by Joy Fielding
“It must have been terrible to lose her so young.”
“She was only fifty-five.”
“I was talking about you,” she corrects gently. “And your father? I understand from Claire …”
“Then you understand nothing,” I say sharply, my muscles tensing.
“… that he was quite a bit older than your mother,” she continues, finishing her thought, “that she was his secretary.”
Again I feel my muscles constricting. “I’m sure Claire told you all about their affair.”
“Actually, no. You’re saying your father was married when he started seeing your mother?”
“I know what you’re getting at,” I say, impatiently.
“What am I getting at?” She looks genuinely confused. Which only makes me more impatient.
“You think that because my mother had an affair with her boss when he was married to another woman that I think it’s okay to sleep with mine?”
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t think my mother has anything to do with my affair, that’s what I think.”
“Okay. Fair enough.”
“Do you think my mother has something to do with it?” I ask after a pause in which my heart is pumping so fast and hard it threatens to burst from my chest.
“I think there are all sorts of reasons why women get involved with married men. Sometimes they’re lonely. Sometimes they have nothing better to do. Sometimes the man isn’t fully honest about his circumstances.” She pauses briefly. “In some cases, getting involved with a married man keeps them from dealing with the demands of a more normal relationship.…”
“You think that’s the case with me?”
“In your case,” Elizabeth Gordon says, and I can see her weighing her answer carefully before she continues, “I don’t know. We’ll see. It might speak to some yearning you have to understand your mother better.”
I fall back in my chair, expelling all the air in my lungs with a deep whoosh, as if I’ve been kicked in the chest. Once again, my eyes fill with tears.
“What is it, Bailey?”
“I can’t do this.” I jump to my feet. “I have to go.” I’m at the door, my hand on the brass knob. “This is not why I came here.”
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now, Bailey.”
I look toward the ceiling, then down at the floor. I will my hand to open the door, but it remains immobile. I command my feet to move, but they refuse to budge. “I just feel so stuck,” I cry, pushing the words from my mouth.
“How about vulnerable?” Elizabeth Gordon asks, rising to her feet.
“Of course I feel vulnerable. How could I not?”
“Is it the stuck or the vulnerable that’s making you so frightened and angry?”
“It all makes me angry.”
“Then let’s look at the all. The rape, the loss of your mother, the death of your father, the sleeping with your boss.”
I try to speak, but no words come. Instead I just stand there and cry, my shoulders convulsing with each sob.
“I see we struck a chord,” she says gently. “Tell me what you’re feeling, Bailey. Try to put it into words.”
I’m silent for several more seconds, then surprisingly, I hear the words tumble from my mouth. “I just feel so sad.”
“Then I think you’re ready to start therapy,” Elizabeth Gordon says simply, putting her arm around me and leading me back to my chair.
— THIRTEEN —
“Well, you’ve certainly had an eventful day,” Jade says as we enter my apartment together.
I am almost giddy with delight at the sight of my familiar walls. I feel as if I have just made a successful emergency landing after a dangerously turbulent flight. I want to kiss the marble floor of my foyer with the same reverence that soldiers kiss the ground after returning from a tour of duty in a hostile foreign land.
Jade is unaware of the emotions raging inside me. She walks directly into the kitchen and opens the fridge door, almost as if she is the one who lives here and not me. “Feel like something to drink? I’m dying of thirst.”
I realize I am equally parched. “Is there any Coke?”
She retrieves a can and opens it as I lean against the counter, grateful for its support and enviously watching the ease with which she moves. There is nothing tentative about her. She pours half the contents into a glass and hands it to me, then sips the rest directly from the can. “I like the fizz,” she explains.
I fight the urge to walk over and take her in my arms. Has she any idea how happy I am to see her? I’d been dreading the scene I imagined I’d be returning to—the fallout from my leaving the scene of an accident I was responsible for, even though no one had been hurt. But when I stepped out of the taxi in front of my condominium, I discovered that my car had already been towed to a service station and that my sixteen-year-old niece, who’d skipped her afternoon classes to check up on me and was waiting at the concierge desk wearing cut-off jeans and a lime green halter top, had managed to mollify both the construction workers and the police. “How’d you manage that?” I asked in the elevator on the way up to my apartment.
“I promised them all blow jobs.” She laughed when she saw the horrified expression on my face. “Just kidding. Only the cute ones. Kidding,” she added again quickly, twirling several strands of long blond hair between her fingers before letting them fall back across her bare shoulders. “I just explained the situation, told them that you’ve been under a lot of stress and stuff and were on your way to see your therapist when the accident happened, and that the police should check with Detective Marx—that’s her name, right?—if they needed further clarification. I think the ‘further clarification’ part might have sealed the deal.”
Again I smile. “Something else you got from Dog the Bounty Hunter?”
“CourtTV. Anyway, the cops said they might have some questions for you later.”
“I’m sure they will.” I try not to think about what those questions might be.
She finishes her drink, then tosses the empty can into the recycling bin under the sink. “So, what was it like? Therapy, I mean.”
“Pretty good.”
“What’d you talk about?”
I shake my head. “Everything.”
“In one hour? You must talk pretty fast.”
“I booked some more appointments. Every Wednesday at one o’clock for the foreseeable future.”
“Mother will be very pleased. I know Elizabeth Gordon was a big help to her when I was in juvie.”
“What was that like?” I ask, relieved the focus of the conversation has shifted.
“About what you’d imagine.”
“I can’t imagine,” I say honestly. “Tell me.”
“Can we go watch TV?” she asks instead, already moving toward the hall. “Millionaire Matchmaker should be on.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, my God. You’ve never watched Millionaire Matchmaker? Patti Stanger’s the best.”
“Who’s Patti …” But Jade has already disappeared into my bedroom; I have little choice but to follow. I enter my bedroom to see a pretty, dark-haired woman with remarkable cleavage filling my TV screen. She is lecturing a group of nubile young women in the art of seducing a millionaire.
“No sex without monogamy,” Patty proclaims as I collapse on top of my bed, exhaustion covering me like a heavy blanket.
“Oh, crap. I’ve seen this one.” Jade leans back on the pillow beside me. “This couple ends up having sex on their first date, which is like this big no-no for Patty. She says you have to be in a committed relationship before you sleep with the guy, or you don’t feel safe, and it won’t work out. Do you agree with that?”
“Makes sense.” I wonder if I’ll ever feel safe again where men are concerned. I wonder if I ever have.
“Do you think you’ll ever have sex again?” Jade asks.
I swallow the impulse to gag. “What?”
�
�Sorry. I guess that qualifies as none of my business. My mother says that I ask too many questions, and that sometimes I’m just plain rude.…”
“I don’t think you’re rude, just …”
“Inappropriate?”
“Let’s say inquisitive. Tell you what,” I continue, surprising both of us. “You answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
“What question was that?”
“What was it like in Juvenile Hall?”
“To be perfectly honest, it wasn’t all that awful. Everybody was pretty nice. They wanted to help. Kind of like your therapist, I guess.” She shrugs. “But you’re still locked up. You can’t watch your programs or go out when you feel like it. And I hated having to make my bed a certain way and share a room with a bunch of psychos. But it’s not like anybody raped me with a broomstick or anything.”
I feel the color instantly drain from my face.
“Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean …”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. My mother’s right. I need to think before I speak. I’m really sorry, Bailey.”
I take a long, deep breath. “How long were you there?”
“Less than a month. Uncle Gene pulled some strings, got me out early. He denies it, of course. He pretends to be such a hard-ass.…” She begins flipping through the stations. A succession of images assaults my eyes as one channel disappears into another. “So, your turn. Think you’ll ever have sex again?”
Truthfully, the thought of having sex again terrifies me. The idea of a man, any man, even Sean, touching me in an intimate manner sends spasms of revulsion through my body. “I hope I’ll enjoy sex again one day,” I say, but my words sound hollow and unconvincing, even to my own ears.
“Can I ask you another question?”
“Can you make it an easy one?” This is worse than therapy, I think.
“Did you like sex before you were raped?” Jade leans forward, staring at me intently, the television temporarily forgotten.
“Yes.”
“Did you have orgasms?”
I want to tell her this is really none of her business, but I don’t. Instead I answer the question. “Sometimes.”
She sighs. “I’ve never had an orgasm.”
“You’re sixteen,” I remind her.
“I read that some women never have orgasms. Maybe I’ll be one of them.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
She giggles. “So whose fault would it be if I don’t, the guy’s or mine?”
“I don’t know that it’s a question of fault,” I begin, choosing each word with care. “It’s more a matter of finding out what works for you and what doesn’t, and being able to express—”
“Did you have a lot of lovers?” she interrupts, my answer clearly much too long and earnest to sustain her interest.
I do a quick count. “Does six qualify as a lot?”
“Are you kidding? For a single woman your age that’s, like, nothing.”
“What about you?”
She is silent for several long seconds. “Promise you won’t tell my mother?”
I nod, regretting now that I’ve asked the question.
“Just one,” she tells me so quietly I almost don’t hear.
“Just one?”
“I know. My mother thinks there’ve been, like, what—twenty?” She sits up ramrod straight. “You promised you wouldn’t tell her.”
“I won’t. But frankly, I think she’d be relieved.”
“Who says I want her to be relieved?”
I laugh.
Jade looks offended. “You think this is a joke?”
“No, not at all. I just meant … She worries about you. That’s all.”
“She worries about everything.”
“She does?”
“You seem surprised.”
“I guess I am,” I admit. Claire always seems in such control.
“She worries about money, mostly,” Jade says.
I feel a stab of guilt. It’s because of me that Claire worries about money. It’s not right I have so much and she so little. “So, tell me about this guy,” I say in an effort not to think about such things. “Is he the one your mom caught you with?”
“Nah. He was this boy in my English class last year, but his family moved to Arizona in July, and that was the end of that. No big loss. I mean, the whole thing was pretty forgettable, although they say you never forget your first love.”
“They say a lot of things. Most of them aren’t true.” I pause, thinking of Sean. “I think it’s your last love that counts.”
She seems to weigh this thought seriously, her forehead creasing in concentration. “Are you in love now?” she asks.
Am I? I used to think so. “I don’t know.”
The phone rings, and I jump.
“Want me to get it?” Jade’s hand stretches toward the end table. I nod as she checks the caller ID. “Somebody’s ears were obviously burning,” she says, picking up the phone and handing me the receiver. “It’s your boss,” she mouths.
I think Bailey’s banging her boss, I hear Claire say.
I take the phone, press it tight against my cheek, as if trying to prevent any words from escaping. “Hi,” I whisper, my heart already pounding. I’m seized with the notion that Sean was somehow able to hear everything Jade and I have been talking about. I signal for Jade to leave the room, but she stubbornly refuses to take the hint. Instead, she leans forward, elbows resting on crossed knees, her eyes fastened on mine.
“How are you?” Sean asks.
“Good.”
“I thought I’d stop by later, if you’re going to be alone.”
“I’d like that.”
“Around five?”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll see you then.” He hangs up without saying goodbye. Sean was never one for beating around the bush, in the courtroom or anywhere else. His philosophy has always been, Keep it simple. Make your point. Then get the hell out.
“What sounds good?” Jade asks as I drop the phone to the bed.
I shake my head. It’s one thing to talk about Sean with my sister or my therapist. But I draw the line at discussing him with a sixteen-year-old girl.
“He’s coming over, isn’t he?”
“Jade …”
“Now? Is he coming over now? Do you want me to leave?”
“He’s not coming over now.”
“But he is coming over.”
“Around five,” I admit, recognizing it’s a lost cause to do otherwise.
“You want me to stick around? Kidding,” she says immediately. “I’ll be long gone by then. Promise. And just so you know,” she adds, “anything you tell me is just between us. Like with your therapist.”
I smile. “You’d make a very good therapist.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“How about a private investigator, like you?”
“I think you’ll be great at whatever you decide to do.”
“Thanks.”
“And just so you know, whatever you say to me is strictly confidential as well.”
She uncrosses her legs and leans back against the pillows, returning her attention to the TV, the channel back to The Millionaire Matchmaker. One episode is just ending and another beginning. “I like you,” Jade says without looking at me.
“I like you, too.”
—
It’s almost six o’clock when Sean knocks on my door. Jade left almost two hours ago. I’ve showered and changed into a pair of white cotton jeans and a loose-fitting gray jersey. I’ve even made a stab at blow-drying my hair and applying a bit of makeup. The result, while not a total success, is not an unmitigated disaster. At least I don’t look as if I’m about to keel over dead.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says as I open the door to let him in.
In the next minute, I’
m in his arms. He is holding me very gently, as if he is afraid too much pressure on my back might cause it to break. His lips brush against my hair, although they don’t linger. I feel his breath against the skin of my neck. I lift my face to his, and he kisses me tenderly, although briefly and without passion, as if he is aware another man is hovering, waiting to pounce.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Better, now that you’re here.” I take his hand, guide him toward the living room.
“I can’t stay long.”
“I figured as much.” I know he likes to be home in time to tuck his daughters into bed.
“I was hoping to get away earlier, but you know how it is. Something always comes up just when you’ve got one foot out the door.”
We sit side by side on one of the sofas, our fingers touching, although just barely. “Are you very busy at work?” I ask, although I already know the answer. He is always busy at work.
“The usual. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Hopefully I’ll be back in the office soon to help out.” I do my best to sound more convincing than I feel.
“Take your time. There’s no rush.” He lifts his hand to caress my cheek. Instantly I feel my jaw clench and my ribs constrict. “Sorry,” he says, returning his hand to his lap.
“It’s not you,” I offer.
“I know.”
“It’ll just take time.”
“I know,” he says again.
I take his hand in mine, guide it back to my face, press it against my cheek, then kiss his open palm. Is it possible that Elizabeth Gordon is right about him? Could this affair be my attempt to understand my mother better?
“What were you thinking just now?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Yes, you were. I could see all this stuff going on behind your eyes.”
I laugh to hide my embarrassment at being so easily read. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just so glad to see you.”
“How are you feeling … really?” he presses.
The easy answer would be to tell him I’m feeling better. But the truth is I feel the same as I did yesterday and the day before that. The relief I felt when talking to Elizabeth Gordon was only temporary. “Better,” I lie.
“Well, you certainly look better.”
“Makeup.”