Vegas Girls

by Heather Skyler

  The crowd took a while to quiet, but Adam made the request again, looking somber, and soon all eyes were turned on him, standing alone on the square of deck that had just recently been filled with people. He appeared thinner than usual, his blue T-shirt drifting in a breeze against his narrow chest. His cheeks were hollow, his sleepy eyes shadowed and grave so that he looked frail and exhausted, on the verge of collapse.

  Then he stepped forward, onto a carpet of sun, and the light shifted, erasing the impression and returning him to his usual vigorous self. He smiled at the silent crowd, and Jane could feel people leaning in, wanting to hear what this handsome stranger had to tell them.

  “First things first: Happy birthday to Lucky. You are very lucky, indeed.” He raised his beer, and everyone raised glasses to toast Lucky’s birthday. “Now, on a less festive note, I’m here to apologize,” he announced, and his voice came out louder than necessary for the size of the crowd, so he pulled the microphone further away from his face. “I want to apologize to my wife, Jane, for being such a screw-up, such a poor excuse for a husband.”

  He swung his arm out and the crowd turned in her direction, the expectant faces observing her with curiosity or maybe pity.

  “We’ve had a rough year,” Adam continued. “Jane lost her job, and she may have even had an affair, but I’m not sure about that. It might just be that she doesn’t love me anymore. It might just be as simple as that. She doesn’t love me. Anymore.”

  Jane shook her head, meaning to convey that he should stop. Her mother gathered up Fern and Rocky and hurried them through the crowd and back into the house, her head bent toward them, whispering. Jane wanted to walk over to Adam, to take the microphone out of his hands and shuttle him away where they could be alone, but her feet were glued to the pool deck, immovable. Her limbs had gone cold, and she felt as if she were freezing from the inside out: first the stomach, then the heart, the brain, face, arms, torso, legs. She had a fleeting image of frost dripping from her fingertips when they dug her up in this very spot, centuries from now.

  “And I can’t really blame her, for any of it,” he continued, “but I do want to apologize.” Adam turned to Ramona then, who sat off to the side holding her guitar, watching him with wide eyes. “Ramona, play that one slow song of yours, won’t you? ‘One Night’ I think it’s called? Jane—” He turned back and held out his hand. “Please come and dance with me.”

  Jane and Ramona locked eyes, and Jane shook her head no again. The crowd was watching Jane, and she guessed they were waiting for her to run to the stage and embrace her husband, to provide them all with a moment of absolution.

  “Ramona, c’mon,” Adam said, turning back to her. “Please play it for us.”

  Jane could hear the alcohol in his voice now, the way it was wearing him down and revving him up at the same time, forcing him to plead for a song in front of thirty strangers. He must have begun drinking long before the party started, Jane realized now, because it would take a large quantity to bring him to this point.

  Something seemed to unlock in Ramona then, and she set her guitar on the ground, then stood, took the microphone out of Adam’s hands, and turned the music back on. Jane watched, still unmoving, as her friend put a hand on Adam’s back and led him away to a table apart from the crowd. It took a few beats, but then people began talking again, and drinking and eating, even laughing, while a buttery rock song floated over the crowd. The mood was muted, yet the strangers also looked exhilarated, Jane decided, as if witnessing the crumbling of someone else’s marriage had filled them with strange relief.

  A hand touched her elbow, and she turned to find Ivy. “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  Jane shook her head again, thinking about what a pure gesture it was, so simple yet so potent. It relieved her of the need to speak.

  Ivy took Jane’s hand and she felt herself begin to thaw at the touch, then allowed herself to be led inside to a back bedroom, away from everything.

  RAMONA

  She needed to leave. It was too much now, being here surrounded by all these people she didn’t know, pregnant, unable to even have a drink in her hand. Then there were the babies, seven in all—she’d counted twice—bouncing on hips, nursing on lounge chairs, pulling at their mothers’ hair. Reminders of the one inside her right now, and reminders too of the other one, the one from long ago.

  She’d comforted Adam as best she could, reassured him that things would be fine, even though it was obvious things would not be fine at all, might never be fine again. She’d left him with Jeremy, both of them sitting at a table eating tiny cakes, then gone inside and retrieved a juice box from the fridge, which she drained and crushed in her hand, making her feel ridiculous. It was her duty to find Jane right now, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wanted simply to be free of this party, so she grabbed her keys from the bowl on the table and left.

  Outside, she found a woman peering through the front window, hands cupped around her eyes as she pressed her face to the glass.

  “Can I help you with something?” Ramona asked, crossing over to the woman, who startled at the sound of Ramona’s voice and quickly stepped away from her position at the window.

  The woman was older than most of the partygoers, small and plump with blonde hair turning white and overly large gray eyes with hooded lids. She was familiar, but also not familiar at all. Ramona knew her, but she couldn’t remember why.

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “Just trying to decide whether or not I’d be welcome.”

  “Are you a friend of Ivy’s?” Ramona asked.

  “Ramona, it’s me. Astrid.” She smiled slightly, not a full smile, and Ramona noted the deep wrinkles around her mouth and the small, childlike teeth. Her face contained sadness but something else too, a neediness that made Ramona uncomfortable. Her eyes had a catlike quality. They were shaped like almonds and had probably once been very beautiful, a lovely centerpiece for her small face. She could not recall anyone she’d ever known named Astrid.

  “Ivy’s mother,” the woman added, almost as an afterthought.

  The information absorbed into her bloodstream quickly, and she could feel it bring her senses back to life, clicking every detail into place. Of course, this was Ivy’s mother. “Hello,” Ramona said and smiled. She was uncertain how to react. Was she supposed to be angry with this woman who had deserted her best friend? Or welcoming? Her instinct was to offer kindness, so she crossed the short space between them and shook the woman’s hand, then changed her mind and moved into a quick embrace. “Have you seen Ivy yet?” Ramona asked. “Does she know you’re out here?”

  Astrid shook her head and turned to glance toward the red door. “I can’t bring myself to knock.”

  “Come with me,” Ramona said, taking her arm, but Astrid slipped out of her grasp and stepped back.

  “I’m not ready.”

  “It’s perfect timing,” Ramona told her, knowing even as she spoke the words that it was not good timing at all, and likely never would be. “Lucas turned one today. We’re having a party. You should come in.”

  “Lucas.” The name rolled out slowly. Astrid appeared to savor the sound of the two syllables, then she said, “So that’s his name. I didn’t know. It was my father’s name.”

  “Really? Ivy never mentioned that.” Once it was out, Ramona realized how rude this sounded and tried to amend. “Well, maybe she did. I’m not very good at keeping track of those things.”

  “Those things?”

  “Kid things,” Ramona explained.

  “Oh, of course,” Astrid said and nodded. “You gave your baby away. That was you, right?”

  Ramona stepped back, feeling as if she’d been physically struck. “I put him up for adoption, if that’s what you mean. It’s not the same as abandoning your child.”

  “You’re right,” Astrid said quickly. “Of course. Adoption. I didn’t mean …” She didn’t finish the sentence, merely showed Ramona her palms and shrugged.


  Silence unrolled between them and wavered in the air. Here we are, thought Ramona, two mothers who deserted their children, with nothing to say. “I have to go,” Ramona told her, then walked over to her car and got inside without looking back.

  Driving away, her hands began to shake on the steering wheel. Astrid had left Ivy without a word during high school, which was entirely different than giving up an infant for adoption. The judgment that had risen out of Astrid’s words—You gave your baby away—stung her skin, clung to the back of her throat, and she rolled the windows down and took long gulps of the warm air.

  It was then that the correct question came to her. It was so obvious she didn’t understand how she’d overlooked it before. She would drive over to the café, find the boy with the black glasses, and simply ask what year he was born. This wouldn’t offer absolute proof, but it was a start.

  Eastern Avenue seemed to stretch on forever, but the new freeways were foreign to her, so she stuck to the surface streets. Still, every road she crossed was new: Serene Avenue, Pebble Road, Wigwam Parkway, Windmill Parkway. There was no sense of order or any pattern to the names as far as she could tell, and so many homes and storefronts looked the same—beige stucco walls, red tile roof—that she began to regret the drive, her plan, her life, everything.

  Sunset Road revived her. Here was a street from her youth, typically the farthest point they would ever travel south on a given day, then she reached Tropicana, and it was time to turn left, and all was familiar again, if slightly more packed with restaurants and strip malls and people. The sun was lowering over the Sheep Mountains, turning the sky its usual pink and orange. Soon it would be dark, and the party at Ivy’s house would be done, and Ramona may or may not know if the boy working at the coffee shop was her son.

  The early evening crowd at the café was decidedly different. Everyone was college age, possibly even high school, and black was the predominant clothing color. Silver jewelry glinted. Lips were painted almost purple. Ramona felt immediately out of place in her blue T-shirt and faded skirt, the braids trailing down her back like symbols of a lost era. A table of kids turned to watch her as she stepped inside, and Ramona lifted a hand and said, “Hey, what’s up?” which made them immediately turn around and begin talking as if she’d never appeared in their midst.

  She sat at a table for two in the corner and searched the counter for her son but didn’t see him. There was an older guy with a Mohawk now, making a latte, and a black-haired girl with a pierced eyebrow. No sign of the woman with the bowler hat or the boy with caramel-colored hair and black glasses. Ramona sighed and closed her eyes, then leaned back in her seat, feeling as if she might just lay her head against the cool marble of the tabletop and pass out, into a dreamless sleep, but she kept her head upright, and when she opened her eyes again the place seemed brighter than it had been a moment ago, and louder, filled with laughter and shouting and the kind of wordless, pounding music that she hated.

  She watched the counter for a few long minutes, willing the boy to emerge from the back room, wanting to get it over with now that she was here, but no one else appeared, so she rose and left without looking back, feeling the eyes of everyone on her as she disappeared up the stairwell.

  The next step was to return to his apartment around the corner. It was quicker to walk, and the air felt good, cooling with the approaching dark. She undid her braids as she walked, thinking that it was time to give up this childish style if she was going to be a mother. Lights were on in the building, and she crossed the courtyard and sat on the same bench where she and Jane had sat together only yesterday afternoon. The windows of her son’s unit were dark, but it was not quite black enough outside to require interior light, so she decided to wait. He may be home and just prefer dim natural light, the same way she did. This idea lifted her spirits. What if another person existed, right behind that door, with her own preferences, her own dislikes and fears? Strange things could be passed down. Rocky frowned exactly as Jane did, and Fern liked the same foods, dill pickles and liverwurst, weird things a kid shouldn’t like. Lucky already smiled exactly like Ivy.

  What if this boy were inside his apartment right now, enjoying the low light until the last possible second, drinking black coffee, and eating sourdough toast? Granted, it was a long shot, but it struck her as possible now, sitting out here in the satiny dusk watching his door. Many things seemed possible.

  When the light outside deepened to a rich blue-black, a light came on inside his apartment, and Ramona felt vindicated. He was home, and he was just like her. The light propelled her up and over to the door, where she knocked lightly, then waited, hoping for a moment that he hadn’t heard the knock and she could turn around and leave. Wasn’t this already enough? Seeing his light come on as the sky turned dark?

  The door opened, and Ramona’s heart began to beat very fast as she waited for his face to appear, but it was the girl they’d seen earlier on the bike. “Can I help you?” she asked, her eyes taking in Ramona, then looking quickly past her into the night, searching for someone familiar.

  “Oh, hello,” Ramona said. She was caught off-guard now and wondered why she hadn’t considered this possibility. Up close, the girl was older than she’d thought, at least twenty, and not as pretty as she’d appeared from a distance. Her hair was amazing, long and silvery blonde, but her skin was marred with acne scars and her eyebrows were so pale they looked nonexistent, giving her a startled appearance.

  “Is James here?” Ramona asked.

  “Just a minute,” the girl told her, then called his name out over her shoulder.

  Through the half-open door, Ramona took in the apartment, which was neat and modern with a low, Swedish-looking gray couch and red leather chairs. The standing lamp by the couch was the one that had been turned on, and a yellow hardback book was splayed out in the circle of light hitting a cushion. So it was the girl who’d left the light out until the last possible second, caught up in her reading.

  Ramona was waiting for the boy to appear from the hallway beyond the living room, but he surprised her by coming around from the other direction, wiping his hands off on an apron. “Yes?” he asked, pleasant but slightly wary, dark eyebrows lifted above his glasses.

  She hadn’t been this close to him yesterday, or heard his voice, and she waited, now, for a rush of recognition—it seemed she’d been waiting for this for a very long time—but nothing arrived. There was no inner feeling to indicate she’d created this person. He had nice skin with a warm, almost golden tone, and green eyes with an appraising gaze. His voice was low and even, calm but strong, the voice of someone who would succeed in the world, who would draw an audience.

  “Hi,” Ramona began. “This is going to sound strange, but I just have a quick question for you. I was wondering what year you were born.”

  He frowned at this and rubbed his chin, then placed one hand on the open door and the other against the frame as if bracing himself, or shielding the girl behind him from this odd woman. “Is this a survey or something? Because I really don’t like to participate in anything like that.”

  She shook her head. “No, I just …” she trailed off. Why hadn’t she planned some type of explanation? No innocuous reasons arrived, so she said, “I thought I might know you, but that depends on how old you are.”

  He took a step back and looked as if he were deciding whether or not to shut the door. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, trying to sound reassuring, to sound sane, and smiled at him, not wanting to mention the word adoption unless she had to, but this wasn’t going well. He wasn’t going to give up his date of birth to a stranger for no reason. “Could I come inside for a second?” she asked. “It’s kind of a long and complicated story.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Haven’t I seen you before? Yesterday, at the café? You were with that blonde woman?”

  “That’s right. I meant to talk to you then, but …” she trailed off and shrugged, not w
anting to mention that she’d been practically sealed to her seat with nervousness. “You were busy working.”

  “Okay,” he said, sounding slightly irritated, but resigned. “Come in.”

  Ramona walked in slowly, and perched on the edge of a red leather chair. It was a very spare room with gleaming wood floors and not a single piece of clutter, nicer than her own place by far. James sat down on the gray couch, and the girl sat beside him and took his hand. Ramona wished the girl would leave them alone, but felt she had no right to ask her to go, no right to be here at all really, so she just cleared her throat and smoothed out her skirt, then said, “Nineteen years ago, I gave up a baby for adoption, and it turns out the adoptive parents’ names were Celeste and James Dillman. I thought you might be James Jr.”

  The boy nodded, and it reminded Ramona of the way Mark used to nod after absorbing information, a movement she’d forgotten about long ago. “Well,” he began, “my name is James Dillman, that’s true, but my father’s name isn’t James, and I’m not adopted, definitely not. Also, I’m twenty-two.”

  His words, delivered kindly in that low, even voice, sucked all the air from her lungs, and Ramona closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t have come. Because now that she’d visited every name on her list without success, she could feel herself sinking into empty space, into a future suddenly drained of color or texture, of any light at all.

  “Hey, are you all right?” James asked. “Get her some water, Lila, or that iced coffee.”

  Ramona shook her head, her eyes still closed, wanting to tell him she was fine, not to bother, but she couldn’t find the energy to speak. She managed to open her eyes and push herself upright. She accepted the glass of cold, milky coffee from Lila and took a sip.