The Estranged

by JG Koratzanis

  “It wasn’t him. I had this awful—”

  Hallucination?

  “—thing on the train that someone said something to me. And Douglas — sorry, douche bag, said pretty much the same exact thing. It has me a little off-kilter. That’s all.”

  “What did he say?” Jackie insisted. Heather huffed.

  “Repent your sins to me.”

  Jackie’s beady eyes went wide, “Oh, shit! I told you he was creepy!”

  “You sure you don’t want me to straighten him out?” Rick said as he balled up his lunchbox fists. Heather stroked his hand open.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I promise.”

  Was that the truth, the whole truth, and nothing—

  Heather wasn’t sure. She hadn’t been sure of much lately. Between the suppressed heartache, prescription meds, wanting to drink, phantasms, wanting to run away, nothing was sure in her head, nor her heart.

  III

  Despite every decision, Heather realized she was still alive.

  Barely.

  One party after the next, the weekends blurred into each other as one after the night at Gary’s. Consciousness crept behind her eyes and thundered her head before she could recall a single moment. She lay there, twisted like some sort of roadkill, twice run down. The foulness in her mouth tasted like sewage, and the vermin that resided within the tunnels, perished by toxic inhalation. Perhaps she swam home from the sewers as every muscle and joint burned with the lactic acid of an Olympian. Feeling like shit would have been a step up.

  Drinking to the point of blackout seemed like a promising idea at the time. The immortal surge of power after tipsy, but three to five more before bombed, is a place she was warned to stay away from. The abstract memories of oblivion faded in and out in fragmented regrets. If only Emma was there.

  Was she?

  No. What about Bea?

  Nope.

  Kelsey?

  Oh shit. I was with Kelsey. But where was there?

  No. Then how the hell did I get home? And where the fuck was I? Were we alone?

  Within the swirling black whirlwinds of the night before, bits and pieces zipped past her periphery, melting, seeping into her consciousness.

  Dickinson’s? No. Marge’s.

  Kelsey. She looked hot. Was she wearing any—

  No. She lifted her skirt and showed me her Brazilian. And she made me throw away mine in the ladies’ room. Fuck.

  The sandpaper and cotton in her mouth refused to absorb the slimy saliva that deluged from her glands. The first sign of purge before the alcoholic gases belched from her stomach. A truck slammed into the back of her skull as she attempted to roll to her side. Eyes clamped shut as she allowed the flow of saliva to pour from her lips, over the side of the bed.

  “I’ll wipe it up later. Please don’t let me—”

  An animalistic growl expanded her jaw before the chunky liquid jetted from her gaping maw.

  She gasped and groaned and cried and heaved. The helve hammer in her head whispered in her ears as the fear of suffocating from puking stirred in her mind.

  She lay on her side, jerking, convulsing, and praying that she wouldn’t pass out in the middle of the purge and choke to death.

  Another belch informed her of its malicious intent and another acidic stream blew forth. She was a firehose blasting out a three-alarm-fire.

  Every muscle in her abdomen ached as though punched repeatedly by a prizefighter. The liquified horror dissolved into dry heaves that tore at her throat with molten bile.

  A mighty gasp filled her lungs as the purge ended. Heather rolled into a ball and trembled.

  Fucking Kelsey. You know I can’t make the right choices after three—

  “Oh my, God,” Heather muttered. “Nonononono.”

  Heather tumbled over the side of the bed, narrowly missing her former stomach contents, and scrambled to her feet. Stopping in front of the dresser, she paused to examine the physical damage. Same clothes. The swept V of her collar stretched below her left bosom, mascara smeared into raccoon eyes, lipstick faded past her lips. She jammed her hand down the front of her black yoga pants.

  “Oh, thank God.”

  Memories resumed as she considered the probable regrets.

  Chase. We talked about Chase. Shit! What did I say?

  Belly aflutter, either from her violent nausea or the remembrance of his name threw her arms to the dresser for support.

  Figure out what happened. Him. Us.

  “Damn it,” She remembered a few glasses of Merlot before she went out. Oh, how the demons play when smart people do stupid things. She gasped as her phone rang louder than a thousand alarm clocks. Slapping at the cacophony, she accepted the call.

  “Hello?

  “Yes, this is Heather. Who’s—

  Oh, fuck.

  “Yeah, I remember. Not so loud. How did you get my number?”

  Fucking Kelsey.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Hey, can I ask you something?

  “Did we—

  Her hand found its way to her creased forehead. All the denial in the world wouldn’t relent before the feet of the truth. Lips tightened as she swallowed down another purge.

  “Listen, I’m sorry. But last night was a mistake. I never —

  “What? Bullshit! I would never—

  “Fuck you! Don’t ever call me again!?”

  Heather watched the slow-motion flight of the cell phone across the loft. The 4K Ultra HD image explosion of glass and plastic particles erupted as it smashed against the brick wall signaled an immediate registry that she had to shop for another phone before sunset.

  “Fucking Kelsey.”

  IV

  After weeks of internal debate, Heather searched through the contacts in her phone.

  J— K— L—

  She had the number. Another highjacked from Chase. Misa, Lisa with an M. No last name except for an H. And no accompanying photograph. Chase never spoke much about her. Not how they met, broke up, what they did when they were together, nothing.

  “It was a fucked-up time in my life that I really don’t want to revisit,” he said.

  They were together for six months or so. How bad could it have been if he stayed that long? It took three months before Heather learned that the night they kissed at Sammie’s was the day after Chase and Misa’s breakup. That information left her to question his integrity.

  “Was she your first?” Heather said.

  “Can we please just talk about something else,” he demanded more than asked. She took his reaction as a yes. It was surprising that he never had sex beforehand, considering his good looks and natural rapport he had with women. It was the only answer she could figure that he didn’t want to talk about her. And that was Okay.

  Heather called the number. It rang several times before the voicemail connected. Heather’s lips pursed when she heard the familiar, robotic voice repeating the dialed number and instruction of what to do after the beep. She hung up and swiped into her Facebook app.

  M— I— S— A— she typed in the search bar. Thirty-some-odd listings came up. Of course, not in alphabetical order. Magnificent job with the algorithms, Zuckerberg and Company. Scrolling through, she found an image of an Asian woman, smiling, a selfie-shot in the mirror by all accounts. The name, Misa Y. Hess. She clicked on it.

  Her eyes went wide as she expanded the photo. Teeth gritted as her gaze poured over the woman’s image. Petite, sexy, and undeniably lascivious. Heather considered her own physique and a hollow pang constricted her belly. She shook her head and closed her eyes. It was no longer a wonder about why he didn’t want to talk about Misa. Questions arose as to why he found his way to Heather, and what he saw in her.

  Maybe his violence and anger boiled were because he secretly rekindled his relationship with this Misa and didn’t know how to handle me.

  “Asshole.”

  Exiting out of the photo, she scrolled through Misa’s feed. Multiple tags from dozens of friends, she skimmed thro
ugh the posts.

  R.I.P. with heart emojis, you will be missed followed by X’s and O’s, you’re finally the angel you’ve always been accompanied by sad faces. Message after message of love and anguish took a moment to register their meaning within Heather’s envious mind

  “She’s dead?”

  Her fingers swiped through, searching for his name. He never used his account, but better to be safe than sorry.

  Safe from what?

  She scrolled back to the first bereaved message and considered the dates, posts and “likes.” Two weeks, three weeks, a month, she read. Scrolling down to Misa’s last post, Heather’s brow creased. It was nonsensical. If it weren’t for spellcheck, it might have been gibberish. Or an omen.

  Misa Y. Hess

  August 12 at 7:06pm

  Grimmie watching. Crystal Skye. Sad goodbye—

  Her eyes drifted upwards and read the next message.

  Kevin Dunn

  August 13 11:36am

  So sad. Last night we lost a great friend. I know not many of you heard yet, so I’ll be the first one.

  Insensitive, self-centered prick, Heather thought. Even the news broadcast omitted names before the family is informed.

  Misa Y. Hess is no longer with us. Apparently, she was out late last night driving thru Bensonhurst when a fucking drunk in a pick-up truck blasted her Mustang and crashed her into another truck. Really? The asshole responsible should fucking die! Not Misa. At least she’s finally together again with Skye. Can someone reach out to her dad to find out the details for funeral? Thanks.

  The post was littered with countless WTF’s, WHY DID THIS HAPPEN and HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW THIS. Heather consumed the heartache throughout the page. She wondered if her Facebook feed would fill up with the same surprise and outpouring of support. Humbly, she didn’t think so. Emotion clung to her lids as she reached below the bar and poured a glass of wine.

  “Thanks, Grace. Dead end. Literally.”

  IV

  “I apologize, Heather. But from what you have told me, I’m not sure if you are being completely honest. Sounds like you’re only telling me part of what’s going on.”

  Heather closed her eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” she said.

  Seabrook pulled his gold-rimmed glasses down the bridge of his nose and peered over them. Heather assumed it was his “look,” like the one he probably gave his children when they didn’t study hard enough for an A on their English Lit tests. She accepted his fatherly chastise.

  “I can’t talk about some of the things— I know I fucked up, but I’m working it out. It’s not something you have to worry about. Think maybe I can get a prescription for Xanax?”

  Seabrook leaned back in his chair.

  “With your drinking? No. Absolutely not.”

  “I’m not drinking that much,” Heather chuckled. He didn’t.

  “I think you should consider substance counseling,” he said coldly.

  Heather shot up from her seat. “What? I’m not an alcoholic! I’m not like—” She bit her tongue before she said his name. She didn’t have to. Seabrook allowed her silence to speak.

  “No, you’re not like him. I know. But your alcohol consumption will lead to more problems. Blackouts being one of them. Have you experienced what some like to call time-travel?”

  Time travel. What a perfect name for it. Start in one bar, blackout, come to in someplace else, blackout, omitted regret, blackout.

  “Nope. Can’t say I have,” Heather said. It didn’t sound believable to her.

  “If you won’t consider treatment, is there someone else you can talk to? Unattached, unbiased?” Heather thought for a moment. A name burst through her subconscious the same way the sun slit the morning in Cromwell.

  “I don’t know if I could talk to him,” she said. Seabrook folded his arms over his chest. His custom-tailored, French cuff dress shirt remained as flat as still water.

  “You’re going to need to discuss your, how should I put it? Secrets to someone. If I don’t see any real progress in the next couple of weeks, I’ll check you into—”

  “No! I’ll talk to him. Got it,” she snapped. He nodded with a slight grin.

  The solid oak door slammed shut behind as Heather stepped into the lobby. Her eyes immediately went to the older gentleman at the far end of the room, lacquered cane in hand, waiting patiently, focused on the secretary. She trembled at the resemblance of the man on the train. She turned to Gretchen, who stared just as intently at the man as if they communicated through their stares. Heather cleared her throat to seize Gretchen’s attention.

  Nothing.

  “Same time next week,” Heather said.

  Heather reconsidered the man. There was nothing but a shadow in the dark corner. Eyes clamped tight as vertigo took her head and softened her feet. She teetered against the desk and sent a stack of papers to the floor. Gretchen jumped to her feet and scurried around the desk.

  “I got it! I got it,” she yelled. Heather eased back and turned away.

  “Where did—”

  “Ahem. May I be of some assistance?”

  His voice was deep, dark, abysmal. His distinct English accent thick and proper, cold and distant.

  Heather scrambled to her feet and sidestepped around him. The air cooled as she neared his formerly occupied seat. Not taking her eyes from him, Heather quickly exited Seabrook’s office.

  CHAPTER 5

  CONFRONTATION

  I

  The clouds drifted, and the moonlight pierced the night as she stood before the Forever Yours Galleria in SoHo. She glanced over the Spring Street shops and boutiques that had closed within the last few hours, save for the Wigglers and Ticklers Adult Novelty store, its magnificent red neon illuminating the wet asphalt in bloody hues. She watched a man waddle his way across the street towards the novelty store. She thought he appeared more like a teenage runaway rather than an anonymous consumer intended on purchasing marital aids that would satisfy his young bride. Overbearing weight returned to Heather’s chest when she considered if Chase might have seemed the same to onlookers.

  She pulled the massive door of the gallery and stepped inside. Sparsely lit by halogen bulbs meticulously placed above artistic works of carvings, coppers, and canvases, the room breathed a silent hint of fresh lavender and anonymous romance. The ancient plank floorboards groaned under her footfalls as she meandered through the various masterpieces and gawped at the insanity of the artists’ genius. She paused at the motivation behind a massive, textured, solid black acrylic painting without detail apart from the perfectly centered red stipple which appeared to float within. Her hand slowly reached towards the vermilion glow. A woman cleared her throat in the distance.

  Heather whirled on her heels and faced her, chin dipped, brows creased. Her purse swung wildly into a brass statue of a man impaled with several crude pikes. It reminded her of the painting in the alley.

  “You must be Heather. Should it be a pleasure that I finally make your acquaintance?” Her voice was smoky, sultry, confident. Heather’s chest thumped, and her pulse quickened.

  “Probably not,” the woman said and turned away. Heather watched her hips swirl like wine in a goblet towards a clear-glass walled office and considered her beauty in detached fascination. How many men, and women, had this woman seduced into acts beyond their control in hopes of pleasing her, she wondered. Had she worked her magic on him as well?

  The trip to the gallery, though nondescript, loomed absently as the day she waited for Chase to fall asleep before she went through his phone. Grace was among the many, listed formally as Grace Whitmore, Gallery, in his iPhone. Whereas others were singular or nicknames.

  L.B.

  Fingers trembled as she copied the number into her own phone and hit the call button. It rang several times before the voicemail connected.

  “Baz,” deep, dark and gravelly, rattled the speaker. One word, or a name, and then the beep. She hung up and slipped the phone back into her
robe pocket. It was nearly impossible to hush as it rang back almost immediately.

  “Hello,” she whispered.

  “Who’s this?” the man demanded.

  “I’m sorry. I must’ve dialed the wrong number,” she said.

  “Don’t do it again,” he said before the line went dead.

  Heather stepped past the displays, keeping a secure distance between her and the woman. Two wine glasses atop the lion’s paw desk sat beside an antique bottle of some French named wine she couldn’t quite make out. So much for the six semesters in high school. The woman extended her arm towards the matching chair as she slipped into her own.

  “So, my dear Heather. What is it that I can do for you?”

  Heather drew a blank. She thought she knew. Word choices, minor digs, and sideways glances practiced during the trip into the City. During the ride, recollections of screaming, ending and packing away a former life burst in illumination. She knew it was coming, held back from the wine and Xanax, at least until he was gone, and waited. Surely, this— confrontation, wouldn’t turn out as volatile. Would it?

  Grace sighed and poured for two. The deep violet liquid made no sound as it affably filled each glass. Heather took a glass, held it up and considered Grace as she sniffed. Her host sipped, Heather followed. It was the most delicious wine she had ever tasted. Earthier than the thirty-five-dollar Mount Eden Vineyards Domaine Eden Cabernet Sauvignon that she splurged on for her twenty-first birthday. More eloquent than the Don Melchor that Beatrice gave to her as a thank you gift for being her bride’s maid. Warmth eased down her throat, subtle sweetness danced on her taste buds and the anxiety that fought her Xanax ebbed.