Seasoned with Grace (8 page)

Ethan pounded on Grace's door, pausing between each knock, patiently waiting for Grace to respond. “This is ridiculous,” he fumed, and then he proceeded to bang on the door again, his bangs coming in rapid procession.

Ethan's hope was that if he increased the fervency of his knocking, Grace would be motivated to open the door. He knew she was probably still angry with him, so she'd make him wait. After five minutes of knocking on her door, Ethan recognized that something might be tragically wrong.

Droplets of sweat began to stream down his face as he went through several possible scenarios.
She's not coming to the door, because she overdosed on pills.
He combed his mind, trying to remember what current prescriptions she had and if he'd seen any pill bottles in her condo the last time he was there. He couldn't recall any, nor could he recall a time when not having a prescription had stopped Grace from getting Oxycontin or any other pill she felt the need to pop. Maybe she fell and hit her head.
That's not dramatic enough for Grace King,
he thought. She did it; she committed suicide. The pressure of attempting to meet everyone's unrealistic standards of perfection with regard to her looks and her behavior and failing at it repeatedly had finally caught up with her, he thought. Maybe Javier's demand for a screen test had made her question her ability to transition from modeling to acting. Failure was frightening, and recently, failing was all she'd done.

His chest tightened; the rhythm of his heartbeat went staccato. Ethan began to wheeze at the thought of Grace hanging from one of the exposed pipes on the second floor of her condo or lying naked in a pool of blood after slitting her wrists.

Wiping the thick film of sweat that had collected on his forehead, Ethan removed his navy blue blazer, backed up, and tried to bust the door open with his shoulder blade. The door didn't budge, but he heard several bones crack. After the third unsuccessful attempt, he phoned the doorman.

“New Millennium Condominiums,” Arnie said.

“I need you to come up here ASAP with the key, or send someone to bust this door down.”

“Who is this?” Arnie inquired.

“This is Ethan Sum—”

“Oh . . . Summerville, right, Ms. King's lawyer.”

“Do you want to know my sign as well?” Ethan snapped. He didn't mean to be flippant, but he didn't want to be held responsible for this tragedy, either. “This is an emergency. I need this door unlocked or busted down.”

“Mr. Summerville, I'm afraid I can't do that. Technically, I shouldn't have allowed you upstairs without a key or approval from Ms. King, but I figured I'd use my discretion and allow you to go upstairs, but now—”

“Now you need to use your discretion and throw caution to the wind. Just think about it. When was the last time you saw her?” Ethan repeated nearly the same question Brother Horace had asked him on the phone.

Arnie paused to think about it. Ethan hoped he'd quickly conclude that he needed to take action, but Arnie remained silent.

“Well, man, are you going to open this door or what?”

“I don't have the key. Only the super of management can open the door. I'd have to call one of them up.”

“Well, do something,” Ethan growled. “Do you want Grace King's blood on your hands?” Ethan asked, trying to shift the blame for this mishap onto someone other than himself.

Ethan's prompting was enough to move Arnie to action. In less than two minutes the doorman was standing next to Ethan with his foot raised in midair, preparing to execute one of those door-busting kicks he'd seen Derek Morgan do on
Criminal Minds.

“I could lose my job for this,” Arnie said before one of his size twelve, black wingtip Rockports crashed through her door.

“I could lose Grace if you don't do this,” Ethan murmured in a low whisper that only he and God could hear. “Please don't let me be too late.”

Arnie was able to knock the door off its hinges, and the acrid odor that greeted them threatened to knock them off their feet. A mixture of dry heat, whiskey, and body odor welcomed them. Ethan covered his mouth and swallowed the bile that the stench in Grace's condo had elicited.

Ethan ran to the couch, where Grace was sprawled out. Careful not to step in the dry chunks of vomit, Ethan kneeled down beside her. He racked his brain, trying to figure out what could have sent her this far off the map. Pages of Javier Roberts's script were strewn all over the living room floor. Some pages had been rolled into little balls, some pages were covered in vomit, and some of them had been ripped up.

“Summerville, is she alive or what?” the doorman shouted from the hallway. “Do you want me to call an ambulance or the police?”

“No ambulance and no police,” Ethan commanded, rising to his feet. He did a quick assessment of the situation. Grace was semiconscious and in the same teal racerback shirt and gray yoga pants he'd seen her in three days ago. Her skin looked like cracked wood, there was a bottle of whiskey tucked in the side of the couch, and bottles of gin that varied in size decorated the floor.

I can't call the police or the ambulance until this place gets straightened up,
Ethan thought.
This will be all over the scanners, the news stations will be here, and my days as a lawyer will be long gone.

First, Ethan tried to wake her. He shook her, he yelled, and then he banged on pots and pans.

“Water. Summerville, throw some cold water on her,” Arnie stated.

Ethan darted into the kitchen. He snatched a paper towel off the silver spinning dispenser, held it under cold water, and dashed back to the couch. Ethan swiped the wet paper towel across her face. Grace jumped up, coughing and cringing, and then collapsed back on the couch.

“What's going on?” she moaned.

“I don't know, Grace. You tell me.”

She lay there, unresponsive.

“Grace? Grace, you have to get up,” Ethan said, shaking her languid arm.

“I can't.” She rubbed her tongue across her top lip. “I can't feel my legs. You got any coke?”

“What?”

“Coke, dopamine, or anything in that family,” Arnie explained. “She needs an upper. She crashed, and she wants something to help get her pumped up again.”

The urge to smash Arnie's head in overtook Ethan as Arnie rattled off the kinds of narcotics that would be helpful in this situation. His ambivalent attitude was just enough to send Ethan over the edge. Ethan charged toward the doorman.

“That's why she's messed up, man!” Ethan grabbed Arnie by the collar and slammed him against the door. “You know way too much about this, man.”

“Mr. Summerville, of course I know about this. Do you think she's special? A doped-up model is nothing special and nothing worth either of us losing our composure over.”

The rational, logical, and legalistic side of Ethan agreed. There was nothing novel about a celebrity drowning his or her sorrows in alcohol or abusing drugs to dim the pain when the camera lights were turned off, but Grace wasn't a stranger or just a name to Ethan or to God.

As Grace leaned over the side of the couch, hacking, with spittle slowly dripping out of the corner of her mouth, he could hear the words ringing clearly in his heart.
For the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.
Suddenly, he remembered why he was there.

Ethan released Arnie, realigned the collar of Arnie's shirt, and smoothed out the wrinkles. “You're absolutely right. There's no need for either of us to lose our composure. Why don't you return to your post? I'll handle things up here.”

“You sure, man?”

“One hundred percent.” Ethan held his thumb up. “I've got this.”

Arnie bowed and walked to the elevator bank.

Now finding himself alone with the mess that lay on the couch and the floor, Ethan paced back and forth parallel to the couch. Sunlight beamed through the windows, filling him with the warmth that this situation had zapped out of him. His first thought was to call Junell, who almost always knew what to do to get Grace out of a jam, but she was on the set, filming her show. Everyone at the firm had had enough of Grace's antics, so he decided that they would be the last people he called. With no other help available, Ethan called the one friend he had who was always there for him when his back was pressed against the wall.

Kneeling down in his two-thousand-dollar suit amid the vomit and the tattered pages of the script, he poured out the contents of his heart. “Father God, I come before you as humbly as I know how right now. Please, Lord, look upon Grace right now and have mercy on her. Lord, bring her back from the dark place that she traveled to in her mind with her body and spirit. Lord, you died so that she could be saved, and I beg you, Lord, to save her even now. I pray that you will forgive me for the harsh words that I have spoken to her, and if I caused this, have your way with me, Lord. Please deliver her from this oppression. In Jesus's name. Amen.”

After Ethan finished praying, he remained on his knees, waiting for the Lord's guidance. The few minutes that Ethan spent on his knees felt like hours to him, but they were not unfruitful. He arose with a name in mind.

The spirit urged him to call her. She was the last person he had had in mind. Actually, he hadn't thought of her at all. Ethan did not associate Candace's large brown eyes, anointed words, and faith that did not falter with alcohol-induced blackouts. Nevertheless, he decided to be obedient and call her. Candace picked up on the first ring, and when Ethan explained what had happened and asked for her help, she assured him that she would drop everything and rush over.

Upon her arrival, Ethan praised God for his omniscience. Candace took over like a surgeon who'd been called to operate in an emergency room.

“Get her into the bathroom. She needs a bath,” she commanded, dropping her purse and coat on a bar stool at the island in the kitchen.

Ethan carried Grace to the upstairs bathroom, and Candace followed them up the steps. Candace ordered Ethan to go back downstairs, and then she entered the walk-in marble shower with Grace. She turned on lukewarm water and scrubbed her down. Grace's body shook in Candace's hands. Her speech improved from moaning and groaning to a few intelligible words.

“Thank you, Mom,” she repeated over and over again, reclining on Candace's bosom.

“Grace, it's me, Candace,” she said each time, but Grace still repeated the same thing, until Candace stepped out of the shower and then made the water colder in order to shock Grace's system.

Grace began to writhe like a fish out of water, flopping all over and sputtering curse words. She regained full consciousness and control of her body after a few moments. Peering through the glass door of her shower, she asked, “Who are you?”

“Grace, it's me, Candace.”

“Candace? The court reporter?” Grace forcefully slid the shower door open and yanked a towel off the rack. “Why are you in my condo?”

“You blacked out, so Ethan called me over to help get you cleaned up before he takes you to the hospital.”

Clutching her forehead, Grace winced. From the expression on her face, it looked like her head was pounding like a djembe drum. She took a few short breaths and tumbled backward. Candace swooped down and caught Grace.

“What happened to you?” Candace asked, her words dripping with love and care.

“I don't want to go to the hospital.” Grace moaned. Her brown eyes looked glassy.

Candace exhaled, relieved that she had not fumbled and dropped Grace. “I'll tell Ethan no hospitals,” she said, leading Grace into the master bedroom. “I'm going to make you something that will help you out. Okay?”

Grace nodded, then looked down at the floor, avoiding eye contact with Candace. Maybe Grace was afraid of seeing herself, or maybe she was expecting Candace to spew fire and brimstone and condemn her to the pit. Yet those were the last things that Candace felt Grace deserved.

Sorry was the feeling that pulsed through Candace's veins. She was sorry that Grace's life was so messed up and was so intertwined with the life of her new beau. This much drama could lead only to destruction. But she refused to let the devil have his way in either of their lives. She stood in the doorway of Grace's bedroom, determined to prevent Grace from sabotaging her own. “Lord, I don't know why or how I wound up in this place, but, nevertheless, I am here. Please use me to demonstrate your grace.”

After her prayer, she marched downstairs. Ethan was busy on his hands and knees, attempting to peel the pages of the script off the floor. Apparently, vomit and liquor were excellent adhesives when dry.

“It would help if you wet the floor first to loosen all that stuff up,” Candace suggested, wrinkling her nose at the gunk all over the floor.

“How is she?” he asked, looking at Candace from over his shoulder. Just the fraction of his face that she could see sped up her heart rate.

“She's all right.”

Candace opened every cabinet, looking for the ingredients her father used in his hangover soup. Most of her life, Candace had cursed God for sticking her with two alcoholic parents, but now, as she lit a burner on the sleek black electric stove, she recognized that everything in her life had a purpose.

“I didn't go to law school for this,” Ethan complained, with his arms locked stiffly under the pressure of his weight.

“Gird up your loins,” Candace sputtered from the kitchen.

Ethan's eyes were full of disgust, and his jaw was clenched tight.