by Sunniva Dee
“I’m on PCH.”
I call Ciro on the way down to the Pacific Coast Highway. Mom’s right where Topanga Canyon hits PCH. She’s still on her feet but low on her haunches. Cars blaze by her without a second look, and she holds her hands in front of her face, trying to breathe.
My mother, she looks like someone who could hold up a sign and beg for scraps. Everyone is someone’s mom, daughter, son, father, I think now. I wow to always be the one that stops.
I’ve got her in my arms when Ciro parks next to us. She’s thinner. I hadn’t noticed. I cry with relief that she’s not hurt.
“What were you thinking?”
I get no answer.
Ciro insists we take her to the ER. She’s too confused to object. It could be the sun. It’s hot today, and depending on how long she stood there...
We’re allowed in with her. When the physician is finished with her vitals and calmly tells us she just needs fluid, he adds that he wants a colleague to see her too.
The colleague is a psychiatrist.
The colleague thinks my mother is in the middle of a psychotic episode.
The colleague orders her hospitalized.
I am floored, can’t take it, have to take it.
It’s a day to bawl, especially when they’d rather I not stay with her right now. More fluids is all. Some meds to get her out of it. “She’ll get to rest up a bit. Why don’t you call again tomorrow?”
Tomorrow.
My mouth opens, because surely she’s not psychotic. That would be crazy. That would be that my mom was crazy.
But then my boyfriend is there, pulls me in, hums against my ear, rocks me. He answers the doctor’s remaining questions for me. He guides me outside. When it’s time to choose a car, he chooses his own and tells me he’ll send someone for mine. There’s no reason to object.
At his house and in his arms, the stress leaks out, the anxiety, the numbness of almost losing her. And then he whispers against my ear that she’s safe, that nothing can happen, now, except good things that make her better.
When he feeds me warm milk with sugar and cinnamon, my muscles ease into limpness, and in the end, I fall asleep in the smooth silk of red sheets that carry with them the scent of love.
28. TRAJECTORY
Ana and I sit at Starbucks, both wiggling pens between our fingers. She’s doing a crosswords with her Chihuahua leaning drowsily against her stomach. Me, I’ve got Princess, Dolly, and Ralph all snoozing around my feet. Dolly and Ralph are their actual names, I’ve learned. I finally asked Mr. Dakapoulous. There’ll be no more Daisy, Dixie, or Rough from now on.
My pen is poised over my class notes, ready to scribble and circle some more. In an hour and a half, I’ll be taking my final exam in Principles of Marketing. I don’t feel great about it, but I’m ready. I’m going to try.
My attention hasn’t been on class lately. Mom wasn’t collaborating in the beginning and spent days without taking the drugs they prescribed her at the hospital. Dr. Finley tried to convince her. Ciro and I did too, to no avail, and because she wasn’t a threat to herself or others, it took excruciatingly long before they had me sign off for her to get treatment against her will.
“Are you eating that?” Ana asks sweetly, a long bubblegum pink nail quivering over the cake-batter lollipop on my plate.
“Ew, no. The stuff’s gross. I don’t know what I was expecting.”
“I’ll relieve you of it.”
I bob my head, faking grateful, and she shoots me a flirty wink. I don’t think she knows how seductive she comes off to people.
“How was your mom this morning?” she asks while she nibbles on the glazing. Then she fans a handful of fingers in the air, adding, “Sorry, you can tell me later. Go ahead. Study.”
“It’s crazy,” I say. “They’ve only had her at Bliss Gardens for a month, but she’s already a version of my mother I don’t even remember. She’s calm. She literally asks questions about my day and listens when I answer. Best of all, she not spending every waking hour trying to leave the Valley anymore.”
“Nice. You think she’s cured?”
“No, that doesn’t actually happen.” I let out a puff. It hasn’t been easy to come to terms with her having a diagnosis. A big one too.
“Apparently, if you have schizoaffective disorder, it’s a lifelong thing. You have to take your pills every day. The doc says one of the side effects of her psych meds is that she sleeps well at night, which was always a big issue for Mom. He thinks she’s ready to be discharged.”
“Really?” She drops her lollipop and pets Bella on her apple head while she studies me. “You don’t look happy. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess? I’m just scared. I mean, what if I lost track of her again?”
“I’m sorry.”
Five minutes later, we stroll out to our cars. Ralph has decided he wants to go with Bella, so there’s a bit of a struggle before I have him muscled into my car between Princess and Dolly. He looks heartbroken, which makes Ana laugh.
“So, celebrating tonight?” she asks.
“Yep, even if I do horribly.” I flash her a toothy grin. “You’re both coming, right?”
She bobs her head, causing one of her bangs to loosen. Pigtails should be X-rated on my friend—Aaron isn’t the only guy who’s been beaming at her today.
“Yep, my man needs to learn how to cook. He still thinks Ciro creates those crazy meals himself at the funkis bunker. It works in my favor that he doesn’t know about the chef.” She flashes a devious grin.
“Housekeeper.”
“She’s more of an all-in-one, I’d say.”
I smile, because she’s right. Mrs. Brandt really is everything in Ciro’s house.
“Champagne, then?” she asks, hopeful.
“Champagne. A case of it, supposedly. You’ll be parking your car tonight. I think we already have a guestroom set up for you.”
Ana slaps a high-five to the palm I offer and pulls out of the driveway. She rolls the window down and calls out, “What time?”
“Whenever you want, but dinner at eight.”
“Hell yeah. Break a leg.”
So I break a leg. Hard. I swear the test is made for someone else. In the weeks it took me to get my head on straight after Mom was hospitalized, the professor must have gone through two-thirds of what the exam is about. Come on, now?
I linger on in there, struggling longer than my classmates. A dark-haired guy my age jerks his chin at me in greeting on his way out. Yeah, he’s nice. I should have asked to borrow his notes. Mine were seriously lacking.
Sweat trickles down my spine by the time I’m done. I groan to myself, rake my fingers through my hair, and stand slowly. Professor Hargrove stands too, taking my sad document with an outstretched hand.
“How was it?” he asks, friendly.
“Oh.” I shrug, because I don’t know what to say. I should be polite. I might end up in another class of his later.
“That bad, huh?” He chuckles good-naturedly, but then his smile fades. “You were gone for a while, there, weren’t you?”
“I was.” My stare strays to my feet.
“I’m not going to ask any details. It’s up to you if you want to tell me what’s going on, but you had a lot of potential. It seemed like you enjoyed the class?” His voice lifts in a question.
“I did. I mean, I still do. I love this stuff. It’s just… family.”
“Family emergency?”
I look up, and what is it with people looking understanding and you wanting to burst into tears?
I burst into tears. That’s exactly what I do. I’m so ashamed the moisture down my back magically transplants to my forehead too. “I’m sorry Professor. That’s not for you to worry about.”
“To the contrary. I do worry about my students. Did the family emergency interfere
with classwork?”
“You can say that.” I try to laugh.
“Should you be applying for an ‘Incomplete,’ Miss Nichols?”
“An Incomplete?”
“Yes. We don’t track absences at this college, which makes it difficult to know if a student has problems outside of not putting in the work. But now that I know, I can extend the semester for you and give you time to finish your last projects. If your final exam doesn’t match the level of your former work in my class, I could give you an independent study and give you the chance to do it right.”
“You could do that?”
“I could. If you’re willing to reveal what has been going on, preferably adding a doctor’s note or other relevant documentation, then you can put in a request for an Incomplete, and I’ll be happy to sign off on it.”
My face must be brightening to an extreme extent, because so does my professor’s. I notice his ears first. They draw backward, softening the wrinkles on his forehead before his beard draws out and up in a smile.
“Let’s do this.” He waves my test at me. “I’ll look this over and let you know if you need an Incomplete. Then we’ll take it from there.”
“Thank you. Oh god, thank you. You have no idea,” I say although he probably does. “This was my first college class…”
His brows arch like he suddenly notices how much older I am than the other students.
“I was really hating the thought of crashing and burning on the first try.”
“We’ll get you back on track, Savannah.”
“Thank you, Professor,” I keep saying. “Thank you.”
29. SHOCK
I go by my own house on the way back.
It’s early, and Ciro is at work anyway. I’ve become efficient at suppressing bleak thoughts. I do it automatically now, start thinking about something beautiful, a quick segue into flamingo lilies and hibiscus.
I shower while I concentrate. Hibiscus. Hibiscus. Flamingo lilies. But then my mind strays to beautiful, sweet, poor Silk. Again, I compare our pasts, our presents. I compare our appearances.
I do what I’ve done lately, remind myself that she’s in San Francisco. She did get a contract with Harmony Femme. She’s gone, away from us. Now, all I have to deal with is his job.
My finals, Mom being about to get released from the safe, private treatment center Ciro insisted on. It’s not all negative. Objectively, I know that. But it makes it hard to concentrate on hibiscus and flamingo lilies.
“What’s wrong, Savannah?”
“Oh nothing. Just something in my throat.”
“B.S. What is it? I don’t want you sad.”
“Hey, everyone needs downtime from happy.”
“It’s my work again, isn’t it?”
I shook my head. We weren’t going to have this conversation again. I knew what I went into when I became his girlfriend this time, and I took long enough to decide. At some point in the future, I’d have full control of even my most fragile moments. Just, for now he sent me into a tailspin even by coming home a little late.
“Do you like gumbo? I never asked you.” My voice trembled, but I reined it in toward the end.
“Yeah.” His eyes didn’t leave my face, so I turned and strode into the kitchen.
“Good, because I bought shrimp and Applewood bacon. I took the liberty of giving Mrs. Brandt the night off. Hope that’s okay?”
“Of course it is.”
“Get prepared to be wowed, Mr. Silveira.”
Tonight is different. It’ll be a good night as long as I can rinse my thoughts in the shower. Ana and Aaron will be there. Frieda and Charlotte both work, and Sam has the early shift at the theater, but Ciro still invited all my friends.
“It’s time,” he told me. “Frieda seems slightly less pissed at me these days. Maybe if I wine and dine all of your friends at once?”
“They’ll come way after dinner, though,” I reminded him.
“Which is why we’ll have tapas.”
I arrive at the funkis bunker at six. As I key myself onto his property, that old sensation of doomsday prickles my nerves. It’s one I haven’t felt in a while.
I scan the driveway and the space behind the guest house. No extra cars, and the front door is closed. I fight the urge to peek inside his garage to see if he’s back... or if there are unfamiliar cars in there. Like shiny red convertibles.
Pull yourself together.
This is my day. Of all days, my boyfriend would not jeopardize my happiness today. I know this. He loves me. It was my first final exam at college level. He knows I’d want to celebrate or need a cheering up.
The front door is locked. Good. Good sign. I beep in the code and enter quietly. Princess doesn’t react when I start on the stairs? She always lets out a single bark in greeting.
I’m silent, climb step after step. Over the doggie gate. Ciro’s shoes are here, socks on top, by the banister. The same black ones he wore this morning.
He’s home?
Moans sieve out from the upstairs guestroom. Her guestroom. Deep, silky moans that go straight to a girl’s stomach. They’re my baby’s. With someone. The sound is perfect, so intimate—
The agony spears my chest in one, swift, black stab.
Has he ever been this euphoric with me?
I crumble. I run. I rage. I cry. I do it in my head.
I move on, past the bathroom. Toward the guestroom. The door is closed. I don’t remember the color of the sheets in there. I hope they’re not red.
Tears sprout. Fall. I’m silent. I won’t break down, and I won’t flee. You learn from past crises, you know, even as your heart bleeds out. Each disaster makes it easier. Each crisis makes you think clearer—finally, finally I know that Status Quo is an illusion.
My fingers stretch over the door, pressing against it as my cheek meets the panel. My baby, my love whispers, “Oh god, you feel so good—
“Ah you’re so tight—
His words become undistinguishable, disappearing in groans of intense pleasure, and I shut my eyes as tears bathe me. I—
listen to his pants pick up speed
my exorcism and me listen
I soak up the pain so I will never forget that
porn stars can’t be boyfriends
porn stars are emotionally stumped
porn stars betray those who love them
I draw mucus down from my nose and throat. He was a good actor, my man. So good at making me believe he could love back.
“I’m coming. Oh yeah, swallow, sugar. Take the whole load.” His groan is so loud I flinch. I’m not leaving. This is the last time, and I’m not afraid anymore.
He quiets. I hold my breath, listening as I move my hand to the doorknob. I jump back when he starts up again, and—and I hear the girl!
I let out a sob—she sobs too, in ecstasy. “Fuck me. Fuck me harder.”
His strangled groan tells me he’s doing what she asks of him, and that voice—
“God, you’re so big. So good”—I know that voice. I’ve heard her words before when she whimpers, “I don’t know what to do!”
30. VOICE
I twist the knob. It’s the regular, cheap, golden doorknob of a house way below the standards of the funkis bunker. It stands between my heart and the naked bodies of the man I love and the woman he’s betraying me with.
I’m hemorrhaging.
I don’t think of her past, how deserving she is of someone like him. This is me and my life. In the midst of my hurricane, this moment needs to count for years and decades to come.
I force air into my lungs, because this time I will yell. I will roar, lion-like, with all the righteousness of a wronged lover. I’ll do it— A catharsis—
A small yelp escapes me as I take in the room.
“Savannah, you
’re home early! Shit, I wanted to...” He groans, eyes closing. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. I really didn’t want you to find out this way.”
I can’t speak.
I take one step, staring, staring.
All the air in my lungs dissipates with the scene around me. I thought I had steeled myself for anything.
What is happening in here? I can only mouth it.
“Come here.” He opens his arms for me, sweater-clad against the blaring A/C. Princess wiggles by my feet. She whines with contentment, so normal, so natural.
A desk. Shelves. A barefoot Ciro. I make no move toward him, so he stands and pulls me in until I sit stiffly on his legs. I hiccough.
He sighs, unhappy, but then he squeezes me once and shifts me to one knee so he can swing us around on the chair. “It was supposed to be a surprise for tonight, but maybe this is just as well.”
I wasn’t steeled for this.
I draw a breath my lungs don’t know what to do with, and he cups my face, brows drawing together. “Are you okay?”
I was only steeled for the worst.
“Don’t do that.” I wipe my hand over my face. “What surprise?”
I let him kiss me before he starts a video on a computer. There was no desk in here before, no computer, just the bed and those nightstands.
“No. I don’t want to see.”
“I think that maybe you do.”
A woman comes into focus, and she is lovely. It is Silk with a man who’s not Drake Constantine. Her hair and body glow as he caresses her between soft sheets. Creamy drapes flow in a gentle, tropical breeze, barely touching the two of them while they make love.
“Why are we watching this?”
“Shh. Listen closely.”
I do. Pleasure permeates their air and flows out through our speakers. I look up. Ciro stares at me, and then the sounds of the man are —his!
I gasp. “What is this?”
“Voice-over.”
My eyes draw to the microphone by the keyboard. My baby wiggles it, gaze intent on me.
I’m quiet.
I start to laugh.