Beauty Page 14

“Can’t your mother help?” William asks.

  “She has. She co-signed for my car. She covered the whole year’s expenses.”

  Finally, we arrive at his house. William pulls into his garage. Only a few hours ago, my life was filled with possibility. But now? Giving up this job, stepping out of the arena again, would mean a permanent dead end.

  William leads me directly into the kitchen. The TV in the living room is on, and Toby is huddled with a duvet in the corner of the couch. He looks up at us with round terrified eyes. His hair’s asunder and seems to be standing on end.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” William asks, clearly exasperated.

  “He had a nightmare.” The sitter gets up from the recliner.

  “Again?” William scowls. “You’re nine. Get over it.”

  Toby burrows deeper beneath the comforter.

  “I’m talking to you.” William pays the sitter, and she leaves.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Which is it then,” William accuses. “A nightmare or insomnia?”

  Toby blinks. “It—” he stutters. “I…”

  “Stop,” William orders. “Enough, just be quiet.”

  William seems agitated. It occurs to me Toby may have an act to prolong bedtime every night. When Alex was little, he used to do everything he could to fight it, too.

  William asks if I’d like a cup of tea. He keeps chamomile ever since I started staying over.

  “Yeah, tea, perfect,” I say, removing my coat.

  William takes it and disappears to the kitchen. I settle on the couch at Toby’s feet, fitting myself snuggly into the opposite corner. “So what are you watching?” I ask.

  Toby shrugs. He has the comforter drawn up to his nose.

  We watch an old Western. Toby snuggles up beside me. He seems to be shivering, so I put an arm around him and hold him close. Then, the cast appears from under the duvet, and the next thing I know, he’s sharing it with me. When he sees that my far arm remains exposed, he leans across and with the thick cast over his hand and arm, he tucks the blanket behind my shoulder.

  One little guy, I think, with so much caring. He’s only a couple years younger than Alex, and yet, emotionally, he’s lightyears ahead. Alex has never done anything nearly so thoughtful. Does it come from having had the responsibility of caring for his drug addicted mother? Or is it just an innate part of his character?

  “Thank you, Toby,” I say, putting an arm around him. “It’s so sweet of you.”

  He smiles. He smells of strawberry shampoo. William returns with a mug of chamomile tea. “For Pete’s sake, go to bed, Toby,” his voice booms. I can feel Toby shake.

  “William, it’s okay. He’s my buddy.” I glance at Toby. “Right?”

  Toby nestles closer.

  William settles into the recliner, and within a couple minutes, Toby’s asleep.

  “He’s so sweet,” I say. “I wish Alex was this sweet.”

  “He’d be a hell of a lot sweeter if he were upstairs in bed and I was the one lying there in your lap. The things I’d do to you beneath that blanket…”

  “Eh hum?” I raise my brows at the impropriety of saying such a thing in front of a child.

  “He’s asleep.” He waits to wave me off, then shifts out of his chair toward Toby. “It’s time he got upstairs.”

  “No, wait. Just a minute.” I smooth my fingers over Toby’s hair. It’s been a year since I’ve been separated from Alex. How much I’ve missed him—the heartbreak and grief—nearly tackles me. The guilt has weighed on me this whole time, only now, it’s crushing, unbearable. And for what? Everything I’ve worked toward. Gone.

  But this little boy. The look on his face. He’s not my child, and yet, there’s an innocence about him, maybe about any sleeping child, which makes him mine, all of ours.

  “Why don’t you come stay with us?” William says. “Yeah, stay here. I can put a bunk bed in Toby’s room for Alex,” he says. “He’d be ecstatic to have company, especially at night.”

  I get an uncomfortable feeling. “That’s nice of you, William, really generous, but—”

  “Give it a try. If you or Alex don’t like it, you can find something else then. Simple.”

  “I don’t know.” I get an uneasy feeling again, and yet, my mind races to do the math: I won’t have to live with Ma and Georgie, anymore. Alex has been here and likes it. There are no loud sirens. He’s got a buddy to play with. Plus, my car. What a relief it would be not to worry about alternate side of the street parking. I could leave it here in William’s driveway. I’ll get a ride from him into the city every morning, then jump on the subway.

  “What do you have to lose?” William asks.

  It’s spring, three months after I move in with William when Jeff finally puts his foot down and demands I tender my resignation, effective immediately. I meant to do it. I just couldn’t. But Jeff Jones, Inc. goes public soon. He needs to focus on the transition and he needs me to take full charge of Alex’s care. It’s Sunday, 10:30 PM. Alex is asleep in the boys’ bedroom, but Toby can’t sleep, and is now on the living room couch with the TV on. It’s been a recovery Sunday. William and I drank so much last night—he insisted on tequila shots after dinner—that I spent the day brain dead in bed. William surfed the internet, then finished some work. Since he’s in the shower, I take over his desk with my laptop.

  Letter of resignation. How to start? Name, address, date. Space break. Manager’s name. Manager’s Position. Company name. Company address. Maggie’s the Buyer at Monarch who hires the Assistants. She and I hit it off during the interview, and even though I was older, she felt the responsibility factor and my fashion sense would more than compensate. She spent a lot more time training me than the others, familiarizing me with the label, company protocol, and understanding the target audience.

  Maggie has the most amazing Asian eyes. Large and light brown, with a slight bluish rim around the corneas. I can only imagine the way they will look at me when she finds this letter on her desk.

  Dear Maggie. No, too casual. Delete, delete, delete.

  In the bathroom, the shower goes off. The shower curtain pulls aside. After a minute, William enters. Steam pours into the room. He rubs his hair with the towel, then tosses it onto the chair by the window. He knows I hate it when he does that. My work clothes are draped on the back of it. With something on top, especially something damp, my clothes will wrinkle. I get up from the desk to hang his towel back on the rack in the bathroom. He grabs me by the waist and tries to tug me onto the bed with him.

  “Don’t,” I say, pushing away. “I have to write this.”

  “Suit yourself.” He gets into bed directly behind me at the desk.

  Dear Ms. Geller-Kitano, Please accept this as my letter of resignation effective

  I check my calendar, find the date two weeks from Friday. When I finish the sentence, I draw a total blank as to what to write next. “Exactly how do you write one of these?” I ask.

  “It’s easy,” he says, yawning. “Please accept this as my letter of resignation effective May 15th, yadda yadda yadda.”

  “Yeah, I got the beginning part. It’s the yadda, yadda part I’m not sure about.” I turn around. He’s lying on top of the covers, naked, and with an erection.

  Ugh. “The boys,” I hiss. What if they walk in?

  “Nothing like danger.”

  I turn back to the computer. I’m exhausted. The last thing I feel like having is sex.

  “Just come to bed already. We can do that in the morning.”

  “No, I need this to be professional, but thoughtful, too.”

  I regret having to make this decision, but life circumstances

  “Fine, keep Willy waiting,” he says.

  Delete, delete, delete.

  This was a difficult decision to make.


  I hear a slippery sound behind me. The pace of William’s breath changes and grows louder, more exaggerated. He’s masturbating.

  My face heats up. In fact, my entire body does, too. My heart races. It’s as if he pressed the “Go” button between my legs, and despite myself, I can’t find the emergency lever to “Stop.”

  “I can do this in the kitchen if you’d like some privacy,” I say, not turning around.

  “You’ll wake Toby.” He groans loudly.

  “Quiet,” I whisper, spinning around. Some things the boys don’t need to hear.

  William rubs the shaft of his penis. There’s a wavelike motion, and then a drop of semen appears, perching at the tip. He rubs it in his palm. “Ah,” he sighs.

  Then I’m in it. I get up from the desk, pull off my clothes, and get onto the bed. I try to move on top, but he blocks me with an arm. All at once, he explodes. Semen spurts onto the comforter. His body goes slack.

  But I need this now. I reach for him, determined to make him hard again, but he holds me off. “You had your chance,” he says.

  The confusion must show on my face because he adds, “You heard me.”

  Shame or something like it floods to my face. The corner of his mouth twitches. He gets under the comforter, expecting me to clean up the mess, and turns away from me to sleep.

  I get off the bed, go into the bathroom, and wet a towel. I come back and wipe off the mess the best I can, then throw it into the bathtub and rummage beneath the sink for my magic wand. I don’t need him, if that’s what he’s thinking. I can take care of myself. He can watch for all I care.

  I return to the room, unravel the cord, and plug it into the electric socket on my side of the bed. I get under the cover, lay back, and turn it on. I haven’t used it in a while, and at first, the magnitude of it is nearly too much. But my body settles into it, and then I’m rocking as if a lover’s on top of me. The world disappears. It’s just me. Ah, yes. That’s it. Coming is like music. There are pitches, and as I move toward the grand finale, it climbs, notes yearning to explode. I’m almost there, lost inside myself, when all of a sudden, the vibrator stops.

  I open my eyes. William has just cut the cord. He’s got my cut-through-anything Chinese scissors with the thick rubber handles. He drops it, and I hear the point peck the wood floor. He shakes out his hand. From the grimace, I realize he must have gotten shocked.

  If this had happened a few months ago, I would have packed my things and walked right out of here. But I’ve got Alex. He’s asleep. I can’t just wake him in the middle of the night and drag him out of bed. Tears rush from my eyes. I don’t want William to see. He’s no longer privy to my anguish and fear. I slide under the comforter and turn away from him just as he did to me.

  I’m a wall, I tell myself. Just cold, hard brick. No emotions. No tears.

  William fusses with the comforter and nearly tugs it off me. I hold tight and refuse to give it up. As of tomorrow, I decide, Alex will stay at his father’s until I find a place of my own. If Jeff is willing to give me a little more in rent, I may even be able to get a studio in his building.

  “I’m sorry,” William says.

  That’s not going to change the fact that I’m out of here, I think. Ice. I’m ice.

  “Did you hear me? I said I’m sorry.”

  “I heard you,” I say.

  “Can we talk about it?”

  I resist the urge to turn and slap him. “No, let’s not.”

  Neither of us moves. The silence is so great, I can hear the TV on in the living room.

  “Please,” he finally utters, his voice breaking up. He reaches around and spoons me, kissing the side of my face. He sniffles, and when I feel the tears on my neck, I realize he’s crying. I’ve never seen him cry.

  I turn to him, and he kisses me with a desperation I’ve never seen from him before. He moves on top of me. Tears drip into my eyes. “I love you so much,” he says, and then he enters me with a ferocity that makes me gasp.

  I try to push him off, but he slams into me harder, making me wince.

  “William!”

  “I love you so much,” he sobs, “I hate you.”

  He slams into me, again and again, punching harder, gritting his teeth.

  “Stop,” I rasp, my body clenched. If I scream, the boys will hear. They can’t see this. I don’t want them to see this. “William!”

  He comes again. There’s a sharp pain and sweat breaks out over my entire body. I’m shaking. He pulls out, and the sting from the friction makes me nearly pass out. I hold myself with both hands.

  “Oh, baby,” he says, now. “Oh, shit. What happened? What have I done?”

  There’s blood on my hands, on the bed.

  “My princess,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He punches himself, smashes his forehead with his fists.

  “Stop,” I say, “Just get something to clean this up.”

  He hurries to the bathroom. I lie there. He returns with a towel.

  “Oh, baby,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Oh, God. You know I didn’t mean it.”

  I bunch the towel between my legs. The pain dulls and starts to throb.

  “Do you believe me?” he asks. “Baby?”

  “Ice,” I say.

  “Do you forgive me?” he sobs. “Please. You have to forgive me.”

  I try to sit up, but the pain’s so intense it feels electric.

  “That won’t ever happen again,” he says. “I promise.”

  My body trembles. Sweat covers my face, drains down my scalp and neck.

  “You believe me, don’t you?” he asks. “I’ll change.”

  I shake my head. Please stop.

  “I am,” he insists, “you’ll see, I’ll show you.”

  Ice, I try to say. Oh my God, ice.

  “It’s just that I love you so much.” He buries his face in my chest. “I go crazy when I think you don’t love me back. What are you doing with someone like me, anyway?” He punches his chest.

  “Don’t,” I manage.

  Wind whistles against the window pane. A spray of hail pecks at the glass.

  “I’m a monster,” he whispers. “Just like my father.”

  He’s told me about his father. The guy put William in the hospital when he was nine.

  “No,” I say. “Please don’t say that. It’s okay.”

  “Do you—” He wipes his face with the comforter. “Do you love me?”

  I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. And yet, maybe I do.

  “Yes,” I whisper. Then: “Get ice.”

  Loved. Past Tense.

  William refuses to see a psychiatrist because he’s not “crazy,” but I have to give him some credit because he actually signs up for an anger management course. He learns a breathing technique—in for four, out for eight—and the importance of mindfulness. Within months, he has downloaded and is using at least half a dozen mindfulness apps on his phone.

  “Check this out,” he says, showing me the latest. “You’ve got to get this. It’s exactly the kind of thing you like.”

  “Guided mediation,” I say, trying not to sound as skeptical as I feel. Meditation is a frame of mind. It’s not listening to someone tell you to focus on your breath when you’re honking at the driver in front of you and telling him to fuck off. “Have you used it yet?” I ask.

  “No time,” he says, “but I was thinking we could listen on the way to work in the morning—”

  “I‘ll drive if you’d like,” I say. “That way you can try the meditation.”

  “Maybe.” William always needs to be the one driving.

  “Oh, wait,” I say. “I can’t go with you tomorrow. I need to drive in also. Alex has an appointment in the morning and two in the afternoon. Upper East, West Village, then Upper
West Side. He’s going to be beat afterwards.”

  “Why don’t you take public transport? It’s so much easier.”

  “It’s too much for him.”

  “How do you know? Have you tried?”

  William doesn’t understand traumatic brain injury; I can tell he thinks I’m spoiling Alex.

  “You have a few minutes now, right? “ I say. “Why don’t you try the meditation? It’s quiet enough in our room.”

  “Maybe,” he nods, scrolling through other apps. “So, have you?”

  “Tried? Yes.” It’s not a total lie. “It’s too much stimulation. The therapies are hard enough on him already. He gets maxed out and shuts down. Have you signed up at the gym yet?”

  “Yesterday.” This gets my attention. I’ve never seen William do any kind of exercise whatsoever. He drives everywhere, even if it’s to a neighbor’s house down the street.

  “Ron says exercise helps a lot to relieve stress.” Ron’s the therapist who runs the Anger Management course.

  “And it’s good for you, too.”

  “He also said I should start walking two or three times a week. He wants me to create a set schedule, maybe Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.”

  “That sounds like good advice, but…aren’t you overextending yourself a bit?”

  “Walk three days, gym three days, and one day of rest and guided meditation.”

  “Well, okay…”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun,” he says. “We can do it together.”

  “I wish I could, Will, but Alex’s appointments are all over the place. You see me rushing to the city at 8 some mornings, and some nights I don’t even get back until 10 or 11.”

  A pink blemish appears on his neck.

  “But I could join you on the weekends,” I offer, bracing myself for an explosion.

  William breathes. I can tell he’s counting up to ten. Finally, he draws in a deep breath, then sighs it out. “It’s all right,” he says. “I was hoping for your support, but, it’s fine.”

  “You have it.”

  “Ron says we’re only as successful as our partners make us.”

  It’s like I’m biting into a lemon ripe with guilt. I’m living with William because I can’t afford my own place and Jeff can’t right now, either. He just liquidated most of his assets, funneling the capital back into the business; he has only a few months before the company goes public. I considered moving in with Ma and Georgie again, but Ma said no. “If you want to stay for a few days, that’s fine,” she said. But long term? “Too crowded.”