I tried not to sigh too obviously—it’d only be fuel, as I’d learned a long time ago. Russian or English, I had to pick my words carefully; too many of them routinely came back to bite me in the ass.
“And you store everything at Vlad’s? Alla? Like I need any more interaction with Alla? Your father is on his way over there as we speak, so your things will be with us when you grace us with your return,” she continued, finding my pause valuable ammunition in its own right.
“Mom, can’t you just be on my team?” I asked in crooked Russian, my throat swelling. The lights in front of me grew murkier as the film before my eyes became thicker.
I could hear my mother breathe. They were sharp little breaths—ragged, irregular. After a few lengthy seconds, I heard the groan of the damn sphygmomanometer—the sound of it as familiar to me as my mother’s heartbeat itself.
Paz, I could see out in the distance, was still losing whatever battle she was obviously fighting with Abbott. She was animated now, gesturing toward the top of the Tower; Abbott was unmoved.
“It’s a lot of effort sometimes, honey,” my mother finally breathed into the phone, speaking rare but beautiful English. “It’s like I failed somewhere with you. You insist on doing things your way, making everything too difficult…for everybody. You’ve never been the kind to care about the aftermath. It’s my fault. I’d been too preoccupied with my health, with Vlad’s asthma….”
My eyes full of water, I looked directly in front of me to see that Jamie was still obliging Sage, Wisdom, Riley, Olivia, Aisha, and Sophie; the girls seemed to be erecting a pyramid underneath the Tower now, falling each time just as Jamie was about to snap a picture of them in full formation. Their collective laughter rang far. Surely whatever professional contracts these children had, they had to contain clauses that prohibited such risky behavior—Olivia and Aisha were dancers, for heaven’s sake. Jamie should’ve said something.
“Not everything is ‘effortless,’ mom,” I answered, breathlessly. “And it’s not always about you…,” I added, trailing off. My mother smacked her tongue, ripping the Velcro of her blood pressure monitor cuff with audible meaning behind it—the conversation did not go to her satisfaction. “And, I did leave my ring. I told him so. I told his mother so. I’m sure it’s just one of George’s dramatic episodes. He’ll get over it. In fact, he’ll likely call you tomorrow and apologize—he always does—”
“He said you don’t pick up when he calls. You should pick up!” Mrs. Levit was back to Russian.
“Right, mom,” I said, as a flash went off, momentarily blinding me. When I regained my eyesight, I could see Jamie slouching behind his tripod, facing me, his boots now deeper in the mud.
Chapter Seventeen: Groupie
“Where’s Paz?” Abbott demanded. He stood in the doorway of room 666, straddling the threshold.
His hands resting on his belt, his fingers tapping the buckle, we stood in silence for a moment, listening as Jamie strummed his guitar. With my back to the room, I could still picture him sitting on his side of the bed, leaning his head back against the headboard; Liam and Jordan, I knew, sat perched on the desk by the window, while Riley sat in the armchair, at the boys’ thighs.
“What do you mean ‘where’s Paz?’” I scoffed, my arms crossing tightly around my chest, my snug sweater stretching across my back. My ear strained to hold on to Jamie’s guitar solo, his fingers strumming “Spanish Caravan”—a song the kids had all requested he play. “It’s past eleven—”
“I know what time it is, Levit, that’s why I’m asking you if you know where she is. Where they are. She and Veronika—they asked if they could stay behind at the Tower and go up to the viewing platform. Now, we left the damn place two hours ago and still no word from them,” he rattled out, flustered, consulting his watch for evidentiary support. You could hear that he was trying hard to control the volume of his voice, but his hair betrayed him—it was in a rare state of disarray.
“And they said they’ll be back by eleven?”
“Like they had another option,” he mocked. “I don’t know what to do—do I call the cops, do I go looking for them?” he clucked. “And what is up with Jamie throwing a fucking concert in here? These are students, and it’s past eleven—they should all be in their own rooms, Levit,” he reprimanded, talking louder over my shoulder, inside the room, failing to get anyone’s attention but mine.
I could feel my knees grow weak as the boys began to sing along with Jamie.
“Look, you are the one who speaks French—”
“What’s this I hear about this incident at the club last night, by the way? And after the club? Something happened between Paz and Sola? Something about Sola being inappropriate?” Abbott interrupted, placing his hands at his sides, his face flushed with excitement.
“Who’s your source?” I snickered tensely, flashing instantly back to Paz’s hand gripping Jamie’s belt, her fingertips surely touching his skin. I, too, was trying to control the volume of my voice now.
“Paz is my source, Levit. Straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Hell, is she in there with him?” Abbott exclaimed. In a flash, he attempted to give me a shove gentle enough to still afford him a way in. Quicker on my feet than ever, I grabbed ahold of his wrist and wrung him back, my nails digging into his skin with ease; the hair on his arm was coarse to the touch. He didn’t put up a fight, visibly startled by his own instincts.
The music behind me did not stop.
“I’m sorry, but bringing a bunch of kids to Europe and then insisting they leave you alone is kind of asking for nights like these,” I breathed into his face, careful not to disturb the harmonies behind my back. “And, give me a break, that girl is a hazard to herself. This is what happened: she pretended to some locals that Jamie was her jealous ex, and when he refused a drink on her behalf, she lost her shit! She was piss drunk and she came on to him like some whore. What the hell did she say to you, anyway?” I asked through my teeth, my tired eyes open as wide as my muscles allowed. My blood whooshed loudly in my ears and my pulse beat painfully in my temples, but I refused to flinch. A resolve previously unknown to me took over—a sudden purpose. “What did she say?” I repeated.
Abbott accepted my challenge, his brown eyes defiant and still. He sucked on his teeth, considering.
“Have you told him you’re single?” he whispered conspiratorially, tipping his chin to motion toward Jamie.
I turned over my shoulder to briefly glance in Jamie’s direction. Beyond the bed, I could see our kids’ bright eyes, hear their enthused drumming on various hotel surfaces as they looked to their teacher with adoration; I savored their perfectly rounded vowels and their musical phrases so defined and complete. Were I ever this capable, perhaps I would not have quit my musical theatre minor two years in, I thought. Before I could turn back to Abbott and protest, Jamie began to strum a song my layman’s ears did not recognize. There was talk of “chord progression” and “economical and relaxed picking,” while the kids, all musicians in their own (albeit developing) right, improvised vocal harmonies. My room was filled with talent.
“What did Paz say, Abbott?” I asked again, in a whisper, having finally turned around. “Ugh, whatever. You know what, I don’t even care. It doesn’t matter. Paz is seventeen going on thirty. Whatever she told you, she’s lying. You can ask Veronika and she’ll tell you—Paz was so hungover today, Veronika had to waste half her day in Paris to hold her friend’s hair back while she puked her brains out,” I chuckled dismissively, trying not to stutter. Cold, nervous sweat slowly covering my body, my fingers ached to touch my chin.
My phone vibrated in my pocket for the umpteenth time that night. I hesitated, but fished it out just in time to avoid seeing Abbott smirk.
No time wasted on articles, but it was polite. George was many things, but impolite he was not; at least after the storm would pass and his face would regain colo
r.
“Paz just turned eighteen, actually. Like, last month,” I heard Abbott mumble.
“Hamish! Hamish, they are back! That pretty girl and the less pretty girl.”
Stephanie was out of breath but still wearing her kitten heels, her legs painfully bowed. We heard her before we saw her approach, the door still wide open.
“They are?” Abbott gasped as he turned on his heel, visibly relieved.
“I waited by their room,” Stephanie explained, running up to us with her stride less than graceful. “You know what they say—if you wait long enough, they’ll come,” she smiled triumphantly, her lipstick on some of her teeth. I wasn’t sure if that’s indeed something “they say.”
~ ~ ~
Though I couldn’t be less invested in something I could not understand, I sat up in bed, straining my burning eyes, pretending to be watching the local news on TV. It was rattling on in French, on a set mounted on the opposite wall. It all sounded simultaneously spiffy and monotone to my ear.
I wasn’t sure what time it was, but I’d been fuming ever since Paz and Veronika returned from their adventure. Still not sleepy, I knew that I’d need a lot of luck praying myself to sleep that night (and Jamie showed no signs of going anywhere). I considered doubling up on my cold medicine.
“Paz said something to Abbott,” I called to Jamie’s back from the bed.
The ferocious typing was slow to stop, but eventually Jamie threw his arm over the back of his chair and looked at me, away from his laptop on the desk by the window.
“About the club? So what?” he shrugged.
His hair fell limply on his face, making his eyes appear darker than usual. His computer pinged a message, but his body remained twisted in my direction. Now that I could afford a closer look, I saw that his left arm had burgundy rose vines encasing it; dark and twisted, they attracted your senses.
I pushed away from the headboard and leaned forward, toward him; my elbows dug into my folded knees, the stretch painful.
“I don’t know, but judging from his tone, I don’t think she stuck to what we all saw take place.”
His laptop pinged again.
“I’m sorry, I’m distracting you from—”
“No, tell me what you’re thinking,” Jamie urged.
“Where did you go after you walked me to the room yesterday? After the club?”
“A walk. I have a lot going on at home,” he answered, evasively though evenly.
“You didn’t see Paz—”
“What are you saying?” he smiled, curiously. There they were—those lopsided lips. That smile—it was charming, genuinely inquisitive and childlike. By the looks of him, you’d never suspect that he’d even encountered the likes of Paz in his life. “No, Helen, I was alone,” he continued when I said nothing. “I hadn’t even met Paz before this trip, and our altercation was my single longest interaction with her.”
He didn’t blink. In fact, his charcoal eyes were cartoonishly still. Still and calm and solid on mine—hypnotizing. I opened my mouth to try and speak, but I was mute under his spell.
“Honestly. Scout’s honor and all that,” he swore. “I guess it’s too much to necessarily expect you to give me the benefit of the doubt—”
“I am giving you the benefit of the doubt. I defended you to Abbott when he was insinuating…whatever it was that he was insinuating. That’s why I’m bringing it up—you need to know. This girl is—”
“A groupie. I am familiar with the type.”
So matter-of-fact, there it was—a title, a label, a name. It was that easy.
He glanced over his shoulder and slammed his laptop shut in one swift, decisive motion. Then he pushed off his chair and crawled onto the bed. Too afraid to blink or breathe, I slid back onto my side and reclaimed my spot. The same loose-skinned man on TV continued to gibber on in French.
“They are punished now—Veronika and Paz, I mean. They are staying at the hotel all day tomorrow, and Abbott will confer with their parents as to what to do. Maybe they’ll go home early,” I reported as our shoulders touched and a charge rushed through me.
Jamie didn’t say anything, only flipped through the channels until he found CNN. Hearing English was a relief; it felt good to understand something.
“I married one, you know,” Jamie said as he leaned his head to the side at the sight of some stock footage of Times Square, our hair catching.
“A hot Argentinian minor?” I giggled, nervously.
He laughed at my joke. At first, I thought it was only a polite laugh, but a short whistling sound he produced suggested it was genuine. George had long ago decided that I was a poor judge of character (claiming that every time I called him a name, I only proved his hypothesis), but the heat emanating from Jamie’s bare arm against mine was compelling—it was tempting. I wanted to trust it.
“No, not a hot Argentinian minor, thank you very much. And Paz went into the club without any hassle, so isn’t she eighteen, then? You didn’t send her upstairs with the others…. But anyway, no, I married a groupie, just like the one we’ve got on our hands here. I used to play with this band, and there was this girl who showed up at every damn venue we played on the east coast. It was cute at first, but eventually it grew more than alarming,” he recited plainly, as if reading something as mundane as a dictionary. His fingernails flicked the buttons on the remote control over and over, but the rest of his body was as still as bathwater.
“So why did you marry her?” I asked, allowing myself a look in his direction. His features appeared weaker in profile, even though his nose looked larger. My mother would probably ask if he had any Jewish blood.
“She got pregnant,” he admitted with a forced sigh. “It’s like a story you’d hear in a high school health class, you know—’it takes just one time!’” he recounted, his eyes still in the vicinity of the hotel flat screen. “But it’s true—one time in a dirty stall at a bathroom of some bar in Buffalo. There is more to the story, of course, but I won’t bore you with the details now…,” he trailed off, changing the channel again, pausing on the French version of MTV.
I realized that I’d been holding my breath only when my chest began to hurt from the pressure. I let it go then, hoping that the air would emanate silently out of my pursed lips, but it wound up whooshing, embarrassingly.
“A boy or a girl?”
“You mean the baby, right?” he joked.
“Yes,” I whispered, trying to smile.
“A girl,” he chuckled. “I’d always wanted a girl, and by ‘always’ I mean for that brief moment between night and morning on some tour bus when I’d first found out. Top bunk, probably. I always call top bunk.”
Unsure as to what I was expected to say next, a shiver slowly crawling up my spine, I slid underneath the covers. My medicine wearing off, I could feel my sinuses begin to swell above my eyebrows.
“So that was the first one?” I asked, eventually. My voice was thin, with little power behind it.
“What?” he mumbled, his tongue sounding heavy. When I looked at him again, I saw his eyelids lowering. It was as if a power cord that’s been keeping him running all this time was suddenly unplugged, his energy draining with the confession escaping his lips. Depleted, he was falling asleep.
“There was some talk of a baby on the way? Like, that’s why you went into teaching? You said so on the plane or at the airport, I don’t remember…no, at the Seine…or was it on the subway?”
As if it made any difference.
“Oh, no, just the one. She’s three months already,” he reported as he slid down to rest his head on a pillow. He threw our blanket over his feet. “You must’ve misunderstood. Or I misspoke. But yes, she’s the reason I decided to try out this teaching thing in some lame attempt at normalcy and honor.”
“Wow, congrats,” I squeezed out of my throat.
Children: the one subject that made George and I seem compatible for a while. Neither of us was in any hurry to reproduce. For George, it
was all a matter of timing—he wasn’t ready to get up for night feedings, given that he needed his sleep for his early morning routine of both yoga and bodybuilding. As for me—I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to be ready, George or no George. The expectations, the disappointment, the growing resentment—I was too familiar with it all. I saw every one of my mother’s tired expressions whenever I closed my eyes, heard every one of my father’s tense words when my mind was quiet enough. Maybe, had I actually delivered, showed my parents some returns on their investments, I’d be more eager to be fruitful and multiply. At least Alla (my wise sister-in-law) thinks so, having popped out twins and gone back to work as an occupational therapist not four weeks out herself (“I have to get dressed and go to work,” she had announced back then, as if staying home to attempt to raise her own children would require her to be in some permanent state of undress). Anyway, with my mom’s heart condition likely being hereditary, I, at least, had an excuse.
“I see now. So that’s why you became a teacher?” I asked, dumbly, as if I needed another confirmation, and tugged my portion of the covers all the way up to my chin.
“Yeah,” he yawned. “I had an undergrad degree in music, and a few strings were pulled on my behalf. I’m not that unknown in the industry, so to speak, so Talents was very much willing to cut a few corners. And I’m in one of those programs that help professionals enter the teaching profession while working toward that ever-so-useful Masters in Education. It all seemed like the responsible thing to do—stay in one place for more than five days at a time, health insurance, generous hours. I could still play, I could still write, or so I was told. It made sense at the time. You know—doing the right thing.”
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