Rage: A Love Story (11 page)

T
he midday sun slants through the window and I shoot upright in bed. What will I make Reeve for dinner? Beyond nuking a frozen entrée or cutting open a bag of salad, I can assemble a sandwich.

No one’s home downstairs in the main house. Martin’s laptop is open and Tessa’s crocheting is sitting on the table. “Guys?” I call, even though I can’t feel a heartbeat in the house.

I move through the living room to the bedrooms. As I pass the bathroom, a change in heat and humidity shifts my focus. I backtrack. The shower door is open and a wet towel is heaped on the mat.

“Tessa?” The showerhead drips.

The door to their bedroom is open. The bed is made, shams aligned, closet doors shut tight. “Martin?”

They got hungry; they’re at the store. Martin’s the cook in the house, so maybe he ran out of broccoli or butter or whole grain bread.

I return to the dining room. It must’ve been a last-minute decision for Martin to leave his laptop on. The screen saver hasn’t kicked in and I look at what he was working on. Some list of names.

There are cookbooks galore that Martin brought with him from Minnesota. I select a skinny one:
Quick Mexican Dishes
. I flip through it and the pictures make me hungry. There aren’t too many ingredients. Tortillas. Cheese. I can handle Mexican. As I turn to leave, I spy a book on the top shelf and grab it.
Making Love to Food: A Guide to Sexual Cooking
.

Oh, baby. Forget the fajitas.

I have to grocery-shop. Damn. I haven’t deposited my check. The cash for my car insurance is still in my bag.

Except, it isn’t. I dump the bag and can’t find the envelope. I check all the usual places—pockets, drawers, divan cushions.

I had it, I know I did. Martin keeps a stash of cash in a cookie jar, which I only know about because one day these band geeks came to the door selling candy and Martin was making dumplings or something; his hands were covered with flour. He said, “Mojo, would you buy ten candy bars from these guys? There’s money in the loaded potato.”

That’s what he calls the cookie jar. Martin won’t mind. I’ll replace the money as soon as I get paid.

I leave Martin an IOU: “I unloaded 40 from the potato. Pay U back. J.”

Writing out a grocery list makes me think of Mom, and I don’t want to. I want—need—to be happy.

On my way home from Safeway I think about calling Reeve to make sure she’s coming. I mean, she never said yes. We didn’t set a definite time.

Stupid
. What if I’m going to all this trouble and she doesn’t think I’m serious? She’ll have to learn that about me—I’m always serious about her.

As I’m slicing a mushroom from cap to stem, the way the book shows, the phone rings. It startles me and I cut my finger. “Hello?” I answer, sucking the blood.

“It’s me,” she says.

My pulse races. “What time are you coming?”

“Did I say I was?”

All the blood drains out of me.

“Kidding. I’m calling to ask what time you want me.”

I’m really bleeding. “Any time.” I stanch the bleeding with pressure from my thumb. “Come now if you want.”

There are voices in the background, yelling, a TV blasting. Reeve’s voice lowers. “Can Robbie come too?”

He wasn’t exactly in the plan.

“Never mind,” she says. “Forget it.”

“No, it’s okay.” I shouldn’t have hesitated. “It’s fine. Of course he can come.” Snuff the candles, fade out of Joyland.

“Are you positive?”

That I want
her
here? “Yeah. Positive.” I hope I sound enthusiastic. “I’ll need to make more food.”

“No shit. He eats like a pig.”

Great.

In a low, sultry hiss, Reeve goes, “Thankssss.”

I say, “Hurry.”

I run downstairs to unload another twenty from the potato.

Along with a jumbo can of refried beans and grated Mexican cheese, I splurge and buy a set of six dinner plates. Something nicer than Tessa’s Corelle ware. The mushroom and puff pastry dish with marinated asparagus will have to wait. It was a recipe for two, anyway.

When Reeve shows up, she’s alone.

“Where’s—”

“He isn’t coming.” She cups her hand on the doorknob over mine and closes the door. “He’s asleep.”

If that’s autism, THANK YOU. Reeve’s hair is up in a clip and her neck is exposed and so are the top of her breasts. I feel light-headed and horny.

Inches away, she breathes in my hair and we empty our lungs at the same time. Her eyes skim me up and down and come to rest on my chest.

I couldn’t decide what to wear. Jeans. Duh. I couldn’t pick a top. The sexiest thing I have is this chiffon negligee Novak gave me when she cleaned out her closet before Christmas. I was only trying on the negligee to dream, to imagine what could be.

Reeve’s eyes rise to my neck, then skid down my arm. I reach across my front and slide the spaghetti strap back over my shoulder. I should’ve put on a bra, at least.

Reeve is wearing a bra. It’s visible through her black, see-through blouse. Her jeans are cut so low and fit so tight I don’t even have to imagine every mound and curve of her.

She can’t seem to take her eyes off my chest.

“Um, I wasn’t quite done getting dressed.”

She lifts her eyes to mine. “You look done to me.”

I laugh. God, I sound like a goat. Reeve fingers my chin, draws it to her, and kisses me.

She curls a hand behind my neck and kisses me harder.

My knees buckle and Reeve catches me collapsing. She laughs. So do I.

“What are we having to eat?” She trickles a hand down my arm as she moves past me into the living room. “I’m starving.” She dumps her purse off on the coffee table.

“I was going to make this puff pastry thing. Before Robbie …”

She whirls on me.

“Quesadillas,” I say.

“I love Mexican food.”

What if she hated it? I didn’t even think … My strap slips off again and I slide it up.

“What can I do to help?” Reeve rubs her hands together.

All the plates and silverware are out. My hair is still wet from the shower. Did I even comb it?

No, I had to try on this sexy nightie.

“I’ll set the table,” Reeve says. “You finish … whatever.” Her eyes glom on to my chest again.

As I travel past her toward the back, we touch hands. If it’s going to be just the two of us, I’m not ready. I want to put on makeup and do my hair.

Ten minutes later I come out to find the table set and the salad on. Reeve found the candles I bought and is dripping
wax into Novak’s ashtray. “I couldn’t find your candleholders,” she says, swirling the wax carefully in a circle.

“Because I don’t have any?”

She places the lit candle in the center and ignites the other off its wick. “There.” Her fingers spread apart. “Perfect.”

The table looks beautiful.

“Drink before dinner?” she asks. She twists around and grips a bottle of wine by the neck.

“Where’d you get that?” I ask.

“I never come empty-handed,” she answers.

I lift a water glass off the table and hold it out.

Reeve uncrinkles the foil seal. “Do you have a corkscrew?”

“I don’t know. What does one look like?”

“Like a corkscrew?” She cocks her head.

She’s so funny. “Martin probably has one,” I say.

“Who’s Martin?”

“Bro-in-law. Be right back.” I set down my glass.

She follows me to the door. And out.

“It’s just downstairs,” I say.

“I’ll come with you.”

I don’t know why I feel strange taking her into the house. Novak goes in and out like she owns the place.

“Who lives here?” Reeve asks as I roll open the sliding door.

“My sister, Tessa, and her husband, Martin.”

“You never told me you had a sister.”

Our time together hasn’t been wasted with inconsequential chatter. “Family,” I intone. “You know.” I flip on the kitchen light. In the dining room the same scene as before, except that Martin’s laptop has powered down.

“Weird,” I think aloud.

“What?” Reeve scans the area.

“Looks like they went somewhere suddenly. Like, just picked up and left.” I haven’t put on shoes and Reeve must’ve kicked hers off upstairs. Her toenail polish is dark blue.

“Did you used to live here?” she asks. She does a three-sixty in the dining room.

“Yeah. When Tessa moved back, I moved out.” In the kitchen, I tug open the utensil drawer and scavenge around for a corkscrew.

Reeve says, “Do you hate your sister?” She fixes on me.

“I don’t … hate her.”

“You don’t … love her.” Reeve widens her eyes.

“We just don’t… connect. Not like you and Robbie.” I find what looks like a corkscrew and say, “Let’s go.”

Reeve says, “You want him? You take him.”

I don’t really want to talk about sisters or brothers or anything family. Reeve ventures deeper into the living room.

She’s gazing at the ceiling, the walls, the windows, seeming to absorb all the architectural details. A swirling plaster ceiling and crown molding. Aubergine. Hate the color.

“This is nice,” Reeve says. “You have a nice family.”

I shrug. “They’re okay. Can we go?”

“A nice house and a nice family.” Her voice sounds odd. “And you’re nice. Too nice for me.”

My blood chills. “Reeve, I’m not that nice, but I am that hungry. Why don’t we eat now?”

Reeve rushes by me, muttering, “I’m out of here.”

She tries to close the sliding door in my face, but I stick my
arm through the opening and get crushed. I suppress the wail of pain. “You can’t go.”

She flies up the stairs. I chase her to the top and into the apartment. “We haven’t even had dinner.”

She snatches her purse off the coffee table. “Later. Never.”

I have to stop her, hold her, make her stay. I grab her wrist and she wheels around. Her arm swings back and a fist comes right at me, knuckles smashing into my cheek and knocking me off balance. I see her mouth drop and her hand unclench. This high-pitched sound escapes from her throat.

“Why …?”

The door slams. Vertigo hits me and my legs give out. I’m down. Pain shoots up my face and eye socket. My fingers come away from my cheek wet, smeared with blood. It’s my blood.

I take off after her. I don’t make it to the bottom of the stairs before I fall and crunch to Earth. “Reeve, wait… please.” My voice sounds far away.

Acid burn of tears. Every nerve ending hurts.

A car swerves into the driveway, headlights flashing off my face, and I burrow my head in my arms.

The thunk of a door. “Johanna.”

I’m still on my hands and knees, shielding my eyes; an urgent voice in my head mingles with bewilderment. I push to my feet, or I’m helped. “Johanna.” Martin’s soft voice in my ear. “I’m sorry.”

His hair is disheveled and his eyes are bloodshot. He rakes a hand through his hair and says, “Tessa lost the baby.”

N
o reason, Martin said. She was working, not even standing up. She was helping a woman fill out a Medicare form when she started to bleed. She’d lost a lot of blood by the time Martin got there.

The image of it cleaves my brain like a chasm to understanding. Tessa sitting there, feeling the wet. Knowing what it is.

“She’s staying in the hospital overnight for observation,” Martin added. “Nothing serious.”

Nothing serious. Except her baby died.

The candles melt down to gooey gnomes. I blow them out, then sit at the table in the dark, thinking. Trying not to think.

The left side of my face throbs and I get up to look in the mirror. Dried blood is caked on my cheek and eyebrow. My hair towel from earlier in the evening is on the floor, still damp. I pick it up and dab at the wound.

The gash isn’t deep, nothing serious. I haven’t lost anything.
Reeve?

Don’t think about it.

My left eye is swelling.

I lie in bed but can’t sleep, so I get up over and over again to look at myself. The longer I look, the more I morph. The image of me, Johanna Lynch, my external reflection. My injury merges with the way I see myself.

Then I focus and remember what’s important. My sister’s in the hospital. Reeve got away.

I wait in the living room for Martin and Tessa. I hear the door open and Martin say, “We’ll try again.”

“No,” Tessa whispers hoarsely. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t have this on my conscience.”

“What, honey?” Martin sets her carryall on the table.

I stand at the sofa.

“You’re creating life,” he says.

Tessa bursts into tears.

I should leave. This is between them.

Tessa takes off for the bedroom. She sees me but doesn’t stop. I want to run to her, hug her, tell her how sorry I am. Martin casts a shadow over me. Clenching my arms, he says, “Johanna. My God. What happened to you?”

Instinctively, I cover the side of my face. “I fell down the stairs.”

His eyebrows arch. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine.” My eye is swollen shut, but it doesn’t hurt. “How is she?” I stare after Tessa.

Martin drops his head to his chest.

“Sorry, stupid question. Does she need to talk or anything?”

“She needs to rest. Doctor’s orders.” He clamps a hand on my shoulder, sort of steering me out. “I’m sure she’ll let you know when she’s ready to talk.”

No, she won’t. She hates me.

As I’m studying my face in the mirror up close and personal, the phone rings. Reeve, calling to apologize?

“Hey, lesbo. You’re alive.”

I slump into a chair at the table, where the candle gnomes have hardened.

“I’m moving today,” Novak says. “I have gobs of stuff for you. Clothes, books, shoes if they fit. I cleaned out my closet.… You’re probably really busy, huh? I thought I’d drop these things by. …”

I feel alive. For the first time.

“Are you busy?”

Tessa’s baby is dead and I’m alive.

“Johanna? I don’t blame you for not speaking to me. I’m sorry. For anything and everything I ever did to you, I’m sorry.”

A smile curls my lips and I lift my head. Actually, I’m happy. How can I be happy?

Novak says, “I need you.”

That engages my brain. “What do you need now?” I snap.

She hesitates. “I have all this stuff for you, but I can’t fit it in my car. I thought maybe I’d drop some off, then you could follow me back with your car and we could load up the rest.”

My face is a tie-dye of blue green purple black yellow amber tan. Sort of cool.

“If I don’t get everything out of here, I’m afraid Mom will sell it or give it to the Goodwill. Dante has to work—”

“Tessa lost the baby.”

“What?” Novak gasps. “When?”

“She just had another miscarriage.”

“Oh my God,” Novak says. “Johanna. My God. Poor Tessa.”

“I know,” I say. “I need to be here.”

“Of course you do. I’m so sorry. Tell Tessa I’m sorry. Martin too.” Novak inhales audibly. “Oh my God,” she says in an exhale. “Is there anything I can do?”

I press the wound to see if it changes color. “You have to move. You’re busy.”

“I’m not too busy to—”

“I have to go be with Tessa.”

Novak says, “Call me later. You know, if you want to talk.” She adds, “How’s it going with Reeve?”

I hang up.