The Shimmering State

by Meredith Westgate

  “You Are Connected,” he says setting down the bowl. “Kale pesto kelp noodles. Extra cashew cheese and a side of kimchi.” The repetition of her modifications feels more like reprimanding.

  Meanwhile, a waiter the next table over announces the question of the day—“What challenges you?”—lingering for a moment, ostensibly for them to consider and discuss among themselves. Instead, once their waiter is gone, a twenty-something wearing an ironic, oversized Hawaiian shirt, leans in and asks, Have you guys taken a photo in the bathroom? It’s SO good.

  Sophie looks back to her bowl, the kelp noodles twirled into an infinite loop flickered with green. As she twists some around her fork, the insides of her cheeks tingle in anticipation. She takes out her book and pulls the small candle closer. She has carried Blood Memory, the autobiography of Martha Graham, with her everywhere for the past year. She believes it gives her luck—rising to principal from the ensemble against the odds, getting the lead in La Sylphide.

  Now she turns to it when she cannot sleep at night or when she wakes up at four in the morning too anxious to fall back asleep. Not only does Martha Graham describe her work with Baryshnikov, and Louise Brooks, and in the Greenwich Village Follies, but her words on dance read like poetry to Sophie, articulating the power and the struggle with an agility Sophie has never seen captured in language. She loves imagining what life must have been like for Graham, surrounded by talented friends like Isamu Noguchi and Charlie Chaplin; friends to collaborate with, or simply inhabit the same room. The very thought of that room calms Sophie.

  People have asked me why I chose to be a dancer. I did not choose. I was chosen to be a dancer, and with that, you live all your life, Martha Graham writes.

  Sophie has a photograph of Graham with Alexander Calder, Marianne Moore, Herbert Matter, and Marc Chagall, all laughing together in front of one of Calder’s mobiles; it sits tucked into the frame of her mirror at home, a reminder of something. Something bigger. Bigger than delivering Chateau truffle fries to a table before they get soggy, bigger than the next starlet, producer, or director treated like royalty. Bigger even than her upcoming performance. The idea of that room and those friendships hints at some worldly rightness, some intangible hope that Sophie has to believe in. A collective heart that beats as hers, if only nurtured and surrounded by people like her. Or different from her—but open. Connected.

  Reading about Martha Graham’s financial struggles and the fight it took to keep her company alive does not comfort Sophie as much as it settles something in her—some fear, some inadequacy. To think that even her heroes still dealt with things like bills, budgets, and rejections feels like company in this lonely place.

  Just then a pair of tight black jeans stops beside her table. Sophie senses who it is by the musky cologne, the orangey hand tapping the tabletop. Her back tightens. When she looks up, the effort it takes to smile exhausts her.

  “Well, well,” he says in the same rehearsed annoyance he likes to show her. An ingratitude for being pretty, in his eyes. Her nerve. So many “playboys” seem to hate women. She watches it over and over at the Chateau. This deep resentment for the pretty ones they pursue; an insurmountable jealousy at how easy they imagine life must be, never understanding the paradox of how hard they make it.

  Sophie nods so as not to be unfriendly, then turns back to her book.

  “Mind if I sit?” says Ray Delaney, already halfway down. He leans over the table so far that the string of his age-inappropriate hoodie dangles near her kimchi. “You vegan?”

  “Nope,” Sophie says. “I just come here from time to time.”

  “I’m vegan five years now. Never felt better.”

  How could it take such dedication to look so absolutely sleazy? Sophie wonders what would happen if he stopped. Would he drip into a puddle of slime and slither away?

  “I’ve got a guy here,” he says, leaning in closer. “Hooks me up with colostrum.”

  “Colostrum?”

  “Mother’s milk, that truly precious bit that comes out first. Very hard to find.”

  Sophie stares at him. “You mean human?”

  “Technically it’s illegal, but they do it all under the table here. Let me tell you, if there’s a fountain of youth somewhere, it’s spewing that stuff.”

  Ew, Sophie thinks. “And you, what, drink it?” She can hardly look at the man; the cloak of obligation she wears at the Chateau no longer covers her bubbling disgust.

  “Yep, nothing like it,” he says. “Only thing I break vegan for.”

  Rather than respond, Sophie smiles and looks back to her book.

  “I’ll get you some next time,” says Ray Delaney as though closing a deal.

  Sophie imagines what her family in Minneapolis might say, witnessing a grown man drinking mother’s milk. An Impossible burger is one thing, but this oedipal, vanity-driven veganism with creepy exceptions—she cannot imagine them in the same room together.

  “You’ve got such an amazing figure, you must be doing something right.”

  “Honestly, I prefer regular milk.”

  “Do you model?”

  “I’m a dancer.”

  A different waiter, not hers, passes the table and Ray Delaney reaches out his arm, almost hitting the guy in the stomach. “Adam, how are ya! Gimme a kombucha with a shot of ginger. And tell Andre I’m here.”

  “Will do, good to see you, Ray!” His smile disappears as soon as he passes him.

  “I know the whole gang here.”

  Sophie forks the kelp noodles, though her appetite is gone. Something about Ray Delaney’s presence makes her eating feel performative, pornographic even. She twirls the noodles and lets them fall back into the bowl.

  “What kind of dance?”

  “Ballet.”

  “Ballet?” He laughs. “Well, that explains it then!”

  “Explains what?”

  “The posture, the composure. And here I thought you were just uptight.”

  Sophie holds up an arm for the waiter, any waiter. Still, smiling. Baring her teeth.

  “Oh relax, princess! I’m just messing with you,” he says, pulling her arm down. She hates the feeling of his hand on her skin. “That’s just how I am, babe, ask anyone. You gotta learn to lighten up. Stick with me, it’ll be good for ya!”

  “I can take a joke, but I don’t really see anything funny. You’re insulting me.”

  She looks back down to her book. Even the sight of Martha Graham’s name is a reassurance. This is your world, she thinks to herself, holding the page between her trembling fingers. This is the world.

  “All right, you wanna read. I’ll leave you to it. But we’ll hang soon, finally. Right?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re a real fuckin’ pill, you know that?”

  He smiles smugly. Sophie can’t decide whether this man is delusional or just trying to save face, acting like this is some elaborate long game they’re playing. How could one of the most successful producers in Hollywood be this oblivious? Or is that precisely why he is, given he is used to getting exactly what he wants?

  Once Ray Delaney is safely outside, Sophie takes another bite of her kelp noodles, but the cashew cheese has congealed with the pesto, making it inedible. What a waste; twenty dollars is something she saves for, between meals of steamed frozen vegetables, brown rice, hard-boiled eggs, and Japanese sweet potatoes she cooks ahead for the week. She walks to the counter to pay, again noticing every muscle, but this time enjoying the accomplishment—sore because she is being overworked, sore because she is the lead.

  She orders a turmeric latte for the ride home, hoping it might prime her for a good night’s sleep so at least the meal would not have been a total loss.

  “You Are Glowing,” the barista says, handing her the compostable to-go cup. She says thank you, forgetting for a moment that he is talking about the drink.

  The creaminess of the steamed almond milk mixed with the tartness of the fresh turmeric calms her, and she remembers
again why she puts up with the names and the mantras and the moony smiles. She takes another sip, just as the thought of Ray Delaney’s “mother’s milk” pops into her head, and nearly gags. She checks her fuzzy white sweater for any drips of turmeric, and steps into the shadows of the parking lot.

  The days are getting shorter now, surprising her with darkness each time she steps outside. Before she finds her phone in her backpack to order a Drivr, a red Tesla pulls in front of her. The window rolls down. For god’s sake, it’s Ray Delaney.

  “Need a ride?”

  “No thanks,” she says, waving him off. “I’m fine.”

  “Come on,” he says. “Now you’re gonna hurt my feelings.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Let me drive you home. I interrupted your dinner, it’s the least I can do.”

  “I just ordered a Drivr.”

  “Cancel it,” he says. The car lurches forward, in her way. “What, you don’t even think I’m capable of driving you home? I wasn’t going to mention tonight to Willow, but honestly. You can be a real bitch.”

  The car now completely blocks Sophie’s path from the curb, giving her the option of walking back into the restaurant, sliding over its pristine hood, or obliging him. The first two options seem unbearably awkward, given that she will, in fact, likely see him at work again tomorrow night. Willow has fired people for less than offending Ray Delaney. And Willow knows everyone; she could easily blacklist Sophie from jobs across Los Angeles if Ray Delaney applied the right pressure. People like Sophie disappear; the Ray Delaneys do not. Besides, Sophie is so close; if she saves enough from another month at the Chateau, she could stop working there altogether. Never see him again. She could focus solely on dance, finally. She’s too close, has put up with too much, to let Ray Delaney threaten that now.

  She opens the door.

  “I’m not a bitch.”

  “Okay, princess.”

  Inside, she is struck by the smell of cologne so strong it makes the back of her throat sting. Here she is, in his car, against her better judgment. This must be the secret to his success. She pictures studio executives signing checks and contracts under the sheer social pressure behind his offers.

  “I’m assuming you live east of here,” he says. The car moves forward so silently that Sophie had not realized it was even on. “I have to make one quick stop first, but it’ll give us a chance to hang.”

  “Sorry, but you said you’d just take me home.”

  “I know some people associated with the ballet here, you know,” he says. “Financiers, mostly. But they have a say in things, if you know what I mean.”

  Not LABC. Could he know Auguste, too? Not him, too.

  “I have to be up early.”

  “Relax. You’ll age yourself. This’ll be quick. You said we’d hang soon, and here it is, sooner than we thought.”

  Ray Delaney drives fast and carelessly, accelerating around the few cars on the road obeying the speed limit, and Sophie’s stomach rises and falls with the gas pedal as they drive farther from her place. Pull us over, she thinks as they pass a parked police car along Beverly. Please, please, pull us over. As they approach the intersection of Melrose and La Brea, the light glows yellow, but Ray Delaney accelerates instead, clearly intending to pass the car to their side as those around them slow to a stop. But when the yellow turns to red before they reach it, he slams on the brakes and Sophie feels her seat belt catch.

  She looks at her cup, making sure nothing has spilled, when suddenly Ray Delaney sneaks a hand around her knee, where her jeans are torn and her skin shows through. Sophie jerks away, spilling the golden drink all over herself, and his light interior.

  “What the hell is that?” he says, waving his hand to get the hot liquid off. At first, Sophie thinks he might hit her. “Grab some paper towels, they’re in the back. Ah, shit.”

  This is the first time Sophie has seen him lose his cool, and she takes some pleasure in that, though her favorite sweater is ruined. She twists in her seat, looking for the paper towels, but all she sees are different jackets in varying shades of leather, and two amber pill bottles, seemingly empty. She turns back around and looks at her legs, the saturated yellow turning permanent across her light denim thigh. At least his hand is gone.

  * * *

  The lights are barely dimmed in the near-empty club, the Woods. At first Sophie does not even recognize the spot she frequented years ago at the end of a night, back when your only hope of skipping the line around the block was to know someone, which she always did.

  The Woods’ palm frond wallpaper that had seemed so delightfully kitsch only a few years ago now peels in the corners and shows stains from countless popped bottles of champagne, the acidity yellowing the already antique paper. Sophie has never been to one of these places in the early evening hours, and it strikes her as sad. Even in its prime, the Woods was never a place you met for a cocktail after work, or for a post-dinner drink. This was the place you left at three a.m. and hardly remembered the next day. And yet, through the smoky haze, more fog machine than cigarette, she recognizes a few familiar faces. Sophie never considered that many of these people they used to party with would still be doing the same things now. That for them, the party was never over. They never got out long enough, sobered up long enough, to realize it had ended years ago.

  Sophie lifts a hand to wave to a DJ she briefly dated immediately after moving to Los Angeles, though she quickly realizes he does not see her. He has an empty, flat look in his eyes, and his head twitches side to side, reacting to something not there. Sophie remembers herself in the car outside of the Dresden, the shark stalking its prey. But he isn’t wearing any glasses.

  “You want some, princess?” says Ray Delaney, suddenly beside her.

  She follows his gaze to a velvet settee, where a beautiful, if surgically enhanced, woman lies reclined. Her legs tilt inward, with one arm stretched the full length of the chair, as though reaching for something not there.

  “Margot Berry,” he says. “She’s a friend.”

  Sophie looks again. Of course, Margot Berry was one of the original supermodels, who now spends her time codesigning her own “celebrity” line of convertible furniture and pushing collagen powders on late night television. And, apparently, doing Mem at eight p.m. on a Tuesday.

  “Come on, a little taste?”

  “No thanks,” says Sophie.

  She wonders if Margot is using her own, some paid-off doctor in her pocket so she could relive her past glory, or if she’s escaping into the memories of others. Sophie is struck by how laid bare and pathetic the users look. At the Chateau, under the twinkling lights of the courtyard, or up in a hotel room, the privilege of its privacy and the thrill of escape seemed part of the appeal. There, it looked like luxury. At the Woods, in this off-hour, Sophie sees more the meth houses in Minneapolis that had consumed an entire neighborhood by the time she left, that swallowed her brother and multiple classmates she had grown up with, that despite the bleakness were the only places they wanted to be.

  “You can do it here,” he says. “Look around, nobody cares.”

  He looks so pleased with himself, as though the rest of the world is outside wishing to be here. Nothing could appeal to Sophie less than lying down beside these people with so little left in their lives that they need to escape into strangers.

  “I’m good,” she says.

  “You are so fucking spoiled.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Like I’ve said, I know a lot of people. And that can go one of two ways. You ought to think about that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, a last-ditch effort. “I’m just so tired.”

  “Poor princess. Have one drink and I’ll drive you home,” he says, softening. “Besides, you’ll never get a Drivr over here at rush hour.”

  Ray Delaney’s hand moves to Sophie’s waist, holding her in place. She knows her best defense is moderate appeasement.

  “One drink, then you
take me home.”

  At the bar, Ray Delaney is quickly flanked by two underage-looking girls. Whatever they’ve done to their faces it looks uncomfortable. Sophie feels a hand on the curve of her back and arches away from it. She turns to see two guys with different interpretations of the same undercut in varying degrees of height on top. This one is wearing a hoodie under a blazer and smells like tequila.

  “You here with Delaney?”

  “Captive,” Sophie says. “I was getting a ride.”

  The guys nod to each other, confirming some joke between them.

  “Classic Delaney,” says one of them.

  “You look like his type. Let me guess, actress?”

  “No,” she says. “And I’m not his type, we just ran into each other.”

  She suddenly feels remarkably vulnerable. The way they look at her.

  “You been here before?” the other one asks.

  “Yeah, a few years ago.”

  “Aren’t we too cool?”

  Ray Delaney reappears with two champagne flutes and the two girls, who put their hands on the shoulders of one guy each and trade kisses. “What’s good, brothers?” says Ray Delaney, so unnaturally that Sophie actually pities him for a moment.

  He hands her a flute. When she takes a sip, it fizzes all the way down her throat. The champagne burns. Its bubbles feel sharp, different. When she turns, Ray Delaney is in her face, smiling.

  “Good shit, right? Only the best for the princess.”

  Despite everything, he is still trying to impress her; to show her up, or off. The other men laugh at something she’s unaware of, and now Ray Delaney’s hands are extended into the center of the group, one tiny pill for each of them, glimmering under the hanging chandeliers, and Sophie feels the whole room wobble, the stained wallpaper pattern blurring into motion.

  She grips Ray Delaney’s arm, but he seems unaware, or unsurprised.

  Sophie’s head suddenly feels heavy with the beat of the music, and only then does she taste the bitter chalkiness, the iridescent particles attached to each rising bubble in her glass. The room gets darker and the beat fades, time slowing and running out all at once. She spreads her arms, bending low in search of the nearest seat. Then suddenly, she cannot see a thing around her, and before she can call for help she feels her