The
morning after. I wake to the soft
shimmering light of dawn and thankfully not the brighter glare of a sun that’s
risen higher in the sky. This light is
milky, lavender with little hints of grey and even a rose cast. Predictably,
my head hurts but not as bad as I’d expected. The tequila had been limited to a few shots
and we’d lingered over rich red wine, sipping berries and chocolate. The guy in the next room is my brother and
not some random pickup. I feel warm.
Rolling
over amidst the fluffiness of my white bedspread I glance around. Trotsky is curled up in a corner, having
given up on the bed for some inexplicable and unusual reason. Usually, the dog is curled up next to me and
snoring loudly. Initially, I’d tried to
keep the beast on the floor but eventually gave up. Last night he’d clung to Ron, evidently
liking my brother immediately and taking possession as dogs are prone to do
when they think a new victim will fall for their charms and give them the
endless attention they seemingly crave.
“Traitor,”
I mutter and the dog just lifts his head and give me a passing glance before
falling back to sleep. He looks so dark
in the corner even as the lighting is still that fresh dim of a new day. I’m jealous of Trotsky as I roll over and
pull the comforter closer. It’s 5:55 AM
but years of waking up early make falling asleep again highly unlikely.
My
head does hurt a little and I wonder at our escapes. How come so much of what gives us a short-term
liberation ends up being so painfully confining so quickly thereafter? Yet at the time we make the decision to eat
or drink or shop or whatever the long-term implications of our decision don’t
seem to carry much weight. I’m stiff from
skipping yesterday’s workout, as befit my trips to the hospital instead. Somehow I always hurt more the day after not
exercising, the opposite of how my body responds to too much alcohol. Some sort of message in that reality, pain
from not doing good, but right now I don’t much care.
Still
warm and cozy, not ready to face my day, I mentally begin to assemble a rough
schedule of what absolutely must be done today or everything else will fall
apart. Visit my mom in the hospital
(call first; great that no one called us overnight, right?), deal with
finalizing my product line since I now have a shipping deadline, address the
Brad issue and face Ron down until I do and get some breakfast to break the
nausea of too much salt and tequila last night.
Most importantly, make my way to the coffee machine and turn it on.
But
I don’t move. Instead, I feel paralyzed
and completely overwhelmed. How do I
address both an existential crisis and a threat to my business when I’m not
really an especially strong person? I’m
fine at posing and presenting an image, like most people are, happy to smile in
public and collapse in private. But such
masks are like make-up and wash away with any hint of water.
The
water is pouring again now and I feel the first tear hit my cheek but will away
the rest. Lying in bed and feeling sorry
for myself is one answer and perhaps if today was Saturday and my hospital-ridden
mom didn’t need a visit from her children then I’d take that route. Trotsky doesn’t move her head though her eyes
are following me as I haul myself out of bed and feel the cool dark wood floors
on my feet. I make my way to the
bathroom adjoining my bedroom and duly confirm that my eyes are indeed a little
bloodshot. Ron and I went to bed at
10:30 but I didn’t fall asleep for a long time.
So
I wash my face and try to feel some sort of absolution from the gesture, a
washing away of weakness, fear and selfishness.
I’ve already heard noise outside my bedroom and know that Ron is up. The waft of strong coffee is already making
its way to me and I’m glad, as always, that my brother is so responsible. He’s taking care of me now just like he did
when we were little neglected kids.
I
get ready to face him, but quickly scan my emails first. No calls or texts from my wayward asshole
soon to be ex-boyfriend. Brad is so sure
of himself, but he’s about to lose control of one thing he thought was a sure
bet – my company. I’ll need to hit the
phones today to see if I can find an alternate source of capital to grow Muse,
my life. Do I break up with him before
or after securing the money? Well that’s
a question for Ron.
So
I step bravely into the hallway, my first question in hand. Many more will follow. As soon as the door opens Trotsky, the clunky
traitor is up and darting to his new best friend, my brother. I see his little brown body run down the
hallway and then my brother bends down to pet the beast. Ron is, of course, already on his cell phone
and working. But he still makes time for
the dog and flashes me a smile.
I
grab a mug and pour some coffee, glad for the jolt of caffeine and the
familiarity of everything around me. My
home is comfort, so are my dog and my brother.
I need them. As I sip I listen to
Ron as he slowly lists some action items for whomever is on the call. Then he ends it and we move to my round oak
table and sit, dog still trailing Ron.
“She’s
okay,” he says as I sit. “I spoke to the
doctor a few minutes ago.”
“Did
he sleep there?” I ask, puzzled but also surprised. The man had already looked tired when I saw
him earlier yesterday.`
“No
idea. Not really any of my
business. But he’d given me his cell so
I called,” Ron said, sipping and looking not exactly tired but weary. It was an unusual mood for him as he usually
just keeps going despite lack of sleep or too much stress. And Mom’s stroke is just more than a normal
daily occurrence.
“He’s
at the hospital now. Do you have time to
meet with him this morning, when he has a little time?” I need to be on a conference call in 30
minutes and can’t miss it.” Ron smiles
at me and I know I can’t refuse his request.
He covered for me yesterday when I had a meeting and this is teamwork.
“Of
course,” I reply, tucking my leg under me and knowing that I probably just lost
another morning workout and if I keep this up my jeans really will be snug, not
just perhaps imaginarily so. And Brad
will of course tell me. Again. If he gets to see me once more. But for now I’m just dodging.
“I’ll
take a shower in a minute and head out,” I say.
“You set?”
Ron
nods and I see him glance at his phone.
The modern ailment. “What does
the doctor want to discuss?” I ask but Ron just shrugs. “We’ll meet up later, for dinner?” At that I get a nod and stand. “You’ll make your own breakfast?” I ask him
as I head to a cabinet and pull out a peanut butter Cliff bar. My breakfast.
“You’re
going to deal with that asshole you’re not dating?” Ron asks, and his voice has
an edge to it. He’s wearing a faded navy
t-shirt and baggy classic Levis. How
they stay on when they look so loose I have no idea. But his clothes aren’t my business just like
my mom’s doctor’s sleep patterns aren’t either.
“Do
I find other money before breaking up with him or not?” I ask, ripping my Cliff
wrapper and joining him at the table again, after making my way around his
brown shaggy groupee.
“It
won’t matter,” Ron replies. “He won’t
fund you without taking over the company one way or another. I know guys like that and you’ve let him get
too close. You convinced yourself that
you couldn’t do it alone but you can. So
now prove it.”
Ron
looks determined and sure of his words but I’m so not sure and I’m scared. As I’ve been my whole life. I need to juggle a lot of burdens and
responsibilities running this company and sometimes I feel alone. Brad did offer some good advice along the
way, and of course seemingly he only did it thinking one day the company would
be his. He even advised me to turn down
an offer to buy it last year for a ridiculous sum of money because he convinced
me that it would be worth so much more within a year. And it is.
“I
can loan you $100,000 but I want equity too.
Standard terms,” Ron says with a smile and I smile back.
“It’s
going to be okay, isn’t it?” I ask, pleading my big brother once again to help
me be strong. I was so scared always as
a little girl when we were left alone or with babysitters because mom had to work. Then, as now, I’d listen to Ron’s voice and
know that I’d be okay, believing him as he told me so. From that experience I probably did learn to be too dependent on older and bigger
men.
And
Brad, my soon to be ex, is tall. At 6’1
he seems large, not wide but just broad enough not to be scrawny. He claims a proud athletic past but now only
makes it to the gym a few days a week to lift weights and maybe ride an exercise
bicycle a bit. His belly has gotten a
little softer and his cheeks puffier since I first met him. In his mid-thirties, his brown hair is
already showing a little grey and his round brown eyes have little wrinkles
around them. He looks like a beginning
to age preppy, which is what he is.
Newport Beach raised, he grew up in a mansion with a boat. And he treats most people like servants.
Why
did I stay with him for so long?
I
was never with Brad for the money though when I first started dating him I
loved going out to the expensive restaurants I’d only heard about before
then. In college I’d dated a little but
never men who could afford Spago, or Mastros, Katsuya or Toscana. These names weren’t new to me but I’d never
been inside other than when a friend’s parents had taken me along with them for
dinner.
And
he took me to trendier restaurants and newly opened clubs. That, I have to admit, had been heady and just
plain fun. Mostly, I’d been working
since I could get a job and suddenly I felt like a princess.
He’d
been mean even then but I didn’t really know how a man was supposed to treat
me. My own father, by being absent for
most of my childhood, left one more void in this area. What did I know about men, marriage,
relationships or being respected?
Nothing.
Brad
was canny enough to exploit my lack of experience, naiveté and wide eyes. He gave me a new world and I embraced it. On my end, I fell for the act. Another mask and one I wanted to
believe. I actually did love him for a
while. He might be a selfish jerk but he
brought out the best in me, creativity and daring, a willingness to risk and
try to aim higher. And the illusions of
our illusory relationship worked until like vapors the foundations of our
relationship dissipated slowly away.
He’d
likely found a new bright young thing to encourage when he wasn’t trying to
steal my company. And me? I was digging in, staking my claim and calling
it my own.
“Okay,
I’ll call Brad now,” I tell Ron, still petting my dog and drinking my mug of
dark bitter coffee. Ron’s phone is
perched on the table, abandoned as he focuses on me, for which I’m grateful .
So
I dial the number, quickly caressing my dog (my dog!) behind the ear as I do. And the phone just rings and rings and rings. Another man missing in action. First last night and now this morning.
I
looked at Ron and then shrug.
Dialing
Frankie next to let my assistant know that I’ll be heading to the hospital
before work I wonder again at all I need to juggle before this morning is
done. She picks up on the fourth ring
and I hear that girlish voice of hers, a little spacey but enough focused to
survive my workload.
“I
need to head to the hospital before work this morning,” I say, picturing her
with her mint tea and whatever else she does while I’m not around. Burn incense?
I do that too.
“How’s
your mom?” she asks and I hear someone in her background. Another thing that’s not my business. So I try to stay calm and just answer that
horrible question.
“Ok. No, not so good.” Frankie sighs and when I hear the sympathy in
that sound I know I need to get off the phone.
But
before I do, I add an afterthought.
“Don’t put through calls or forward them from Brad today.”
“He’s
in meetings all morning,” she replies and we both stop. How does my assistant know that my boyfriend
is in meetings all morning?
I
hang up and glance at Ron. Then I tell
him what I just heard. We’re in agreement
that I need to watch this situation. As
if I need another conflict this morning.
“Get
the money and dump his ass. The order is
your preference but I know what I’d do first,” he tells me with that crooked
grin. And I laugh and smile back and go to
my room to get dressed and ready for the hospital. My mom will want to be cheered up so I grab a
glittery fuchsia eyeliner which I mix with grey and add darkened cheeks and a
nude lip, matte, with pink undertone.
And I’m ready to meet with mom, her adorable sleepless doctor and even
Los Angeles traffic. And my brother and
puppy will be here later to keep me sane.
I
mute my phone and head out. By the end
of the day I know I’ll be a totally
different person.
No comments:
Post a Comment