“Sir, if you’d like to be seated I’d be happy to give you a table. But I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“I’m leaving,” Cooper said, and he walked out onto the street, the white-hot anger inside his head igniting into a full blaze.
Chapter 23
Eddie was sick of eating chicken. His life had become stuck on the all-chicken-all-the-time channel: skinless, boneless, boiled, baked, roasted. Breasts, wings, thighs. Nothing battered, breaded or fried; no nuggets, buffaloes or burgers (a chicken burger was a travesty to begin with). In short, nothing interesting or flavorful enough to be considered delicious or even tasty. There was only so much you could do with this bird and only so often you could eat it before the entire world started tasting like chicken. God forbid you ate beef anymore with its cholesterol, hormones and mad cow disease; or fish, poisoned with mercury and whatever other toxic sludge filled the ocean. You couldn’t even eat spinach anymore because of the E. coli. So what was left? Fucking chicken was what.
And it was chicken that would be gracing his dinner table again tonight. Tina was in the kitchen doing her best to torture out another chicken meal while he watched the basketball game in the living room. Another fowl meal, he thought, only half enjoying the pun. He couldn’t blame Tina, though. She was just doing what she thought was right. In a way that was the story of Tina’s life. It was how she mothered their boys and ran their household. This was why their eldest, Jake, took a pill every day for his ADD even though there was nothing wrong with the kid that a little more discipline couldn’t fix, and why they had expensive tile in the bathrooms where linoleum would do fine. And this was why they’d been eating chicken since what felt like the dawn of time—because it was part of a healthy diet and a healthy diet was the right thing to have. Eddie went along because all too often he acted not on what he thought was right but on what he knew was wrong.
Eddie turned his head toward the kitchen, a physical response to his guilty thoughts. He couldn’t stand to think about his sins now, but it was getting harder to hide from himself inside his own brain, let alone in his living room. That his current X-rated, soap-opera-worthy entanglement was a mess of his own making was too much for Eddie to admit. He preferred to simply consider himself cursed. And hadn’t it all gone to shit the minute he’d met that witch? All three of them were witches, come to think of it. They might as well be standing around a bubbling cauldron full of fucking chicken.
He fumbled for the remote and hit the mute button. He could hear Tina singing over the metallic clang of pots and pans. He didn’t recognize the song, but that was nothing new. Tina had a tin ear—couldn’t hold a note if it was strapped to her—but that never stopped her from warbling on. She sang in the shower, in the kitchen, paying bills at the dining room table. Didn’t matter what kind of mood she was in. Singing was the hum of her own inner machinery. He loved that about her—hadn’t even realized how much until now. He flipped off the TV and got up from the couch. Hell with the chicken; he was going to take them all out for Mexican. It was Saturday and margaritas had to be on special somewhere. Once, a long, long time ago, he and Tina had loved drinking margaritas together. Tina was a lightweight—one margarita and she was high, two and she was out. Somewhere in between, though, she got very hot, and if they timed it out just right…Yes, Eddie thought, margaritas were the thing. And then it finally hit him that Tina was singing Jimmy Buffett. They were on the same page, sharing the same thought. That was a good sign.
“‘Margaritaville’!” Eddie exclaimed. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Tina kept humming along, oblivious.
“Tina, did you hear me?”
Tina turned around from her preparations at the granite countertop (another pricey upgrade that she’d insisted on), questioning him with her brown eyes made bigger by the dark circles beneath them. She was wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt that one of the boys had grown out of. Her hair was held back with one of those clawlike clips, but a couple of loose strands hung around her face. The sweatshirt was baggy but somehow made her look thinner than she was. Unless, Eddie realized, she’d been getting thinner and he hadn’t noticed. Women asked you if they were fat all the time and you always had to find new ways of saying no. After a while you just stopped looking. But he could see now that Tina looked tired and stressed out.
“I was thinking we could go out for Mexican tonight,” he said. “Let’s celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“It’s Saturday,” Eddie said. “I thought we could have margaritas.” He winked and smiled, dimpling his cheeks, a private amorous message that she used to pick up on but was ignoring now. Eddie felt his resolve start to fade along with his connectedness to his unsmiling wife.
“Margaritas are really fattening,” Tina said. “Not to mention just plain bad for you. And I’m in the middle of making dinner here, Eddie. You could have said something earlier, you know? I don’t want to waste this now.”
Eddie studied the bowls and plates she was working on, trying to figure out what she was making, and came up with nothing. “Tina,” he said as gently as he could, “I’m really fucking sick of chicken.”
Tina didn’t miss a beat. “Well, if you can fucking think of something else I can fucking cook that won’t fucking kill us, I’ll stop making fucking chicken for you. Better yet, why don’t you cook, Eddie?” She blinked hard. “Right, I thought so.”
“Jesus, Tina. I thought you’d be happy.”
“Why, because you’re home and willing to share yourself with me for five minutes?”
“Okay, what’s wrong? Is it Jake, because he—”
“No, Eddie, it’s not Jake.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “You were fine this morning.”
“I was fine? Did you even see me this morning? Do you know what I did? Did we eat breakfast together?”
The answer to all three questions was no, Eddie realized, and he felt himself getting sucked into the inevitable vortex of an argument. He did not need this, not now. “Fuck it,” he said. “You don’t want to go out, fine. Thought you could use the break, that’s all.”
“And the fucking chicken,” she said. “Don’t forget that.”
“All right, Tina, I’m sorry I said I was sick of chicken. Is that better?” He was getting angry and he couldn’t afford to get angry. Better to try to channel it some other way. He walked over to Tina and slid his arms around hers, encasing her from behind. She was tense and stiff, her chicken-slimy hands held out away from her body. He kissed her neck, smelling her light grassy perfume. She always wore scent and always put on makeup, no matter if she was going out or staying in. He’d always loved that about her, too. He reached his hands under her sweatshirt and stroked her breasts, which were covered only by a tank top. It turned him on that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and he pressed his groin into the small of her back.
“Eddie, stop.”
“Mmm, why? Kids aren’t in the house.”
“No, really, stop.” She didn’t move away and for a second Eddie thought she was playing some kind of “no means yes” game, but that had never been Tina’s style. There was a tremble in her voice that implied something was very wrong. He froze, then slowly removed his hands and stepped away from his wife. She turned to face him and he could see there were tears shimmering in her eyes.
“I think we should separate,” she said.
Eddie felt as if someone had aimed a gun at his temple. “What the fuck are you talking about, Tina?”
She walked over to the sink and washed her hands, then dried them on a dish towel. Because everything suddenly seemed distorted and oversaturated, Eddie noticed the precise pattern of orange and gold starfish on the towel as she wiped her hands. Time seemed to slow down as he watched her hands twist in the cloth, saw her wedding ring go in and out like a game of hide-and-seek. “I thought maybe we should just go to counseling, but it’s not me who needs counseling, Eddie, it’s you.” She gave a horrible choking
sob. “I don’t have a problem. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
For the first time since he’d met her, Eddie was afraid to touch his wife. “What is it, Tina? What the hell?”
“I know,” she said.
“You know what?”
“Are you going to make me say it? You really want me to lay it out?”
No, Eddie thought, the last thing he wanted was a verbal summary of the adulterous images he was having in his head. Ridiculous thoughts flew across his brain. She’d hired a private investigator, she’d followed him herself, she’d videotaped him…. No, no, no. Eddie had kept his lives so well separated. Nobody in his other world even knew where he lived. But maybe that wasn’t at all what Tina was talking about. Maybe she just thought he was drinking or smoking or taking drugs. Eddie found himself having the insane wish that his wife thought he was smoking crack.
“Tina…”
“I got a call,” she said. “From a woman.”
It all came tumbling into his consciousness—who’d called his wife and what she’d said. It was the realization of a pin being pulled from a grenade—no turning back and not enough time to escape. And then Eddie’s vision bleached white with sudden, uncontrolled anger, as if something had literally exploded in his brain. His hands clenched, trembling with the desire to hit something, to smash something into powder. In his fury, he picked up the nearest object—a serving platter filled with wine-soaked chicken breasts—and hurled it into the wall. He could see her face in his mind—taunting him with that self-satisfied smile—and he wanted to punch it into dust.
“Eddie!” Tina screamed, as shattered porcelain and wine flew back at them both. “Eddie, stop!”
But Eddie, blind and deaf with rage, was only getting started.
Chapter 24
Marina stood at the water’s edge with her sandals in her hand and watched the inexorable push and pull of the tide. A gusting offshore wind threw sand at her back; salt water stung her ankles. Even though it had become as hallucinatory and overpopulated as the rest of the places she spent time in, the beach was her last refuge. For a moment she wondered what it would feel like to walk into the waves and just keep going until the water closed over her head. And then, because she couldn’t really imagine the act itself, she wondered what it would feel like to have the resolve necessary to do such a thing. Marina certainly didn’t have the fortitude. Her instinct for survival was far too strong to allow her the luxury of suicide. There was also the matter of control, something Marina no longer possessed.
It had been two weeks since she’d walked into her office and found the Death card staring up at her, and in that time all she’d managed to accomplish was to get her office locks changed. There was nobody to call, no complaint to file. She pictured a scenario where she tried to explain her situation to the police. I took his dead mother’s ring, then slept with him, and now he’s breaking into my office and leaving threatening messages. Oh, yes, and I’ve also seen into his mind. But I couldn’t see into it when I was with him. And I talk to dead people—did I mention that? No, talking to the cops would be disastrous. And because Marina had managed to insulate herself so well, there were no other living people she could confide in.
If nothing else, the last two months had convinced Marina that no hard constructs of reality were safe from demolition. She’d received confirmation of that only hours earlier when she’d tried to end her pregnancy and the doctor had told her there was nothing there to end. If this was the kind of force she was up against, how could a flimsy lock keep anyone out? And in Marina’s mind, anyone meant Gideon. By his own admission, he’d come looking for her to exact some sort of revenge. Maybe now he’d decided to make good on that intent. Not that this made sense to Marina. The mind could formulate all kinds of untruths, but the body couldn’t lie. Their bodies had spoken the truth that night at the hotel and it was love between them, not hate. Not revenge.
But Marina had been wrong about so many things lately. She’d known from the start that getting involved with Gideon was dangerous, but still she’d allowed herself to be swept away. Now the world had cracked open and she was drowning. What had happened at the doctor’s office was just the latest unexplainable event. She’d sat in that waiting room for what felt like hours. The office was crowded with women in various stages of pregnancy, and Marina, unable to bury herself in an outdated issue of Home and Garden, could hear what every one of them was thinking, their unspoken words creating a cacophony in her head.
Ten more weeks and then I’ll be able to—
I know I’m just supposed to want a healthy baby, but I hope it’s a girl. I really want—
I have to make sure he schedules the cesarean today because I can’t—
I’m not ready for this—
I’ve already put on twenty pounds and I’m not even in my fifth month—
It’s so hot in here. Why can’t they—
—go back to work.
—a girl. Is that wrong?
—get my money back for that trip and I don’t want to go into labor on a plane.
—I’m just not ready.
—I’m going to look like a damn whale by the time I get to the end.
—turn up the air?
By the time her own name was called, Marina knew every woman’s story in excruciating detail. She had no way of regulating the flow of chatter—no way to turn it off or down. It happened when it happened without any indication of why. So when Marina’s mother appeared once again after a nurse had taken Marina’s blood pressure and a urine sample “just to confirm,” Marina had no choice but to look and listen.
“I told you not to bother with this,” her mother said. “You’re just wasting time.”
“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t take motherly advice from you,” Marina whispered.
“Stubborn,” her mother said. “As always.”
It was a long time before anyone returned to the room, long enough for Marina to realize that something was wrong. When the doctor finally entered, he told Marina that they’d run her pregnancy test twice and it had come up negative both times. Home tests were usually reliable, he said, but every once in a while there was a mistake. Could be any number of things, he said as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and instructed her to “scoot down” on the table, but most likely she was just late. Sometimes women’s cycles changed when they were about her age. Had she heard the term perimenopause? There was a nasty stomach bug going around and that could be what was causing her nausea. Had she experienced any fever? Marina gasped as he felt his way around inside her body, prodding and pushing. Yes, her uterus was a normal, nonpregnant size, he said, and everything seemed fine. Looked like it was a false alarm after all, although if she missed another cycle he recommended she see her regular gynecologist for a more thorough examination.
Marina’s mother reappeared in the corner of the room. “I told you,” she cackled, her voice thick as it had been in life from years of self-abuse. “It’s not your decision to make.”
And that was when Marina, realizing she’d never had a choice in the matter at all, left the clinic and headed to the first beach she could find. Now, surrounded by competing sounds of crashing surf, seagulls and wind, Marina experienced a rare moment of inner quiet. And, once again, the thought of Gideon came in to fill the empty space. If he’d wanted her to suffer, she thought with sudden bitterness, he had certainly succeeded. She wondered if it would make a difference to him if he knew she was pregnant with his child. For a moment, Marina actually tried to reach him telepathically, to somehow beam her thought—our baby—into his mind. Almost immediately, she felt a cruel wave of dizzying nausea crash through her. The wind had picked up again and she was cold. Heavy gray clouds were blowing across the sky, blocking out the sun. Maybe she really was crazy, Marina thought. Perhaps the doctor was right and she wasn’t even pregnant. Perhaps it was all an illusion created by a sick brain. And maybe what she really needed was a psychiatrist or a neurologist.
Or both. Marina thought about Max, the only psychiatrist she knew, and almost laughed at how ridiculous it would be to consult him.
It felt as if it had been years since the day Max had shown up at her office to talk about Cooper, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of weeks. He’d been so intent on convincing her that it wasn’t a reading he wanted (because he did not believe in psychics, he was quick to tell her), that he’d taken her to lunch so they could talk about his concern over Cooper’s behavior. Although it seemed to physically pain him to say it, Max told Marina that Cooper trusted her more than anyone else in his life and that she was, in effect, functioning as his counselor. As such, she had a certain responsibility to Cooper and he hoped she could see that.
On that day, she remembered now, everything was covered in a haze of color. She’d been distracted by how red Max had seemed, as if his blood were literally boiling under the surface of his skin. But when she’d asked him why he was so angry, Max seemed startled and assured her in a slow, calm tone that he wasn’t at all angry, only worried about Cooper.
“I’m sure you can’t tell me what the two of you have talked about,” Max said, his words sounding as bitten off as the half-eaten roast beef sandwich in front of him. “No doubt you have some sort of client confidentiality rule?” Mesmerized by the sparks that seemed to be coming from his head, Marina didn’t respond. “But you should know that he’s been acting in a very troubling manner. He’s been taking…” Pills, Marina finished silently. It was no wonder Max didn’t want to admit to Cooper’s drug use. He’d probably prescribed the drugs himself.
“The thing is, he’s having a hard time accepting certain…circumstances….” Marina experienced a sharp stab of regret that she’d ever encouraged Cooper to stay with this man. It had benefited her to tell him that and it was what Cooper himself had wanted to hear, but it was wrong. “Maybe you could talk to him,” Max said, “and guide him in a more positive direction.”
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