Twisted Ever After

by Cole, Kayley

  "You were well aware that I was healthy," my father says. He looks up at me, unflinching, but the red that had tainted his cheeks when he had come running down the stairs has faded into a stark white. "You'd be exuberant to discover my corpse long after rigor mortis had set in."

  "And you should be well aware that the moment you put hands on my fiancee was the moment you increased the likelihood that I would slam a knife into your carotid artery and personally watch rigor mortis set in. With exuberance, of course."

  His eyes flicker over my face, some of the arrogance fading from his face.

  "I didn't mean to hurt her," he says. "You know us Amberdens— our ancestors were all loggers. The fact that I became a surgeon just means that all of that aggression has accrued. You must experience the same aggression as a director. We don't recognize our own strength."

  "I never hit a woman," I hiss.

  "I didn't hit her."

  "Are you talking about Ellie, or my mother?"

  His lip curls up. "Don't be a condescending son-of-a-bitch to me. At one point you had potential, and you squandered it. Don't resent me for your inadequacy."

  "I don't resent you for that. It's everything else I resent you for." I take a step closer to him. He takes a step back. "Let me be clear— you're no longer invited to the wedding. If you ever see Ellie again, you will treat her like she's Marie Curie or Sara Josephine Baker."

  "And if I don't, you're going to murder your own father?"

  "If you'd earned the title, it might mean a little more to me." I take another step forward. As he steps back, he nearly trips on the steps behind him. He shakes his head, steadying himself, but says nothing. "When is the last time you saw my mother?"

  He glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "Really? She has you contesting your mother's vanishing act too? Use common sense, Jake. She has a history of leaving. At this point, it must be classical conditioning whenever she senses that slight twinge of stress."

  "Ellie is concerned. I intend to quell her concerns. You must remember the last time you saw her."

  "I don't," he says. "Logically, knowing our patterns, it was in the early hours. I was either eating toast— buttered, if you insist on knowing all of the variables— or reading the newspaper— which still exist, if you are unaware of that. There's a conditional probability that I greeted her as she entered the room and an equal probability that she acted like I was a parasitic disease in her large intestine. Or the small intestine, it doesn't much matter."

  "So, she didn't seem worried or stressed at that time?"

  "Other than by my presence? No. She did sound strange when she called, though…"

  "When did she call?"

  "I would assume about two days after she ran away," he says. "I recall that clearly because she was apologizing for all of the insanity she committed wrong during our relationship and it was the first time I acknowledged she might not return this time."

  I shake my head. "Mom never apologizes about anything."

  "She did," he states. "Maybe she's finally maturing after fifty years. There's a higher probability that, if we divorce, she's deluded herself into believing that being benevolent now will assuage me from fighting tooth and nail for this house."

  I shake my head. "No. It's not like her at all. You don't think that's too weird? If she wanted to give that much of a… of an honest apology, don't you think she would have said it to your face?"

  "I stopped trying to figure her out on our first date when she ordered fries after I told her the danger of trans-unsaturated fatty acids."

  "Ellie could be right…" I say. "The only reason I could see her apologizing is if she thought or thinks she's about to die. Goddamn, this isn't good."

  I pull my phone out of my pocket.

  "What irresponsible idiocy are you undertaking now?" my father asks.

  "I'm calling your wife. Or is it ex-wife? Does the legal status matter?" I retort. I press my mother's number and hold my phone up to my ear. My father's eyes are burning. He might combust right in front of me, and I'm not sure how I'd react. I might get a glass of water to put him out. I might let the whole house burn to the ground.

  Her phone rings three times before her voice slips through.

  "Hello, this is Karen Amberden. I'm sorry, but I can't come to the phone right now. If it's a short message, please leave me a text. If it's a longer message, my email is KCAmberden247@mail.com. You can leave a voicemail, but it may take me some time to listen to it. Thank you for calling and I hope to speak to you soon."

  I hang up. I send her a quick text— come home.

  "She didn't answer?" he asks. "Maybe she lost it and it's run out of battery."

  "No. It's being kept charged or else it wouldn't keep ringing." I rub my fist across my upper lip. "I have to call the police."

  "She's fine," he says, but I'm already dialing 9-1-1.

  "9-1-1 operator. What is your emergency?"

  "My mother is missing."

  The words feel heavy on my tongue, but I keep talking. I focus on the facts until the emotions are irrelevant and the burning in my father's eyes dies out. He collapses down in his dining chair with the shattered glass beneath him. It would be quite an image for a film, but now it just looks like a series of mistakes concluding in a realization of my own arrogance.

  * * *

  Ellie

  Electric Phoenix is a 6'2" woman with teal hair, tattoos only on her hands, and a home business that makes party favors, wedding favors, centerpieces, and other intricate decorations.

  She has tiny bowls filled with the various favors she's made for me to check out, but she is incredibly insistent about talking about her centerpiece idea.

  "Betta fish," she repeats, drawing the shape of a fish on her massive table she has in the center of her living room. Even with the six different bowls on it, there's enough room to dance on it. "We put them in a beautiful vase and people will be entertained by them. It's an interactive centerpiece."

  "I mean, if we're going to go with entertaining, why don't we go with snakes?" I joke. Her face lights up and her hand claps down on my arm.

  "Holy rivers of love, that is genius! I love it. I bet I know a guy who could sell us snakes in bulk…”

  "Electric," Robin interrupts. "She has less than a month before the wedding, so we should stick to something a little more traditional."

  Electric makes a face. "You know I hate that word."

  "Yes, but you love getting paid."

  "I don't do it for the money." She rolls her eyes. "But, of course, there's always a risk of losing a bunch of snakes and… ugh, fine. Do you like the chocolates? The chocolates are good because most people like chocolate— or know someone who loves chocolate— and you don't have to risk them not liking a certain scent, but the soaps are something people are more likely to keep. The same goes for the succulents. The succulents are a happy medium, but they're less specialized. You definitely won't be the only wedding to have them."

  I chew on my lip. "I think… we're not going to go with the succulents. It doesn't go with the rest of the wedding."

  "I think Ellie needs some time," Robin says. "Can you give us a second, Electric?"

  "You're in my house. Where do you want me to go?"

  He pulls out his wallet and takes out a twenty dollar bill. "Here. Go get some breakfast."

  Her eyes narrow for a second, but she snatches the twenty dollars and walks away from us. I hear the jangle of her keys, then the entrance door opening and closing.

  "You didn't need to get rid of her like that," I say. I glance around the room. Electric's house is filled with eccentric decorations, though the most fascinating one is the stuffed vulture with a cigarette in its beak. "As hard as it may be to believe, I can think with other people in the room."

  "I just wanted you to be able to speak openly," he says. "You're not quite yourself right now. You haven't ducked away to write down some lyrics that popped into your head in our last two meetings. Is something goin
g on? You don't want to be buying anything too extravagant with a compromised mind."

  "My mind isn't compromised."

  "If I was better educated, I could use a more accurate word, but you're going to have to suffer with compromised right now," he says. He adjusts his Chicago Cubs cap, which Jake informed me was social suicide because he isn't anywhere near Illinois. "For the record, there's a food truck a couple blocks away from here that's selling breakfast burritos, so I don't think Electric is going to be gone long. Either way, I'm going to bother you about this until you tell me the truth, so you might as well start talking because I only sent her away for your benefit. I will continue this discussion right in front of her."

  I sigh, rubbing my temple. "You've done a fair amount of weddings, right?"

  "Yeah. A fair amount is an accurate description."

  "Do all couples have issues during the wedding planning? Do random things happen and everyone begins wondering if it's a sign that they're not supposed to be with each other?”

  He shrugs, unperturbed by the implication of my questions. "Most couples keep a straight face during everything— especially in Los Angeles— but I've seen it three or four times. But it's what happens when you apply pressure or stress to anything. You often see the worst in people."

  I had worn a sweater to cover up my bruise, but I feel like it's burning through the cotton now. I've seen the worst in Jake's father, but I'm not certain I've seen the worst in Jake.

  "I don't know what exactly I'm seeing, but I'm afraid it might be a reflection of my future," I say. "And I just feel like… maybe this isn't the right thing to do. Jake has never seemed to be the kind of person who would enjoy forced commitment. I was shocked when he proposed. I was incredibly happy, but shocked. I thought, at best, we'd be one of those couples who remain together but never even talk about marriage. Is it insane that I'm having such strong doubts?"

  "No, of course not," he says. "It's healthy. If you didn't have doubts, I'd think you were blinded by infatuation."

  I nod. "On the drive over here, I was thinking of setting up a hotel room for the two of us. We have amazing chemistry, so I figured maybe that would help— just being in a new environment without the pressure of the wedding. He's also a bit of a workaholic, but since tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I figure he can't work too much and he'll be more inclined to think it's a good idea."

  "That's a great idea. I could help set that up for you. I know this great hotel— Twin Ruby Royalty— with these suites that are meant to exude romance. They're also known for respecting a celebrity's privacy— all of the employees sign NDAs."

  "That would be amazing," I say. "But I don't want to give you too much responsibility. I know how busy you are…”

  "It's fine," he says. "Seriously, this is part of my job— to take the weight off your shoulders."

  I grab and squeeze his hand, gratitude rippling through me. He looks up at me, and his gaze is filled with such neediness that I pull my hand away. I take one of the video camera chocolates and pop it into my mouth. It's too sweet to eat whole. I should've known better. I should know better.

  * * *

  Jake

  There was a fork in the road of my life— when I could have become an infamous director or spent twenty-five to life behind bars. I was on the brink of seventeen and I had nearly saved enough money for living on my own for six months. It was tempting to leave, but I knew I wanted to live in Los Angeles and Los Angeles' rent costs are a lot higher than Denver's. During Thanksgiving, my parents returned home after having dinner, screaming at each other. My father hit my mother. I don't think it was the first time— she certainly didn't appear shocked— and I'd seen him grab and shove her before, but witnessing such brazen violence against a woman caused something to break in my brain. My first punch sent him sprawling to the floor. The next one caused a gush of blood to spurt from his mouth. After the third hit, I could hear him choking on his own blood. I could have kept going, but my mother told me to stop. I had no respect for her. I could have easily ignored her. But I didn't. All that happened was that I realized I'd never understand my mother and my father kicked me out of the house.

  So, overall, I'm not thrilled that I had to visit my parents’ house, then ask the police for help in locating my baffling mother, and to top it all off, it's Thanksgiving. When it rains it pours, and my only saving grace is the sexy musician in front of me, who has blessed me by only wearing a robe.

  Ellie unravels her cinnamon roll and takes a bite out of the end. Icing drips down onto her plate, but she quickly wipes it up and sucks it off her index finger.

  The blood rushes so quickly to my cock that it must vacate my head because all thoughts abandon my brain.

  Now, her mouth is moving. I should be concentrating. I should be focusing.

  “— And I figured we'd go with the chocolates and the rainbow-colored baby's breath for the centerpieces. Do you like that?"

  "Mmm. Sounds perfect."

  "Good." She takes another bite out of the cinnamon roll. "You don't mind that I saw Robin on my own?"

  "Do you want me to lie?"

  "Maybe," she says. She leans against the kitchen island, her elbows propped on either side of her plate. "I just want to be sure that you know I wouldn't do that to you. Even if I was doubting our whole relationship, I wouldn't hurt you like that."

  I nod. "I know. I just don't trust him. Or any man around you. You have no idea the effect you have on men. You're a shot of adrenaline encased in femininity."

  She smiles. "That's very sweet."

  "It's very true."

  "Well, he set up a hotel room for the two of us. It's going to be ready tonight. It's at the Twin Ruby Royalty, room 402. I figured we'd meet up there around seven."

  "Wow. He's very involved in our sex life."

  She smacks my shoulder. "It was my idea for the hotel room— think of it as a new Thanksgiving tradition, when we can act extra grateful toward each other. Robin just suggested the place."

  "You know wild horses couldn't stop me from being there."

  "Good. I can't wait to blow you away." She finishes her cinnamon roll. "I'm going to do some songwriting. You should eat a couple of these cinnamon rolls before they're cold."

  As she moves past me, she gives me a quick kiss on the lips. I can still taste the cinnamon on her lips and it makes me crave her, but I know once she gets into songwriting mode, an earthquake couldn't stop her, so I'll just have to settle for the cinnamon rolls.

  After I cut one away from the other rolls in the glass pan, the doorbell chimes. I take a large bite out of it, chewing as I walk to the door.

  Our home security system has a surveillance video on the security keypad. I glance at it before looking again.

  Holy shit.

  I jerk open the door and stare straight at my mother.

  "Mom," I say. "What the actual fuck is going on? Where have you been?"

  "I don't want to talk long," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just wanted you to know I'm okay. I don’t— I need you and Ellie to go forward with the wedding."

  "Is someone threatening you? Did somebody hurt you?" I look around her like there's going to be a thief in a black ski mask, hiding in bushes— which would be astounding since we don't have bushes near the front of the house.

  She shakes her head. "I would have called, but I don't want… I don't want anyone to figure anything out right now. I can't leave any kind of trail between us. I want you to be happy. You might not believe it, but that's all I ever wanted."

  She gets on her toes and tries to kiss my cheek, but I pull away. I gesture into the house.

  "Mom, come in. Explain everything to me. Where have you been?"

  She shakes her head. "I can't. I have to go. The paparazzi-- they're just outside your property. More of them are going to be coming soon. I need…”

  "Who gives a shit about the paparazzi? I don't. You shouldn't. Come in, Mom."

  "No." She turns around, ready t
o run. I grab her arm before she can. For a second, Ellie's bruised arm flashes into my mind, along with the memories of my father grabbing my mother the same way. I let my mother go. She gives me a pleading look— the same look she gave me when I beat my father. "Please, Jake. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I just needed you to know I was okay. Tell Ellie I'm okay too. Just stop trying to get ahold of me. Act like everything is normal at the wedding. Please. I love you."

  The words paralyze me. I watch her disappear around the house. I take a step outside, fighting the urge to follow her.

  Did she join a cult?

  Does she have a stalker that threatened Ellie and me?

  Did my father tell her not to contact Ellie or me?

  I grit my teeth together. I can't follow her. There's something vicious going on and I can't leave Ellie vulnerable. Suddenly, living outside of the city doesn't seem so smart. The fact that she got us a hotel room tonight might be a better choice than I originally thought.

  I close the door and reset the security alarm.

  My mother told me she loved me. Something is wrong— something is hiding in the shadows and I'm going to pull it out, kicking and screaming, if it's the last thing I do. I just hope it's not the last thing I do because I have a wedding I need to attend.

  * * *

  Ellie

  I pluck a few notes on my guitar. I hum a couple of notes, waiting for the right words to come.

  "Restless in this altar/where you praise and preach and propose/I hope you know/I'll love you in the light, in the dark/and in the afterglow."

  I stop and jot down the words. The entrance door slams shut downstairs. I set my guitar down, standing up to see if Jake left, but I hear something like a sob outside my window.

  I step over to the window. When I see the woman, the first thing that comes to mind is broken refinement. Things that are beautiful automatically qualify as tragic when their beauty is shattered by their anguish. It's human nature for us to look at something aesthetically pleasing and want to ensure it always stays aesthetically pleasing.