She looked for the answers in his eyes.
But Mark became rigid and silent instantly, his irises lowering to the ground and staying there.
He was shutting down. She had seen this before. Every piece of him was closing itself off, throwing up virtual walls at her.
Finally, he raised his head, shaking it sadly at her.
“I’m not the one, Saturday. It’s not me.”
His attention was diverted by something over her shoulder when suddenly a hand landed there, twisting her roughly.
She turned… and screamed!
The scream was real; it had permeated right through the dream world and directly into Saturday’s bed, leaving her spent from the exertion.
She woke up sweaty and breathless in that same little black cocktail dress, realizing that none of it… not the date or kissing Mark… had ever happened.
It was nothing but a fantasy: an uncannily detailed figment of her twisted imagination.
She looked down at her cell phone in the bed.
She and Axe really did schedule a dinner date that night, but shortly after changing into her L.B.D., Axe had called, canceling the date.
On the call, he had gone on and on about some new “big gig” in the works, boring Saturday to tears with his incessant babbling.
“Bored to tears” was more of an understatement than anything; Axe’s superficial ramble shot beyond tears territory and straight into sleep-inducing terrain.
She had literally dozed off during the conversation, falling asleep with both her phone and makeup in hand.
Slipping back into sleep would be impossible now; her own cries had awakened her, stirring her from one of the most distressing dreams she’d ever had.
Saturday’s mother had always told her that dreams were like entrances: subliminal portals to another realm that transcended space and time, and that all truth could be revealed there.
Now, either Karen Blake was bat-shit crazy and was making her daughter that way (a perfectly viable explanation these days) or Saturday’s subconscious really was trying to tell her something.
But what?
The first truth was evident. She was not done with Mark… not yet.
The second truth? Well, that was trickier.
Mark’s cryptic words from the dream echoed soundly in her mind. “It’s not me.”
What could that possibly mean? Was it a sign? Some clue about himself?
Or was it a warning?
She couldn’t decide, so she lay back down, thinking about the third and final truth of the evening… that this was going to be a very long night.
***
May 2
I can feel it. That guy she’s seeing is no good for her. She hasn’t said it, but I can tell.
I could hear the unhappiness in her voice. Her sweet voice.
My sweet Saturday.
I can help her find her way back to happiness.
If she will just let me.
Nobody knows her like I do. And nobody ever will.
Chapter Four
Optical Delusions
The next day, Saturday strolled the sidewalks outside of her apartment building, inhaling the air deeply for the first time in weeks. The city was beautiful this time of the year, the pungent stenches intermittently replaced by yummy smells of sausage and sweet whiffs of relish.
Saturday paused at one of the hot dog carts, tempted to buy, before choosing to move along until she found the pretzels that she was craving.
Her floral dress swayed in the breeze, the gold streaks in her hair shone from the sun. But no matter how lovely she looked or how warm the weather felt, she was still in a wintry funk that cast a shadow over her head.
Saturday walked three more blocks before she realized she was craving something a little stronger than salted dough. She hailed a cab to the Greenhouse to get a drink at the bar.
It was a bit early, being near noon and all, but she didn’t mind going against the grain. She sure as hell deserved it after the tug-of-war she’d been undergoing between Axe and the ever-present dream-Mark.
It was as if she were two separate versions of herself, dating two different men.
Daylight-Saturday entertained Axe while twilight-Saturday belonged to Mark.
By daybreak, Axe courted her; by nightfall, Mark possessed her.
Now, Axe had never called her his girlfriend and they certainly hadn’t had sex, but she was pretty sure they were seeing each other under the guidelines of an unspoken exclusivity.
Real-life cheating or not, these unconscious imaginative romps in the sack were weighing just as heavily on her.
She had painted much earlier that morning, but sadly her brain needed a little more numbing than painting was able to provide.
***
Time moves with the quickness of a speeding bullet when you’re in good spirits. But when you’re miserable, it travels with the frictional inertia of a thousand tons, plodding along tediously, painfully.
A week went by without Saturday seeing Axe. Then two.
The guilt was too much; she hadn’t the courage yet to face him. Any heat existing between them had fizzled at this juncture, and there was no point in prolonging the inevitable.
She went to sleep, contemplating exactly how to break it to him.
It was over.
Early the next morning, Saturday woke up to the sound of her ringing cell phone.
She glanced sleepily at the screen, her eyes widening when she saw the name on the front.
Her mother was calling. What the hell?
“Mom?” she answered the phone, groggily.
“Saturday. Hi, sweetheart,” Mrs. Blake responded, her voice pitched unusually high.
Saturday didn’t hear from her parents that often; maybe every month or so, if that. And when they did call, it was never this early and they never sounded this… chipper.
She started to ask why her mother had called when Mrs. Blake launched into a full-blown ramble, questioning Saturday about her whereabouts. She begged to see Saturday.
“Saturday,” she clucked. “You didn’t come home for Thanksgiving. You barely made an appearance for Christmas. We need to see you!”
“Yeah, mom, I know. I just…wait, hold on a sec… are you drunk?... MOM?”
At first, she couldn’t tell what was odd about her mom’s voice, why Karen Blake suddenly sounded so different but then it hit Saturday like a pile of bricks.
The high pitch; the babbling; the slight slurring.
This was a first. Mrs. Karen Blake, Mrs. High Society herself… is inebriated… and, for some inexplicable reason, has decided to call her daughter.
In all of Saturday’s now twenty-five years, she had never seen her mother drunk. Not once.
And now she was calling at 7AM, toasted, and demanding to see Saturday.
Saturday’s shock turned into concern, and the concern was quickly reaching towards panic. Maybe her mother was suffering from some sort of mental break. Something bad had to have happened.
She interjected into her mother’s drunken tirade.
“Mom? MOM! What… is wrong?”
Mrs. Blake stopped talking immediately.
“Oh, Saturday…” she rasped, emotion slinking into her quickly cracking voice.
Her sniffles pulled at Saturday’s heartstrings, opening up a chasm in Saturday’s soul that she believed had closed on her parents long ago.
“Saturday,” Karen repeated. “I’m leaving your father.”
At her mother’s admission, Saturday’s mouth fell completely open, hanging so low that she thought her jaw had unhinged.
“I’m in love…” Karen continued dreamily. “And…(she chirped up suddenly) I’m going to become a sex therapist!”
***
Saturday’s plane taxied to the gate slowly, causing her to sigh with impatience.
She just wanted to get this visit to see her mother over as soon as possible. A clear, sunny day had turned into rain as soon as she h
it the Washington State border. Bellevue, WA was the last place that she wanted to be.
She breezed through the terminals and gates of the airports, bags in tow, until she reached the baggage claim.
Karen Blake was waving happily at one of the carousels, excitedly awaiting Saturday’s arrival.
Suppressing a look of shock, Saturday reached out to hug her mother when she got close enough.
Karen’s brown hair was shinier than the diamond on her ring finger, her blue irises wide and bright with a smile that usually never reached her eyes.
For years, Saturday’s mom had put on the façade of the quintessential ice queen, possessing the warmth of a Popsicle on an artic December day.
A former Miss Washington, she was still as beautiful as ever but the bags under her eyes were now prominent.
Life had taken its toll on her in the past three years since Saturday had left home; Saturday didn’t bother to look too closely during her brief visit at Christmas, but now it was hard to look away.
Mrs. Blake grabbed her daughter in a tight embrace, with more affection than she had ever shown before. She clutched Saturday’s hand afterward, dragging her toward the doors.
“Come on!” she exclaimed. “Let’s do lunch.”
When they were seated at a nearby bistro, Mrs. Blake laid it all out on the table.
“I’ve been a prisoner all of my life, Saturday: a prisoner of expectations. I was expected to be beautiful and poised. I was expected to marry a rich man. I was expected to be a perfect wife. Well, not anymore!” she shouted, startling guests at neighboring tables.
Saturday ducked her head within her napkin, trying to shield herself from the embarrassing gaze of other strangers.
“Mom,” she hissed abrasively. “Calm down.”
But the older woman was emotional, nearly inconsolable.
“Louis understands me. He gets my dreams; he knows my mind. I’m a different person with him… a better person. I’m me… finally.”
Saturday dropped the napkin from her face, her mother’s words finally striking a chord with her.
She let the elder Blake continue without pause this time.
At first sight, this whole “running off with your tennis instructor” life-change had sounded absolutely preposterous to Saturday’s ears, but upon further inspection, she could see how closely Karen Blake’s path mimicked her own.
She remembered the conversation she once had with her parents about her chosen profession. And how silly they had called the idea.
Her mother’s tune was completely different this time; she was now singing a song that Saturday was sure she would never hear.
When Saturday had wanted to move to New York City to pursue her artistic endeavors, her mother had been her biggest opponent, her greatest adversary in the fight for her creative freedom.
She had wanted Saturday to live a life of wealth; if not create it, then, at the very least, marry into it.
And here she was now, enthusiastically touting a path that was the very opposite of that. Saturday was enjoying every moment of this sweet vindication.
After the meal, Saturday hopped in her mother’s Mercedes and they headed to her family home.
At Mrs. Blake’s urging, Saturday perused her mother’s closet and bedroom, packed her most beloved items and helped Timmy, the neighborhood’s local lawnmower, carry the objects to the car.
Anything that could fit in the backseat of the Benz was being carted out: the jewelry, the clothes… even her parents’ pet poodle, Princess.
Saturday’s dad was out of town…as usual.
She thanked God that he was; he would have never let Karen out of his sight if he had any inkling of what she was thinking.
Saturday had to admit: part of her felt pretty bad for her father, Dr. Blake… but the man was impossible.
Impossible to live with; impossible to please.
He was no angel, of course; he had a few “indiscretions” of his own and was highly critical of those with whom he associated, but she always stood by her husband.
Saturday could often see the flicker of resistance in her mother’s eyes, could sense the dejection in her posture. But Karen had grown up as a little rich girl, and this was the only life she knew how to lead.
Saturday was just happy that she could help her mother stand up for herself this time… probably the last time she would ever have to.
And for the first time in her life, Saturday and her mother were seeing eye-to-eye on something.
As insane as the entire concept was (I mean, come on. Falling in love with my childhood tennis coach?)… Saturday was proud of her.
Saturday wasn’t a huge shopper by any means (well, if you excluded new easels and paintbrushes), but for the next two days, she and her mother had partaken in all of the luxuries that every red-blooded American woman should experience at least once in her lifetime.
Spas and massages. Steam rooms and saunas. Mani’s and Pedi’s.
They were buffed, polished and waxed on every inch of skin.
And in the meantime, they chatted like silly schoolgirls, retelling stories of lovers past and failed friendships, unrealistic expectations of women and career paths.
They yakked about sexuality and art; music and dancing; fashion and theater.
They detailed Karen’s steps to becoming a sex therapist and poured over Saturday’s efforts to increase her art’s growing exposure.
As was customary in their household, by the end of their second day together, they had gotten into an argument, yelling and screaming at each other in the way that dysfunctional mothers and daughters do, but the squabble had progressed better than usual.
No slamming doors or hurtful insults this time.
That has to be progress, right?
And by the time that Saturday had started to pack her things to come back to the “real world,” she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this could be a starting point to building a friendship with her mother.
No, they didn’t always get along, and yes… they still had some major issues to resolve, but they were giving their relationship a renewed beginning. This was a step in the right direction.
Or so she desperately hoped.
***
Saturday’s flight had actually landed early in New York that afternoon, shaving almost a half of an hour off of her expected arrival time.
Her time in Bellevue had been… interesting… but part of her had been yearning to get back to the crazy and crowded streets of Manhattan.
The cramped quarters of her tiny apartment had been more of a home to her than almost any spot she’d ever been in, but she hoped that that was changing.
She hoped that she could begin to find some sense of solace and peace when she returned back to the other side of the country from now on.
Saturday wearily grabbed her carry-on from the overhead compartment, nearly dropping the small suitcase as she lugged it down from its place.
All of those days of “relaxation” were actually exhausting. Exacerbated by the long flight from coast-to-coast, Saturday’s crankiness and fatigue were starting to peak at all-time highs.
And to make matters worse, the weather in New York was unseasonably chilly.
She tightened the hoodie on her shoulders, ruing her earlier decision to wear a tank top and jeans.
Saturday was just stepping off of the plane like a miserable crouched-over hunchback when she received a call from Jay.
The city was warm when she had left, but the sun was now hiding, and her freezing fingers could barely grab the ringing cell from her oversized purse.
Against her better judgment, she answered the phone, jet-lagged and all.
Typical Jay. He launched into the conversation without any of the formal greetings.
“Joshua said he’s got a surpriiiise for us,” he relayed in a sing-songy voice.
“Really?” she responded wearily. “What sort of surprise?”
“Well, he won’t say, but whateve
r it is, you know it’s going to be fantastic. I mean, this is Joshua that we’re talking about. Oh…and he wants us to meet him as soon as possible.”
“Jay,” she scoffed. “I don’t know that I can. I’m just getting off of the plane from my trip. I’m so tired,” she whined.
On top of that, she looked and felt like something the cat had dragged in… but she didn’t exactly want to share that bit of info.
“Come onnn, Saturday. I’m sure it won’t take that long. Besides… it could be a very relaxing surprise. Massages, manicures, pedicures. Think of the possibilities!”
Saturday had to laugh at Jay’s enthusiasm. It was somehow reaching through the phone, infecting her with a feeling of joy, even in her exhausted state.
“Ok,” she replied. “I’ll come.”
What could one little pit-stop hurt?
***
She found herself standing in front of a tall brown edifice when she stepped out of the cab to meet Jay.
Today, New York was just as grey as Washington had been, and the sky threatened to open up and dump rain on them all.
Jay had been waiting on the sidewalk in khaki pants and a sweater, looking handsome and excited, ready to hug her as soon as she hit the ground.
“How was home, my little Pacific North-westerner?”
“Well… I wouldn’t call what I have back in Washington ‘home’ exactly, but I have a suspicion it might feel that way someday. Where’s Josh?”
“He said he’s inside, tending to some things. I just wanted to be here when you arrived so we could experience this surprise together.”
“Well, how thoughtful of you, Monsieur,” Saturday declared, affecting a French accent. “Let’s go inside and meet our Mister Joshua Hicks.”
When they entered the building, the entire first floor was empty… with the exception of a lone receptionist desk at the very end of the vast, bare room.
Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet Page 20