray Oldsmobile Cutlass. His car hugged the curb of a red zone. He wore a navy tie and short-sleeved powder blue dress shirt, despite weather and occasion, and reached into the backseat to retrieve a leather jacket. Its texture resembled brown vinyl upholstery. He clumsily waddled back and forth to his car, retrieving and setting up camera equipment on the sidewalk.
A policeman on horseback rode up to him and stopped. “Sir, are you the wedding photographer?” he inquired through his thick aviator sunglasses.
Chester peered at the officer, his eyes wrinkling in the closest expression he made to a smile. “Nah. I’m…uh…press. Cypress Columns.” He held out a dirty plastic ID card dangling from shoestrings tied around his neck.
“The tabloid. You are a public nuisance,” the policeman replied. “You’re going to need to put this equipment back into your car and leave. This is a private event. No press allowed. License and registration, please.” the policeman said. Chester begrudgingly handed them over.
“Chester Fieldston,” the policeman continued, as he scribbled out a parking ticket. “Move along.” The horse’s tail slapped at Chester’s sleeve as it clomped away with its rider.
After the policeman rode away, Chester begrudgingly loaded his camera equipment back into the car. He maneuvered the vehicle around the church in a circle. The policeman on horseback reprimanded a group of teens who had been dragging a friend on a snow disk with their sedan. Their friend was buried in a snow bank, and the teens struggled to dig him out while nodding at the policeman and his ongoing lecture.
Chester parked in an alleyway tucked away from the policeman’s line of sight. He ducked into the backseat and focused his camera on the church.
Chester wolfed down a chili dog, deftly snapping photos of the guests as they struggled to enter the church. He chuckled. A cell phone rang beside him. He picked it up. His boss barked at him on the other line.
“Fieldston!” the editor barked. “Here’s a list of celebs attending the Laurenti wedding. I want pictures of all of them, the less dignified the better. Try to get someone scratching their ear or nose at an angle so it looks like they’re picking. Those on the cover always sell quick. Weather’s bad out there, so get close ups on couples. They’ll look like they’re pissed off at each other instead of trying to keep the wind out of their eyes. Here we go…Faulkner, Steven J.”
“Who’s he?” said Chester, through a mouthful.
“Not quite into the artistic stuff, are you champ? Should’ve known,” the editor said. “He’s only the director of the Oscar-nominated film In the Mirror. Laurenti’s third bestselling book turned screenplay. Tazim Belle, Oscar-nominee and star of the same flick. Kyle Lowen, Anne Markham, Karin Marine, all actor friends. Jonas P. Laurenti, obviously you can’t miss him. Skye Evans, TBC news host. Don’t waste too much film on her. Teleworld might not exist in a week.”
“Okay.” Chester crumpled up a candy wrapper and attached a lens to his camera.
“You’re sounding too relaxed about this. Is it confidence, or have you completely given up on your career as a photographer?”
“Confidence,” Chester growled as he rubbed a wipe over the lens.
“It better be confidence, because this magazine needs to sell. Too many other celebs’ rags out there ready to take us down. Get me some good photos, or it’s your job.” The editor hung up.
A white stretch limo rolled by as he loaded his camera with film. “Showtime,” Chester chortled, his pink face quivering.
***
The merry, laughing voices of the bridesmaids bounced off the hollow, resonant walls. They circled around Tabitha in the waiting room of the cathedral, fixing the veil over her perfectly coiffured curls. Tabitha found it difficult to smile and react positively to the attention lavished on her.
“How am I supposed to feel?” she whispered to Skye. “This is the most important day in life, to every other woman on the planet. At least, it’s supposed to be.”
Skye smoothed down a curl on Tabitha’s head and sprayed it with hairspray. “Four shots of Midori probably drowned out any feelings you might have.”
“Don’t forget the two Valium,” Tabitha leaned closer and whispered.
“Who is your doctor?” Skye mused. “I need to sign up as a patient.”
“More like who isn’t. When you’re going to be Mrs. Jonas P. Laurenti, there is nothing you can’t have.”
“If you’re having trouble fitting the part, then I’ll gladly switch dresses with you.”
Tabitha laughed, the first laugh of the morning. She looked at Skye and became serious. “You look pale, even under all the make-up.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Are you worried about the merger?”
“Yes. That and—”
“Maybe you should lie down,” said Tabitha, turning away from her. “Maybe you shouldn’t be in the wedding at all. Is it so much to ask that you…could you for once put your work problems aside and focus on my wedding? This day is about me. I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“Sorry,” Skye said. “Just…I’ll tell you later.”
“Fine. Did he ever show?”
“No.”
“He’s a damn fool.” Tabitha took a swig of champagne and dabbed on a bit of lip gloss. “Anyone who would miss this wedding doesn’t know an A-list from an…A-hole.” Tabitha rose and gathered her skirts. She looked around at her bridesmaids. “Something’s missing…Skye! The hats!”
Skye removed the hats from the dry cleaner’s bag. “I had them freshened up. They were roughed up a bit in transit.” She almost gasped at a footprint, still faintly visible on one hat. She hid the hat under her elbow and distributed the rest.
“This smells funny,” Nadine said, burying her nose in the satin. “It smells like—”
“Places, Ladies!” The wedding planner threw open the door like a member of the Gestapo, and Skye fixed the slightly damaged hat onto her own head. “Who is the Maid of Honor?”
“I am,” Skye said.
“Immediately after the ceremony, when you are on the way to the reception, you will remove the train and gather up the dress, like this. Simply unlatch the hooks here, and then lift the rest of the skirt and attach it to the lower bodice,” the masculine wedding planner instructed. Skye observed and nodded.
The wedding planner clapped her hands together, and the bridesmaids lined up. Skye inhaled deep breaths. Nadine turned and stared at Skye’s hat, sniffing the air and wrinkling her nose at the scent coming from her own head.
The procession entered the church accompanied by soft music from a bald, purple-headed trumpet player and a matronly pianist. The sound of violins rose over the soft swish of the pink bridesmaid dresses as the women glided down the aisle, each on a groomsman’s arm. The church glimmered with candlelight, providing the perfect backdrop to a vision of heavenly cream roses and light green foliage speckled with whispers of baby’s breath. A dream wedding straight out of a socialite magazine; hundreds of stately guests surveyed the bridal party with admiration. The bridesmaids floated down the aisle, with Skye following, flashing a grimace of pain she hoped could be mistaken for a smile. Each bridesmaid took her place just below the steps of the magnificent cathedral, and the angels painted on the frescoes seemed to sigh while Mendelssohn’s Bridal March filled the air. The guests murmured with delight as a tiny little flower girl in a pinafore dress and curly ringlets bouncing around her shoulders flashed her dimples and threw red rose petals high into the air. The congregation sprang to its feet as Tabitha appeared at the back of the aisle.
Her arm threaded through her father’s, the bride beamed with happiness. Somehow, she encompassed everything perfect, beautiful, and holy in her shimmering dress and soft smile that turned the corners of her rosebud mouth upward. Her green eyes appeared to catch the light of the crystals and candlelight, and each guest let out an unconsciously held breath as she glided past. Her magnificent, thick auburn hair swirled up to her crown and then spilled down her back, giving her a supernatural quality.
Jonas’ eyes found hers from his place at the front of the aisle, and for a moment the world existed for only the two of them. Their eyes met and locked, and the pact completed between man, wife, and God. No vows needed to be said or rituals performed, for in but one glance, their lives were sealed together forever. Tabitha’s brilliant smile flashed. Jonas struggled to keep his lips closed, but his expression gave away the awe he felt at the sight of his beautiful bride. Bobby Simon, stuffed into his tuxedo, wobbled like a red-faced roly-poly and tried desperately not to meet anyone’s eyes as he walked his daughter down the aisle. He stared above, in forced supplication, at the angels and saints painted on the stained-glass ceilings. As he reached the end of the aisle, Bobby Simon hugged his daughter with tears in his eyes as Tabitha almost pushed him away, smoothing a hand down her dress. He shook Jonas’ hand, turning redder than seemed humanly possible.
Little pinches of pain shot up Skye’s legs to her stomach and back down again. As she swallowed, a wave of nausea hit. She dry heaved, and the bridesmaids looked at her, one head forward over the other like a very cross line of pink dominoes, with two dots for eyes and one for a mouth. Their faces swam in front of Skye’s eyes as they blurred.
“Excuse me,” Skye murmured to Nadine who stood beside her. “I’m very ill.”
Nadine sighed and muttered something unintelligible. Skye struggled to remain still, despite the overwhelming urge to double over in pain.
“Looks like someone drank too much.” Smirked a country club head in the second row, with nary a hair out of place, on Jonas’ side of the church. A man with an impossibly stiff starched bow tie tittered. Tabitha, either blessed or cursed on her wedding day with hearing as acute as a bat’s, gave a quick glare to the commentator, her tittering companion, and Skye. Remembering herself as a benevolent bride, the look of anger quickly melted away into one of repose. Skye regained her composure and willed her body to stay very still. Her body rewarded her request with a searing stab in the abdomen. She took a series of sharp breaths, almost panting. Nadine stared at her in disgust.
Tabitha took Jonas’ hand. Jonas attempted to walk forward but Tabitha refused to budge. She waited for Skye to lift the train of her floor-length gown before ascending the steps to the altar. Nadine shoved Skye from behind unobtrusively, maintaining the wide smile on her face. Tabitha shot a hard glance at Skye.
Nadine leaned toward Skye and whispered, “Her train. Lift up her train.”
Skye sprang into action and lifted the heavy cathedral-length silk, and Tabitha walked five steps forward with Jonas to stand before the priest.
“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends,” Father Nolan intoned. “We are gathered here today to witness the joining together of two very special people.”
After a few long seconds of feeling as though she hovered just off the ground, Skye moved forward again and lifted Tabitha’s long silk train as they walked to an altar festooned with flowers and topped with thick candles. Tabitha’s hair, so thick and lush and warm, cascaded down her back, and as Skye gazed at it she felt. She set the train down.
Tabitha and Jonas dipped their tapers into the altar boy’s candle. They lit a candle on the altar. Tabitha and Jonas knelt before Father Nolan. The priest closed his eyes and prayed. More warmth spread through Skye, and she felt a moment of release and harmony. The ceremony concluded, Skye’s pain faded away. Skye looked at the satin train before her, confused by the patch of red growing on it. She gasped and looked down at the front of her dress. Around the front of her thighs a very faint splotch of blood seeped through. She swished her legs back and forth and felt the blood rolling down to her feet.
Acting quickly, Skye reached down and unhooked the train from Tabitha’s dress. Tabitha’s head whirled around.
“I need to borrow this. I’ll explain later,” Skye whispered desperately as she tore off the hooks.
A murmur spread throughout the congregation. Skye pulled the train free, folding over the dark red stain, and wrapped it around her body. She ran down the steps and into the aisle, looking like an enormous roll of tissue paper with a tiny head stuck on a billowing body. Her footsteps thudded on the carpet, and the aisle stretched out even longer as she swiftly ran past a sea of staring faces. She pushed the doors to the church open.
The sun broke through the clouds. She ran down the stairs, scanning the street for the nearest cab.
“Skye! Skye Evans!” a man standing beside a late model car yelled.
Skye reached up and waved, happy to see anyone with a vehicle, even though the man looked unfamiliar to her. She rushed toward the street, anxious to get to a hospital and out of the public eye, quickly. She hastened toward the sanctity of a car, forgetting the newly melted snow under her feet. Her heel slipped on the pavement, bringing her crashing down onto the cement stairs. The force of her body and the slippery ice sent her careening down, rolling over and over and over as she tried desperately to cushion her body with her hands. She focused on keeping her head up until she hit the bottom.
“Skye!” the man said as he stopped over her.
She looked up at him, her eyes unfocused, as he lifted the camera attached to his body by a strap and took pictures. The flash brutalized her stinging eyes.
“Are you dead?” he asked.
“You bastard,” she whispered.
The cold pavement warmed with the anger that burned inside of her.
“Give me more,” he muttered as he snapped photos. He made no effort to contain his excitement. “If you die, I’m going to be a goddamn millionaire.”
A ray of light seemed to shoot through Chester Fieldston’s body and into Skye’s eyes as someone shoved him out of the way in a blur of black and white. She heard a scuffle and punches. The photographer ran to his car and slammed the door, gunning the engine and screeching down the street. The man swore as he gave chase. Skye turned her head and viewed a dozen different pairs of dress shoes coming down the steps toward where she lay. She heard the pounding of a horse’s hooves on the pavement rushing toward her before she lost consciousness.
***
“You’re going to jump, you know,” she heard Gibbs’ voice say. “There’s no other way out.”
The light at the end of the tunnel flickered slightly. An ember danced in the air, floating into the tunnel and around Skye’s hand. She curled her fingers around it and the small ember burned into her fingertip, dissolving into ash.
“Gibbs,” she said. “if you’re here, let’s find
a way out.” She turned toward the blackness, away from where the ember wafted in, and pulled him deeper into shadows.
“No.” Gibbs said. “Walk through it.”
Skye advanced toward the opening. Her hair blew back with a breeze. She gazed at the cerulean blue sky. Inching closer and closer to the edge, she looked over a precipice out onto the skyline of New York City. The pointed toes of her heels scrabbled beneath her, as she stood on the ledge of Tower One. On the ground, far below, she saw herself in her favorite mint-colored Chanel suit, staring into a camera that Gibbs held. She turned and rushed back inside the gaping hole in the building.
“There’s no way around it,” Gibbs said in a hypnotic, solemn voice.
“What does that mean?” she shrieked. “This building will collapse!”
Skye reached into the darkness of the tunnel to feel the source of the voice, struggling to find him. She turned, and he disappeared. She looked back over the precipice, screaming at herself for help, but the woman with her face and body didn’t hear her and simply smiled and nodded toward the camera. She turned again to discover a fireball rushing out of the darkness of the tunnel and closing the distance quickly. She ran through the hole and leaped into the skyline, falling through the empty air.
“She’s coming out. More sedation.” A dark-eyed man with a kind face, dressed in a surgical mask, cap and gown, stood over her. “You’re going to be fine.” She felt a dull pinch in her arm and looked over at it to see a nurse injecting her with a syringe, then affixing an IV tube to the needle. She faded from consciousness.
Lost in a world without time, a cocoon of feeling trapped her while her anxiety grew. She had to be somewhere. Somewhere important. Not in this stark white, buzzing room where a nurse softly sang a pop song, or a dark figure hovered in the chair next to her bed, always blurry and indistinguishable. As she flitted in and out of consciousness, she heard someone crunching on potato chips. Then a rustling and silence again. Struggling to awaken herself, the haze of medication cleared, and Skye popped her eyes open.