Lead Me Back

by Reiss, CD

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want.”

  “Sweet girl, we have to talk about the past or it eats our future.”

  “I hate it.”

  “I know. When you were in preschool and you got in trouble . . . I think you were rooting around someone else’s lunchbox for candy . . . you went into a fit the likes of which . . . let’s just say it wasn’t like you. You didn’t throw tantrums because you didn’t get a cookie. You could take no for an answer. But getting caught doing something? You flipped, then you froze us out. Wouldn’t look at either me or your mother. You wouldn’t let us talk to you about it. We figured you were punishing yourself so much we didn’t have to.”

  “How old was I?”

  “Three.”

  I slid back down between the sheets, ashamed of my toddler self, because my adult self wasn’t that much different.

  “I’ll bring some water.” He stood up.

  “M’kay.”

  He shut off the light, and I fell asleep to the sounds of good men talking and laughing downstairs.

  CHAPTER 18

  JUSTIN

  After Kayla left the studio I cut the session short. I couldn’t think about music, knowing I’d been such an ass. Ken had asked me to hold off, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. And I’d had sex with her. Promised monogamy. Led her on, knowing there was this dumb vetting process happening behind her back. Then, because taking it all the way was the Justin Beckett brand, I punished her for getting molested by her boss.

  And that stupid sweater. I’d worn it to give her the chance to just tell me what happened, but what I’d really done was stick her nose in a steaming pile of shit.

  So, obviously I didn’t sleep, which was why I got Louise’s text at six in the morning.

  —Ned is dead—

  She didn’t reply when I texted back, so I drove over there.

  “Weezy!” I called as I got in with my key.

  “Coming!”

  I went into the kitchen. The coffee was cold, so I made a fresh pot. She blew in wearing jeans, Crocs, and a cardigan, while the coffee maker dripped. I gathered her up in a hug.

  “I’m so sorry, Gram.”

  “Oh please.” She pushed me off. “He had it coming.”

  “What?”

  “Yesterday, the plumber came.” She took the pot off the burner while it was still dripping, leaving a sizzling pool behind.

  “Weeze! Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I am.” She put the pot back. “The plumber left the garage door open so his van could stick out. I came back from lunch with the girls, and there was Ned . . .”

  “Oh man. You found him?”

  “Going through the Baby Justin containers your parents left. And I said to him . . .”

  “Hang on.”

  “I said, ‘You motherfucker, what the hell are you doing?’ And he stands there with your second-grade report card in one hand and that folder of songs you wrote when you were thirteen in the other, and he says, ‘I was just curious, baby.’” She shook her head and sipped her coffee. I waited for her to tell me about Ned’s heart attack.

  “Baby,” she sneered. “Can you even believe the nerve? If your grandfather ever called me that when he was caught red-handed—which, believe me, he was, and not with ephemera, either—I would have—”

  “Weeze. What happened to Ned?”

  “Well.” She put her cup down. “His hands were full, so I reached into his pocket and took his phone. Guess what was on there. Right there, pretty as you please, an eBay account with your baby pictures. The ones from my goddamned closet. He was getting good money, too, that’s the truth.”

  “Did you . . .” I paused before saying something I’d regret, then said it anyway. “Did you hurt him?”

  “You bet I did. He started giving me some story about his pension checks, and I got so mad. I punched him right in the chest and told him where to stuff his big, fat dick.”

  She punched a guy who just had a heart attack in the chest. Ned had gone from plain dead to murdered by my grandmother.

  “And?”

  “And what? He started crying and begging blah blah. Then the plumber came downstairs to get something from the van and asked me if I needed him to remove the gentleman.” Another sip of coffee. “Naturally, I said yes. Couldn’t refuse an offer like that.”

  “And?”

  “And the plumber left this morning right before I texted you. You look hungry. I can make you some . . .” She opened the fridge. “. . . eggs all right?”

  “So, Ned is dead or nah?”

  She put the carton on the counter. “Dead to me. The sink is fixed, though.”

  I pressed my forehead against the cool granite. This woman was going to cause my death before Ned’s.

  “I hope you like scrambled.” She cracked eggs into a bowl.

  “Sure.” I got up and grabbed a loaf of bread. Might as well make toast, seeing as no one was dead and my grandmother wasn’t going to prison.

  “Have you thought about your birthday?” she asked.

  “Nah.”

  “Coming up. I can throw you a little something here.”

  “I have a wrap party that night.”

  “I don’t know how many more of your birthdays I’ll be around for, but all right.”

  “I’ll take you out to dinner, okay? I’m not up for a thing.”

  “Why not? You’re always up for a—”

  “I’m just not!” I didn’t mean to shout, but my voice echoed. I snapped the bread down in the toaster. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Yelling at you.”

  “I’m not made of sugar.”

  I thought she was going to let it go, but no. Not my grandmother.

  “Though,” she said, “why you yelled is another story.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Is it because you’re getting old?” She put her hand on my back. “It only gets better, you know. Older you get . . .”

  “I’m turning twenty-six.”

  “And such a handsome man,” she said, grabbing my jaw in one hand. “Your beard’s growing in.”

  Facial hair had been a reality since I was twelve, and she knew it. She released her grip and stirred the eggs.

  “I didn’t shave this morning.”

  “In some cultures, men wear beards when they get married. I think you’d look nice. It’s the style now.”

  “I’m not getting married.” The toast popped.

  “Obviously.” She turned off the gas under the eggs. “Whoever this girl is, let her go if she makes you this cranky.”

  “Weeze, please.”

  “I’m just saying. Your grandfather made me miserable, and it wasn’t worth it. Happy and single is better than married and cranky.”

  “There’s no girl.” I lied because I’d convinced myself I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Good. You made the right choice.”

  “I didn’t make a choice! And she doesn’t make me cranky!”

  “Is this the girl with the roses? With your number?”

  “Can I have my eggs now, please?”

  She pursed her lips and prepared two plates of toast and eggs, silently sliding my breakfast to me over the bar.

  “Okay, look,” I said. “You know all I ever loved is doing my thing. The music. Okay? And acting is so cool, it’s next best. That’s all I ever wanted, and I worked hard. I know I had it easy, and I had it all early, but I worked. I earned it. I’m not throwing it all away for someone who thinks I’m some kind of douchebag asshole.”

  “Why would anyone think that?”

  “Because I’m a douchebag asshole, okay? And whatever. I did stuff, and until the day I put it behind me, my career comes first.”

  Anyone with emotional sense would have advised me to follow my heart and let my career take care of itself. But my dad didn’t come from nowhere. Professional urgency was baked into our genes.

  “Oh, I agree,” she said. “Not abo
ut the douchebag asshole part. Your grandfather had a corner on that, and trust me, you aren’t anything like him.”

  I shoved my eggs onto the toast.

  “I know.”

  “So, no birthday party?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where are you taking me for dinner?”

  I rooted around my brain for the nicest restaurants in Los Angeles, when I should have been wondering why she’d given up so easily.

  CHAPTER 19

  KAYLA

  The difference between an industrial sewing machine and your grandmother’s home Singer was power. The cute motor of the home unit hisses and hums. The factory machine pounds like a pile driver.

  The headache I woke with in Dad’s guest room was a steady industrial thump hammering a seam that started somewhere around my waist and ended a few inches below the ceiling. The Advil and water by the bed turned the beating pain down enough to lie in bed and really give myself the lashing I deserved.

  It was out. People knew. Everything I’d done and had failed to do had followed me thousands of miles like an empty can tied to my ankle on a long string.

  I’d been happy at Josef Signorile. That was the worst part. I’d felt valued for my creativity and talent. I’d been so happy that when a position in outerwear opened up, I pushed for Brenda to fill it. When Signorile put his hands on me, I told myself I was too happy there to rock the boat. I didn’t want to get fired, so I didn’t tell Brenda. I didn’t tell anyone. I barely even reminded myself of what had happened.

  Then he did it to her. It was my fault twice over. I’d gotten her the job, then I didn’t warn her.

  I’d spoken up too late. Brenda had moved already, so she couldn’t vouch. Signorile’s wife had changed his schedule for that day, planting a meeting with her across town that never happened. I was now a liar. I would always be what men feared and women resented. Even Dara Signorile—the wife—resented me. I didn’t know how she held resentment and guilt in her head at the same time. A week later, I knew she wasn’t. The guilt must have been taking the oomph out of her resentment, so she got rid of it. She called me to the fourth floor late in the afternoon to give me denim overages. She begrudged me my truth, because she lied and I hadn’t, so she paid off her culpability in protecting a first-order scumbag. She gave me the selvedge and said she hoped I “learned from this experience.”

  I learned all right.

  My lesson was that you can’t win against power. Not outright. The only thing you could do was keep your head down, take the Japanese denim given to you, and bust your ass to become the power that tried to break you.

  So I’d left. I turned my back because so many backs had been turned on me.

  What a selfish brat.

  The headache didn’t abate as much as move to my chest, squeezing it sharply with a drawstring of guilt.

  Who was he grabbing now?

  Brenda hadn’t wanted that job at Signorile, where the sample size was a six and the fit model was five eleven. She wanted to work on her sizes, but she needed money. I told her to stay for a year. Learn the ropes. Wait for something more suitable to appear. I gave her the most mature advice I could, then acted like a child over and over again.

  From somewhere under my father’s clean white sheets, my phone vibrated against my hip.

  When would a phone ringing not make me think of Justin Beckett?

  I dug it out on the third ring. A number in Redondo Beach, California. I had no idea where that was and answered it anyway.

  “Hello?” a woman said. Middle-aged husky with a gentle singsong quality.

  “Who is this?” I asked with the phone between my ear and the pillow.

  “This is Wanda.” Big dogs barked in the background. “Aunt Wanda. Is this Justin’s number?”

  I sighed. She seemed too nice to snap at.

  “You have the right number, but the wrong number.”

  “Oh?” she said as a little yippy dog joined in. It sounded just like Zack’s dog, Buster. “Muffin! Down!”

  “This is his old number.”

  “Hold on. Let me get the babies a treat.” A box shook, and she cooed about what good dogs she had. They went utterly silent. “Now sit.”

  “Is that a Chihuahua?” I asked.

  “Yes, and she’s the alpha around here, aren’t you, sweet girl? So, okay, so I’m sorry to bother you, but Louise told me to call about the surprise party?”

  “Surprise party?”

  “For Justin’s surprise birthday. Saturday? She said to RSVP with his assistant. She said you were very nice.”

  I got myself up on my elbow. My empty stomach did a half twist, but my head didn’t object too much.

  “That’s very generous of her, but I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Right. I know. You’re trying to protect the guest list.”

  “No, it’s not—”

  “And I’m supposed to tell you something so you know I’m really his aunt.”

  “I believe you. Really.”

  “When Justin was seventeen, he was playing this big stadium in Beijing. The one they used for the Olympics? Well, he was such a big deal, but he found out Marcie died . . .”

  “Who’s Marcie?”

  “Our Great Dane. Lived sixteen years, but the cancer treatments were too much for her old heart. Justin paid for them, by the way, and when he found out she didn’t make it, he flew all the way back here right after the concert so he could be at the funeral with us.”

  “Wow.” I gave her the answer she was hoping for, and maybe if I wasn’t feeling like a pile of Marcie’s steaming poop I would have had more feeling behind it.

  “Then,” she continued, “he flew all those hours back for his show in Tokyo. Now if that’s not Justin, I don’t know what is . . . right, Minnie?” She paused for licking noises. “So, it’s me. I’ll be there.”

  “Aunt Wanda.” I repeated her name and dropped back to the pillow.

  “And Uncle Herb too.” One of the big dogs belted out a couple of woofs.

  “Got it.”

  “See you there!”

  “Bye,” I said.

  She hung up. I sighed and found Louise’s number. I hadn’t known her last name, so Louise was right next to Annie Loranda . . . Brenda’s mother in Houston. We’d spent our last spring break in Houston so we could work on our projects without social distractions.

  I tapped Louise’s number before I got caught up in a depressing whirlpool of guilt, and was sent to voice mail.

  “Hey, Louise. This is Kayla. The girl who brought Ned’s roses. Listen. You gave Justin’s aunt Wanda the wrong number. She and Herb are coming to the party, by the way. But if you could make sure to give the right number out, that would be great. Thanks.”

  When I hung up, the contacts came back on the screen.

  Annie would know where Brenda was. I knew her, and she was a decent person who would be nice to me even if she hated me for what had happened.

  I could just get her number and call Brenda when I was ready. Maybe in a few months. A year. Never, even.

  With the promise to myself that I wasn’t doing anything more than gathering information I didn’t have to act on until I was ready, I tapped Annie’s number.

  “Hello?”

  It wasn’t Annie. Right away, I knew that voice.

  “Hi,” I said. “Uh, I was calling for Annie, but—”

  “Kayla?”

  “Brenda?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Brenda, I’m so sorry!” The rest came out in an unpunctuated stream. “It was all my fault I was a coward and I put you in a terrible position it wasn’t fair I understand if you never forgive me but I miss you.”

  I put my hand over my eyes to block both the sun coming through the window and the rebuke I was sure I deserved.

  “No!” she cried. “I left you there holding the bag. I knew what was happening, and I ran away and hid.”

  “But you had to.”

  “I didn’t.
But I was so scared and I just . . . for the first time in my life I hated this body.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “I miss you so much. How are you?”

  “Terrible. I’m in LA. There’s this guy? And he found out what happened. Now he hates me.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “Yeah. Fuck him.”

  “Fuck him with a serving spoon.”

  Even though it made my head hurt, I laughed.

  “Tell me how you are,” I said.

  “A little stuck.”

  “Oh no.”

  “For a long time, I felt his hands on me whenever I closed my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I almost flew back to New York to defend you a hundred times, but I couldn’t. I was in the airport once, and I had a panic attack at the gate.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I was a bad friend, and I’d understand if you hate me.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “I thought you hated me. And you should. I should have warned you.”

  “We all knew, Kayla. Remember Winnie? Who he paid off? And there was this NDA?”

  I sat up all the way, brow furrowed, remembering the atmosphere at Josef Signorile Inc. I’d pushed the toxicity to the back of my memory and propped up his support to block the view.

  “Right,” I said. “I forgot about that. There were lawyers everywhere for a week.”

  “We all went out for drinks when she resigned. She bought us all rounds, but it was like her mouth was sewn shut.”

  “And Alicia.”

  “Same. Right?” Brenda said. In my mind I could see her pacing with her pointer finger waving in accusation. “She went on that LA trip with him and came back a different person.”

  “I asked her, but she said everything was fine.” Of all my failures, the ones that hurt the women right in front of me weighed the most. “I should have pressed harder. I should have made her tell me.”

  “We all knew there were roaches behind the cabinets, but we kept cooking supper.”

  “We stayed. It’s our—”

  “Don’t you say it!” She cut me off. “My mother spent thousands on therapy so I’d stop telling myself it was my fault. I’ll save you the money. Josef Signorile worked really hard to make sure we didn’t know anything for sure. He groomed us with compliments and creative freedom. We gave him the benefit of the doubt, and he used it against us so he could . . .” Her deep swallow was audible. “So he could assault us. Use us. Treat us like meat when we felt most confident. You know what you did? You made it harder for him to get away with it.”