by Leisa Rayven
I’m shell-shocked. This man – the one who’s chivalrous and polite, who holds chairs and doors with such deference and care – he looked up to his abusive father?
“Max, I find that hard to believe.”
His expression turns steely. “Believe it. Before everything went to hell, people thought we were a great family. Rich, loving, successful. It was all a lie.” He gazes at a spot on the wall behind me, and it’s clear admitting this stuff is easier when he’s not looking at me.
“Dad treated Mom like she was a second-class citizen, while making Spence and me think we were gods. We were indoctrinated to believe that men ruled the world and women did what they were told, so we didn’t even question the way he treated Mom. It was natural. When we were old enough to realize that not all women were treated like that, it was too late.”
He shakes his head, angry at himself. “In our minds, Mom’s job was to keep us fed and the house organized, as well as look pretty and play nice for Dad’s rich, society friends. Her whole world was made to revolve around us, and that was the way we liked it. Especially Dad. Toxic masculinity at its finest.”
He looks over at the jewelry box, shame etched into his features. “There’s no doubt in my mind that we were the reason she killed herself. Her blood is on our hands. Especially mine.” He’s squeezing his hands together so hard, his knuckles crack.
I don’t know how he’d react to me touching him right now, so instead I try to make my voice as soothing as possible. “Max ... I can’t talk about the reasons your mom did what she did, but you can’t take responsibility for –”
“She asked for my help.” He clenches his jaw. “She tried talking to me about how she was feeling, and I ... I brushed her off. I didn’t have the time. I had more important things to do.” He goes quiet. “She tried to tell me she was struggling with depression, and I ignored it.”
I don’t know what to say. How can I possibly console him over that? It’s something he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life.
“I’m sorry.”
He stares at a spot on the floor. “I look back at how I treated my girlfriends in high school, even the few I dated in college, and I’m horrified. I’m disgusted that I allowed myself to be molded into my father’s image.” He looks over at me, a world of regret in his eyes. “I know you don’t trust me ... that you may never trust me ... but I’m genuinely trying to tip the karmic scales back to make up for what I did. I give my clients the man they need, whoever the hell that may be. I couldn’t do it for my mom, but I can sure as hell do it for them.”
It’s hard for me to think of Max treating women like possessions, but perhaps the anger I saw in him last night, the hard, dominating side of Maxwell, was a glimpse into how that might look.
“The phone call last night–”
“Was from my dad. He kept talking about all the things he wants us to do together when he gets out. I just want to beat him senseless for what he did to Mom. But as satisfying as I’d find that, it wouldn’t bring her back. And it wouldn’t change him. No matter how many people he destroys, he’ll always think he’s the sun, and the rest of the solar system should revolve around him.” He shakes his head. “I don’t care anymore. I have no father.”
Well, there’s something we both have in common. “Maybe your dad and my dad should get together and go bowling. Form a vortex of douche.” He tries to smile but doesn’t quite succeed.
“Vivian said you had to become Mister Romance because of financial problems.”
He nods. “Dad gambled. Compulsively. By the time he was caught with his hand in the company till, our house was mortgaged to the hilt, the business was dying, and he’d sold off most of our assets. Then the trial costs piled on top of that, and I dropped out of college, because I couldn’t afford the fees.”
He gestures around him. “Mom left me this warehouse in her brother’s name, but no one wanted to buy it. After I sold our family home and the house in the Hamptons, there was still a mountain of debt. Most of what I make these days goes to paying it off. A portion goes to the Valentine Foundation to help women like my mother, and every few months I sell off what’s left of our possessions and live off the cash. I haven’t started selling the jewelry yet out of respect to Mom, but I’ll have to one day.”
“The necklace you gave me ...”
“That was her favorite. At least, I think it was. I never asked. She wore it the most.”
I lean forward and put my hand on his. “God, Max, I’m so sorry.”
He plays with my fingers. “Last night, when you were talking about how your dad made you feel, it hit home. I wondered how many times my dad looked through Mom like she wasn’t there. I sure as hell know that Spence and I did it all the time. We damaged her the same way your dad damaged you, so ... yeah. I guess you’re right to be scared of me.”
He gets up and goes back to pulling out photos and putting them on the desk. “So, there’s a juicy backstory for you. Tortured son tries to make amends by helping women like his mother feel loved. Your editor will piss himself in delight from the possible headlines.”
“Max, I don’t have to write this. You’ve definitely changed my mind about your motivation, and according to our agreement –”
“Screw the agreement. Write the story, Eden. I’ll brace for the backlash.” His expression becomes hard. “I’ve run from all of this long enough. Time to face the music and move on. We all have moments in our lives when we have to decide if we’re going to stay comfortable in our bubble of ignorance or strive to be more than we were. I’m determined to be more. A better man than I was brought up to be. Only time will tell if I succeed.”
I want to hug him and tell him that sometimes, good people do bad things, because it’s so clear he’s already succeeded. But after so much truth he’s closed down, and when I go to touch him, he steps away from me.
“I have to go,” he says. “Don’t want to get on the wrong side of Nannabeth by being late to my own furniture sale.” He puts the box of photos on the desk and looks at them for a few moments. “Stay here as long as you like. Take whatever you need. Call me if you have any follow-up questions.” The look he gives me is of a defeated man. “Just promise me you won’t pull any punches. The one thing I don’t deserve is mercy.”
Then he walks away, and when the door closes behind him, I feel about as empty as the space around me.
* * *
After what just happened, I don’t really feel like collating the research, but I get the impression it’s important to Max that I write his story, so I promise myself to do it as sensitively as possible. After I shove the photos and documents into my bag, I turn out the lights and leave.
Knowing what he used to be like, my feelings for him are even more conflicted. He admits that he used to be exactly the type of man who inflicted so many scars on me. And yet, it hasn’t made it any easier to ignore the clawing, desperate need I have to be with him. Perhaps I’m more like my mother than I’d care to admit. Or, maybe, he’s less like my father than he’d ever believe.
I’m coming up the stairs from the subway station and heading toward the markets, when my phone buzzes. I smile at the screen before answering.
“I’m on my way, Nannabeth. Sorry I’m running late.”
“Darling granddaughter, it’s fine. The day you show up on time is the day I keel over and die of shock.” She laughs, which makes me smile. Nannabeth’s laugh is wicked and infectious, and it can make the most tragic of situations bearable. “I just wanted you to know that Sean the Lawyer has just arrived, and he’s looking even more attractive and single than usual.”
“Nan –”
“Wait, just hear me out before you dismiss this as meddling. It’s not. It’s lifestyle advice. Do you think someone like him comes along every day? Because I’m here to tell you, they don’t. He’s clean, has great taste in clothes, smells fantastic, is polite to old women – just stop me when I’ve convinced you – has a great body, his eyes ar
e amazing, he has a killer sense of humor, he’s –”
“An imposter.” God, I hate throwing cold water on Nan, but here goes. “He’s not Sean, Nan, he’s Max, and he’s New York’s highest paid male escort.”
There’s silence for a few beats, then she sighs. “Oh, Eden. You and your bizarre sense of humor.”
“Nan, I’m serious. I’m doing a story on him. I’ve been researching him for weeks, and he’s just told me his father was a malignant narcissist who brought him up to be a sexist pig. He says he’s changed and is trying to make up for all the harm he’s caused, so …”
“But he seems so ... lovely. You’re telling me he used to be an ass and now has sex for money?”
“No. It’s a long story. Anyway, I have to reevaluate how I feel after receiving this new information.”
“Has he ever mistreated you? Your radar for assholes is pretty good, honey. Goodness knows you’ve slept with enough of them. What does your gut say?”
I look both ways before crossing the busy street. “I don’t know, Nan. I think he’s worked really hard to become a good guy, but part of me still doesn’t trust him.”
“Could that possibly be the part of you who’s a pathological commitment-phobe?”
I roll my eyes as I get in line at a coffee place near the subway station. “I suppose that’s possible.”
“I’m not telling you what to do, sweetie, but you seem to have a genuine connection with him. Maybe you should give him a chance to prove what kind of man he is.”
“That sounds an awful lot like telling me what to do.”
She pauses. “Edie, I just want to make sure you don’t screw things up with him, because you’re too pig-headed. I never want you to make the same mistakes I have.”
“Men mistakes?”
“Yes, men mistakes. Haven’t you ever wondered why I never remarried?”
“I ... well, I – ”
“Let me guess. You think I loved your grandpa so much, I couldn’t face replacing him? Oh, Edie.” I hear a quiet sigh. “Your grandpa was a good man, and I did love him in my own way, but his death didn’t break me. I just never felt the need to replace him. Hearts are funny things. If they spend too much time being one size, they end up stuck that way.”
I finally reach the front of the line and signal to the barista for a large latte. Nan will be hankering for caffeine right about now, and this place is her favorite. “So, you’ve dated over the years?”
“More than you could possibly know. But I’d told myself so many times I didn’t need anyone, I started to believe it. Sound like anyone you know?”
“Nan ...” I hand over some cash before moving to the side to wait for my order. I’m feeling way too raw to have this discussion this morning, especially after what just happened.
“Sweetie, let me just say this one thing, and then I’ll shut up. Being alone for too long isn’t healthy. Loneliness is like a big, empty room inside you that echoes with the sounds of the life you’re not living. So you fill it with stuff – work, friends, pets – and over the years it becomes bearable, then comfortable. And after many years it’s so safe and warm, it becomes the new normal. And the worst part is, it’s so full of fake comforts, there’s no room for anyone else. But you deserve more than that. You deserve the world, and this Max ...”
I lean against the wall and close my eyes. “Nan, please don’t tell me he can give me the world. My feminist heart couldn’t take it.”
“I was going to say he could be your world, and you could be his. If you let him.”
Is that all I have to do? Let him be my world? She might as well ask me to catch the moon and slingshot around the stars.
“I’ll think about it, Nan, okay?” The barista calls my name, and I grab the coffee and head out into the street.
“That’s all I ask, muffin. I want to see you happy. When I was your age, I was –” She stops abruptly and makes a noise I’ve never heard her make before.
“Nan? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she says, but her voice wavers. “I’m just ... a little dizzy. Haven’t had much to eat yet. Or my coffee.”
“I’m bringing it now. If you’re really lucky, I’ll also stop to grab one of those double-choc brownies you love so much, but only if you promise to drop all topics related to men.”
“Sounds ... good. I –”
She goes quiet, and then I hear a crunching sound and cries of alarm.
“Nan?” My heart leaps into my throat. “Nan? Are you there?”
I hear running footsteps and scuffling, and then Max’s voice cuts through the rest of the noise. His tone is wrong. Too hard and way too panicked.
“Nannabeth! Nannabeth, wake up. Hey, come on. Just wake up for me.” There’s a pause. “Shit. She’s bleeding. Someone call an ambulance! Now!”
There’s a scraping sound before he comes on the line. “Eden?”
“Max, what the hell is going on?”
“Nannabeth collapsed. I think she cracked her head on the pavement.”
“Is she okay?” The half a second he pauses is a lifetime too long. “Max!”
“I don’t know. I have a pulse, but it’s weak. The ambulance is on its way.”
Without hearing anything else, I drop the coffee and break into a run.
EIGHTEEN
Weathering the Storm
By the time I got to her booth, Nannabeth had already been taken away, so I grabbed the first cab I could to the local hospital. When I race into the emergency room I’m so full of fear and concern I can barely breathe. I’m sure the receptionist is used to people showing up out of their minds with worry and demanding answers, and yet she sees something in my face that makes her hold up her hands before I’ve even opened my mouth.
“Ma’am, just calm –”
“Elizabeth Shannon. Where is she?”
“She’s with the doctors, so if you’ll just take a –”
“What happened? What’s her condition? Is she conscious? Is she...?” The word won’t even get past my throat. I can’t comprehend a world in which Nannabeth doesn’t exist. I just can’t. She has to be okay.
“Are you a relative?”
I nod, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. “I’m her granddaughter.” When I say that, I realize I need to call Asha to let her know what’s going on. She’ll probably want to come back.
Wait, no. She’ll cry, and if she cries then I’ll cry, and I can do that right now. I need to be strong.
“Miss?”
I glance up to see the receptionist holding out a clipboard. “If you could fill in these forms and give us Elizabeth’s details, I’ll get you some news as soon as I can.”
“Nannabeth,” I say, my tone clipped.
“I’m sorry?”
“She doesn’t like being called Elizabeth. Said that’s the name of a queen, and she’s barely a lady. Her name is Nannabeth.”
Her expression softens. “Of course. Just take a seat, and I’ll try to find out Nannabeth’s condition.”
I wander over to the plastic chairs and sit, my breathing ragged as I write in answers. I don’t know her insurance details or even if she has insurance. As far as I know, she’s never been in a hospital before today. For my whole life, she’s been the healthiest person I’ve ever met.
I pause when I get to the question about next of kin. It’s such a weird phrase. It should have a subheading that reads, Who should we call if your loved one dies?
My hands get clammy, and I wipe them on my jeans before attempting to write my name. My hand is shaking so hard, it’s barely legible. When I finish, I go and put the clipboard back on the receptionist’s desk. There’s a different lady now, and she takes it without looking at me.
I sit back down in the uncomfortable plastic and close my eyes. The room is spinning, and the last thing I need right now is to pass out, so I take deep breaths and lean down to get my head below my heart.
I keep telling myself she’ll be fine and that she’s one of the st
rongest people I know. At Mom’s funeral she was the only one who wasn’t blubbering. Asha was nine at the time, and I was eleven. I’d held Asha’s hand, and we both cried our eyes out as Nannabeth said a few words to the small crowd, which not surprisingly didn’t include my father.
A few weeks later when I asked Nan about controlling her tears, she said, “Sweetheart, I’m a person who cries at everything, so I’ve learned to cry at nothing.” I’d begged her to teach me, but she said no, because hardening your heart isn’t something kids should do.
I did it anyway. I never wanted to feel anything as deeply as I felt that day. So every time I’d feel too scared, or angry, or sad, to keep it inside I did this thing where I’d visualize I was on the deck of a ship being hammered by a vicious storm. I’d see myself diving into the ocean and swimming deep underwater. Even though I could see the mayhem above, everything was muffled and quiet down there, and as long as I could hold my breath, I could watch the boat get destroyed from a safe distance, without ever being in danger.
Right now I’m trying to see that boat, but I can’t. All I see is the storm.
“Eden?”
I look up and see Max standing there, wearing blue scrubs and a white jacket. He even has a stethoscope around his neck. My confusion must show on my face, because he shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “They wouldn’t let me go in, because I wasn’t family, so I improvised. I’ve played a doctor a few times. I know how to fake it.”
For some reason, that makes me laugh, but it’s too shrill and high-pitched, and Max looks at me in concern. Then I feel bad, because Nan could be in there dying, and I’m out here laughing with my ... well ... whatever Max is to me.
“They won’t tell me anything,” I say. “What’s going on?”
He squats in front of me and takes my hands, but I pull back. He can’t touch me right now. No one can.