by Joy Fielding
I hear the door to my apartment close, then do as I’ve been told and lie down on my bed, overwhelmed with exhaustion. My eyes stay open long enough to witness the man on TV struggling with the alligator, his legs inside the creature’s mouth. The alligator becomes a shark as sleep overtakes me and my nightmares settle in, the shark’s giant fin breaking through the surface of the ocean like scissors through tinsel. It glides menacingly toward where I am treading water, and I look down and see at least six more sharks circling my feet.
I swim frantically toward a distant raft, my arms and legs like propellers, chopping at the once placid water. I’m almost there.
And then I see him.
He is crouched at the edge of the raft, his body leaning forward, his face blocked by the sun. He reaches out his hand and I grab for it, about to pull myself to safety when I feel the roughness of the black leather glove he is wearing and smell my blood on its fingertips. I scream and fall back into the water as the sharks converge.
— FIVE —
I wake up bathed in sweat.
It is dark, and the TV is on. A woman on the screen is posing for photographs near the edge of a tall cliff. She is laughing and adjusting her wide-brimmed sunhat while her husband busily snaps her picture. “Back up just a bit,” he motions. She complies, tripping over a small rock and losing her balance, her feet shooting out from under her as she tumbles backward over the precipice. Her screams echo throughout the giant chasm as she plunges to her death, her hat flying off her head and into the air, swooping up and down with the wind. Falling off the Grand Canyon, the doomsday voice announces with barely concealed glee over the cheesy reenactment. Number 63 of 1000 Ways to Die.
I grab the remote from the nightstand beside my bed and turn the TV off. I’ve been asleep less than an hour. At least I think it’s been less than an hour since Claire and her daughter left to get groceries. If they were here at all. Maybe they came yesterday or the day before. Perhaps they were never here. Perhaps I only dreamt them.
I get out of bed, throw an old gray sweater over my shoulders and walk toward the window, grabbing my binoculars from the top of my nightstand as I go, lifting them to my eyes and adjusting their focus as I scan the exterior of the glass buildings opposite my window and direct them to the street below.
It’s not quite six o’clock, and the streets are busy, people rushing off in all directions, leaving work, heading home for dinner. I see a man and woman embracing on the corner, then follow them as they continue down the street, arm in arm. From this distance, I can’t make out their faces, but their posture tells me they’re happy, relaxed with one another. I try to remember what that feels like. I can’t.
Tell me what you see, a soft voice whispers in my ear. My mother’s voice.
And just like that, I am transported from the bedroom of my glass house on the twenty-third floor of a downtown high-rise into the master bedroom of my parents’ palatial estate in South Beach. My bare toes sink into the plush white broadloom as I stand by the window and gaze through the binoculars into the spectacular garden beyond, reporting on the exotic variety of birds beyond the glass. It is three years ago, a year since my mother received the devastating diagnosis that the cancer we prayed had disappeared had instead returned and that it was terminal.
In four months, she will be dead.
“I see a couple of herons and a gorgeous spoon-billed platypus,” I tell her. “Come.” I move quickly to her side.
But she is too weak to get out of bed, and I watch her suppress a grimace when I try to move her. She is so frail, I fear she will disintegrate in my hands, like ancient parchment. “I’ll see them next time,” she says, tears filling her eyes. We both know there will be no next time.
“Would you like me to read to you?” I ask, settling into the small, peach-colored chair beside her bed and opening the mystery novel I’ve been reading to her, a few chapters every day.
My mother always loved mysteries. When other children were listening to bedtime stories about Snow White and Cinderella, she was reading me the novels of Raymond Chandler and Agatha Christie.
Now our roles have reversed.
Occasionally we watch TV, crime shows mostly, anything to keep her mind off her pain and my mind off the fact I am losing her. “It’s uncanny,” she’d tell me, “the way you always know who did it.”
When did that power desert me? I wonder as the ringing of the telephone yanks me from the past like a fish hooked at the end of a reel.
“It’s Finn, at the concierge desk.” I try to still the rapid beating of my heart as he continues. “Your sister and your niece are on their way up with what looks like a year’s supply of groceries.”
“Thank you.” I realize I’m hungry, that I haven’t eaten anything all day.
“You can tell them to put the empty carts back into the elevator when they’re done with them,” he says, and I say I will, although seconds later, I have no idea what he said.
I wait by the door to my apartment, listening for the sounds of the elevator down the hall. I watch through the peephole as Claire and Jade come into view, each pushing a shopping cart, both carts overflowing with bags of groceries.
“We bought out the store,” Jade announces as I open the door. “Hope you’re not a vegan.”
“Thought I’d grill us some steaks,” Claire says as she starts unloading her cart. She hands two of the bags to me.
I stand there, not sure what she expects me to do with them.
“You can start unpacking,” she tells me.
I want to tell her that I don’t have the strength, that I don’t know where anything goes, that this whole grocery thing was her idea, not mine, but the look in her eyes tells me she will brook no such nonsense, and I don’t know her well enough to argue. The truth is that I barely know her at all. We’ve probably spoken more today than in the past decade. So I take the two bags into the kitchen without protest and deposit them on the gold-and-brown-flecked marble counter.
“Those aren’t going to unpack themselves,” Claire says, following after me with two more bags that she puts down next to mine. “Come on, Bailey. You know where everything goes.” She gives my arm a pat. “You can do this.”
What if I don’t want to? I’m about to ask, but she’s already back in the hall, gathering up more supplies. What choice do I have but to comply?
It quickly becomes apparent that Claire has thought of everything. Along with at least a week’s supply of fruit and vegetables, she’s bought steaks, chicken, pasta and several different sauces, at least a dozen cans of soup, bread, jams, butter, milk, eggs, coffee, tea, even a bottle of wine. There is dishwashing detergent, laundry detergents for both warm and cold water washes, fabric softener and a variety of cleansers, toothpaste and a couple of fresh toothbrushes, deodorant, shampoo, body lotion, mouthwash.
I lift the large plastic bottle of emerald green liquid from the bag, my hands shaking. Tell me you love me, a man directs, the mintiness of his breath taking mine away, causing the bile to rise in my throat. Tell me you love me.
I’m not sure whether I start screaming before I drop the bottle or whether I drop the bottle and then start screaming, but one thing is certain: I am definitely screaming, as loud as I have ever screamed, my screams bringing Claire and Jade flying into the kitchen.
“What is it?” Claire is shouting, looking everywhere at once.
“Was there a spider in the bag?” Jade asks. “I saw that once on 1000 Ways to Die. This lady …”
“Jade, please,” her mother snaps, her eyes skipping across the kitchen floor. Then she says, “Was there a spider in the bag?”
I shake my head furiously from side to side, my screams having given way to sobs.
“Maybe she just doesn’t like mouthwash.” Jade retrieves the bottle from the floor. “Good thing it’s plastic.”
“Get it out of here,” I manage to spit out between sobs.
“What is it?” Claire asks as Jade grabs the offensive bottl
e and runs from the room. I hear the door to my apartment open and close. “Bailey, what just happened?”
It takes several seconds before I’m able to explain my sudden aversion to mouthwash.
“Oh, shit,” Claire exclaims as Jade returns to the kitchen. “I’m so sorry, Bailey. I had no idea.”
“I threw it down the garbage chute,” Jade is telling her mother as I excuse myself to double-lock the door. Not that the locks will do much good, I know, thinking of how easily Jade was able to manipulate them.
“I’ll call someone in the morning about having those replaced with something sturdier,” Claire says when I return.
“What was it like, being raped?” Jade asks.
“Jade,” her mother says. “Honest to God …”
“It was awful,” I answer.
“What did it feel like?” she presses.
“Oh, for God’s sake …”
“It’s all right,” I tell Claire. “It felt as if someone was scraping at my insides with a razor blade.”
“Ouch,” Jade whispers.
“Happy now?” her mother asks.
“It’s just that on TV, it always looks, you know …”
“No,” Claire says. “We don’t know.”
Jade shrugs. “Kind of … exciting.”
“You think rape is exciting?” Now Claire looks horrified.
“I just said that’s how it looks. Sometimes. Women fantasize about rape all the time. I heard on Dr. Phil or, you know, one of those shows, they were having this discussion about fantasies, and they said that rape fantasies are really common among women.”
“There’s a big difference between fantasy and reality,” her mother says sharply. “In fantasies, no one actually gets hurt.” She opens the fridge and starts putting things away. “I think you should apologize to Bailey.”
“What for?”
“It’s all right,” I say.
“You’re the one who should apologize,” Jade says to her mother. “You’re the one who’s trying to steal all her money.”
Claire takes a deep breath. “Okay. I think you’ve said quite enough for one night.”
“Can I go watch TV?”
“No,” Claire says, then changes her mind: “Yes. Go. By all means, go watch TV.”
Jade takes off down the hall. Seconds later, we hear the television blaring.
“I’m really sorry,” Claire begins.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I didn’t come here to upset you.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
She closes the refrigerator door, leans back against the counter. “Gene told me about what happened. I felt terrible. We both did. Look. I know you and I have never had much of a relationship. And I know we’re suing you. But …” She sighs, looks me right in the eye. “But we’re still family. We’re still sisters. In spite of everything. And I’m a nurse. I guess I thought I might be able to help.” She glances down the hall toward my bedroom, the noise from the television bouncing off the walls toward us. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her.
“Even though I’m trying to steal all your money?” Another glance toward my bedroom.
“I know that’s not what you’re trying to do.”
“Gene is just so adamant about the lawsuit. So are the others. They’re very angry.”
“And you’re not?”
“Sometimes,” she admits. “I mean, it hurts to be left out of your own father’s will, but hell, we were pretty much left out of his life, so I guess we should be used to it by now. At least he provided for Jade and her education. Not that she’s headed for Harvard.”
“She may surprise you.”
“You want to know what her biggest ambition is at the moment?”
I nod, realizing I am actually enjoying this conversation, that it’s the first conversation I’ve had in weeks that isn’t all about me, about being raped.
“She wants to get pregnant so she can get on one of those reality shows she’s always watching, like Teen Mom or 16 and Pregnant. One of those.”
I laugh in spite of the serious look on Claire’s face. Or maybe because of it.
“You think I’m joking? Ask her. She’ll tell you.”
“I think she’s trying to provoke you.”
“Oh, we’re way past being provocative. I actually caught her with some guy last week. I came home from my shift at the hospital at about two A.M. and there they were, rolling around my living room floor, pretty much naked. I flip on the light and you know what happens? I’m the one who gets yelled at! What are you doing home so early? You’re supposed to be working till three. Are you trying to ruin my social life? That’s the kind of crap I have to put up with. Is she embarrassed? Not a bit. Is he? Not that I could tell. The idiot pulls on his jeans, then leans back against the sofa and reaches for his cigarettes. I tell him to take his filthy habit and get out of my house; Jade threatens to go with him; I tell her that her uncle Gene will have her back in Juvenile Hall so fast it’ll make her head spin. And that goes double for Sir Galahad, who’s already got one foot out the door. That ends that discussion. I give her the speech about the dangers of unprotected sex, which is when she informs me that she wants to get pregnant so she can be on some stupid reality show. And she’s serious,” Claire adds before I can say otherwise.
So I say nothing.
“Oh, and of course, she calls me a hypocrite, reminds me that I was pregnant when I married her father.” Claire resumes putting the rest of the groceries in the fridge.
“What does he think of all this?” I ask. I know that Claire has been divorced a long time, but that’s pretty much all I know.
Claire throws a head of lettuce into the bin, as if it is a football she’s spiking after scoring a touchdown. “Eliot? How would I know? Haven’t seen the prick in years. Daddy was certainly right about that one.” She shakes her head, laughs her surprisingly girlish laugh. “Maybe we should have our own reality show.”
I watch my half-sister as she begins shoving items into the pantry next to the fridge, admiring her proficiency. I used to be like that. I used to be all kinds of proficient.
“Believe it or not,” Claire is saying, “Jade was a very sweet girl until her fourteenth birthday. Then she just kind of … turned.”
“Happens to the best of us,” I say.
“Really? I’m betting you didn’t give your mother such a hard time.”
“I’m sure I had my moments.”
Claire stops what she is doing. “It must have been very hard for you when she died.”
I quickly turn away so that she can’t see the fresh tears that spring to my eyes. Almost three years, and I still feel the loss of my mother as acutely as if it were yesterday. “I had anxiety attacks pretty much every day for a year after she died,” I confess. It’s the first time I’ve ever told that to anyone. I’m not sure why I’m telling her.
“Did you see anyone about it?”
“You mean like a psychiatrist?”
“Or a therapist. Someone to talk to.”
“I talked to Heath.” Although my brother was in worse shape than I was.
She looks skeptical. Clearly, my brother’s reputation has preceded him. “Was he any help?”
“We’re very close,” I say, although I know it doesn’t answer her question. “Are you close to Gene?”
“I guess. I know he can be a little self-righteous and a bit of a prig. He thinks he’s always right. And, unfortunately, he is right most of the time. But he’s also honest and moral and all those things I’m not used to in a man, so …” Her voice drifts off, the sentence lingering in the air, like smoke from a cigarette.
“What about the others?”
“You mean our esteemed half-brothers, Thomas, Richard, and Harrison?” She endows each name with appropriate dramatic flourish.
I smile. “It’s been years since I’ve seen them.”
“
Can’t say I’ve seen very much of them either. Until recently. This lawsuit,” Claire says, then breaks off abruptly. “Sorry. And sorry about the lawsuit,” she adds. “If it were up to me …”
“I understand.” Do I?
“What was your mother like?” she asks, seeking safer ground.
“She was pretty special.”
“Our father was certainly besotted with her.”
I smile again. Besotted seems such an old-fashioned word for her to use. But it’s also the most accurate. “I guess he was.”
“You were lucky.”
The word is as strange now as when the police used it after my rape. My mother died when I was twenty-six years old. How can that be considered lucky?
It was my mother who suggested I become a private investigator. She probably wasn’t serious when she said it, but I glommed onto the idea like chewing gum to the sole of a shoe. I quickly discovered I could get my license online, which allowed me the opportunity to stay home with her during those last precious months of her life. I already had years of college behind me, years spent trying to decide what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. For the previous three years, I’d been majoring in criminology. Becoming a private investigator was a natural fit, a no-brainer.
Footsteps in the hall return me to the here and now. “Haven’t you started making dinner?” Jade whines from the doorway. “I’m starving. You said we were just going to eat and go home.”
“Why don’t you set the table?”
Jade chews angrily on her gum. A huge pink bubble blossoms between her lips, growing until it blocks out the entire bottom half of her face. She clomps toward the kitchen drawers and begins opening and closing them until she finds the one with the cutlery. “So, do the police have any suspects?” she asks, popping the bubble with her teeth, her hands dripping with forks and knives.
I picture using one of the knives to stab my attacker, my right hand balling into a tight fist as I feel the knife rip through his chest to pierce his heart.
“Earth to Bailey. Hello? Is anybody home?” Jade’s voice snaps me out of my reverie.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“I asked if the police have any suspects.”