Authors: Kerry Reichs
“As it turns out,” I said casually, not looking at him, “I don’t have a natural aptitude for trapeze.”
That was a little false modesty.
“Hmmm,” he said.
“What was the purpose of that? It has nothing to do with Cora Aldridge.”
He faced me. “In two hours, you became Cora Aldridge.” His look was intense. “It blew me away. You had triumph, defeat, demoralization, determination, doggedness, and victory in succession.” He laughed. “You were so mad and frustrated after that second run, but you kept going. It killed you to ask for help, but you did it. It was like seeing Cora walk off the page. I’ve never felt so close to meeting her in person.”
“But I didn’t do it right.” It was the kind of praise an actress craves from a director.
“Did you think I hadn’t tried this myself? I did the same thing—thought myself right out of a natural ability. I wanted to see how you’d handle it.”
I put my hands on my hips. “You
knew
I’d mess up?”
“I had a hunch.” His eyes sparkled.
“That’s . . . that’s . . .
cruel
.”
He guffawed. “So I’ve heard from you before. You wouldn’t think it was cruel if you hadn’t made mistakes.”
He had me there.
“Dimple, you can’t control everything. Life isn’t orderly and people don’t answer the phone the way you expect or always let you drive the bike. Existing is hard. I don’t want an orator to perfectly deliver my precious words. I want a woman who can reach through the screen and grip the audience with what it’s like to be drop-kicked by life and keep going. Cora doesn’t clutch her pearls, she has true grit.” He paused. “And so do you. Watching you today was like seeing a Hank Williams song.”
His praise spiked my adrenaline more than the trapeze. My veins were buzzing, which may be why I did what happened next.
It was a flash, but on the grey day, it stood out. I saw the fisherman cast, his line sailing backward just as a child ran underneath.
“Stop!” I may have knocked a man down in my haste, but I acted without thinking. I threw myself at the child, wrapping my body around her like a cocoon as a sharp stab dug into my shoulder. My cry of pain blended with the gulls, then noise erupted everywhere.
A flash mob surrounded us, shouting. I was conscious of the girl crying, and throbbing pain. I stayed where I was, encircling her, until hands lifted me off.
“Hannah!” A crying woman snatched the girl once I was peeled from her. People rushed me, clamoring.
“Give her space!” Julian commanded, a tinge of anxiety in his tone.
“She saved that girl!”
“I think she’s hurt . . .”
“Thank you so much!” A stout man pumped my arm, and I couldn’t suppress a cry of pain. I backed away to protect my wound, but people were everywhere.
“The hook would’ve hit that girl for sure.”
“He threw a long cast, I saw it!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” a young fisherman kept repeating. “I didn’t see her.”
My shoulder hurt terribly.
“Lemme take a look.” A grizzled fisherman reached for me.
“Don’t touch that!” Julian bellowed. Everyone quieted. “For the love of god, give her space!”
Everyone stepped back.
“I’m okay,” I said. “It doesn’t hu . . . ahhh!” Jostling exposed my lie.
Julian jumped like he’d been hit with a fishhook. “Are you okay? Christ, you’re bleeding a lot.”
A red stain was spreading across my white shirt. I refused to look, but I was pretty sure there was a fishhook embedded in my shoulder. “Is she okay?” I asked the girl’s mother.
“She’s fine, just scared.” The mother held the crying girl. “I can’t thank you enough. If it wasn’t for you . . . and you’re hurt . . . ” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Anyone would have done it. It’s barely a scratch.” I shrugged, then winced.
“That’s it, people. Clear out,” Julian ordered. “The child is fine. There’s nothing to see.” He pointed to the young fisherman. “You. Cut that line. And
gently
. He turned to me. “What do you think this is, an action movie? You could’ve been seriously hurt! We need to get you to the emergency room.” He shielded me as he led me off the pier.
“What? No . . . ,” I protested. “I’m not going to the emergency room.”
Julian looked at me as if I was insane. “Are you insane? You have a fishhook in your shoulder.”
“The emergency room is for emergencies,” I said. A person didn’t go to the emergency room when they could walk.
“Fishhook. Embedded,” he repeated. “If that doesn’t constitute an emergency, what does?”
“Well, you know.” I was uncomfortable. “Being shot. Being stabbed. Bleeding out the eyes. Two broken legs. Ebola.”
“You’ve been stabbed by a fishhook!” His volume spiked.
I winced. “Sorry. I didn’t grow up running to the emergency room. My dad walked all day once with a rusty nail embedded in his heel because he couldn’t miss a day at work. That’s sort of how I was raised.”
Julian shot me a look of disbelief. “Well, you’re going now. Consider it a decadent day at the spa.”
I giggled and he looked incredulous. “Unbelievable. Have you ever been to the ER?”
“Only when I got bit by a mamba,” I said. “I had my brain surgery in the janitor’s closet.”
“Very funny.”
“Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused novocaine during a root canal? His goal was transcend dental medication.” I giggled again. Maybe I was delirious.
“Does it hurt if we move faster?”
Several hours later, leaning forward on the gurney didn’t feel so funny. I was exhausted.
Julian was hovering over the physician, getting in his way.
“How are you doing?”
“The cartoon birds are circling,” I groaned.
“We’re done here.” The physician stepped back.
“How many stitches?” I wondered if I’d have to call a plastic surgeon. Julian and the doctor exchanged a look that suggested I’d asked my question before. Painkillers made me woozy.
“We used glue,” the physician said. “You’ll barely see the mark. You were smart not to remove the hook yourself. Here’s a prescription for the pain. See your doctor in a week to make sure everything is healing.”
Julian helped me into my ruined shirt.
“Please let me take you out to dinner,” he said. “I feel responsible.”
“No,” I answered, distracted by my sore ribs. On top of the trauma to my shoulder, my muscles were stiff from the trapeze.
I registered Julian’s hurt face. “I’m sorry, that was abrupt. I’m having dinner with my mother.” I had to change. A bloody shirt would expose me to maternal inquisition, not sympathy—a glued cut was sissy stuff. My mother had lain next to her bicycle in a field while bombs went off around her when she was nine.
He looked relieved.
“At least let me drive you home.”
I nodded and followed him to his car. I hesitated when he pulled out his keys. In my daze, I hadn’t noticed it on the way to the hospital. I’d ridden in some ridiculous directors’ cars before—low-slung things that looked like props from
Tron—
but nothing like this.
“This is your car?”
He looked surprised. “Why?”
I didn’t hear the expected creak when I opened the dented door; it rolled smoothly on well-oiled hinges. “Is it . . . safe?”
Julian looked offended. “Of course it’s safe. My dad impressed on me the importance of two things—if you maintain a car well it’ll serve you forever, and you can fit more cars in the driveway if they’re from the eighties.” He patted the hood of the GEO Prizm. “This hot mama was my first.”
“I think it’s older than I am.”
“According to your résumé, maybe.” Julian winked. I slid into the hatchback without another word.
At my house, I hesitated. Energy still thrummed under my exhaustion. Julian had extracted more from me in one day at the pier than a decade of
Pulse
. I didn’t want to part.
“You were amazing today.” He held my eyes.
I fumbled for words. “You too. I mean, I did things today that I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t been directing me, so to speak.”
“I don’t know that I brought anything to the equation.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing, getting me on the trapeze.”
“That would be false modesty, contributing to a narrative arc that is satisfying rather than accurate.” Julian said. “And by no means would I orchestrate anything that would leave you pierced by a fishhook.”
“But you did,” I insisted. “You made me come
alive
.” I felt fatuous. It was time to go. “Do you need to schedule a reading for
Cora
?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yes. Yes, that’s what I need.”
“Great.” I got out and leaned into the window. “Gotta go. I need a drink before dinner with my mother.”
He smiled. “A baby seal walks into a bar. ‘What can I get you?’ asks the bartender. ‘Anything but a Canadian Club,’ says the seal.”
I
t had rained, which made for a less than ideal day. The water was metallic, the sky leaden.
“Overcast skies make for better photos.” Summer remained optimistic. Andy wasn’t sure. When it rained in Southern California, Los Angelenos abandoned their cars, canceled dinner plans, and stayed home. He’d rather be watching the Nebraska Huskers play on TV than working Coastal Cleanup Day.
Summer’s enthusiasm was undampened. “You’re going to get your campaign poster out of this!” She literally rubbed her hands together. “And we can undermine some of that embryo-killing bullshit from Webb.”
Andy and Summer were working with a group called Heal the Bay, Heal the Body. Summer had managed to secure Andy the position of Site Captain for the choice Santa Monica Pier location. Andy would speak a few kick-off words, then groups would disperse to pick cigarette butts and candy wrappers off the beach. The participants were children with cancer, muscular dystrophy, cystic fibrosis, and multiple sclerosis
.
Summer viewed this pairing as the key to a landslide election.
“Picking up trash is solid. Helping sick kids is better. Helping sick kids pick up trash is gold! This is your money shot!”
Andy was pretty sure the “money shot” referred to a specific moment in porn films, but his discomfort with the comparison was overshadowed by his anxiety over spending the day with sick kids. He didn’t have a good poker face when meeting unnaturally adult gazes staring from washed-out little faces. Since Webb had labeled Andy a heartless baby killer, he was particularly sensitive. Andy would never terminate a baby because of disability. But his aversion to illness now seemed suspect, hinting at a malevolent streak. Maybe Webb saw something Andy didn’t.
Summer had insisted they arrive early. “It’s important to identify a kid to stand with you. Someone visibly sympathetic, but cute.”
“Visibly sympathetic” was politically correct for obviously ill. Andy didn’t know why his reaction was so strong. He hadn’t been exposed in childhood to anyone suffering from a lingering ailment. His family had been as healthy as oxen until his mom got sick, and she’d had the courtesy to keep her illness brief before dying. Andy was just afraid of sick people, and that was that.
Andy had deteriorated faster than Maryn when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. The vomit, the cracked lips, the hospital smell of urine. He’d lost ten pounds and developed the shakes whenever he had to accompany his wife to appointments. He detested meeting other patients. The hospital gave him palpitations.
As if she heard his thoughts, Summer mused, “It’s too bad Maryn’s such a bitch. It would be strong if she stood by you as a breast cancer survivor.” Summer used words like “strong” now that she was spending time with the campaign boys.
To Summer’s credit, Andy didn’t talk about Maryn’s illness, so Summer didn’t know. Even so, it was delusional to think his ex-wife would take a break from suing him to stand by his side with a Miss America wave. To Maryn’s credit, she’d never called Andy a fucking bastard for leaving her with cancer. She’d never told anyone he’d fled eight years of marriage after a few months of illness. She’d never said anything at all. So neither had Andy. He’d put it behind him and moved forward, so he never had to recall the look on Maryn’s face when he’d told her.
They stood uncomfortably on the dock, Summer’s overdressed state drawing the eyes of tourists. She rubbed her forearms to keep warm, and Andy slipped an arm around her shoulder. Volunteers began to arrive, huddled in groups of three. A perky organizer with the requisite clipboard bubbled about the day’s schedule.
When she walked away, Andy asked Summer, “Do you think she really believes three hours of picking up litter will make a difference?”
Summer was thoughtful. “The fact that a bunch of people gave up their Saturday to pick up trash makes you hope there’ll be a difference.”
Andy was doubtful. What could one man do? Forget healing the bay—how was collecting litter going to heal cystic fibrosis?
“If the city doesn’t spend money on those expensive drainage filters, every cigarette on Main Street will end up in the bay.” His discouragement was overwhelming, and the day hadn’t started.
“That’s why we need you on the City Council,” Summer said. “Here they come.”
A noisy gaggle of children approached. Most walking, two in motorized chairs. They wore helmets and head scarves, some had awkward proportions, but they all had enormous smiles. Their adult buddies were tested to keep them orderly. Summer moved toward them with a smile. Andy began to sweat.
Summer moved fluidly, despite impractical Prada heels, crouching to meet eyes, accepting hugs. Andy knew she was shopping for their photo op, but admired the ease with which she mingled. Her enjoyment seemed genuine. Andy touched the children carefully, afraid to break them. If they knew his cheer was forced, they forgave him. The ill were more charitable. And in this case, bubbling over with excitement.
“Will we see a dolphin?” a girl with watery eyes asked Andy.
“Maybe.” He grinned. “If they aren’t busy picking up clam shells that lazy mermaids threw on the ocean floor even though a coral trash bin was
right there
.”
“If I find money can I keep it?” demanded a boy in a motorized chair that outsized him by three.
“Only if you spend it on ice cream and comic books,” Andy answered.
The organizer arrived, and the kids clamored for blue Coastal Cleanup Day T-shirts. Andy edged away from the chaos to where the buildings gave way to the anglers. Few tourists ventured into the province of the fishermen.
Andy was hypnotized by the whipping lines, glinting silver flashes against the sullen sky. A cherub of a four-year-old girl was chasing around the feet of a knot of adults. Andy was happy to see a rosy, healthy child. The clustered adults were clad in fanny packs, Bermuda shorts, and sneakers. They debated over a map, not paying attention to the girl racing in wider and wider circles. Andy was as mesmerized by her exuberant activity as he had been by the casting lines. She dashed after a seagull, running perilously close to the fishermen, who didn’t notice. She paused to examine fish heads and guts in a pail. Andy wanted to pull her away from the fish guts. Her parents were oblivious.
There were about ten people at the end of the pier other than fishermen, but only Andy appeared aware of the girl. A seagull drew her attention from the entrails, and Andy was relieved. Shrieking with giggles, she chased the bird. Andy watched in slow motion as the child ran behind a line of anglers as one drew his reel to cast. Andy’s brain blinked twice before he comprehended. The lethal silver line soared toward the girl. He had to do something to protect her, to shield her skin and eyes, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen, watching disaster gallop his way, helpless to stop it.
He was hit hard in the back. The sky and the pier tumbled as his hands and knees hit the boards, and his head reeled from contact with the boardwalk. Someone shouted, “Stop!” and he thought he heard a woman cry before the pier erupted into a cacophony of noise.
He pulled himself to his hands and knees. People were rushing past, surrounding a woman with long brown hair. She was crouched on the ground, encircling the child. The girl was crying, her family was screaming, the fishermen were shouting. It was utter chaos.
“Andy?” Summer reached him. “My god, what happened? Are you okay?” In her concern, she’d forgotten to call him Andrew.
Andy got to his feet. His ears were ringing. A tall, bald man was trying to calm the flash mob that had grown around the woman and child.
“Space!” the bald man bellowed. He had presence. Everyone quieted. Several stepped back, and Andy could see the red stain spreading across the woman’s white shirt. He felt nauseous.
“I’m okay,” the woman assured everyone. “It doesn’t hu . . . ahhh!” She cried out involuntarily as someone bumped her. The bald man jumped, but she waved him off. “Is she okay?” The brunette addressed the girl’s mother.
“She’s fine, just scared.” The mother held the crying girl. “I can’t thank you enough. If it wasn’t for you . . . and you’re hurt . . . ” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Anyone would have done it. This is barely a scratch.” The brunette shrugged, then winced.
Andy almost winced himself. Anyone but him. He’d been frozen, while this woman had leaped into action and protected the child. She’d knocked him out of the way without a thought, sensing his uselessness.
“That’s it, people. Clear out,” the bald man ordered. “The child is fine. There’s nothing to see.” In a softer voice, “We need to get you to the emergency room.”
“What? No . . .” Their voices faded as the man led the woman away.
“Andy?” Summer was still at his side, looking concerned.
“I’m fine.” He was gruff. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. One of the fishermen threw a wild cast and hit someone, I think. It’s not serious. Did you fall?”
“Someone knocked me over.” He dismissed.
“We should go.” Summer looked anxious. “We’re supposed to begin at eleven thirty.” She brushed off Andy’s khakis. “You don’t look any the worse for wear.”
Andy was surprised that he looked the same. He felt diminished.
They walked back to the Pier Restoration Corporation office, where about sixty people were milling around. The kids in oversize T-shirts, grins, and eyes too big for their heads clustered together. Summer headed toward them.
“Andrew, this is Victoria.” She smiled at a frail girl with a bandanna knotted around her head. “She’s a very brave little girl with leukemia.”
“Hi there.” Andy forced a smile and took the girl’s tiny hand. “Would you like to be my partner today?”
“Sure.” The girl grinned.
“C’mon.” Andy jerked his head toward the office steps where a mike was set up. “Let’s put these lazy bums to work.” She giggled and followed him. He wondered who would knock him down and save her if an out of control car barreled toward them.
Summer maneuvered them into a picturesque threesome. They smiled and clapped as the head of Coastal Cleanup Day welcomed guests.
Andy was the closer. He robotically delivered words on the importance of giving back, and his goals for City Council environmental projects. He smiled slipping his arm around Victoria, but he was sweating. He heard screams coming from the Ferris wheel, and panicked that the top chair would plummet to the earth. He felt the pier sway and wondered if the weathered boards would split, upending sick children into the cold, grey chop. The cart vendor dropped dough for funnel cake, and Andy saw hot oil spewing into the faces of waiting customers. All within his reach, and Andy impotent to stop it. In a flash he understood Maryn’s rage when she’d screamed that she was impotent.
After he married, Maryn had told him what to do. Even after she was diagnosed, she shepherded him through the egg-fertilization process, the drafting of their wills, and her medical power of attorney, her treatment decisions. Then she’d begun chemotherapy, and she’d stopped.
Andy had been on his own as he listened to Maryn wretch, helpless. He hadn’t known what to say when she came to him, a ghost against the clump of red hair she held, wanting to know if she should shave her head. When her blood cell count confined her to the hospital, perilously vulnerable to infection, she’d needed help deciding whether to change her treatment. Andy had failed her every time.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What do the doctors think?”
She was propped up on the bed, skin like an oyster, shiny with sweat and as pale as liquid. Her wig was jarring, its robust red macabre against her hollow face. She wore it for him.
“Obviously they think we need to do something or they wouldn’t have suggested it.” She was peevish.
“I . . . I’m sorry . . . .” Andy floundered. Hurt and confusion etched Maryn’s face. He tugged his collar, feeling overheated. “I’ll get some air and think about it.”
“You just got here.” Her tone wasn’t accusatory. Andy suspected she knew before Andy did.
Andy heard his father’s voice and knew he had failed. Utterly and completely. And he couldn’t take it.
“Maryn, I’m not this guy.” He sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “You need me to be strong and I’m falling apart. You’re counting on me and I’m not giving you shit. I wish I was different, but I’m not. I can’t do this. Staying is only going to make it worse.”
He braved a glance. Her face was shocked. She pulled her hand from his.
“You’re leaving me?” Disbelief.
Unbidden, a rush of relief swept him, as intoxicating as a sip of cool champagne.
“No,” he protested.
“You’re leaving me.” This time it wasn’t a question.
Andy stared at her the way he’d once stared at a hairless sphinx kitten. The Maryn he’d married had no connection to this ravaged shell.
He’d gotten to his feet without realizing it. He looked at the creature on the bed, searching for something. Her eyes burned into him, but he was curiously detached.
“Go,” Maryn said. Exhaustion carved into her face.
“Maryn . . .” He willed her to understand. A lifetime free from this disease . . .
Without breaking eye contact, Maryn pulled off her wig.