Текст книги "Sing"
Автор книги: C. D. Reiss
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 10 страниц)
CHAPTER 39.
MONICA
There were doctors and nurses everywhere. Clean white sheets and sage scrubs. Trays of uneaten food and plastic detritus in soothing, meaningless colors. The lights pinpoint and dull as if this would help him sleep with the human traffic in the room.
The doctor wasn’t much older than I was, but I knew her from the way she asked questions instead of answered them.
“Hi,” I said.
“You’re the wife?”
The title still hit me like a bag of flour.
“Yeah. I’d like, I don’t know. Time. A little.”
“You got it.”
She hustled everyone out, and it was just me and him. He looked like someone had painted him white. If I thought it was hard to see him after his disastrous operation, well, this was worse. This was where it came down to me accepting that this was what it was, or me living in a fucking illusion.
“Good evening, sir,” I said.
“Get over here.” His voice was no better than a whisper breaking through a stone wall. There was effort in it, as if he carried me uphill. I put my elbows on either side of his head and touched my nose to his.
“Jonathan, I...”
“You look beautiful.”
“You made me so happy. I wanted to tell you that.”
“I played with you in the beginning. And I wasted too much time lying to you.”
“That’s over now.”
“Actually...”
He paused, and I knew why.
“You’re kidding,” said.
“The night of the Eclipse show, when I went to Jessica’s...”
“La la la I don’t hear you.”
“There was more than kissing.”
I let my neck release the weight of my head, dropping it until my forehead was on his shoulder. “Go ahead,” I said.
“Second base.”
From his reaction, the way he stroked my arm and nuzzled my hair, he must have thought my shaking shoulders and hitched breaths were signs that I was crying. But when I picked my head back up and he saw that I was laughing, he smiled.
“So it’s okay?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s okay. Is there anything else? I mean, seriously. Something that matters?”
“No. But my brain’s not working very well. So something might come up later.”
I put my cheek to his, because he spoke about later as if it was going to happen. He felt cold against me already.
“You never told me about our wedding night,” he said. “I carry you into our house over my shoulder.”
I bite my lip. He doesn’t want sad. He wants to have a life in his mind. I could give that to him.
“I’m laughing, because Lil can see us, and the whole caveman thing is hilarious. I know you have something planned, but I have no idea what. The house is on a hill in Beechwood Canyon. Can we do Beechwood Canyon?”
“For the sake of this conversation.”
“It’s a modernist masterpiece in the hills, with walls of windows looking over the city. You close the door behind us, and carry me through the dark house, out to the backyard. It’s lit with tea lights and the pool has lights in it. Everything shimmers like it’s under water. You get me to my feet, and say, ‘Take your hair down.’”
I raise my arms to pull a hundred pins and braids out of my hair. My arms are out of the way, and you use the opening to kiss my cheek, my neck. Your hands follow, landing on my collarbone. You drag your thumb across it, and down. You find the zipper to my wedding dress on the side, and pull it. I’m still not done with my hair. I admit I’m going super slow, but it’s starting to fall out of its arrangement. You pull the dress down until it pools at my feet. Your hands find the edges of my underwear. It’s all straps and rings. My hair falls totally. You step back and look at me. I feel beautiful. You’ve made me feel like that all day, looking at me like that in your black tux. I say, ‘What do you want, sir?’ And you say—”
“I say this,” he interrupts, even with his rasp of a voice, I stop. “I say, ‘tomorrow I’m going to destroy you. I’m going to mark your body and ruin your mind. By noon, you won’t know whether to laugh or cry. But tonight? Tonight, I will revere you. I will build an altar of myself. I will frame you in stars.’”
“God, you make me crazy when you talk like that.”
“There’s a blanket on the grass. I lead you to it. You lie down.”
“The night is clear. The stars are out.”
“My lips on your body trace the story of my love.”
My eyelashes fluttered on his cheek. “I try to touch you, but you won’t let me. God, you’re still in that tuxedo.”
“I took it off.”
“When?”
“When I say, Goddess.”
I sighed, going with him. He was naked. “You’re perfect. Shaped for me.”
He swallowed thickly. “I kiss your ankles. Pull your legs apart. I draw a map to your sex with my tongue. I feel overtaken. In my guts, I need to yank you, pound you with my dick, make you scream and beg. But I hold back. Kiss behind your knees. I control myself for you.”
“I want you, you’re all I can think about.”
“I’m losing steam.”
His eyes filling my visions, red rims and pale skin, soaked in exhaustion, he needed me to create this for him, for us. I took a deep breath and kissed his cheek, letting my lips linger on him. “Your lips inside my thighs. Your tongue finding its way to me. You kiss my clit. You finger my nipples. You’re touching me just enough to drive me crazy. Your mouth works between my legs. Sucking and twitching. I arch my back. I’m so close when you stop. And you know it too. You pull me to you. We kiss. I taste my pussy on you.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I turn you around. We’re both on our knees. Your back is against me. I push you up, spread you. I put my dick in you and you push down.”
“You’re so hard. And I’m so wet. And it’s so easy isn’t it? Wasn’t it always so easy for you to put your cock in me? Like you were meant to be there.”
“I pull your head back, until you’re looking at the sky. Hold your face up. My hand is on your throat.”
“Your other hand slips between my legs. You touch where we’re joined.”
“I look at the stars with you.”
“I move with you. I’m safe under the sky. I feel you everywhere on me. I’m filled with you. I tell you I’m coming.”
“I say, ‘yes.’”
We stayed silent for a minute, deeply joined, as if he were inside me, expanding together, into each other, fully unified, merged, consciousness where our bodies should have been.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“Please stay with me.”
I didn’t answer for a long time, I just kept my face buried in his neck and listened to his breathing. At some point, I was going to have to leave and meet with Declan. If not to get the whens and wherefores, then to kick his ass for not holding up his end of the deal, but how could I?
“Your family’s going to want to see you,” I said.
“You ever want sisters?” he asked.
“Always.”
“You’re welcome.”
I laughed. He smiled. “They’re outside. I’m going to take care of some business and come back, okay?”
“Stay.”
I kissed his cheek. It felt warmer than it did before our pretend wedding night, and I lingered there.
“I’ll be back.”
“Stay.”
“I can’t. I promise—“
“Stay.”
I backed up and let his hand slip from mine.
CHAPTER 40.
MONICA
When I walked out, I must have been a sight. The bright lights of the hall hurt my eyes, and my hair was a rat’s nest pressed in the shape of Jonathan’s fingers.
Eileen approached. “How is he?”
I didn’t say anything. There were doctors to report facts to her, all I could say was something like, “he can barely tell me how he’s going to fuck me, because he’s dying,” and that wouldn’t be helpful, least of all me. Eileen passed me, then Sheila, then Margie and Deirdre. Leanne in Asia. Carrie far away. Theresa in some kind of trouble. Fiona, entourage-free for once, scuttled down the hall and blew past me.
Declan drew up the rear and whispered in my ear. “Fifteen minutes to a fire drill on the second floor. They don’t move brain dead patients for drills. He’ll be alone. Staff’s been arranged. Cops are a wild card. Good luck.” He winked at me with real élan, as if this was just delicious, and as much as I’d doubted Jonathan’s fear and hatred of his father, in that moment, I knew it wasn’t completely unfounded.
CHAPTER 41.
MONICA
I had fifteen minutes.
I felt very far away, my body a borrowed suit, my mind a blunt instrument, my soul in a room full of family, curled up next to a dying man. Fifteen minutes. This was time to kill. I couldn’t sit still. I went to the vending machines and stared at cheerful paper packets of synthetics, crisp under the unappetizing blue light. A refrigerator-sized box of cola containers, eleven buttons, all yielding the same drink, I felt like an alien standing in front of something new and unknown. People about to commit murder in movies seemed so sharp and aware in ways that were useful. They could kick and punch with lightning reflexes. This wasn’t like that at all. This was more like walking under water.
Ten minutes.
More than anything, I wanted to rest. The thought of finding a waiting room and falling asleep on a couch seemed very appealing. I’d sleep through my opportunity, and none of it would be my fault. Jonathan would die tomorrow or the next day, but I’d be okay. I’d go to work on Tuesday, and just go on like I had before. Except for never touching him again, or hearing his voice, or kneeling before him like the slave I was, all the other chunks of my life would be the same.
Ultimately, I was being selfish. I wanted him to live for my sake. Because knowing he was there soothed me. Because I didn’t truly believe I had any control over myself or my life if he wasn’t there. Because without him, things were wrong.
The wrongness was my perception. The world would be fine without him. Really. He wasn’t Mother Theresa.
Five minutes.
Are you talking yourself out of this?
Calm, yet somehow panicked, like a wheel moving so fast it appeared to be still, I went up the stairs. I knew where I had to go, physically, but mentally, I felt as if I’d painted the floor from door to corner in blood.
I pushed open the door with my fist and walked into the second floor. It was after 2am. Skeleton crew. No visitors. I made eye contact with the cop reading the paper, because any less would make me out to be suspicious before I did this thing. And this thing needed doing.
Three minutes.
I went to the bathroom. The mirrors were streaked with cheap cleaning fluid, and my face looked poorly-wiped, tired, too fucking thin by a lot. I didn’t look strong enough to do this. I looked like a wax doll.
One minute.
No. I couldn’t do it. I was going to have to just deal with life without him and everything we could have been to each other. I was going to have to let him die. I couldn’t rescue him. I wasn’t strong enough, and it wasn’t the consequences that would break me, but the act itself. I didn’t have the spine for brutality. I was a child in over her head. A spineless coward, and an exhausted, hungry, stupid child.
A light flashed, and a squeal cut the air.
I was going to stay in the bathroom and watch myself fail in the mirror, and when they came to evacuate me for the drill, I’d run out with the crowd in a nice, orderly, single file line.
I wasn’t going to do it.
CHAPTER 42.
MONICA
People in movies, apparently, manage to obtain reflexes in moments of stress, and the rest of us dream that this will happen to us; that when we’re at the edge of the cliff we can jump to safety, or to rescue, magically stronger and faster then we’d been an hour earlier. We’re entertained by the idea that we could be that capable when it’s necessary, and our daily incompetence is simply that we’re not challenged enough.
That never happens, of course, because you know, life doesn’t happen on the edges of cliffs. It happens in bathrooms and hallways. It happens when a fire alarm goes off and all the avoidance slips away like a silk nightgown. For me, it happened by the second whoop of the siren, when everything clicked together.
Go time.
This was my purpose. Every choice I’d made had led me here. If I denied it, I’d be the walking dead.
Humanity scurrying, shouting, parts of a machine spinning and thrusting, patients wheeled down the hall, a nurse demanding I go left, me doing it, then flipping back as soon as she turned away. A security guard shouted to me. I gave him the thumbs up and continued, grabbed some coat slung over a chair as if I’d turned to retrieve my things, and again, I turned another corner when his attention shifted.
There would be cameras, and they’d see me. I didn’t waste my time trying to dodge them. I was going to get caught and I was going to take my lumps. Shame. Prison. A destroyed career.
Patalano’s hallway was clear. Declan must have taken care of this. A fire drill was a diversion so obvious, the police would have planned for it and even the stupidest mobster would have dismissed it, yet, they were gone.
I walked into his room.
It was dark, and he was alone, lying on his back. Everything was exactly what I expected, like I was walking into a familiar place. The whoosh and hum of the machines was drowned out by the siren. They were bigger than the ones in Jonathan’s room, with more dials and gauges. Patalano’s face was hidden by tubes going down his throat, and a bandage on his head. His neck was kept stable by a plastic apparatus, and the eyes taped shut.
I waved my hand in front of it. Nothing happened. I don’t know what I was checking for, or what about this mattered. He was brain dead. His body was a life system for a functioning heart muscle. End of story. I tore myself away from him and focused on the machines. There had to be a switch or a plug. Right?
There were switches and plugs everywhere, and nowhere. All the wires ran behind a two ton apparatus and disappeared.
Fuck. Why did I think this was going to be simple?
I flipped any switch I could get my hand on, and though the thing whined, there was no way to tell if what I was doing was having the necessary effect.
“That does absolutely nothing,” came a voice from behind me. I recognized it immediately in its shocking cold efficiency. Jessica.
“Get out,” I said.
In two steps she was at the machines, flipping everything back to the way it was. “You don’t move a girl in a vegetative state and care for her for ten years without learning something.”
“Get out!” I shouted.
“Listen,” she shouted back. Our voices were covered by the fire alarm, but for how much longer? “Find his catheter.”
I froze for a second, battling everything I believed about Jessica, and what I saw in front of me. She was trying to help me. Was it love? Or was she saving the goose and the golden eggs?
Did it matter?
I found the tube coming from the center of the bed and ending in a sealed bag under it. She saw me look at it.
“Put a kink in it. It’ll back up and he’ll die of septic shock in an hour.”
A few drops of yellow liquid flowed through the tube. Jessica put her hand on my arm. She wasn’t going to do it.
It was all me.
He loved me because he thought I was good. Would he love me if I ruined myself for him?
The fire alarm stopped. The silence was overwhelming. I could hear the forced breaths, and if I listened closely, the fluid running through the catheter and the beating of a superfluous heart.
“Do it,” Jessica whispered.
Do it, and risk my own life. Do it, recognizing that Jonathan hadn’t done it to Rachel, because he must have believed something bigger, deeper, more spiritual lived in our bodies. Do it, and lose Jonathan, even if he lived.
With a bend in my knee, and a twist in my wrist, I kinked that thing, and the fluid running through it stopped.
“Run,” Jessica said, and was gone.
I became aware of voices, the squeak of gurneys, the rustle of human activity. I backed out of the room, watching that tube fill up.
In my ignorance, I hadn’t silenced my phone, so when the bloop of a message came in, I jumped to turn the thing off. When I did, I saw it was from Brad.
—We have a heart. Coming from Ojai. One hour.—
Like a kid diving for the piñata candy, I went for that kinked catheter, and smoothed it until the liquid flowed. I ran out like I was coming back from a fire drill, slapped open the stairwell door, which was packed with people coming back from the drill, and backed into a corner, breathing in gasps like my soul had been saved at a minute’s notice.
I waved away anyone who looked concerned. I just needed a moment to collect myself. Breathe. That was the scariest thing I had ever done.
“Ma’am?”
Two police officers, the woman and man I’d seen outside Patalano’s hall.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Can you come with us?” the lady cop asked.” My heart sank. They’d come for me, despite the unkinking of the catheter, I’d tried it. Attempted murder. Someone had seen me and pointed me out. When they unraveled everything, they’d see my prints all over the place. The video. My seemingly meaningless appearance in the hall the previous night. Of course.
I was finished.
CHAPTER 43.
JONATHAN
I heard a fire alarm, but apparently, it was on a lower floor. Nothing to panic about. My family laughed with relief, even my father, who I believed didn’t actually understand levity. I stayed still and silent because I didn’t have the wherewithal to do anything else. A room crowded with people who loved me, and I never felt so alone. I wanted Monica to come back. I felt childish wanting her so badly, but I felt scraped down to a nub, without habit or discipline, no expectations or social cues. Just the core wants and revulsions, unfiltered by a personality built up by half a lifetime’s worth of experiences.
I was scared to die.
My body was uncomfortable.
I wanted Monica.
Past those three overwhelming sensations, I had only sensory inputs and petty feelings. Even the slight excitement that followed the end of the faraway fire drill didn’t move me. Some happy news amongst my family, like an unlikely Dodger win or an upcoming wedding. People scurried in sage green and pink, shouting orders. My mother came to me, smiling and kissed my cheek, stroking it until Dr. Emerson, the silver-haired one who came in and out of my room seventeen times a day, pulled her away. Her face was replaced with his.
“We have a heart. It’s a match. We’re prepping you for surgery.”
They handled my body like a jacket they were mending, and I felt humiliated and shut down, but hopeful.
“Monica.” I choked the word out to a nurse I didn’t recognize. She looked up and past me, to someone I couldn’t see. There was a conversation I couldn’t make out, then she said to me in a voice designed for clarity.
“We’ll let her know.”
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know. Just keep still now.”
She lifted my head and strung something around my neck. This was happening too fast. I’d already let Monica walk out of the room. I’d let it happen because I was weak and now I’d lost control of the situation entirely. That couldn’t happen. They couldn’t wheel me away and cut me open again without me seeing her. They’d done it last time, and look what happened (yes, make him believe she is his good luck charm)
“No!” I swung my arm, and it must have been truly pathetic, because they just strapped it down, easily, as if I was made of bone and rag.
I said her name to myself, over and over, but she didn’t appear.
CHAPTER 44.
MONICA
I tried not to fidget, even after they took my phone.
I was raised to think cops believed fidgeting meant lying. I wasn’t lying, much. I wasn’t with the mob or associated with any kind of underground business, which is what they kept implying. I didn’t know anyone they asked about. I was just me. One of the thousands of tall, skinny, struggling artists in this intestinal tract of a city.
“I wanted to look at him,” I said. The guy cop tip-tapped into a laptop, and the lady cop leaned her elbows on the table. The break room stank of stale coffee, non-dairy creamer and sugar glaze.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because my husband’s up on four waiting for a heart transplant, and this guy’s brain dead, with this nice heart, and I just wanted to say a prayer that he died. I know that makes me a bad person.”
I left it there. That was about as much lying as I thought I could get away with. I could have told the truth, but to what end? They weren’t looking for someone who’d screwed with his catheter, their questions told me they were looking for a true assassin.
“That your ring?”
I held my hand out. “The diamond is his sister’s.”
“The other one’s unusual.”
“Quickie marriage to a dying man who I’d really like to see.”
“Wait outside, please.” They let me to a row of chairs they’d set up for people they were questioning. A stocky guy with black hair went in next. Fuck, how long could this take? I couldn’t stop fidgeting. After twenty minutes, I looked at the clock.
Ten minutes to 3am. Did the morning count?
I waited for ten minutes, hands still, suddenly not feeling fidgety at all. When the second and minute hands hit the twelve, I closed my eyes and put my fingertips to my lips. I don’t know how long I held them there, but they pressed my skin until the lady cop came out and handed me my phone and ID.
“You can go.”
I ran like hell.
