The Grey Door

by Danna Wilberg

  “Tell me about your other relationships.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I’ve had my share of sexual partners, mostly in my senior year of college. Just before graduation, I loosened up, went to bars, got a little crazy. Nothing that amounted to dinner on Sundays with the folks. The men I chose to have sex with were just that…sexy. I was sexually attracted to them; nothing more. I wasn’t one to go on the prowl, but if I met someone at a bar or a party—”

  “Where did you have sex?”

  “Where?” Grace had to think. “At their place.” Dr. Meltz made a notation.

  “How about your dad? How is your relationship with him?”

  “He has Alzheimer’s.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear he’s ill. We were close friends at one time, you know. When I moved to Sacramento…well... I haven’t talked to your folks in years.”

  “I’m not convinced he and Mom were the ideal couple.” Grace picked at the fuzz on her slacks. “I think he cheated on her.” Grace waited for Dr. Meltz to chime in. When he didn’t, she said, “I have no proof. Bits of the past have been seeping into my conscious mind lately, making me wonder.”

  “Were you and your dad close?”

  “He was good to me. He kept up on my soccer games, helped me with my homework, took pictures when I went to school dances.”

  “Did he kiss you goodnight?”

  “Maybe when I was small. I don’t remember. My mom and dad had crazy schedules.” Grace felt her muscles contract. She couldn’t recall her dad kissing her goodnight. He wasn’t affectionate with anyone. Grace always assumed it was because he was a surgeon. “He wasn’t a warm, fuzzy person. You know that. But he was open. My parents were very open about everything: sex, drugs, religion…my friends.”

  “Ever think about siblings, Grace?”

  Grace thought about Becky, a client whose brother tied her to a chair, killed their parents, and set the house on fire. The only reason the girl survived was that a neighbor came home and rescued her. “No, I liked being an only child.”

  ***

  Grace stepped into her office at eight-forty-five a.m., bypassed the urge to make coffee, and went straight for her voicemail. Wilde had placed a call at three in the morning. She listened to the message:

  “Grace, it’s Wilde. I need to talk to you. I’m gonna die, I just know it. The dreams have stopped, but this feeling won’t go away. I don’t know how to explain it. I can’t sleep. Please call me. Thanks. I know it’s late— or early. Whatever— Man, it’s a drag.”

  Grace dialed his number.

  “Wilde, it’s Grace. I got your message. What’s going on?”

  “Hi.” He sounded sleepy. “Man, I’ve been freakin’ out all night. I have this feeling I’m gonna die. Something’s gonna to happen to me, I just know it.”

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “No.”

  “Can you come in at eleven? Are you all right to drive?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” Grace wasn’t convinced.

  His words were slurred. His voice was haunting.

  “Have someone drive you.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’ll see you at eleven.”

  She had placed the receiver in its cradle when the outer door opened. She smelled Windsong and knew it was Sal.

  “Good morning.” Grace took the canvas bags from Sal’s arms. “I can’t believe you talked me into a blind date.”

  “It’ll be fun. Do you remember fun?” Sal wasn’t her perky self. Her petite frame swam in her cream-colored slacks and coral, silk shell. She hung the matching jacket on her chair and sat down.

  “You look tired.” Grace folded the canvas bags neatly and placed them on her secretary’s desk.

  “I’m fine, Grace. I need to keep busy.”

  “Okay. Just don’t overdo.”

  “A little work won’t kill me, Grace,” she kidded.

  “See that it doesn’t,” Grace kidded back, “I don’t have a black dress!” Suddenly the joke wasn’t funny. “Sal, are you afraid? The treatments, are they—?”

  “We won’t know if they’re working until next week. I’m not afraid for me. For John, the boys—”

  “John loves you so much. I’m sure he’s beside himself, but I want to know how you feel about your cancer.”

  “It’s not mine. I refuse to own it.”

  “You should take my clients today, Sal. I’ll make the coffee.”

  “Are you joking? You’d kill everyone with your coffee, Grace!”

  “I know how to make coffee!” she protested. “I use those little filter-tea-bag things with the coffee already in them.”

  “Might work. What about you? Still crazy?” Sal asked.

  “Yes,” Grace answered. I still feel like I’m living someone else’s life.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Sal agreed. She stopped working and faced Grace. “Has Garret’s family decided on a date for the funeral?” The shocked look on Grace’s face lingered. “I’m sorry, Grace. That was insensitive of me. I guess I’m—”

  Grace rushed to her friend’s side with a box of tissues and a hug.

  “Speaking of dates,” Grace pulled another tissue from the box, “we are shopping today, right? I’ll be done at noon. There’s a big sale at Nordstrom. We can have a bite to eat, find you something sexy to wear…”

  “Sexy? Me?” Sal objected. “Pish! You, maybe.”

  “Okay, we’ll do sexy some other time. Do you have something to wear on our double date?”

  “Eh, we can look.” The phone rang.

  Sal took the incoming call. “Okay, I’ll tell her.” She replaced the receiver. “It was Wilde. He said to cancel his appointment; he can’t get a ride here. Said he was going to try getting some sleep.” She handed Grace the slip of paper. “Sounded like he was about to par-tay. Either that or his TV was up pretty loud.”

  “Good, we’ll get to the mall sooner.” Party? How easily distracted some people are. One minute they’re in a crisis; the next minute they’re partying.

  CHAPTER 5

  SARAH PEEL

  S arah Peel’s phone jingled a Coldplay tune. Grace closed the door and waited patiently until Sarah finished texting a reply.

  “Sorry, my boyfriend,” she said, dropping the phone into her Juicy Couture bag. Grace was about to speak, but Sarah interrupted. “I did what you said.”

  “Which was?”

  “I said no.” Self-satisfaction tugged at the corners of Sarah’s lips.

  Two weeks ago the twenty-eight-year-old swallowed a handful of pills. She had had it with everyone taking advantage of her generosity and good nature. She was done being their doormat.

  Grace had noted that Sarah suffered from depression and low self-esteem. Her family physician had started her on 25 milligrams of Effexor. Today was her fourth session. Already she seemed more assertive. Grace was eager for details.

  “Tell me more.”

  “My nine-year-old son, Jerran, wanted a hundred bucks for a pair of jeans. I told him no. I said, ‘Your grades suck and you can’t even empty the dishwasher without an argument.’”

  “How did you feel saying no?”

  “Just a sec.” Sarah dug for the singing object in her purse. She eyed it with disgust, pressed a few buttons, and threw it back into the bag.

  “Saying no does get easier,” Grace said, nodding toward the offending item. Sarah took the hint and moved the Juicy Couture out of reach.

  “I have trouble saying no to my mom,” Sarah said, sitting on her hands. Her eyes shifted toward her purse as the vibrating beckoned. “She’s the one who always gets to me.”

  Grace leaned back to listen. Sarah’s pinned hands escaped her thighs and gestured along with the story.

  “She constantly calls, complaining that she doesn’t have time to do stuff. She has more time than I do. She’s a tenth-grade history teacher.” Sarah grabbed her purse and checked her phone. “She sucks up to her students and then whines t
o me about how demanding they are. It’s not fair. Do you think it’s fair?”

  Grace tapped her pen against her chin a few times. She made a mental note to put up a sign, reminding clients to turn off their phones. “Does your mom live nearby?”

  “She lives in Auburn.”

  “What does she ask you to do?”

  “Jerran’s turning ten next week. She calls, ‘Sarah, honey, can you pick out a present for me? I don’t know what to get him. I’m so busy. He never likes what I buy.’ Then comes the guilt. She says, ‘You know how hard it is for me to shop.’ God! She has diabetes. She’s not crippled!”

  “And?”

  “I told her I’d get back to her. She’s called five times.”

  “What was your mother like when you were a child?”

  “She was more lenient than most moms until I got to high school. Then, I couldn’t get away with anything because she knew all my teachers.

  “Ouch.”

  “She was a hypocrite though. She had something going on with my math teacher. I heard rumors.”

  Grace’s ears perked up.

  “She was having an affair?”

  “Yeah, can you imagine?”

  Imagining an affair—it was all Grace was capable of doing until Jess came back into her life, until everything happened, until everything changed. Until…he loved you back?

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Embarrassed. I felt like I was the one who was doing something wrong!”

  “What about your dad?”

  “Dad wasn’t around much. He drank. He’s a big-shot reporter, you know.”

  “Newspaper?”

  “No, anchorman.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Charisma.”

  “Your dad have affairs, too? Or just your mom?”

  “Huh! He’s handsome. Women still chase after him, and he’s fifty-five!”

  “Is he still on camera?”

  “Not much, he does special features, produces—stuff like that.”

  “And your parents, are they still together?”

  “Yeah. Amazing, huh?”

  “Does your dad still drink?”

  “Oh yeah, Mom, too.”

  “Siblings?” Suddenly, a question Dr. Meltz asked earlier hit her like a foul smell. “Ever think about siblings, Grace?” She placed her palm against her chin and exhaled, expecting her breath to be offensive. Did my parents cheat, too? She shifted positions, willing her mind to focus on her client.

  “I have two brothers,” Sarah said. “They live down south, San Diego. Greg is an aeronautical engineer for Boeing. He’s married. He and Lisa have a little girl, three, and a son Jerran’s age. My brother Butch denies he’s gay.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “He decorates for the stars. Everyone knows he lives with his lover, Samuel.”

  Grace couldn’t separate herself from the image that kept creeping into her thoughts. The image prompted her next question, “What was it like growing up with two alcoholic parents who cheated on each other?”

  Sarah looked shocked at the way Grace posed the question.

  She also looked uncomfortable.

  “I, eh— It was…um…well…pretty damn lousy!”

  “Let’s talk about how lousy it was for you.”

  “Greg is the oldest. He made me do his chores, whether I liked it or not. Butchy and I fought like crazy. He was always swiping my clothes out of the dryer and stretching them out.” Sarah began to fidget as the memories came back to her. “I spent most of my childhood watching TV. We had cable. My friends came over to watch HBO. I think I was six the first time I saw people do it. Kinda left an impression.”

  “What kind of impression?”

  Sarah’s smile became sly. “You don’t have much sex, do you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t look so uptight.”

  Grace felt her face flush. “I don’t think talking about me is going to help you very much.”

  “Hmm, right.” Sarah seemed pleased with herself. “Is it time to stop?”

  “Yes. Actually, it is.” Grace rose from her chair. “We can continue another time.”

  Sarah dipped her hand into the Juicy Couture. A little, red light flashed in her palm. “I’ll call you,” she said, storming out of the office. She passed the front desk without stopping. Her cell was already pinned to her ear as she whined her way out the door.

  “Ready to go shopping?” Grace asked. Her fake smile didn’t fool Sal.

  “Wow, someone’s panties were in a bunch. No appointment?”

  “She’ll call,” Grace replied. “Let’s go shopping!”

  The two women walked from the office to Downtown Plaza, marveling at the beautiful weather. When they entered Nordstrom, they began shuffling through the racks. Sal snatched several items to try on: a dusty pink blouse, a crimson skirt, and a pair of Capri denim jeans she found on sale.

  Grace felt fabric, examined skirt lengths, fiddled with belts and buttons, but nothing held her attention. Too many things weighed on her mind. She followed her friend to the dressing room and waited for the show. The blouse looked horrible. Sal had lost so much weight, it made Grace sad, yet she remained encouraging.

  “That designer tends to run large. Let me see if I can find something similar in another brand.”

  “You don’t have to patronize, Grace. I look anorexic.” She pulled the fabric away from her frame. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “We’ll find you an outfit if we have to troll the whole damn city.”

  “What about you?”

  “Let’s go to the petite section. Maybe we’ll both get lucky!”

  The women searched in earnest. After making new selections, they headed for the dressing room. Grace had begun to undress when she heard a familiar sound. Coldplay. She peeked around the curtain. Across the way, she spied bare feet wiggling into a pair of stretch pants.

  “I’m not going back there, Nick! That woman is a bitch! You can’t believe what she said to me today! All this crap about my childhood, my brothers.” The woman began to whimper, “I can’t do it, Nick. I tried it your way. Can’t I just get stuff over the internet and forget it?”

  Grace listened, it was Sarah.

  “C’mon, Nick, that’s not fair,” she cried. “I’m fine. Really I am. Jerran’s my son! You can’t do this to me! You can’t. Nick, pleeez don’t!” The pleading stopped. There was silence. Grace saw the spandex puddle around the woman’s ankles. Her legs trembled. Next came sobbing. Grace redressed and abandoned her selections, but it was Sal that came out. She wore a stunning Marc Jacobs number. She modeled a pink, embellished, cashmere cardigan over a silver-pleated Plissè skirt.

  “Whadda ya think?” Sal asked, twirling in front of the mirror.

  “You’re stunning.” Grace spoke quietly, shushing Sal with her finger. But it was too late. The curtain across the way flew open to reveal Sarah with her pants stretched around her ankles and her tear-stained face raging.

  “You’ve been eavesdropping!”

  “Sarah, are you all right?”

  “Are you following me?”

  “No, Sal and I are shopping. We’re going to a play, Cats! She turned her attention to Sal. “Love the color. Fits perfect; you have to get it.”

  “I don’t know; it’s a bit pricey.” Sal batted her eyes and lifted the corner of her skirt. “Can I have a raise?”

  “Nooo, but get it anyway. It’s you. Would you excuse me, Sarah? Nice to see you.” Grace hurried away. Sal disappeared into the dressing room.

  Grace continued to browse, combing through designer dresses. She didn’t buy nice dresses. She bought good suits, like the beautiful black one she bought for Garret’s funeral a week ago. He had been gone for months gone. The funeral? Just a formality.

  “I think you would look good in this one.” Sal came up behind her holding a black dress.

  “I don’t know, Sal. I—”

  “Nonsense, try it on. It’s a two,
your size,” she said, pressing the hanger into Grace’s hand. “Sarah left. She wasn’t happy.”

  Grace shook her head. “I didn’t mean to ditch you like that. Sorry,” she said, pulling an identical dress from the rack in a size four. On her way to the dressing room, she spotted some T-shirts. She picked the one with “Get Over It” printed across the front.

  The black dress fit like a glove: sleeveless, scooped neck, tailored, and above the knee. It was perfect for…more funerals? Grace unzipped the side and let it drop to the floor. Death always comes in threes. She re-hung the dress and pulled the curtain.

  “You didn’t let me see it!” Sal complained.

  “It didn’t fit right.”

  “Here, try this one.” Sal raised her eyebrow. “Don’t argue.”

  “Oh, Sal, I just got dressed.”

  “Ah, quit your bitchin’,” Sal mused. “Like I said, he’s cute, and he’s a dentist.”

  “Sal, look!” she gasped, pointing to the price tag.

  Sal whistled through her teeth.

  “Okay, forget my raise. Try the dress.”

  This time when she pulled the curtain aside, Sal was the one to gasp, “Wow!”

  Grace turned in front of the tri-view mirror. She couldn’t deny the dress looked fabulous. The back dipped lower than the front.

  Sal’s eyes were gleaming and her lips boasted, “The style is Nouveau Rich, and it shows off your girls without being vulgar.”

  “Fine. I’ll get it.”

  “Score!” Sal said, raising her hand for a quick high-five.

  Their next stop was the Ambrosia Café. Grace and Sal were deep in conversation when their waiter approached.

  “Excusè moi,” he said, gaining their undivided attention. Black curls danced around his collar. Deep-blue eyes sparkled beneath black lashes. His jaw, square and strong, held plump, pink lips that parted into a dazzling smile. He appeared European, but too tall and broad shouldered to be French. Black chinos pulled tight across perfect buttocks as large hands gently set water-filled glasses on the table. His name tag read “Paul,” and he smelled divine. “May I recommend today’s special, zee crab salad,” he said, his accent thick. He leaned toward Grace pointing at the item on the menu. “Zeese one,” he said. His finger held in place long enough to draw eye contact. Grace had to look away or be trapped in his gaze.