by Ina Zajac
“Good girl,” he whispered in her ear.
She knew better. She prayed death would swoop down upon her. The room waved up and down, but she couldn’t move. She willed her eyes to close, but they refused. Then he was up, getting dressed. She couldn’t find the rhythm of her breath. He was walking over to the bar, talking, laughing about limes. She called out to him. He needed to come help her breathe, but he couldn’t hear or didn’t want to hear. The world went black. It wasn’t the world anymore. It wasn’t a good place. She wanted Mama.
***
VIA
MAMA HELD HER HAND as they waited, sitting backwards across from Daddy, who looked so handsome in his tuxedo. They were outside the MET, but the driver said they couldn’t get out yet. It wasn’t their turn. Via’s mother looked out the limo window. “Look Via, there are only a couple of news crews. Oh, and a few photographers. I told you this would be low-key.”
Via scratched her neck. Something sharp was biting into her. She hated her high-collared, poofy little-girl dress. “Are they just going to have presents for the little kids like last year?”
“Violetta, don’t be rude,” her father scolded as he straightened the American flag pin on his lapel. “It’s a fundraiser,” he said. “There’s a war on terror going on, you know, so chin up.”
He was in a good mood, and she knew she shouldn’t press him. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Her mother leaned in; her silky voice tickled Via’s ear. “You already have more presents than can fit under the tree. We’ll have to get a bigger tree next year.”
Daddy laughed. Thank God, he laughed. He didn’t usually put up with whispering. “If you want an even bigger tree, we’ll need a crane,” he said. “It was hard enough getting this one set up.”
The car nudged forward, then stopped. An attendant opened the door and helped Mama out first. Via watched in awe as her mother met the crowd outside. She held her head high with her new red-beaded clutch at her side. Her blue dress accented with white trim clung to her perfect figure. Flashes of bright light flickered and voices called out, telling her how beautiful she looked.
It was Via’s turn, but she couldn’t move. She dug her sweaty fingers into the leather seat. Her father got out and shooed the attendant away. “I’ll assist my daughter,” he said, seemingly proud. He leaned in and reached for her hand. “It’s time to smile now Via—my heartbeat.” He gazed into her eyes and she felt that connection they shared from time to time. It was as though he really saw her sitting there. Like he understood just how much she needed him. “Smile now, be a good girl, and you’ll have presents to open in less than a week.” The warmth he conveyed melted her nervousness. Yes, she would make him proud. Smiling, she put her hand into his and stepped out onto the red carpet as flashes of light lit up around them. “And, there is one present in particular I can’t wait for you to open,” he added. Yes. She’d seen him put it back in the corner. It was huge and flat, white with a big gold bow. Finally, the painting, she hoped. The portrait of her.
The flashing lights hurt her brain. Her eyes opened and found the room, but the rest of her body was still dead to her. He was talking. He was in a good mood. But, it wasn’t her father. It was Carlos, talking to someone on the phone. “I need you to come in, I have a friend who needs a ride home,” he said.
Her mind was still hanging around in 2004. That night in the limo. The last happy night before Daddy turned. He was often at his best right before the crash.
She hurt all over. Carlos was still on the phone. “Because you’re better than a taxi, that’s why. And because I said so. Within the hour. She’ll be waiting. Thanks, Nick.”
She tried to come to terms with what was happening. Nick was coming for her? No, no, she thought, but she still couldn’t find her voice.
Carlos was seated next to her, laughing as he untangled her bra from her neck. “Wow, what did we do here?” he asked, his tone playful. “Guess we were pretty into it, huh?” He reached for the throw blanket on the end of the couch, still talking while he covered her up. “I’m leaving your boots off.” The blanket’s fibers prickled and poked her sensitive skin. Heat tingled through her limbs. She thought about trying to move again, but she didn’t want to encourage him. “I’ve got to go, babe,” he told her as he stood. “But I’m leaving you some blow. Nick will be here for you soon—guess we won’t be a secret anymore.” He lingered over her with a sort of romantic look on his face. It made her want to cave into herself and die. “They can call you ‘New Sonia’ now.”
He made his way to the door, but he paused and looked back at her. “You’ll be coming with me to Portland next week. Can’t wait to show you off.”
She feared he was going to come back over and kiss her some more, but he just left. She heard the heavy door click closed behind him. She was thankful for that. She couldn’t endure any more kisses. She wanted to get to her phone so she could call her Tristan, but then she realized he wouldn’t be hers anymore. Her lungs found their place and she gasped for breath.
All at once, she felt a part of herself again, but forever changed, tainted. Nothing will ever be okay again. She loathed the feel of her own skin. She sat up slowly so her brain wouldn’t explode. She had to escape herself. This was exactly what she deserved. She looked around. He had left her a fresh drink. Once she was able to coordinate her trembling hands, she grabbed it with both hands and pounded it, but it wasn’t enough. She would go to the bar and get the whole bottle, as soon as she was strong enough to walk. No, she realized. It would never be enough. There wasn’t enough booze in the world to change what she had just done to Matt.
There were two lines waiting for her as well as his white drug box. He must actually trust her. She looked inside. There were baggies of what looked like blow. There was also a small bag of what looked like the Molly she had done with Matt. Their love potion. She licked her finger and dipped it inside. Perhaps it would reset the spell she’d just broken or even make her fall madly in love with herself. Maybe it would kill her. She brought it to her lips. It was bitter. So bitter.
CHAPTER 30
VIA
THE STAGE FLOOR GLINTED and glossed. It dipped and curved in time to the music. The beat was fast, yet slow. There was the beat, and then there was her beat. She rose and dropped in slow motion, feeling the warmth of the violet lamps. Pink. Purple. Pink. Purple. Static, like air through violin strings, filled the air around her and lifted her up. Her arms were out to her sides, swaying through the waves coming through the giant speakers. The deejay looked down. He was her God now. Only music could save her now.
“She’s too wasted to be any fun and she’s gonna fall,” Leon was telling Nick. “I tried to get her to stay in the office, but she says she needs the lights. She’s freaking the clients out.”
Nick reached up and guided her down from the stage. She didn’t fight him. She jumped down to meet him.
“You’re the girl?” he asked. “I’m supposed to drive one of his bitches home, and it’s you?” His anger was scaring the music away; it fled into the background. His coat was open, revealing his white Hotties shirt. It glowed under the bar light. He looked critical, too serious to be filled with such light.
She stepped closer to him and touched his sleeve. “Have you come to rescue me from the dance floor? Are you here on King Arthur’s behalf?”
Colors played across his face—bright, dark, bright, dark—but he never blinked. His stare blazed into her as if he, too, knew the secrets of all mankind. If he were Sir Lancelot, that would make her Guinevere. She knew that story. They would be getting naked together soon. But wait. She realized she couldn’t be Guinevere because she was already starring in some other man’s story. Stories were mingling together, confusing her.
Isolde. Yes, she remembered, but where was her Tristan? Then Dan came crashing down on her shoulders. She couldn’t escape the role she had played in his life.
“Let’s go,” Nick told her as he grabbed her by the wrist. His touch bu
rned. He pulled her through the main room; the few clients who were there looked away when she walked by. She looked back and saw silver beams shooting down upon them. She and Nick were making their escape from the hellish gunfire. The same gunfire had been reverberating through her life for nearly ten years. He led her through the cold, white lobby, past Ben, who looked more than a little concerned. “I’ve got her,” Nick told him. They passed by several men, whose whispers were sharp against her neck. When they got to the door, he stopped, turned, then yanked her elbow. “So, what are you on, ‘shrooms? You wasted, or what?”
“Nothing happened,” she tried to say, but her own voice didn’t believe her.
“Bullshit!” he said. “I can’t fucking believe you!”
“You shouldn’t swear so much.”
“Let’s go,” he said again as he pulled her out into the frigid rain. It seared into her cheeks and neck and chest. Nick leaned in and put his coat around her shoulders. It seemed a healing cloak, already warm. He reached around her and pulled the hood up over her head.
“I can’t even believe this right now.” His face was close as he pulled wet strands of her hair and tucked them inside the hood. She turned her face up toward his. His eyes were pale, but passionate.
She heard her mother’s voice urge her, “Let’s not make Daddy angry.” She pressed her eyelids together tight and strained her ears, but her mother was gone, again.
Nick’s voice cut through the frigid night air. “Violetta, you make me so angry. Why do you make me so crazy?” She was afraid to open her eyes because this man wasn’t Nick anymore.
Guilt-laced droplets landed upon her shoulders. They soaked through the coat, through her skin, and bore into her bones. “I can’t remember what the pretty lights told me.” She turned from him and started to run away. She didn’t care where.
He called after her, “Violetta...Violetta.”
“Don’t call me Violetta!”
“What are you talking about?” Nick asked. “Are you hearing voices?”
She made a break into the black distance. “I don’t remember who I am.”
She tried to run, but he was upon her. She tried to break free, but he was strong and calm. She heard Matt whispering, “Shhh, shhh. Isoldey.” She wanted to fly away but he held her captive.
All she could do was wail, “Who am I?”
“You’re Via,” he told her. “And you’re really scaring me.”
“Nick?” She turned around and clung to his chest. “What am I doing?”
“Shhh.” He leaned down, his face near hers. “Please breathe. I’m calling Matt, okay? I’m not supposed to. He’s on the road. I’m not supposed to, but I will.”
“I already did,” she said. “I told him to come to me.”
“You did what? When?”
“I don’t know because time doesn’t make sense,” she said. “We’re meeting at home base. Please don’t tell him.” She clutched onto the sides of Nick’s wet shirt. “Please, I love him. Please.”
“He thinks you’re his lucky charm, you know.” Nick pulled his face back a foot, hunched down to her level, and looked into her eyes. Rain ran down his face. His shirt clung to his chest. “He loves you,” he said. She felt raindrops hitting the top of the magic hood she wore. Why were they so slow? “He thinks he loves you anyway.”
She couldn’t speak. She just clung to him until the raindrops sped up again.
“We’re going to get into my truck now,” he said in a steady, controlled voice. He over enunciated every word, his eyes wide. “We’re putting your seatbelt on. You will stay calm. I am taking you home—to Matt. Okay?”
She didn’t want to be a bad girl anymore, so she nodded.
“When I say later tater, you say?” He was giving her a puzzle. A test.
“Tot,” she said, and enjoyed the relief she recognized. She had remembered something.
***
NICK
AS SOON AS she crossed the threshold into the house Nick turned and locked the door behind her, still concerned she may try to bolt. She hadn’t said a word on the drive home. She seemed to be mellowing out. He couldn’t wait to get away from her, settle down with his bong, call a chick, the barre instructor with the perfect ass. He hoped Via would go upstairs, but she stopped just short of the bottom stair; she couldn’t let it go.
“Please don’t tell him.”
He needed her to step off. Now that it was sinking in, what she had done, he was going to lose it.
“Please, Nick, I love him.”
That’s just fucking peachy, he thought as he turned to face her. She looked like a train wreck of a little girl, standing there with her face lined with tear trails. God, she looked so sincere. But how could she be? How could she be anything other than evil?
“Let me get this right,” he said, as calmly as possible. “We cut you off and you promise you’re done. Matt goes on his last run, is gone just a few hours.” He knew he should stop, but he couldn’t. “And, you’re already with Carlos, and I’m not supposed to tell him?” he asked. “I’m not supposed to tell my best friend that the girl he loves is a whore?”
She startled at the word “whore.” It wasn’t a word he used often, and never to a girl’s face. He knew a ton of party girls who were fast and easy. No worries. Others had to dance or turn tricks to pay their bills. He would never fault them for that. He knew how the world worked. Being a whore involved a certain sense of malice.
“It was none of my business when you cheated on your fiancé,” he heard himself say. It was a cruel voice he didn’t recognize. “But don’t think you can screw over my best friend and get away with it. You’ve probably been fucking Carlos this whole time!”
She said nothing, but shook her head so vigorously; he thought she might fall over. A drunken mess, she hugged the bottom banister post and steadied herself. Being drunk or high was no excuse. It didn’t change what she’d done. He knew Matt was going to be crushed.
“It is Matt you are worried about?” she asked. The words she tossed out were soon followed by a new look. Realization spread across her face. “Or, is it you?” she asked. “You’re the one who’s hurt, who’s jealous.”
He wasn’t prepared. He knew his expression was giving him away. He felt the shift. Everything changed. Really changed. Like the light bulb above her head had finally flicked on. She’d probably known all along, at some level. He would do anything to go back three minutes. Three months would be better. Hell, three years.
She backpedaled. “I didn’t mean—”
He held up his hand and dismissed her. “You’re wasted.” He clicked into bouncer mode. Hopefully, she was so toasted she would black out the whole conversation. Just like she had forgotten that on the night he’d tucked her into his bed they had kissed and cuddled for an hour. She’d tasted so good, and smelled so sweet. He could have had her, but he’d done the right thing. She had worn his favorite Green Day shirt. He hadn’t washed it since.
She seemed to sober up, right on the spot. “I didn’t know.”
“Get over yourself. There’s nothing to know,” he said. “Somebody’s gotta tell him—and it should be you!”
She kept her tears at bay, but her jaw began to quiver. He couldn’t let himself care.
She was a dumb bitch. That is what he would tell himself. He had to tell himself something. She was not his, so she was not his problem. Let her go crawl into Matt’s bed and sleep it off. He was furious with Matt for ever trusting her.
He turned and made his way for the basement door. He was too full-on-crazy-furious to do anything other than play the shit out of his drums. He would practice Soundgarden’s “Jesus Christ Pose” until his arms fell off. Maybe “Song for the Dead.” Yes, he realized, Queens of the Stone Age would be better, not so complicated. He needed his life to be uncomplicated. He needed to make it about the music again. He would be all about the beat. His grandma had been right all along—it was time to cut the band loose and go off on his own.
>
CHAPTER 31
MATT
SHE KEPT CALLING his name, over and over. He felt her sitting on the edge of the bed, but she stood up before he was able to grab her. He sat up and stretched. “You’re pretty.”
He reached for her, but she stayed put. Just an arm’s length away.
“Hey,” he said, disappointed. “Why are you dressed already? Where are you going?” It was barely even light outside. He noticed her hands were shaking. He pulled the comforter back. “You’re cold. Come. Get into bed.”
She gave him a little smile, but it was weird. He sat up. Something was wrong. “You sad?” he asked. “About your parents? Is that why you texted? Come snuggle.”
“I have to go in a few minutes,” she said.
“What? Why?” He got up and went to her.
Pulling her into his arms, he went in for a kiss, but stopped. Her breathing was shallow, emotional.
“I never told you about my annual death day countdown,” she said.
“Your what?” He rested his hands on her hips.
“There are one hundred days between my birthday—the night you and I met—and my parents’ death day.” She went over and swiped his tablet.
That first night had been her birthday? How had he not known that? “Death day?” he asked. “You call it that?”
“Today is Day 20. You’ve been asking for a long time for me to share with you.” She had a song queued up. “Please, sit down?”
He was thoroughly lost, but did as she asked and sat down in his desk chair. “Okay.” He would pull her onto his lap and hold her as soon as he had the chance.
“I want you to hear the most beautiful, meaningful, music in the world—at least to me,” she said. “It’s Wagner, from Die Walküre. It’s opera.”