by J D Ventura
She pushed through the crowd, her face flush, her heart racing. Her hands were sweating, as they had in Marc’s as he led her across the dance floor. The heat between them had sparked in her an emotional eroticism she hadn’t felt with Sam in years. It was hard to explain, but, in retreat, she had to acknowledge she had felt an incredible relief in Marc Hall’s arms, a warm hearth on a cold night, a sense she would be protected from an approaching storm. But what was approaching?
She suddenly felt a surge of panic. Something was coming. For her, for Sam. It’s the inevitable onslaught of the disease, Claire. It’s making you crazy. You are fleeing the disease’s approach. That is all. Don’t let a little ecstasy make you crazier than you already are.
She noticed a staircase alongside a darkened side of the house, just beyond the lights of the party and, removing her heels and hiking her gown above her knees, she climbed it quickly, arriving on a darkened, empty patio overlooking the massive green expanse of the unlit side yard. The wall from which the terrace extended was all glass, with sliding doors opened, filled with the ghostly motion of billowing, full-length lace curtains. The room beyond them was dark, save for the glow of a single floor lamp in the corner.
She sat on a wicker chaise and inhaled the cool night air. Alone and slightly more clear-headed, she felt the familiar pangs of guilt. More booze and pills, Claire? Dancing with your friend’s husband? Where is this all going? What’s the end game? Call Sam.
She reached into her clutch and retrieved her iPhone. She dialed him and, after several rings, it went to voicemail. She tried again with the same result. Dammit, Sam, pick up the fucking phone! Maybe it was for the best he didn’t answer. She was feeling manic and emotional, edgy and yet dull. What would she have said? That she loved him, but thought, lately, about leaving him, about running away, abandoning everything like her father had done. Her eyes filled with tears. She stood to leave, but then heard familiar voices through the swaying curtains. She pressed her back against the wall and turned her head as far as she could to the right, peering through the rippling fabric.
Unmasked, Marie and Keith Hershel were talking to Beth and Carl Plaskett, the couple from the restaurant. The four stood in a coven-like circle, their voices hushed yet audible. From their expressions, the conversation was in sharp contrast to the frivolity outside. Claire strained to hear over the breeze and the din from the party below.
“It should be tonight, for sure,” said Marie. “They should be given the go-ahead.”
The others shook their heads in agreement.
Carl added, “I worry about Stephanie.”
“Me, too,” said Keith. “She’s gotten too close. And while I can appreciate the window of opportunity she has created by convincing Lu to invite her to this, many are treating this year’s celebration as marking the end of the mission. They’ve been told not to talk about it, but with all of the drinking, someone could get messy and fuck it up.”
“Well, you know how I feel about her,” said Marie. “And she has made it clear at Council how she feels about me. Honestly, I don’t think she’d intentionally sabotage the plan, but her sympathies are a problem. She’s apparently asked Lu to consider taking them with us.”
Claire’s heel slipped through the deck’s planking with a clap. Marie stopped talking and all four of them turned in the direction of the noise. Claire froze. Move, Claire, down the stairs. Take your shoes off and go. Now!
Claire slipped off her heels and went down the stairs two at a time, hiking her gown up to avoid tripping. As she rounded the corner on her way back to the party, she collided with Stephanie and Marc.
“Whoa! Where you off to in such a hurry?” asked Marc, putting his hand up to stop Claire from running right by.
“The party is this way, girlfriend! Hey, you know, they have port-o-johns down here, although, on second thought, you’re right,not in that dress. Gross. Honey, are you shaking?” Stephanie asked, grabbing Claire by the shoulders to look her squarely in the face. “This is a party. Hey, are you upset Sam isn’t here?”
For some reason, Claire couldn’t look Marc in the face. “I’m fine. I just needed some air. I think I should go home, actually.”
“Here, I got you a water,” offered Stephanie. “You are not leaving. You just need to cool off, babe, and keep hydrated.” Claire downed the bottle of water as they walked back to the dance floor, which was even more energized then when she’d left. Shoulder straps had slipped off, some people were barefoot, tuxedo jackets and beer bottles floated in the pool. She turned to insist again to Stephanie she had to leave, that she needed to check on Sam, but the words floated in her brain like soap bubbles floating slowly through hot summer air. Marc and Stephanie exchanged serious, knowing glances. She was suddenly gripped by an almost paralyzing paranoia. Did they put something in my water? No, that’s ridiculous. What a ridiculous thought. Why would they do that? Are they even really married? Why didn’t Stephanie snort the Molly with her again? Was that important to remember? Was it really even ecstasy?
She had no answers to these questions and the realization never had the chance to provoke outrage. Suddenly she was filled with the most fantastic sense of well-being she had ever experienced. Claire literally felt her consciousness expand and what would have been horror at being seemingly drugged– did she really believe that? – turned immediately into a powerful sense of gratitude. This feeling was an incredible gift, and she owed it to Stephanie and Marc. She loved them, trusted them, wanted to be nowhere else but with them, in this moment. “What did you guys do?” she said playfully, giggling at the now-obvious deception.
“Do you like it?” Marc asked seductively. “Are you feeling good?”
“I don’t remember ‘E’ feeling like this. It’s really hitting me hard now. They’ve improved it since I last did it, that’s for sure.” Claire watched the writhing bodies around her, felt the rhythmic pulse of the dance music surge through her like a full-body case of pins and needles, only decidedly pleasurable. Every nerve ending was open and ready to receive stimulation. Every thought was awash in optimism. Her heart beat in her chest, mighty, defying age and inevitable death. She could do anything she wanted. Live in the Village forever. Body surf naked across the crowd. Cure Sam. She looked into Stephanie’s eyes. They were like liquid caramel, warm and sweet and soft. Her lips were cherry blossoms, pink and open and fragrant. She didn’t resist when Marc’s hand gently pushed her head toward his wife’s face. She didn’t protest the hungry intrusion of Stephanie’s tongue in her mouth, or Marc’s hands grabbing her hips from behind. When the kiss finally ended, Claire thought, I have no secrets with either of you. I am open. My walls are down.
“We have no secrets with you either,” Stephanie whispered. “When the time is right, we will tell you everything. I promise.”
Chapter 8
She was swimming to the water’s surface, not frantically, not deprived of air, but leisurely, happily anticipating daylight, but also reluctant to leave the dark and comfortable depths of her dream. She delighted in replaying the gauzy memory in her head, each scene flowing with silken fluidity, a strip of gelatin and halide projecting each delicious moment of the evening: they had all kissed and clowned around on the dance floor; they had swayed and writhed to the music for hours; they had mingled with the crowd, erudite, witty people who made her laugh and even cry with sophisticated stories that offered wisdom and insight. And all the while she was grateful and at peace, ecstatic with contentment and intoxicated on the bond she had, not just with Marc and Stephanie, but with all of them.
This movie of the evening darkened and dimmed as she floated upward. She peered into the dark recesses of her mind. There was a man and a woman, dressed in white. Everyone was dressed in white. Where was she? A hospital? The doctor was talking to the nurse and then to her. “Jenny is not here,” the nurse said to her. “You are dreaming,” the doctor said. They gave her a shot.
They took her blood and gave her another injection.But she saw her sister now; felt her fingers sliding free of her own. Heard Jenny’s voice, excited and electrified with rebellion: Three, two, one…
Claire opened her eyes and looked around her sunlit bedroom. Sam wasn’t beside her. Reaching for her phone on the nightstand, she glanced at the time: 3:30 pm. She had way overslept. She didn’t smell brewing coffee and guessed that Sam must have brewed his first pot hours ago and decided to just let her sleep.
She got out of bed and grabbed a large, white bath towel from a linen closet just outside the bedroom door. Tossing her tee shirt and underwear into the hamper alongside the glass shower stall, she turned on the hot water and waited until the spray started to steam. Standing beneath the showerhead, she let the water hit her directly in the face. The slight sting on her skin was invigorating and sobering. She grabbed a plastic bottle from the built-in shower caddy and held her hand out to dispense the shampoo. She squinted at her wrist. Something black. A tiny bruise? Dirt? No. It was writing! She dropped the shampoo bottle and quickly exited the shower stall, making her way to the stronger fluorescent light encircling the vanity. The script was very tiny and now blurred from the moisture, but the words were unmistakable:
You are pregnant. No more drugs/drinking.
Why would Sam write this? Whatever his reason, it wasn’t the least bit funny. She was late, but she had been before and it was never the big “P.” They took precautions. Sure, sometimes she forgot to take her pill, but if she did they would almost always remember to use a condom. And, anyway, how would he know? She went downstairs to the living room. Everything was in its place. Same for the kitchen. And the dining room. “Sam?” A cool draft blew through her bare legs as she walked down the hallway leading from the kitchen. The basement door was open.
“Sam?” Silence. She looked down the staircase into the darkness before sliding her hand along the wall to find the light switch. At the bottom of the stairs she glanced quickly into the wine cellar to her right. The dim track lights cast a soft glow on the empty shelves. The door to Sam’s lab was open and the lights were on. “Sam?”
As she entered the room she broke out into a cold sweat. Her heart beat in her chest, a biologic conga drum keeping time with her suddenly spiking adrenaline levels. The interior office door was also open, the cut padlock on the floor. She walked over to the doorway. The air grew cooler and smelled musty and damp, the familiar scent of a forgotten place. The room was smaller than she expected, furnished with a small desk and a single computer, the screen of which was illuminated. As if approaching a cornered animal, she walked slowly to it. She leaned cautiously forward, the small electrified type coming into sharp focus: “975,000 files deleted successfully.”
Sam’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Claire waited several more hours for him to return before she picked up the landline cordless phone in the living room. Stephanie was at her door 15 minutes after she called. It occurred to Claire, for the first time, that Stephanie was never at work. But the thought flitted away, a tiny moth maneuvering through the hurricane force winds wreaking havoc on her mind.She opened the door to find her neighbor standing there, looking refreshed, her wrinkle-free skin as polished and milky as ivory, her hair pulled back in a tight bun that tamed her thick curls into silky submission. Her flawless face looked appropriately concerned. Without waiting to be asked, she walked past Claire into the living room and took a seat on the sofa. She pointed her closed knees toward the fireplace before reflexively pulling down her pencil skirt and patting the cushion alongside her.
“Come here sweetheart. You sounded so upset on the phone. You said Sam is….missing?”
The unbridled trust she felt for Stephanie, that bond from the party, that powerful connection, that magic, or the drugs, or whatever it had been, was gone. In its place was an uneasy paranoia, creeping slowly over her consciousness like a black mold along a damp basement wall. Something suddenly didn’t smell right. Another mental butterfly fluttered into view. Jessica. She would call her best friend in D.C. Today. After Stephanie left. Jessica. An old friend. A real friend.
She sat beside Stephanie. Her face grew hot with frustration and confusion, and she looked down at her shaking hands and began to sob. “Stephanie, I don’t know what’s happening. I’ve been asleep for like 12 hours. What the fuck kind of drugs did we do at the party? It really fucked me up. I can’t remember anything from last night, except for getting there. I don’t remember coming home, or seeing Sam. But he was supposed to be here.” She looked up and held her face for a moment in the sunlight streaming in through one of the living room’s bay windows, remembering. “He was here. When I left. But he isn’t here now and there’s no note and he’s sick, Stephanie, he’s sick and I’m worried and I-,”
Stephanie reached for Claire’s hands but, as they touched, Claire felt an odd sense of revulsion. She thought about mentioning what Sam had written on her arm but then resisted, and reflexively turned her wrist toward the floor. It wasn’t worth mentioning. Not yet. Not until she had more time to think on it and talk to Sam. Was she now going to buy an EPT because her demented husband wrote on her arm before he disappeared? She pushed these thoughts aside and stood up before walking over to the nearby armchair’s matching ottoman. She sat down on it and straightened her back before looking directly into Stephanie’s eyes, hoping to project what little emotional strength she had left. “Do you know where he is?”
Silence filled the space like water through a breached hull. Stephanie’s look was an infuriating blend of sympathy and patronization. “Sweetheart, why on Earth would I know where your husband is?”
The water rushed in now and Claire couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find the words as an angry muteness washed over her, a just-injured child insulted by sudden pain, moments before the scream.
Aren’t you listening to me? One minute I am out snorting pills with you at some fucked up swingers’ party and the next minute my husband is suddenly gone. He’s gone! Without leaving a note! Without mentioning he had plans to go anywhere! Oh, and I have been asleep for more than 12 hours! Fuck! She was up now and pacing the room, wiping the tears from her eyes and inhaling sharply, attempting to reset her emotions. “I’m sorry, Steph, I’m just really confused. I feel like I am losing my mind.”
Stephanie sat back on the couch and rested her head in her hand, her arm an elegant triangle of white cashmere. She sighed. “I’m not going to tell you to calm down, because I would be just as fucking crazy as you are right now. But I am sure there is a logical explanation for this.”
“Logical?”
“Well, for one thing, you – we –snorted a lot of Molly at the party. I should have just given you one.”
“I did?”
“Yes. And, while we’re on it, ecstasy doesn’t play well with booze. But, you’re allowed to let your hair down. He’s been away so much and you’ve been home alone a lot, in a new place. It’s stressful. You’re only human. You’re just a little cloudy from a party that got a little out of control. Mystery number one solved.”
Claire desperately wanted to make sense of it all and Stephanie’s matter-of-fact explanation blunted her sickening skepticism. Logical. Yes. She craved logic as much as she craved a Xanax. “But where is he, Stephanie?”
Stephanie reached into her purse and pulled out a cell phone. She held it up for Claire to see. “Maybe you should check your phone. You left it at the party. I was going to call you and tell you but, well, obviously, you wouldn’t have answered.”
Claire stood up and walked slowly over to the couch, and, without a word, reached out and took the device from Stephanie. There were several unread texts from Sam, and a missed call. She opened the first text:
Didn’t want to wake you. Must have been some party. They’ve reconsidered decision.One more trip to D.C. regarding project wind-down and then I am home for good.I’m feeling much better. I should be back in
a week, maybe less. Text you when I get there. Love, Sam.
Claire sat down next to Stephanie and leaned in and hugged her, crying softly into her shoulder. “Stephanie, I am so sorry. I just don’t know what’s come over me. He’s never here and I worry so much about him and I just wish he would stop working, like he promised he would and we could just be here, together, and we could focus on us and living with this diagnosis.”
“Diagnosis?” Stephanie asked, as if just pricked by a needle. The question dissolved their embrace and Claire turned away, staring out the living room’s front window.
“Oh, Steph, this is why I am so upset,” said Claire, a new, more intense storm of emotions forming in her throat. “Sam has early onset dementia. And lately he has been showing symptoms. Forgetfulness, paranoia...delusions.”
“Claire, I honestly don’t know what to say,” Stephanie said, her eyes filling with empathetic tears.
“This was meant to be our reboot. I would launch my business and between that income and his disability retirement, we would be fine. Totally fine. That was the fucking plan. But I feel like he is not living up to his end of the bargain. He can’t seem to leave his work behind. He’s obsessed with it. Until he moves on from it, I feel like we are both stuck.”
Stephanie reached out and held Claire’s hand, “Babe, can I make a suggestion?”
Claire wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “Fuck, I’m a mess. Yes, suggest away.”
“You do need to start working again. Or at least get a hobby.”
“And two?”
“Have you thought about maybe convincing Sam to move somewhere other than here? You know, somewhere a bit more exciting.”
“You’re looking at it,” said Claire, gesturing around the room. “This was supposed to be our grand second act.”
“I mean someplace truly different. A place where maybe Sam’s health would really improve.”