by Loretta Lost
“But you hate mosquitoes.”
“You’re right. Let’s go to the moon—or some distant planet, in a different galaxy. Let’s just steal a spaceship, and fly away. I’ll hack into NASA for you.”
“I don’t think the technology exists yet, love. But as soon as it does, we can go. Until then, we’ll find a place.”
“Anywhere, as long as you stay with me.” She turns to face me, and snuggles against my chest, tangling her legs up between mine.
“Maybe there is some hope for this country,” I tell her. “These horrors made public will surely cause such an incredible outcry. Maybe there will be some kind of movement against this behavior, in years to come. Maybe it will inspire more women to stand up and fight.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve been fighting all my life, and I’ve grown so weary and broken. When I was very young, I used to think it was the fault of the women—that we never learned to fight enough. That other women taught us to be ladylike and demure, and to keep our mouths shut, so we never thought it was even okay to fight. I thought we were weak, and that we allowed it to happen. I thought that maybe I was somehow better, because I was a survivor, because I learned to fight. But the cost was so great to me. Now I know that every time we have to fight—it makes us just like them. By virtue of needing to fight at all, we have already lost. We’ve lost our safety, we’ve lost our comfort. We are forever changed, and even in times of relative peace, like these—there’s still a war raging inside my soul. I will always be fighting. I will never be whole.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just hold her.
“It’s different, you know,” she adds. “When the enemy is your father, your brother, your uncle, your neighbor. Your priest, your senator, your Supreme Court justice.”
“I know. I feel everything you feel. I feel your anger.”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Cole. I didn’t mean to ruin our last night here—I am quite sure I promised we’d use the five-star hotel room for kinky, dirty lovemaking, not discussing politics and rape culture. Now I’m certain that Luciana and Rodriguez are having a better night than us.”
“Well, what can you expect? We are an old married couple. I hear the spark dies down after a decade or so.”
“Cole!” she protests. “We’ve got spark.”
“Oh, yeah? Where?”
“Well, I tried to spice things up. I ate a raw sausage in front of everyone, wore expensive lingerie for you, and threatened that I might become a lesbian—so you threw me down on the bed, tore off my clothes, and then cuddled me and had a conversation.”
“That is… a good point.”
“It’s a decent amount of spark—but maybe I could use a tiny bit more. Just look at the skyscrapers, Cole. Think about all the beautiful buildings, just outside the window.” She draws little circles on my naked chest. “I know you can do even better. Didn’t you say something about building me a castle?”
“Yes,” I say softly, “but castles are so 1653. Everyone builds a castle for the woman he loves.”
“Everyone? Who’s everyone?”
“You know, a bunch of dudes,” I say, waving my hand in dismissal. “Like that dude who built the Taj Mahal for his favorite wife, after she died giving birth to their fourteenth child. It was really just a fancy tomb, and she wasn’t even able to enjoy it.”
“Fourteen,” Scarlett says, blinking. “She really was his favorite.”
“Everyone thinks that’s so romantic. But I want to build something for you while you’re still alive.”
“To show me that I’m your favorite wife?” she asks.
“You’re my favorite, so far. But there are a few other beautiful buildings with similar stories. Le Petit Trianon in Versailles, built by Louis XV for his mistress—but she died before it could be completed. Then there’s Ashton Memorial in Lancaster, built in 1906 in memory of some dude’s wife. All these memorial buildings make me think the guys were really shitty husbands who caused their wives so much stress it sent them to an early grave, and this is their peace offering to their spirits, so that when they die, their wives don’t torture them for all eternity.”
“And they think a pretty mausoleum can save them from eternal damnation?”
“It’s a helluva lot of pressure to put on an architect,” I tell her gravely. “The saddest one is probably Boldt Castle, on a private island in upstate New York. That dude actually started building that castle to enjoy with his wife, while she was alive. But can you guess what happened?”
“She died before it was finished?”
“Yep. But he stopped building it when she died, and he never returned to that island. It broke his heart. Because he actually gave a shit about her, and he couldn’t enjoy living in a fucking gigantic six-story castle without her. What is the point of building something for someone if they aren’t there to enjoy it? If they can’t make happy memories in it? Contrary to popular belief, the ghosts of your dead lovers can’t really appreciate architecture.”
“Preach.”
“But I mean, a half-decent mausoleum is still a good thing. Not like that trash structure we found filled with a dinner party of corpses that one time. I just hate building tombs, Scarlett. I want to build monuments to life, and actually see people use them. I want us to use them.”
“We already have,” she tells me, “and I’m sure we will again.”
“Buildings shouldn’t be like fragile glass you keep locked in a cabinet, while drinking out of plastic cups. Or fancy furniture you keep covered in plastic and never sit on, basically rendering whole rooms useless. They should all be usable, lived-in, loved-in, and nearly indestructible. For whatever crazy shit the world throws at it.”
“Your buildings are all like that, Cole.”
“But I want to take it to a whole new level. I want to make a masterpiece.”
“Your thunderproof tower?” she asks me.
“Yes. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Do you think it would be nice to live there? I do love stormy weather.”
“I guess there’s only one way to find out. I have to build it.”
“But we’ll have to find somewhere to live in the meantime.”
“We could probably crash with Levi. He says he’s got a great place with plenty of room,” I tell her. “Maybe we can have Miranda send our clothes and belongings over to him. And I’ll start work immediately on designing that tower.”
“You should. I’ll help as much as I can,” she says.
The idea excites me so much that I begin staring off into space, happily imagining watching the tower being built before me. I haven’t felt so alive in a long time.
Scarlett is looking into my face curiously. She studies my eyes, and I am almost positive she can see the shape of the tower in them.
“Hey!” she says suddenly, jerking away from me. “Did you get an erection from thinking about your tower?”
I grin. “Maybe a little bit. But New York is pretty beautiful, too. And so are you.”
“You don’t have to pretend you like me,” she says with a roll of her eyes, gesturing out at the buildings sprinkled along the skyline. “I know you only get hard for them.”
“I might be slightly hard for them,” I joke, “but I’m mostly hard for you.”
“Sure,” she teases. “Forget lightning bolts, Cole. Let’s harness your love for inanimate objects.” She presses her body against mine seductively, kissing and biting my neck. “Pretend I’m a skyscraper,” she whispers. “With lots of well-placed windows, twisted and spiraling up into the sky, supertall, with a metal lattice framing my edges.”
“Oh my god,” I tell her, pinning her to the bed and kissing her deeply. “Don’t stop talking dirty.”
She scrunches up her face and tries to keep from laughing. “Um—I have different colored glass on each side, reflecting the sunset and sunrise in different ways. And at the very top, there’s a huge glass atrium filled with botanical gardens and greensp
ace, just the way you like it.”
“You know just how to get me going,” I tell her.
“Cole,” she says with a groan, smacking my arm lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah? What if I told you to pretend I was a super computer with incredible processing speed?”
“Ooh, tell me more. How much memory do you have?”
“Unlimited.”
“That’s definitely making me wet. Now can you stop talking and give me some of your raw sausage, please?”
I burst out in laughter. “Only if you never say that again.”
She laughs, too, softly, and looks up at me with total love and trust in her clear blue eyes.
There are no shadows.
A lump forms in my throat.
I can’t believe she is still able to laugh, and love me, with zero reservations, after everything that has happened to her. I guess that’s the whole point of her disorder—she can lock the bad memories away, somewhere else, with a different identity, so she doesn’t have to feel them. She doesn’t have to remember completely, not all the time.
I definitely find it to be less of a disorder, and more of a gift.
Chapter Nine
Chewing on my lip thoughtfully, I stand in front of the door to an old apartment complex that is literally crumbling before our eyes. I think I saw a few bricks commit suicide by faceplanting off the side of the building, just while I’ve been standing here and gathering the courage to knock. Even the bricks would rather take their chances with erosion, hoping to be reincarnated as something better, than suffer the humiliation of sitting on these structures. On the drive over here, Cole was pointing out the architectural failures of everything in the neighborhood, and his general verdict is that a strong breeze will make most of this fall down.
Brownsville is pretty depressing. Fifth Avenue was like a whole different dimension.
Cole was reading fun facts and crime stats as we approached, about how this is one of the most violent neighborhoods in Brooklyn, terrible for children, with gunshots more often than fireworks. I have been cringing at the rundown state of our surroundings, but since we visited Broke Hell hospital, I wasn’t expecting much more.
Cole is standing behind me, for emotional support, and he kneads my shoulders like I’m about to enter the ring for a boxing match. “Are you sure you’re ready to do this?
I give him a weak smile. “You care about my comfort levels now?”
“I’m sorry if I was pushing you before, but...”
“Don’t worry. I feel better. I feel stronger. I can handle this.”
Lifting my hand to the door, I steel myself and knock.
We left the hotel quite early, and didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Luciana and Rodriguez. It seemed like they might have been too hung over from emptying their minibar last night, or too exhausted from something or the other.
Because of our flight today, we wanted to make sure we had time to meet my mother before going to the airport.
I wait several seconds, and when there is no answer, I knock again.
“Do you think she might not be home?” Cole asks with concern.
“No idea. Hello?!” I shout through the door. “I’m looking for Mrs. Larson.”
We stand there for several more seconds, feeling awkward.
“Well, I guess at least we tried,” I tell Cole with a shrug. “I wasn’t really expecting too much after yesterday.”
“Don’t give up just yet.” Cole knocks on the door as well, a little more loudly than I did. “Mrs. Larson? We’re here on official business. It’s about your husband.”
After another long pause, we hear some shuffled footsteps inside. When there is the sound of locks being unlocked, and bolts being unbolted, I hold my breath.
The door cracks open just an inch, and I see a pair of fearful blue eyes, framed with white hair. “Is he dead?” she asks. “Is he dead?”
It looks like a tiny mouse is poking its head out of a hole in the wall, in a house where several hungry cats are known to live. I stare for a second, shocked at just how much her eyes look like my own.
Right down to the fear.
“No,” I tell her quietly. “He isn’t dead.”
“Oh,” she responds, and you can almost detect disappointment in her voice.
“Would you like him to be?” I ask her sweetly.
Cole elbows my side, and I turn to glare at him. What? I’m just offering to do a favor for this poor woman. I’ve never had the opportunity to help my mom with the dishes, or fold the laundry, mop the floors, toast bread for her breakfast, knit her... socks? Whatever it is that normal daughters usually offer to do to help their mothers. The least I can do, on this day, is offer to help take out the trash.
And by trash, I mean her husband.
“Where is Jim?” she asks in confusion. “He fell down—he fell down and couldn’t get up. I think he got hurt. Is he dead? Is he dead?”
“He’s almost dead,” I inform her. “He would be totally dead if some people didn’t have issues with perfectly appropriate patricide.”
Cole elbows me in the side again, and I elbow him back.
The old woman blinks as she stares at me. “You’re so beautiful. I used to look just like you when I was younger.” She opens the door a few more inches, so she can get a better look. “I used to look just like you,” she whispers. “Just like you.”
Her hand reaches out to touch my hair, and her fingers are wizened and bent with arthritis. Her eyes are glassy, and faraway, and it looks like she isn’t completely aware of what is happening. She takes a lock of my hair in her hand and stares at it.
“My hair was a lighter color,” she says, “but I could be your twin sister. Amazing.”
“Yes. That’s because...” I can’t bring myself to say it, when she’s staring at me in this curious way, peering closely and full of wonder.
“Come in, come in,” the old woman says. “Let me make you a cup of tea and braid your hair. Oh, I wish Liam was here, he would love to meet you.”
I take a deep breath, glancing at Cole. “Can my boyfriend come in, too?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the old woman says, not even glancing at Cole. “I will make tea. I will make tea.”
She shuffles through the house, and we enter, and move behind her.
The smell is awful. It hasn’t been cleaned properly in decades. When we get to the kitchen area, there is mold on the walls, and all the appliances, and I am fairly certain I see an actual mouse scurrying across the floor. I blink.
She moves to the stove and turns it on, busying herself with the motions of making tea. She moves very slowly, and her hands are shaking.
“Should we sit?” Cole asks.
“On those couches?” I ask him, glancing at the dirty fabric. “I think someone might have died on that sofa, and they might have had smallpox or the plague.”
“Scarlett,” Cole says, admonishing me. He moves over to sit on the couch with annoyance. “Don’t be rude.”
“Oh, really? Am I rude?” I whisper to him. “And abandoning your kid isn’t rude?”
The old woman turns around, after putting a teapot on the stove. She blinks, as though she has forgotten what she is doing.
“I’m sorry,” she says, wringing her hands. “I forgot I had visitors. Are you here for the rent? Are we late again? I don’t know where the money is... let me look.”
I look at Cole, surprised at her forgetfulness. “No, we aren’t here for rent,” I tell her. “We’re just here to talk.”
She moves around the kitchen, opening drawers, and finally, she finds a piece of paper and picks it up triumphantly. She comes over and hands it to me. “Here you go, will this do?”
I stare down at the piece of paper in my hand.
“This is a lottery ticket... from 1996.”
“Did it win?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jim says if we win the lottery we can pay the rent. Did we win? Did
we win?”
I swallow, turning to look at Liam. “I’m not sure, but thank you.” I place the lottery ticket in my pocket. There, now you can’t say I never received a sentimental gift from my mother.
“I’ll get the tea,” the woman says, and she returns to the stove to grab the teapot. She selects a small, chipped teacup and places it down on a damaged table, and begins to pour the tea.
But there is no water in the kettle.
Staring at this causes anxiety to mount in my chest. My heart begins to pump wildly, and I find myself taking a step backward. I am swaying slightly as I remember Benjamin’s tea party. I have to look away, and try to steady myself against the dizziness. I am afraid that I will lose consciousness, and become someone else.
“Do you take cream or sugar?” the woman asks.
“No, thank you,” I mumble, feeling sick. Cole is watching me with concern, but he does not understand half of what I am feeling and remembering.
The woman goes into her kitchen, and returns with a small ceramic jar, with a metal spoon sticking out of it. When she opens the jar, and begins to spoon sugar out into the empty teacup, a cockroach escapes the container.
I lift my wrist to my face, trying to cover my mouth to conceal my expression of disgust.
The woman doesn’t even notice the cockroach.
I turn to look at Cole, whose eyes are wide. He clears his throat, and slowly raises his body from the couch, brushing off his jeans. He glances back at the couch with concern as if suddenly taking my warning about the bubonic plague seriously.
“I forgot what I was doing,” the woman says suddenly, looking around and appearing very lost. “Where is Jim? Is he dead? He was hurting me, and I think I pushed him...”
“Jim has cancer,” I tell her. “He’s at Brookdale Hospital, and he’s probably going to die soon.”
“Oh, okay,” she responds. “I’m so sorry about the mess. I haven’t had visitors in a long time. What did you say your name was?”
I hesitate. “My name is Sophie,” I tell her in a quiet voice. “But that’s really not that name at all. It’s just one of the names I use. My name is also Scarlett.”