Turning on the Tide

by Jenna Rae

  “I’m sorry. I—I’ll stop.”

  The answer was a blubbering sob, an incoherent utterance that may have been a word but wasn’t.

  “I didn’t mean to—whatever we are, it’s me and pieces of you. That’s all. I’ll never get to see you, because you got broken into little splinters a long time ago. Didn’t you?”

  Lola nodded.

  “All I want is to just once go to bed with you without feeling like I’m trying to lure you away from the damned cliff. Is that really so wrong?”

  Lola shook her head as if in slow motion.

  “But this is all you’ll ever be, isn’t it?”

  There was a long delay, but finally Lola nodded.

  “And I’m supposed to just accept that.”

  But Del was talking to herself. Lola was gone gomer, and all she’d left behind was her body. Del watched the empty shell on the bed.

  “It’s just me,” she repeated tonelessly, “and the pieces of you he left behind.”

  Chapter Six

  The tension has been eating away at the lining of my stomach again, and I know it’s time to move forward. There’s risk involved in the testing process. I always have to meet the candidate face-to-face several times and often in front of others. What if some nosy friend or neighbor, ignorant of the value of my mission, interferes? What if the authorities take me away from my work? Who will save my angels, if I can’t?

  I take the medicine from the blue container, the one I can let people see. The other one, the red one arranged by my friend, that’s the one that matters, the one I already took today. My friend showed me that movie with Keanu Reeves, and the pills are like that, illusion versus reality. For the hundredth time, I am struck by the extent to which my friend has been instrumental in helping me face the truth, even when I didn’t know that’s what she was doing. Maybe she didn’t know that either. Maybe she’s an instrument as much as I am.

  In the red case rest the capsules my friend counts out carefully and cautions me against taking too many of. I have done that, once or twice, and lost a chunk of time. I know my friend is right, that losing time like that takes away from my mission. Still, I have enough recollection of the feeling of euphoria and relaxation from those lost hours and minutes to dream of recapturing those feelings now and then. Surely I’ve earned that? But my friend is right. It is the mission that matters, and I must not become too selfish to focus on my work.

  I used to lose focus a lot, before that first time in the hospital. And I fought taking any kind of pill for a long time. They made me sleepy and foggy. At least that’s what I thought before I realized that is how most people, normal people, think and feel all the time. It’s necessary that I know how normal people operate. How else can I assess which candidates are true lost girls? How else will I winnow out the chaff from my angels?

  Every time I begin the assessment process, I have to balance my hope that this lost girl is the one true angel who will free me with the need to focus on the girl herself. If I allow hope to blind me, I will end my work before it is done.

  The doctors, the medicine, the therapy groups and meditation sessions and my own mind…all of these conspire to muddy my thoughts, and I must struggle every waking moment—and my moments are nearly all waking ones, even with the pills—to keep my mind clear. I can never be sure. I can never feel confident that my thinking is still pure and untainted by emotion and social norms and personal influences. Maintaining the façade I have chosen can color my thinking too, as it did to my friend. She was stained by the very evil she was attempting to eradicate! Again, as happens so often, despair tugs at me and makes me bow my head. I eye the red pills. One at a time, they keep me on task. A small handful would be enough to kill me. I could end the pain and fear and doubt and guilt. I could just stop. After all, I could save a thousand lost girls, and there would still be millions left, suffering and miserable. I am a tiny broom trying to sweep clean a very large and dirty world.

  Ah, I have indulged my self-pity and doubt too long. My work continues, and I plot and plan as deviously as any villain. I am the instrument of good, I remind myself, no matter how dark my thoughts may be. I stand at the dock and watch my vessel bob up and down in the lapping waves. My angel awaits and I must not tarry.

  Chapter Seven

  “Lola!” Marco’s rich, warm voice filled Lola’s ear. “How’s my best girl?”

  “Looking for a date.”

  He laughed. “I talked you into it?”

  “If you still want to go with me. I need to learn how to be part of things.”

  There was a long pause, and Lola worried her friend and neighbor might have changed his mind about going to the Meetup get-together.

  “You know how to be gay, honey. You’re doing it right now.” He snickered. “Well, hopefully, not right now.”

  “Marco!” Why did it always feel good to talk to him? What was it about his company that made her feel like she wasn’t defective or deficient?

  “’Cause I’m not sure why you’d call in the middle of—”

  “I’m so glad you’re my friend,” Lola blurted. “I feel like a real person with you.”

  “O—kay,” he responded. “Come on, stop being such a tease and say you’ll definitely go with me!”

  “Okay. But if you back out, I’m not going without you.”

  “Deal. Wear something blue.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Sooo, take the hint.”

  Lola hung on to her courage until after she’d hung up the phone. What was she doing? She was actually going to meet a group of strangers, on purpose? At least she didn’t have to go by herself. It would, she told herself, be fine.

  “Right?” She could have sworn the word actually echoed in the empty house, and no voice piped up to reassure her. It was nighttime, and the house was bathed in twilight. How had she let the whole day slip by? It was like the old days, the bad days with Orrin, when hours would go past without Lola’s realizing, and then Orrin would be almost home and she’d have to hurry, hurry, hurry to finish her chores before he came home and got mad.

  “I went away last night,” Lola announced to the empty house. It had been a long time since she’d gone away, since Christopher James came and scared her and hurt her and she was afraid he would hurt Del. “Maybe that’s why I’m sleepy today.” Going away, sliding down into the dark, safe hole in her mind where no one and nothing could hurt her had always left her drained. What did it mean, her going away like that? “Just, I’m a big baby, that’s all. Del’s right. I’ve been a big, stupid baby too long.” The evening slipped by as quickly and senselessly as had the day, and Lola got ready for bed with relief.

  By the time Del came home from work, Lola was asleep. Well, close enough to asleep that it would have been silly to turn over and greet Del. I’m not lying, Lola told herself, keeping her breathing slow and even. I’m not avoiding her. She felt moisture leak from her eyes and swallowed hard. Del muttered a soft something, and Lola held herself quiet and still. I’m tired, she argued with herself. Besides, what do I have to talk about with her? Nothing. Tomorrow night, I’ll have something to talk to her about. I’ll tell her about going to the Meetup thing, and she’ll know I’m trying to get better. The night was endless, and Lola held herself still for hours, ignoring the way her neck and shoulders hurt. Every time she started to relax, she was startled back into frozen rigidity when Del muttered in her sleep or turned over or brushed against her. By the time the sun came up, Lola was shaking with exhaustion and wanted to cancel the outing. Then she got three texts from Marco, reminding her to wear blue, and she knew she couldn’t let him down.

  Marco pointed out various landmarks and attractions on their way to Pier 39, which relieved Lola of the need to make conversation, and it wasn’t until they were striding toward the group that he grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

  “They’re gonna love you.”

  She shook her head. “No, they’re gonna love you. I’m just plan
ning to ride your coattails.”

  Marco’s belly laugh turned a few heads, most of them male. Not one of the women who looked seemed to even see Lola. There were almost forty people in the group, nearly half of them women, and she didn’t see a friendly face among them.

  Is it really that they’re unfriendly? Or is it that I don’t know how to talk to people? I never have. Her stomach hurt, all of a sudden, and she fought a wave of nausea. She was sweaty too.

  “Maybe I’m sick,” she croaked. “I think I’m sick.”

  Marco shook his head but didn’t look at her. “Smile, sweetheart. You’re beautiful when you smile.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You’re not sick. You’re scared. Just ignore that and pretend they already like you.”

  “Okay.” She tried to do that, she really did. But her smile felt fake, and her greeting sounded phony, which didn’t much matter since no one seemed to notice her.

  Marco spent the first several minutes of the walking tour trying to facilitate for her. Everyone was polite, everyone responded appropriately, and not one person wanted to talk with her. Lola felt exactly the way she’d always felt in groups, overwhelmed and distressed by acute self-consciousness. She knew no one was really paying any attention to her but still felt inspected and rejected.

  The crowd splintered into smaller groups as they walked. Marco kept Lola involved in his interactions, but she knew she was being unfair. He wanted to make friends too, and she was getting in the way.

  “Go,” she whispered, when the majority of the group wanted to go in the wax museum. “I think it’s creepy. Go, mama hen, I’ll be fine, I promise. You’re just holding me back.”

  Marco grinned at her silliness. “Meet at the restaurant at one?”

  “Go on, have fun looking at your creepy candle people.”

  She trailed along after the diminished remains of the group but didn’t try to engage anyone. By this time, she was staying only so that she wouldn’t upset Marco or draw attention to herself by leaving early. She looked around. If she didn’t talk to anyone, Marco would feel bad. She zeroed in on the least intimidating woman in the group, a petite blonde in a velour sweat suit.

  “Hi, I’m Lola. What’s your name?”

  The woman didn’t respond, so Lola spoke in a more forceful voice that, she realized belatedly, was still barely audible.

  “Have, have you been here before?”

  The woman’s head slowly swiveled, and she eyed Lola coolly. “Are you talking to me?”

  Lola nodded, blushing.

  The woman made a face. “Of course. Haven’t you?”

  “Well, actually no. It’s lovely here.”

  “Yes, it’s very nice. Listen, have fun, okay? I need to catch up with my friends.” The woman sped up. Apparently the conversation was over, but that was okay. Now Lola could tell Marco she’d talked to somebody. She let herself fall behind the group a bit more, wishing for the thousandth time that she knew how to talk to people and make friends and, just once, be a part of things.

  “What a gorgeous day!” An elderly woman trilled this to her companion as she walked past Lola. And it was. The whole scene looked like a postcard for some fake Hollywood version of the normally gray, misty city. The sun was bright and warm, the sky a rich, brilliant blue. The water in the bay seemed to dance with light and color and rhythm. There were hundreds of people walking, skating and cycling around the stores, vendor stalls and street performers. Lola stopped to watch acrobats and jugglers, and she peered at elaborate window displays, and it was all beautiful. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw dozens of pretty sailboats and excursion vessels crowded around the wharf. By the time she realized it was one already, she was a hundred yards or more from the group. She saw Marco looking around and waved broadly, hurrying toward him.

  His face was such a welcome sight that she almost hugged him, but she didn’t want to embarrass him.

  “How was the creepy museum?”

  “You know, it was a little creepy,” he admitted. “You should have come, though. We could have made fun of it all together.”

  Someone called Marco’s name, and he dragged Lola along, rejoining the group.

  “You look like somebody stole your ice cream cone,” he said through his teeth as they rushed along. “Didn’t the other little girls play nice with you?”

  “I talked to a lady,” she crowed.

  “Yes.” Marco nodded with a wide, sardonic smile. “I can see you made a new bestie, and she’s right here, isn’t she? She’s two inches tall and has wings and a magic wand, and if you shake her dust on you, you can fly!”

  “I did!”

  “What you mean is, you talked to someone for five seconds so you could tell me you talked to someone?”

  “Oh.” Lola pursed her lips. “It’s that obvious?”

  “Ye-es. Are they all meanies?”

  “They’re not the problem.”

  “Don’t say that, honey.” He linked arms with her. “Come play with the boys. We’ll have fun, I promise.”

  While they waited for their tables, Marco introduced her to his new friends. He tried to draw her into the conversation a few times, but everyone was talking about places she’d never been and people she’d never met. Lola tuned them out and eased away from the crowd.

  She stood with her hands wrapped around the guardrail and watched a woman in a bright red sweater bring in an old-fashioned fishing boat, slipping it gracefully through the narrow channels left by other boats and tying it up at the dock. Her short, dark hair, whipped by the wind, looked playful, but her movements were crisp, efficient, focused. Lola smiled.

  “It looks like a commercial.”

  Marco eyed her. “For what? L.L. Bean?”

  “Tampons.”

  Marco laughed loudly, and Lola flushed. “You don’t have to babysit me. Go play with your friends.”

  “Oh, God, not yet. Maybe after a glass of wine. Or three.” He inhaled slowly, and she mirrored him unconsciously.

  “What’s wrong? Everyone seems to love you. Which,” she added, “is easy to understand.”

  Marco stood beside Lola, gazing out at the water. “I have less patience with it all these days.”

  “With what all?”

  “I don’t know. The posturing, the little digs. I used to love it, playing the game, knowing everything about everyone and using it to push myself up the ladder. But now, I just want to stay home and paint. The whole social thing seems like a lot of work anymore.”

  “So why did you want to come?”

  Marco turned to smile at her. “Same reason you did. I want to have some kind of life outside my marriage.”

  Lola made a face. “At least you’re good at faking it.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

  “Trust me, it is.”

  Marco narrowed his eyes, then tilted his head. “Can I paint you?”

  She waggled an imaginary cigar. “I don’t know, sonny, can you?”

  He swatted at her arm. “Come on, I’m serious. Can I?”

  She frowned, considering. “May I think about it?”

  “No worries, my sweet.”

  She nodded. “Nice change of subject, my sweet.”

  “Thank you.” He gave her his most charming smile. “I’m what they call smooth.”

  “So why do really you want a break from your new friends?”

  “I don’t know. New people are a lot to take in.”

  “Yeah.” Lola took his hand and smiled. “They really, really are.”

  They ended up sitting apart at lunch, because the organizer insisted on splitting up the women and men. Lola couldn’t seem to engage anyone. Soon, she gave up and ate in silence, eavesdropping on the various conversations around her. She thought maybe she’d be able to learn what she was doing wrong, but it felt strange to just sit and listen to other people talk. Then several people shifted chairs, and she ended up with a new neighbor, with whom she was at least able
to make fleeting eye contact and exchange a polite nod.

  “I hate these things, don’t you?” The stranger frowned at the chatting crowd around them, and Lola answered without thinking.

  “Then why did you come?”

  “Oh, damn, that’s a good question.”

  Lola raised an eyebrow.

  “Uuhhh.” The woman laughed. She was pretty, maybe around forty, with black hair, dark eyes and a wide smile. She gave Lola a pointed look.

  “Sorry.” Lola grimaced. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “No, it’s okay. I just feel weird answering when I don’t even know your name.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Lola.”

  “I’m Sterling.” Her handshake was firm, her hand strong and heavily calloused.

  “So, why did you come?” Lola flushed. “Sorry, I should let you off the hook. Never mind.”

  “No, it’s a fair question.” Sterling laughed, and the sound made Lola smile. “People always hang out with the same groups. And they never want to let anyone into their exclusive little cliques.”

  Lola tried not to agree too enthusiastically.

  “Not to mention, everybody’s slept with everybody else. This one is that one’s ex, and that one’s and that one’s, and it’s all one big, incestuous family. Don’t you think?”

  Stung anew at the reminder of Janet, Lola nodded.

  “So, who here is an ex of yours?”

  Lola scrunched her nose. “Nobody.”

  Sterling boggled at her comically, and Lola faked a smile. She really didn’t want to have to explain herself to Sterling or anyone, but she wasn’t sure how to get out of it.

  “What about you, Sterling? Who here is an ex of yours?”

  The waiter interrupted them, and when he left Sterling went to the restroom. Maybe, Lola thought, she escaped because she didn’t want to have to explain herself, either.

  They were seated in front of a large window overlooking the marina, and Lola was enchanted by the scene laid out before her. Birds, seals, boats, bikes, people walking and talking and flying kites—the whole area was alive with movement and color, but from inside the restaurant, it was noiseless. It was like looking at a painting.