I go into my bedroom. Take the dress out of my closet and hold it up against myself in front of the mirror. I slip out of my shirt and jeans and put it on. Look in the mirror at the girl in the chic black dress with the black-and-blue face, one side puffed up like a fucking baseball glove. . . . Maybe if I were my mother, I could rip the dress, stain it, and sell it as art. But I’m not Mama. I’m an out-of-work actor so desperate for a connection that I sold myself. Could have gotten myself killed. Then I’d be famous: Tristan McCabe’s victim. I’d be like that blond girl who got killed in the Caribbean on her school vacation—the one whose mother is on TV every two seconds. I can’t get work, but that dead girl’s mother has turned herself into a celebrity? . . . Maybe I’m not cut out for this meat grinder of a business. Or maybe I am. Maybe if I stick it out, my big break will happen next month, or even next week. . . .
When I walk out of my bedroom wearing the dress, I see that Bree has fallen asleep. I pour myself the last of the chablis. Sit down next to Bree. I see him again, his face contorted with anger, screaming at me the way my mother used to scream at my brother. . . . I hope he dies. Gets hit by a car or shot by some crazy fan. Gets killed in a plane crash on his way back to Hollywood. It would serve him right. I sip my wine. Rest my head on Bree’s shoulder. I’m getting drowsy now, too. . . .
When I wake up, Bree is standing over me, taking the empty wineglass out of my hand. She smiles, I smile back. Then I remember what happened on Friday. “I have to go,” she says. “I’ll get you some of that cover-up and the other stuff. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
I stand. Teeter a little and follow her to the door. Watch her while she waits for the elevator. When it dings and she gets in, I close my door and lock it. Slide the bolt back in place. Put the chain on. My roommate’s not coming back from Mexico until when? Wednesday? Thursday? . . .
I see the rage in his eyes, feel his blasts of breath, his spit hitting my face. My heart is pounding and I start to shake again. My head aches. My face is still sore to the touch. The bite mark on my stomach hurts like a motherfucker.
Chapter Thirteen
Ariane Oh
Oh god, I feel so sick, and of course they’ve assigned me the middle seat. Mr. Businessman is on the aisle, where I wish I was in case I have to run to the lavatory. He’s a big man, and his legs are spread wide. One of his knees is out in the aisle and the other’s trespassing into my space. The Holy Roller woman’s got the window seat. When she was coming down the aisle during boarding, I read her sweatshirt: GOD IS GREAT. Where’s that sickness bag, just in case? There’s everything but in this seat pocket. How long is this flight?
Click click. “Good morning, folks. This is Captain Tom Moynihan. Wanted to let you know that we’ve reached our flying altitude. We’re expecting smooth air on our way to Boston this morning, so I’m going to go ahead and turn off the seat belt sign. But while you’re seated, we’d like you to . . .”
All right already. Blah blah blah. My stomach’s rolling and I’m shaking. If he doesn’t stop talking, I’m not going to make it to the bathroom.
“Our super duper flight attendants will be starting the beverage service in just a few minutes, and—”
Shit! I’ve just retched and had to swallow back my own vomit. Mr. Aisle Seat turns away from me. Well, tough. It’s not like I can help it. “You okay?” the Jesus woman asks. I nod rather than say anything. I don’t want her to have to smell puke breath. My throat is burning. My stomach’s gurgling. This is horrible.
“On behalf of my wing man, First Officer Bill Brazicki, and our entire Chicago-based flight crew, I’d like to tell you how glad we are to have you aboard today. And now we invite you to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.” Finally! I unbuckle, stand up too fast, and clunk my head.
“Excuse me! Excuse me, please!” Mr. Business unbuckles and stands, looking annoyed. “Thanks,” I say, accidentally stepping on his foot. “Sorry.” Hurrying toward the bathroom, I push past another woman to get there first.
“Well, pardon me,” she says in this bitchy voice.
“It’s an emergency!” I call over my shoulder. “I’m pregnant!”
When I reach the lav, I step in, slam the door, and slide the “occupied” bolt. Holding back my hair, I bend my head low and regurgitate some more. It’s just bile, mostly. I’ve been vomiting ever since my alarm went off at five this morning: at home, on the way to the airport, twice in the bathroom during the layover. Dr. Rosinsky said the sickness should subside in another month. “I hope she’s right for your sake,” Cicely told me. “With Sha’Quandria, I was only sick for the first trimester, but DeShawn had me upchucking the whole nine months. Then to top it off, he breeched and I had to get a C-section.” DeShawn is a senior in high school. I guess it’s not true what everyone says: that once you see the baby, you forget all about the pain and the inconvenience.
I go to flush but can’t find the button. Well, I guess I’d better try to pee as long as I’m here, although I don’t really have to. I pull down my pants and suspend my rear over the bowl. Manage a little bit of dribble, find the flush button, pull up my pants. I could have held off a while on buying these pregnancy jeans, but I’m glad I didn’t. My sister would probably be mortified by the elastic waistband. I can just hear her: You’re twenty-seven years old and you’re already wearing old lady pants? Well, so what? They’re comfortable. Those old ladies have the right idea. I turn and face the sink. Look at myself in the mirror, which is a mistake. Bags under my eyes, chapped lips, pasty complexion. I cup my hands beneath the faucet, swish, and spit. Do it again. And again. I wish I had a mint to suck. Ow! I just whacked my elbow. What did Axel tell me they call it when people have sex in these cramped little bathrooms? I forget. God, why would anyone want to do that? It’s got to be horribly uncomfortable, plus it’s gross, especially for the poor people who have to use it afterward. You go in there to pee and walk out with an STD. . . . I’m pregnant, I announced on my way in here. Haven’t even told my parents yet, but now a bunch of strangers on a plane know. How weird is that?
When I step out into the cabin, there’s a line. A stylish woman, a guy in a ball cap, a young couple with their hands in each other’s back pockets. The mile-high club: that’s what it’s called. Gross . . .
Back at my row, I stand and wait but finally have to tap Aisle Seat Guy on the shoulder. “Sorry to bother you again. Is your foot okay?” Does that grunt mean yes or no?
“Feel better?” Jesus Woman asks when I’m in my seat again.
“Yes, thanks.” There’s stuff all over her tray table: beads, little medals, a spool of . . . what? Fishing line? Oh, I get it; she’s making bracelets. Hey, if we hit some turbulence, her little cottage industry will be all over the floor. Why doesn’t she just knit?
“So what’s your due date?” she asks.
“Hmm? Oh, March. March twenty-sixth. How did you know?”
“Well, for one thing, I figure that’s not pleasure reading you’re doing.” She chuckles, points. The book I’ve brought, Home from the Hospital: Now What? is poking out of my seat pocket. “That, and I heard you say you were on your way to the john,” she says. “This your first?”
“Yes.”
“Morning sickness?”
“More like morning, afternoon, and evening,” I say.
“Oh, honey, that’s tough.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “March, huh? So you’re only a couple months along?”
I nod. She’s older than my parents. Short, teased hair dyed jet-black. It’s probably the same style she wore back in high school. Axel’s mother is about this woman’s age and she wore her hair like that, too. A lot of women do that, I’ve noticed: hold on to the hairstyles of their youth. Her GOD IS GREAT sweatshirt probably means she’s one of those family values types. To fend off any questions about a husband, I ask her if she has any kids.
“Oh, good golly, yes. Three sons by my first husband, What’s His Name, and three daughters by my second, What’s His Name Num
ber Two.” Her laugh is a pleasant cackle. “Grandkids now, too. Seven of ’em. That’s why I’m flying in from Colorado: to see my latest grandbaby and help my daughter out. My youngest. She’s just had a nine-pound baby girl—her first, too. She was in labor for eleven hours, poor thing. Lisa’s narrow-hipped, like the women in her father’s family.” She extends her hand. “Dolly Cantrell, grateful alcoholic.” We shake.
A grateful alcoholic? If she saw some of the winos we serve at Hope’s Table, she wouldn’t be so grateful. “Glad to meet you. I’m Ariane.”
“Glad to meet you, too. You flying for business or pleasure?”
Neither, really. I’m going to Mama’s wedding out of obligation. “Pleasure,” I tell her. “I’m visiting my parents.” What am I going to say? That I’m seeing my father first, then going to my mother’s gay wedding?
“Oh, that’s nice.”
I nod. I think about that Christmas vacation two years ago, the last time all five of us were together as a family. I’m back there in my room, packing for my flight back to San Francisco, when Mama comes in. . . .
“Is this yours, Ariane?” she asks, handing me my cell phone charger. I thank her for spotting it. It would have complicated things if I’d left it here in Connecticut. Instead of leaving my room, Mama lingers. Straightens some of my old stuffed animals on the shelf, looks out my window. Then she turns and faces me. Asks me to sit down. There’s something she needs to tell me, she says. Whatever it is, it’s bad. I can tell from the look on her face. Is she sick? Is Daddy? I’m scared.
“Ariane, your father and I are separating.”
My tears start spontaneously, partly because she hasn’t just said that she or Dad has cancer, and partly because of what she did just say. “Separating? Why?”
They’ve grown apart, she says. Her work, her life in New York. His life here.
“But it’s a trial separation, right? Are you guys going to marriage counseling?”
She shakes her head. Says she’s already seen a lawyer about a divorce.
“Is this Daddy’s idea or yours?”
She lies. Says it was a mutual decision.
“Mama, I’ve been home for six days. Why are you just telling me this now?”
Because she and Daddy didn’t want to ruin our Christmas, she says.
My thoughts ricochet. How long has this been in the works? Was it a snap decision?
“Do Andrew and Marissa know?” I ask.
“We told your sister last night before she went back to the city. Asked her not to call you or your brother until after we’d had a chance to speak with you ourselves. Daddy and I figured we’d sit down with you two after breakfast this morning, but it hasn’t worked out that way. Andrew texted me late last night to say he was sleeping over at Jay Jay’s because he had too much to drink and didn’t want to drive. And then your father got a call this morning and had to rush off. One of his patients left a message on his voice mail. Apparently, she came back to school early and has been walking around the empty campus having suicidal thoughts. We’ll talk to Andrew this afternoon when he comes home, I guess. His flight doesn’t leave until five o’clock. Hopefully, your father will be back by then. It depends on whether or not this patient of his—”
“Mama, stop! Never mind about Daddy’s patient. Why aren’t you and Daddy at least going to try and save your marriage?”
“Because it’s gone beyond that point. Ariane, I just want you to know that this isn’t—”
I put up my hand to stop her. “Would you please just leave me alone?” She nods, invites me to ask whatever questions I have. When she gets up and goes, I close my door and lock it. Flop facedown on my bed and hug my pillow.
It should have taken me all of fifteen minutes to pack my stuff, but the task has become overwhelming because of Mama’s news. An hour later, I’m still not done. Mama’s back upstairs again; I hear her coming down the hall. Thankfully, she stays on the other side of the door and doesn’t try to open it. “Are you almost ready, Ariane? We should leave pretty soon.” Oh? Why is that, Mama? So you can dump me off at the airport and rush back to your hip life in New York? I almost say it but, instead, tell her to give me five more minutes. “Ready?” she asks when I come downstairs with my suitcase. Instead of answering her, I open the door and head out to the car.
On the way to the airport, she makes small talk while I stare out the side window. Once she’s taken the exit from I-84 to I-91, she tries broaching the subject of their separation again, but I stop her. Tell her I don’t want to discuss it with her until I’ve spoken to my brother and sister. “And my father,” I add. I’m not even sure why I’m more angry with her than I am with Daddy. Later, I’ll know why, but I don’t at this point. For the rest of the ride, we’re silent. At the airport, she puts on her blinker to signal she’s going to short-term parking. “You don’t have to check in yet,” she says. “I thought maybe we could grab a quick cup of coffee and—”
“No thanks,” I say. “Just drop me off in front. I’m flying Delta.” She complies, pulls up in front of Delta’s outside check-in. With the engine running, she gets out. Stands by the trunk while I pull out my luggage. “Hug?” she asks, holding out her arms. I nod but just stand there—make her come to me. I don’t hug her back. I know I should, but I can’t. I’m sick of being the good daughter—“Saint Ariane,” as my brother used to call me. Entering the airport, I can sense that she’s waiting for me to turn back and wave. I don’t.
Check-in goes okay, and the security people aren’t too obnoxious. Waiting at my gate, I try calling Marissa, but she doesn’t answer. Call Daddy’s cell. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. Orion Oh. If this is an emergency . . .” I don’t leave a message. I think about calling Axel but decide not to. He’s still in Wisconsin with his family, and we’ve only been going out for a month. Our relationship is too new to dump this on him. Alone with Mama’s news, I try to reason with myself. It’s their marriage, their decision, not mine. But our family’s never going to be the same. If they go through with this divorce, what will next Christmas be like? When I finally look up, most of the seats around me are empty. When did they start boarding us? Did they even announce it? I’m one of the last people to walk through the jetway and onto the plane.
I’m glad I’ve been assigned a window seat. Relieved, too, that the seat next to me is empty. I spend most of the flight staring out at the sky, at the distant ground below. I wonder how many of the people in those little Monopoly houses down there have been affected by divorce. At least they didn’t split up while we were still kids. I’ll give them that much.
My layover’s in Atlanta. When we land, I put my phone back on. I’ve missed a call from Daddy, but when I try to call him back, I get his voice mail again. Marissa’s still not answering either. I start dialing Axel’s cell but change my mind and shut the phone. Get up and stand in line at Cinnabon instead.
The flight to San Francisco takes forever, and the woman sitting next to me is a mouth breather. I’d like to get up and slap that whiny little boy across the aisle. I keep trying to get lost in the movie they’re showing, but I can’t concentrate. Why haven’t they gone to see a counselor? A marriage of almost thirty years isn’t worth even trying to save?
“Ma’am?”
I look over. It’s the flight attendant. “Hmm?”
“Something to drink?”
“Oh. Sure. Do you have Coke?”
“We do. Coke, Diet Coke, and Coke Zero.”
“Regular Coke, please. No, wait. Ginger ale.” Maybe it’ll settle my stomach. I don’t need the calories, but I’m supposed to avoid diet soda while I’m pregnant. Jesus Woman says she wants black coffee, and Aisle Guy wants Bloody Mary mix, “the whole can, no ice.” My stomach heaves a little at the thought of drinking spicy tomato juice.
“And would you three like peanuts, pretzels, or Biscoff cookies with those?” the flight attendant asks us. He wants peanuts, she wants cookies. “Nothing for me, thanks,” I tell her. I’
ve long since heaved up my breakfast and I’m starved, but I don’t dare eat anything because—
“Uh-oh. Looks like I’m out of Bloody Mary mix, sir. Be right back.” I watch her walk toward the front of the plane. Who’s fatter, I wonder. Me or her? Back when they were called stewardesses, they were all as thin and glamorous as models. At least that’s the way they make it look on Mad Men. It’s fun at work on Mondays, when we’re preparing for the lunch crowd and talking about what happened on Mad Men the night before. When I’m on maternity leave, I’ll miss those mornings, cooking and chatting with my volunteers. But six weeks will probably fly by, and I’m sure I’ll visit once I get my bearings. Everyone will want to see the baby. . . .
It’s a little after five California time when the plane lands and taxis toward the gate. Eight o’clock back in Connecticut. All around me, I hear people’s cell phones go on. Hear their shorthand conversations with their loved ones. “Hey, it’s me. I’m here.” I’ve missed another call from Daddy but decide to wait to call him back. I don’t want to have a private conversation in this public place. It takes longer than ever for our baggage to come out. When I finally grab my bag and go outside, climb into the back of a taxi, I try my brother. No answer. He must still be in the air. He must know by now, too. Is he taking it better than I am? Worse? Andrew has Mama’s temper. I bet he’s pissed at both of them.
I’m at the door of my apartment, putting my key in the lock, when I hear the phone ringing inside. I enter and rush to it, figuring it’s Daddy or Andrew. But it’s her again. She asks me how my trip back went. “You drop your bombshell, then I have eight hours to just sit with it by myself on planes and in terminals? How do you think it went, Mama?” I’m never snotty like this. That’s Marissa’s thing, not mine. But right now, I don’t even care.
She tells me how sorry she is. Then she apologizes for something else: for not having told me the whole truth earlier. “I was going to,” she says, “but when I saw how hard you were taking it, I lost my nerve.”