by Marta Acosta
I went to the bathroom, washed up, and changed into my nightgown. Then I turned off the lights in the bedroom before I slipped into bed. Thomas was flipping rapidly through the stations when I saw a familiar black-and-white image. “Turn that back. It’s The Third Man.”
Thomas wanted to watch celebrity news, but I kept arguing until I got my way and we both settled into watching the classic film. Mercedes had introduced me to the movie. She’d been excited by the weird and wacky score by Anton Karas, with one lone zither playing. Mercedes only liked movies when she liked the music.
Joseph Cotten plays an American pulp novelist who goes to post-World War II Vienna to meet a friend. But he learns that his friend is dead. Or maybe not. Nothing is what it seems and the writer is misperceived, deceived, and manipulated. He eventually realizes that he’s been a mere dupe in a game played by people far more corrupt and complicated than he ever would have imagined.
Before the movie was over, Thomas turned the sound down low. “Do you know that you were crying in your sleep last night?” he asked.
Embarrassed, I said, “I had nightmares.”
“When I was little, my mom would take me with her when she went to clean offices.” His gravelly voice was as comfortable as an old friend’s. “One of the other cleaning ladies had a little girl. I don’t remember her name, but she had the prettiest brown eyes with long lashes, and long black braids.
“We’d have a nighttime snack of instant hot chocolate. Then our mothers would fold blankets under a big desk for us and we’d lie there. The noise from the vacuum cleaners scared the little girl, so we’d face each other like this,” he said, scooting down and turning toward me. “Face me,” he said.
I was curious so I turned toward him.
“And I’d hold her hand like this,” he said, taking my hand, and I felt comforted and safe. “So whenever she woke up, she’d see me and she wasn’t afraid anymore. Buenas noches, Milagro.”
“Buenas noches, Tomás.” It was strange, facing him like that, but I was suddenly so sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I felt his warm breath on my face and heard the water lapping against the sides of the pool. I slipped into deep, marvelous, dreamless sleep.
Sixteen
Retreating from Sanity
W hen I opened my eyes, I saw that I was still facing Thomas, still holding his hand. Our foreheads were practically touching. The morning light was kind to him, and he looked much better than he had yesterday.
He opened his eyes and smiled his gorgeous Hollywood smile. “Did you sleep well?”
I couldn’t remember ever sleeping so soundly, and I was relieved that I hadn’t had any disturbing dreams involving Ian. “Amazingly well. How about you?”
“Terrific.” He stared at me and said, “How’d you get mixed up in that freaky blood-drinking scene? Did your boyfriend drag you into it?”
“Yes and no,” I answered. “It was an accident in a way and now I’m part of it.”
“Where are your real clothes? All the black stuff you guys like to wear?”
“I left them at home because I wanted Skip to think I was professional.”
He got out of bed and stretched.
“Thomas, I’m curious. What is your type?”
He did an up-and-down gesture in my direction. “Less like a girl.”
“You mean you prefer guys?”
“Do I look like I’m into guys?” He snorted. “I’m into women.”
“I am a woman.”
“Not the way I like them.”
That was as much of an explanation as he was prepared to give. He turned to more important matters, such as his breakfast and whether he should grow his sideburns longer.
Before I started working on “Teeth of Sharpness,” I called the ranch.
Edna answered and snootily said, “I vaguely recall someone named Milagro who left here very abruptly.”
I’d planned to confront them, demanding to know what they knew about Silas and the neovamps, but I found myself saying, “So you do miss me, Edna.”
“Don’t begin wallowing in cheap sentimentality, Young Lady.”
“But that’s my favorite kind,” I said. “Oswald’s called, but the connection was awful. Have you heard from him?”
“No, but he said phoning would be difficult. I know you must miss him.”
It was such a polite response that it threw me off. “I miss him like crazy, Edna, but I’m very proud of him, too.”
“Young Lady, Sam said something about you writing a screenplay.”
“I did get a rewriting job. That’s what I’m working on.”
“Hmm.”
“On another topic, I wanted to talk to Gabriel and he’s got a strange message on his phone.”
“Gabriel is occupied with other responsibilities at the moment. He doesn’t have time for your fripperies.”
“Is everything all right, Edna?”
“I wanted to ask the same of you.” She paused and there we were, at a Mexican standoff. Or possibly a vampire standoff. “The baby is crying, so I have to go. If Oswald calls, I’ll tell him you miss him.”
“Edna, why do you and the family keep hiding things from me?” My voice quavered and I was close to tears. “Haven’t I proved myself to you?”
“Young Lady, this is not a discussion to have over the phone. Libby’s crying. We’ll talk when you come back.”
I hung up feeling lost and alone.
The phone rang immediately after. It was the spa reminding me of the massage Charles had scheduled for me. I worked on my screenplay until the appointment, and my mood of isolation and anxiety crept into my writing.
When I went into the main building, I followed the signs for the treatment center. A long hallway led to a wing of the building that was done in pale washes of peach and buff, or blish. Hidden speakers played water sounds, wind chimes, and birdsong.
After I checked in, I was guided to a warm room with dim lighting and scented candles. The receptionist told me to remove my clothes and put on a natural linen wrap.
I sat on the massage table and admired the photographs of desert plants on the walls until my therapist arrived. Small bells chimed on her anklets, and she said “Hello, I am Triveni” in a soft voice at odds with her large frame.
She was six feet with broad shoulders and muscled arms covered in henna tattoos. Her hair was hennaed red, in tiny braids with ribbons. Her hazel eyes were ringed dramatically with kohl, and I wondered if I could get away with that much eyeliner.
After I introduced myself, I asked, “What does your name mean?”
“It is the place where three sacred rivers meet,” she said. She saw my expression and said, “But my parents named me Eugenia, after an aunt.”
“No wonder you changed it.”
She smiled quickly. Then she held her hands together and closed her eyes. “I will begin by asking you to breathe slowly with me.”
We did this for a few minutes. I was glad Skip was picking up the tab for this treatment, because I could breathe for free on my own.
Triveni then lit a sage smudge stick and waved it around the room. “This is our circle of safety. In this place you will not be harmed. Do you feel safe here?”
Since there wasn’t a group of neovamps intent on harvesting my blood, I said, “Sure. Totally.”
“I will evaluate your energy field and see if there is an imbalance.”
She asked me to stand and then held her hands palms forward toward me. She hummed off-key while moving her hands a few inches from all areas of my body. I thought this was loony, but I went along with it because she seemed so sincere. “You have a powerful life force,” she said, “and are a conduit of regenerative energies.”
“My friend Nancy says I have strong and confusing pheromones.”
“Oh.” Her hands hovered above my belly button. “I am sensing something unusual here, the Manipura chakra.”
“What’s that supposed to do?”
“It controls appet
ite, energy, currents of the life force. Lie down on your stomach, please.”
I was glad I could hide my face for this procedure. Her hands slipped the robe down my back. When she touched me, I felt like I’d been prodded by an electric current. My body jolted as I hallucinated juicy, bloody, gory flesh, rivulets of blood, a purple heart pumping.
I was off the table and I’d flipped Triveni like a turtle onto the floor. I pinned her down, holding her hands above her head, and I could hear blood throbbing in my ears. She was as surprised as I was, especially since my chichis were swaying near her face.
Triveni uttered a word that you didn’t expect to hear from someone at peace with herself.
I got off her as quickly as I could and pulled up my robe. I was dismayed at what I had just done and by the vision. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I wanted to offer her a hand up, but was afraid I’d throw her over my shoulder.
“Holy frikken crap, what the hell was that?” Her soft spa voice was gone and I heard a Boston accent. Triveni sat up and rubbed her head. “How’d you do that?”
I remembered the spa brochure and said, “Very dense muscles. I’m really sorry. I can go now.”
There was a knock at the door and someone said, “Is everything all right in there?”
Triveni didn’t try getting up but called out, “All is at peace and harmony.” We both stayed still until we heard footsteps receding.
Then Triveni hauled herself up. “What gives?”
“I’m kind of freaking out when anybody touches me. I think I have to work through this. Do you think you can help?”
“Have you been abused or raped?” she asked flat out. “Because then you really need a psychiatrist.”
“No, but I’ve been ignored, and, um, stalked.”
“Two extremes, hmm?” She thought for a moment. “No promises, but I can try if you pay me double for each session. And if you ever try that flip again, I’m gonna slap the taste right out of your mouth.”
“Do you think you can actually help me?”
“Yeah, on the count of I’m a natural healer.”
I had nothing to lose, especially since it was Skip’s money.
By gripping the sides of the massage table, I was able to stop myself from repeating my earlier performance. Triveni worked on areas of my back, and I was so busy concentrating on not reacting to my bloodlust that I managed to blank out on most of her New Age yammering.
Enduring the massage was like taking the same roller-coaster ride over and over: if no less graphic, the images became less shocking.
When the session was over, Triveni scheduled me for another and recommended that I take a soak in one of the hot mineral baths to increase the benefits of the treatment. “The easiest way to get there is to go down to the end of the hall, bang a left, hook a right at the next big door, and go out of the building and around to the mineral pools.”
“Thanks.”
By the time I got dressed, I’d forgotten whether I was supposed to bang a right or hook a left, and I found myself in some strange back corridor of the Paragon. The passage was not bright and airy like the rest of the spa. A few dim bulbs were insufficient to illuminate the dark carpet and gray walls. While the front of the building had discreet signage, the doors I passed were unmarked. I heard voices and thought I could ask directions, so I followed the sounds.
A handsome couple was standing in a doorway, holding the door open. As I approached, I could see past them into a luxurious dark lounge, all red leather sofas and heavy black velvet hangings. When they saw me, they stopped talking. The man took the woman’s hand and drew her back into the lounge.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m a little lost here. I was on my way to the mineral baths and…” Then I glanced past the woman’s shoulder and I saw the redheaded man and his mall princess girlfriend sitting on a loveseat. In the low light of the room, with his face averted, I couldn’t be sure, but he looked so much like my Gabriel.
I took a step forward and the door shut in my face.
I turned the handle just as someone on the other side opened the door. A stubby, ruddy-faced man in a Paragon uniform squeezed out and quickly shut the door behind him. I guessed he was a manager because his jacket had thin gold braiding on the cuffs and collar, but unlike other employees, he did not wear a name tag.
“May I help you?” he asked officiously.
“I thought I saw my friend in there. I just want to say hello.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but this is an exclusive room for our Paragon Diamond Club members only. Their privacy is paramount.”
I was going to ask him to pass a message to the redheaded man, but what if he wasn’t Gabriel? After all, what would Gabriel be doing with Miss Sunshine Cream Cheese? “Of course. Would you please tell me how to get to the mineral baths? I lost my way.”
I cooked in the mineral bath for an hour, but I spent the whole time worrying about my condition, my relationship, the neovamps, and the screenplay.
I hoped to talk to Charles about my truck, but the concierge desk was empty. Then I heard a familiar brassy voice saying, “Send a strapping virile masseur to my room,” followed by merry laughter.
Gigi Barton was walking into the lobby, leading bellhops struggling with hillocks of suitcases. Another concierge, one I thought of as Charles-lite, was escorting her. Gigi had tied a Pucci scarf around her blond hair and was wearing wide trousers, a bat-winged blouse, and a vest in an unholy combination of fuchsia, chartreuse, orange, and magenta. So much for my theory that a khaki and white color scheme was appropriate spa apparel.
“Hi, Gigi. Remember me?”
She saw me and grinned widely before dropping her bag and tossing her arms around me. Colors even wilder than Gigi’s outfit burst in my head. “Milagro, just the person I wanted to see.”
I really doubted this, but gently released myself and said, “Really? Well, it’s good to see you, too.”
“You must be here for the new treatments. Where’s Ian?”
“Oh, you know Ian. He goes wherever he goes. What new treatments?”
Before she could answer, Charles-lite oozed, “Ms. Barton, if you could just sign in, we’ll take you up to your suite.”
“Yes, yes, Milagro, sign in for me, would you, dear, and meet me for drinks in the bar. Sixish. Much to talk about.” She flitted away to the elevators, Charles-lite following in her wake.
I went to the front desk and told the clerk, “Gigi Barton wants me to sign in for her.”
She smiled and said, “Thanks, we’ll take care of it.”
When I got back to the casita, the red message light was aglow on the hotel phone. I thought Skip might have called, but the seven messages were all related to Thomas: asking me to set up appointments, arrange an interview, renew a gym membership.
My roommate was on the bed watching a talk show wearing silk boxers, as modest as a nun.
“Thomas, there are several messages from people who have the delusion that I am your assistant.”
His eyes stayed on the television and he said, “A man in my position needs staff. It doesn’t look good for me to deal with this stuff personally.”
I walked in front of the television screen. “A man in your position? Your position being recumbent and half naked in bed, watching TV in the middle of the day?”
“Exactly. I’m not some jerk stuck in an office. I am Thomas Cook.” He sat up a little straighter. “Milagro, I thought we agreed that we’d help each other. I help you keep Skip happy and you help me with my stuff.”
He gave the distinct impression of being earnest, but he was a good actor, so I couldn’t tell. “Okay, whatever, but don’t expect me to keep up this farce after I finish with the screenplay.”
I spent the afternoon trying to fix the second-act arc for “Teeth of Sharpness” and handling Thomas’s business.
In the late afternoon Thomas interrupted me once to recite his touching monologue, “Thomas Cook: The Underwear Model Years,” which shouldn’t have
interested me as much as it did.
Then he said, “Let’s go to Lefty’s for drinks.”
“I can’t. One, my truck isn’t fixed, and two, I’m meeting someone here.”
My phone rang and I automatically replied, “Good evening, Thomas Cook’s suite,” as I walked back to the office.
“Milagro?” There was so much static on the line that what I heard was “mmm-a-ooo.”
“Oswald! Oswald, is that you?”
There was static and then a clear and angry “Tho-moo [crackle] ook,” followed by more static.
“It was a joke, Oswald. How are you?”
But the line was dead.
Thomas was standing in the doorway, leaning back against the frame.
“Who are we meeting for drinks?” he asked.
“We are not meeting anyone. I am meeting Gigi Barton in the spa bar, and you may recall that they asked you never to darken their door again.”
“Why do you have to be that way?” he asked, a hurt expression on his face. “Gigi and I go way back. They’ll have to let me in the resort if she says so. Call Gigi and tell her I’ll be joining you.”
Thomas was subverting all my efforts to be a serious and accomplished screenwriter and treating me like a gofer. Since my career had become inexorably enmeshed in his happiness, however, I made the phone call. Gigi was thrilled and promised to send word to the front desk that he should not be thrown out.
He took over the bathroom while he got ready. I picked up his clothes and shoes. “Thomas, will you please hurry up so I can have a chance to fix myself?”
“You can’t put a time limit on perfection,” he said.
When he came out, he looked fabulous. Everything about him gleamed, from his smooth copper skin to his espresso eyes to his sleek black hair. He was wearing one of those casual T-shirts that cost a fortune and fell just so from his shoulders. His slacks caressed his famous butt.
I was wearing my lavender dress because it was the nicest thing I had. I did a quick check in the mirror, brushed my hair, smoothed on some lip gloss, and went back out.
“You’re wearing that again?” Thomas asked.
“Who’s going to be looking at me when you’re around?” I said sarcastically.