by J D Ventura
The sedative and the nicotine embraced before dipping and pirouetting through her brain, interlocking in a delicious and delicate chemical dance. She closed her eyes as she took another deep drag. For a moment, she did not resent the silence. For just a second, she found an odd peace, a bright flash of acceptance. I am here and it’s okay. But the feeling was fleeting and soon the tide of worry rolled back in, its dark, unwelcomed undertow dragging her down, drowning her in a feeling she had only experienced once before. Dread.
Her daydream was broken by the incredibly loud horn of Stephanie’s white Mercedes SUV, which was idling at the end of the house’s front walkway. The passenger side window rolled down. “Claire, for heaven’s sake. I have been sitting here and you’re just staring off into space. How much wine exactly are you hiding in that house, anyway? Come on, girl!”
The ride into Charleston was marked by unremarkable expanses of highway and Stephanie’s pleasant chattiness. Claire found herself further drawn to Stephanie. They shared a cynicism many people merely dismissed as negativity, when it was, for Claire, a healthy outcropping of critical thought. On the road trip, long, winding conversations with Stephanie revealed her to be a deep thinker, a caring person, someone with a sense of self, yet a person capable of deep loyalty and emotional intelligence. By the time they found parking in front of the dress shop on Bridge Road, Claire felt a warmth for Stephanie she usually only experienced with friends she had known for years. Inexplicably, she completely trusted this person, who, when you came right down to it, was still a total stranger.
Stephanie shut the engine off and turned to face Claire, who was staring at her and smiling. “What?” asked Stephanie.
“I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I am so glad you’re here. Not here, in Charleston with me, but here, as in, a part of my life right now. My poker face sucks, so you probably know I am struggling with this – being here, with Sam, without Sam, and the guilt and, well, shame…about drinking again, secretly. It’s just been nice to have a friend to do things with, you know? And to listen.”
Stephanie unclicked her seatbelt, removed her sunglasses and repositioned herself to face Claire. “Sweetheart, is there something you are not telling me? I felt like when we last saw each other, at your house, you were about to tell me something. But then Sam showed up and it seemed like the moment had gone.”
“I honestly don’t remember. No, no, I’m fine. We’re fine. Really.” Claire unclicked her seatbelt and opened her door, turning so Stephanie couldn’t see she was tearing up. “Let’s go buy some dresses. This place looks adorable.”
A small bell above the door announced their arrival to the boutique. Claire was immediately struck with the overpowering smell of pine-scented candles and lavender potpourri. They had taken no more than two or three steps into the shop when an incredibly tall, big-chested woman with short, platinum blond hair, high, angular cheekbones and hazel eyes abruptly stopped sliding the hangers of a dress rack and shouted, “Well, as I live and breathe! Stephanie, you better be buying a dress for my ball tonight, you silly girl! And shame on you, B.T.W., for waiting until the last second!”
“Lu!” Stephanie exclaimed, arms extended for a hug. “How are you?”
“I am fabulous,” the woman said, looking over Stephanie’s shoulders at Claire, who noticed the woman’s diamond nose piercing as the slanting afternoon sun moved lazily across her perfectly symmetrical face. “And who is your gorgeous new friend?”
Claire blushed and awkwardly reached around Stephanie to extend her hand. “I’m Claire. Claire –”
“Claire Sturgis! Yes, Stephanie has told me so much about you.” Claire looked quickly at Stephanie and then back to the woman. “I am Luanne Murray, but my friends call me Lu. So, you can call me Lu.” She batted away Claire’s hand and instead leaned her face into Claire’s, whispering, “And I don’t do handshakes, only kisses.”
Lu then leaned in and gently kissed her on each cheek, before standing tall again, staring into Claire’s eyes as if beholding something precious for the first time. “You are as interesting as you have been described. Lovely.”
“Um, well, thank you,” Claire stammered, now fully appreciating Lu’s Amazonian stature, severely accentuated by an impossibly yellow leather jumpsuit. “And thank you for the invitation to the party. Sorry to hear you’re moving, though. I hope it didn’t have anything to do with Sam and me arriving.”
Instead of polite chuckles, Stephanie and Lu exchanged an awkward glance and for a second Claire felt as if she had somehow hit on a sore subject between the two women. “Of course not!” Lu finally squealed, bursting into what felt to Claire like an exaggerated peal of laughter. “And, hell, there is still plenty of time to get to know y’all. Our move date is, um, a bit up in the air right now.”
“I just went through it, so I feel your pain,” Claire said.
“I guarantee I’m moving further than you did,” said Lu, giving the suddenly silent Stephanie a wink.
“Lu and Marcus are the closest the Village has to royalty,” Stephanie said, before turning to Claire. “Nobody is as sad to see her go as me.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear, my dear,” Lu said, a tinge of acid in her tone. “But that ship has sailed, as they say.”
“Claire, my dear, I am having a going away party that will rock you to your goddamn core. It is my way of giving back to a community that has, time and time again, stood by Marcus and me. It will change you, Claire Sturgis. You will leave a different person. You will say to yourself, ‘Now that was no goddamn ordinary party!’ You see, where I’m from Claire, it is all about pleasure and having a good time. Hedonism! Everyone and everything beautiful and open. Stephanie vouched for you. She said you could hang, so don’t go proving her a liar. Don’t be afraid to have a little fun. I expect a respectable sendoff.”
Both Stephanie and Lu burst into laughter, although Stephanie’s reaction was less animated, almost cautious. “You’ve made your point, Lu,” Stephanie said. “And, yes, we, of course, are here to pick out our dresses. I am going for something memorable.”
“As you should, dear,” Lu purred, while winking at Claire, as if they shared an inside joke. “In the end, memories are all we have.” A moment of silence fell over them as another customer entered the shop. Lu finally said, “Well, good luck, girls. There was nothing here that turned me on. Our party planner is running around like a chicken with her head cut off, and I’m shopping. Shame on me. Anyway, off to another little place I know.”
“Target?” Claire teased. Neither woman laughed. Lu pivoted on one heel to face Claire directly and looked her up and down, as if taking stock of an adversary’s capabilities. A smile slowly oozed across her face, like yoke escaping from a thin film of egg white. “You’re funny. Is your husband Sam as funny as you?”
“Lu, the poor girl came here to buy a dress, not play 20 questions. You’ll have more than enough time to interrogate her at your little house party.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I plan on it,” Lu squealed, giving Stephanie a kiss on each cheek. She then kissed Claire, first on the right cheek, then on the left. As she pulled away from the second kiss she whispered, “Until then, Claire Sturgis.”
It was dark out as Claire fumbled for her house keys, shopping bags in hand. She waved goodbye to Stephanie, who was already driving away. When she walked into the darkened living room, the silhouette of a person sitting in a leather arm chair in the far corner made her jump backwards. “Sam, Jesus, you scared me. I thought you weren’t getting back until tomorrow.”
Sam just sat where he was, staring straight ahead. Claire felt for the light switch and, flicking it on, saw he was crying, something he told her he did only twice in his adult life: once when his mother died and once again, in 2003, when the Space Shuttle Columbia disintegrated upon reentry, killing all seven astronauts on board, all of whom Sam had known personally. This wasn’t
a simple as grief. His eyes looked dark and hollow; his hair was matted and stuck in sweaty ringlets to his forehead, which was covered in sweat. This wasn’t sadness, Claire thought. This was despair.
“Baby, what’s wrong, Sam?” She dropped her bags and knelt before him, placing a hand on one of his knees. “Tell me, Sam. What’s the matter?”
His unfocused eyes suddenly fixed upon her and his face seemed to reveal surprise at her presence. “Claire?”
“Yes, it’s me. Who else would it be, sweetheart? You’re scaring me. Sam, why are you crying?”
“They think I’m nuts. They all think I’m crazy,” She reached in to hug him and noticed, for the first time, he had thinned. She felt with alarm the slight protrusion of his spinal column and the bony ridges of his shoulder blades. He began to sob uncontrollably into her neck. His moans were low and primal, the tortured, baleful cries of an animal caught in a steel trap.
“Baby, who thinks you’re nuts? What are you talking about? Shhh. Shhh. Breathe.”
He lifted his head from her shoulders, wiped the tears from his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. “They put me on medical leave and revoked my security clearances, Claire. They’re suspending my project and I am so close. I know I am. I am so close, baby.” His face crumpled again and he rested it in his open palms, utterly defeated.
“Close to what, Sam?” She wanted to help, wanted to tell him everything was going to work out, wanted to cast aside this feeling of helplessness and save him from his brain’s betrayal. “Close to what?”
“I can’t remember, Claire.But it’s important. Very, very important.”
Chapter 7
She was hesitant to calm him with references to his previous rants, but she desperately wanted to comfort him. “Is it about Jeopardy? Is that the thing you can’t remember? Did you meet with Ethan in D.C.? Is it something to do with Ethan?”
He stared back at her with only a flicker of recognition. “I never met with him. I was on my way to meet him and then, I don’t know. I was in the back of a car. A, a limo, maybe? It’s fuzzy, but I remember that.”
“Was there someone in this limo with you?”
“I don’t know!” he screamed, horrified at his lack of recall.
“Breathe. It’s like when you lose your keys, okay. Let’s walk through it together. Someone asked you to get in a limo?”
“Yes, yes, I guess so…”
“Did you know this person?”
“Yes, yes, I must have. I remember…whiskey.”
“You had a drink with this person? In the limo?”
Sam nodded, at first hesitantly and then more emphatically, rocking back and forth as his memory revealed a face.
“Who was it, Sam? Who offered you a drink in the limo?”
“Gunderson. It was Gunderson!”
“Good!” said Claire. “Okay, and what did you talk about? Think, Sam.”
Sam strained to remember.“It’s so cloudy, like trying to remember a dream after you’ve woken up. I think we talked about the project. He told me it was over. Yes. Told me I was done. That my condition posed a security risk. Dammit, Claire, I’m losing my mind. I can remember the bottom line of what we talked about, but none of the specifics of the conversation. I can remember him telling me to leave, to get out of the car and go home, but I can’t remember leaving. I couldn’t even remember how to get home, Claire. I used the GPS the whole way. I, I-”
He was crying again and each one of his heaving sobs fissured her heart. How is he this bad so suddenly? How is it possible?
“Jeopardy. Does that word mean anything to you? Were you talking to Gunderson about Jeopardy?”
“Claire, what are you talking about? Are you screwing with me right now?” He stood up and pushed his way by her, knocking her from her knees to a sitting position on the floor. Then, with one quick swat of his hand, he knocked the Tiffany lamp her mother had given them for their first wedding anniversary off a nearby table, the shattering glass marking an abrupt and terrible turn in the evening.
“Claire, don’t you get it? It’s blank. I couldn’t remember how to drive home. Jesus Christ! Oh, Jesus! Jeopardy? Fucking Jeopardy? What the fuck are you talking about?!”
She stood up and approached him cautiously, her arms outstretched, a child attempting to pet a pacing tiger. “Shhhhh…okay, let’s calm down. Sit Sam, please, sit back down. Forget about what I said, okay. It doesn’t matter right now.”
He flopped onto the couch, and laid on his side in the fetal position and continued to sob. She had never seen him so exposed and vulnerable. There was nothing that had prepared her for the sickening feeling that, although they were here with each other now, soon they would both be completely alone. Together, and yet, terribly alone.
“Claire, why is this happening to me? To us? Why my mind? I’d rather lose all my limbs, but not my mind, Claire. Please, baby. Please, baby, help me.”
“Do you want me to call Dr. Carlson? I can—,”
“He can’t do anything! None of them can. And they can’t get my job back for me. I’m supposed to just retire now and go crazy. That’s what I am supposed to do, Claire. Right? Just sit back and watch the connections in my brain short out, one circuit at a time?”
Claire moved his legs out of the way and sat at the end of the couch, before taking off his shoes and returning his feet to her lap, where she caressed them through his socks. “Sam, I think we should move back to the city. I know you originally thought peace and quiet and detachment was what you needed and wanted, but I can’t do this without the support of our friends and family. You’re far worse, far sooner than we imagined, and the drugs don’t seem to be as effective as we’d hoped.”
“Whose drugs, Claire, mine or yours?” The question was meant to confront. She noticed the empty wine bottle and glasses now, mocking her from where she had left them on the coffee table. Claire pushed his feet from her lap and walked over to the fireplace, staring at a picture of them taken on a trip to Montreal a year or two after they met. “Ok, point taken, Sam. Yes, I take Xanax. Maybe they help me with my anxiety. Do you ever consider that? I shouldn’t be drinking. Agreed. Okay? But it’s under control. This time. And can you blame me?”
“Yes, I can. You know you’re wrong. You are self-aware, which makes it worse. I can excuse the occasional joint, but not the drinking. It’s too insidious. You’re an alcoholic, Claire. I’m talking to the addict right now. I know that. It’s why since we’ve been here you have done nothing to launch your consultancy. Addiction runs on both sides of your family. This intention to slowly harm yourself makes it worse. And it leaves me feeling horribly guilty, like you are this way because of me. Because of the stress of my diagnosis and the disease. It’s a burden I never intended to give you. I’m sorry for that. I truly am. But you don’t get to drink yourself to death because of it. You just don’t.”
She thought she had wanted the apology but when she finally had it, she felt guilty for ever thinking it would make her feel any better. For all her urban snobbery, there was a part of her that believed life would improve out here, away from everything. It was a childish notion thrown at a grown-up problem. It was the ending of countless feel-good movies. The protagonist finally overcomes the odds and, in the end, hits the open road in pursuit of a better life. Taillights have illuminated thousands of fulfilled dreams, or so Hollywood would have you believe. But it didn’t work that way, did it?
She wanted to believe they could escape the pain and inevitability of confronted loss. But it came with them, like some awful bomb placed in their luggage, counting down what time they had left. How many seconds had her grip on Jenny’s hand held? Tick, tick, tick.
“I know, sweetheart. I promise to rein it in, okay? Right now, you need some rest. And I have to get ready soon.”
“For what?”
She wasn’t surprised he had forgotte
n. She decided not to remind him he already knew about it. What was the point in that, really? Especially now.
“Tonight is the Murray’s going away party. Apparently, it’s a big event in the Village. I have no idea why. Stephanie and I even bought dresses for it in Charleston.” He looked at her confusedly, before his face softened with what she took to be understanding.
“I’m glad you are making friends here, even if you do want to maybe go back to the city. That’s one of the things I love about you, Claire. You’re fearless. And you don’t need fucking booze to be that way.”
Fearless? She was not fearless. Hers was a world of constant fear and anxiety. And her fear of losing Sam was hauntingly familiar, an uneasiness seeking form. An inviting shadow welcoming her back to paralyzing darkness.
The nauseating smell of white lilies hit her as she slowly walked toward her sister’s open coffin. A large floral wreath hung on an aluminum easel frame, adorned with a sign that read, “Eternal Angel.” The generosity of the sentiment seemed utterly ridiculous given the relationship Jenny and her mother had since her return, which often included post-curfew fights that devolved into violent door slamming, threats of disownment and the ever-present possibility Jenny would run away.
In polite conversation with acquaintances and friends, her mother would downplay her sister as “a handful.” But, in reaction to Jenny’s teenage angst, her mother had consulted psychiatrists, priests and even one of those military-style boot camp programs for “wayward kids.” In the end, none of it had helped what the shrink labeled as untreated PTSD from being kidnapped by her father and made to bear witness to his drug use and ultimate physical and mental decline. Despite all the good advice, Evie’s attempts at diplomacy disintegrated, time and time again, replaced with her screaming at Jenny at the top of her lungs: “Why can’t you just be like your sister, Jenny? Normal, like Claire.”