Chapter Twelve - Maddie
My mother calls on Monday.
I let it go to voicemail and then I stare at that little voicemail notification all day, telling myself I should just delete it and not listen. But she’s just trying to be helpful and so it sits there like just another little red flag in my life.
I’m still trying to come to terms with last weekend at Pete’s. Not only the way Logan practically kidnapped me from the alley, or the way Ford kicked his friend’s ass and took his gun. But also what came afterward.
I’ve been trying to forget about it… but I can’t. It was… hot.
God, I’m so disgusting.
But I can’t deny it. This guy—whatever his real name is—just… does something to me. Makes me irrational. Turns me into a dirty little slut.
I know he’s bad for me. I see all the ways this can go wrong. And I know I’m just as bad for him. I mean, shit. All I gotta do is look at the fucking calendar to understand why I’m acting this way.
I press the voicemail icon on my phone just as an excuse to stop thinking about him, and wince as my mother’s voice blares through the speaker.
“Madison,” she says in her calm Mom voice. “I have something really important to ask you. Can you please call me back? Thank you, darling.”
The call ends.
My life ends too as I get lost in the reasons she’s so insistent on talking to me this week.
But only for an instant. Because I decide I’d rather think about Madison’s Slutty Adventures at Pete’s than that.
So I masturbate to the memory of what he did. The way he felt. The way he made me feel. My back is scratched from being fucked up against the brick wall and there’s a bruise on my left thigh from where his fingers pressed into my muscles as he ate me out. I lie in bed and close my eyes and pretend we know each other. That it was a prearranged fantasy date. I was just pretending to be a stripper. He was just pretending to be a stranger. That he’s the love of my life and this is just our special way of keeping things fresh.
I come to that thought.
Annie doesn’t come home Monday night and even though Caroline and Diane tell me not to worry, she’s just on a job, I stay up until dawn waiting on her and get no sleep.
She walks in on Tuesday afternoon looking like… well a whore who’s been on a call for eighteen hours.
“Don’t ask,” she says, dropping her heels on the foyer floor.
So I don’t. Because I’m wallowing in my own mountain of self-pity right now and don’t even have time for hers.
My father calls on Wednesday. He’s not a message leaver, so he just calls and calls and calls all day long. Sometimes I wish I worked during the week. Pete’s is open all the time, so I could work during the week. But it’s slow, so is it worth it? I mean, if Pete’s becomes my full-time job, what does that say about me?
I’m desperate?
Yes. That’s exactly what it says.
Wednesday night I break down and answer my father’s call. “Hey Dad. What’s up?”
“We’ve been calling you all week, Mads.”
I roll my eyes at the nickname. “Please don’t call me that.”
“How are you?” he asks, ignoring my response. I can hear my mother talking in the background and then my father covers his phone with his hand or something, because her voice gets all muffled and distorted.
“Fine,” I say automatically.
My mother grabs the phone from my dad. “Madison,” she says. “I’d like you to come visit for the holidays. What do you say? Can I send you a ticket? I’ll get you Global First Class.” She sings that last part. Like it’s a special treat.
It is. I don’t go anywhere these days. And even when I did, I never went first class.
“They have beds in that class, Madison. And they serve you champagne as soon you sit down. It’s lovely. Come stay with us for a little while. We miss you. Let me buy you a ticket.”
“No,” I say. “I can’t, Mom. Really. I’m so busy with this new business, I just can’t leave it right now. If I do, I’ll lose all the momentum I’ve built up over the last few months.”
Bullshit. I cannot believe how stupid I am for wasting twelve thousand dollars on a fucking drone. You would’ve been better off buying stripper outfits with that money, my little devil says.
Or paying Carlos back, the angel counters.
“Did you at least call Plu?”
“Who?”
“Dr. Brown.”
“Oh, her,” I say, unable to hide my disgust. Plumeria Brown is the daughter of my dad’s old associate from his Vegas casino days. I knew her—sorta—all growing up. She’s only a few years older, but the fact that she’s now some kind of licensed therapist is just a big ol’ slap in my face as far as I’m concerned.
“I think you’d really enjoy catching up with her.”
“Would I?” I laugh. “Why do you think that?”
“Well,” my mother says. “The two of you are close in age. You must have a few things in common. I think she’d be a good listener.”
“You don’t talk to people you know when you see a therapist, Mother.” I snarl out the word ‘mother.’ “It kinda defeats the purpose.”
“Well, she definitely understands the issues—”
“No one understands the issues,” I snap back. “And I’m tired of you pushing this shit on me. Can you just stop? Please? Just let me deal with it the way I always do. I’ve gotten through enough anniversaries now. And those cards you send, they don’t help. So just stop.”
Silence on the other end of the phone.
I exhale. “Mom?”
She inhales. “OK, Maddie. If that’s what you think is best then… then I’ll stop caring. OK? How’s that? I’ll just throw up my hands and stop caring. Is that what you want? Do you want us to forget about you? Pretend we don’t have a daughter?”
“I just…” I feel the water welling up in my eyes. Swallow hard. Then say, “I’m just not ready.”
“It’s been seven years, Madison. You are ready.”
The tears fall down my cheeks, but I don’t cry. Not sobs, anyway.
“You need to get out. Meet people. Move on, Maddie.”
“I have,” I say.
“No,” my mother counters. “You start things and never finish them. Jumping from one crazy plan to another like you’re desperate to fill up your life. You hide in your work, pretending to be busy—”
“I am busy,” I say.
“And you don’t date.”
“I am dating,” I say. Just wanting to stop her pity.
“You are?” my mother says. The surprise in her voice makes me stifle a laugh. “What’s his… is it a him?”
Then I do laugh. “Yes, it’s a him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ford,” I say, picturing the face that goes with that fake name.
“Ford. What’s his last name?
Shit. “Chevy,” I say, because that other car name flies right out of my head and I’m desperate to pull this off.
My mother tsks her tongue. “You don’t need to lie to me, Maddie.”
“OK, I don’t know his last name,” I say, exasperated. “But he really is called Ford. And I’ve only seen him a couple of times”—which isn’t a lie, either—“so I didn’t want to tell you, but you seem to think I’m some spinster hiding away in the attic just waiting to grow old and I’m not. I’m living, Mom. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
She thinks about this for several long, silent seconds. Probably trying to picture my life. If she knew I was stripping at Pete’s she’d hang up the phone and fly home immediately, so I know that’s not what she’s picturing.
She’s picturing some average guy, probably. Maybe tall. Maybe dark hair. Maybe that Ford guy, in fact. He’s kinda my type. All manly and shit. I always did go for that type.
So I just fill it in for her. I tell her what he looks like. His handsome face. And his beard. Which makes me actually smile when I say it out loud. And I tell her about his scars. I’m not sure why, maybe to divert her sympathy from me to him.
“He was a soldier?” she asks.
“Yes…” I say, assuming, since he said I didn’t want to know and I never got confirmation, but I have a feeling. Not sure why it matters, since it’s all just part of a lie, but it does for some reason.
“Is he… normal?” she asks.
“What does that—?“
“Just… you know those soldiers sometimes come back with… damage.”
“OK, this is over now,” I say. My tears are gone and I’m fed up and tired.
“Will you call Plu?” my mother asks.
I hesitate. “I’m not calling Plu.”
“Please, Madison,” my mother begs. “Please. For me. Just one time. One talk. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“And you’ll leave me alone?” I ask.
“I promise. If you go for one visit with Plu, I’ll stop nagging about it.”
“Fine.” I sigh into the phone. “I’ll call her.”
“I’ve already set up an appointment. It’s for tomorrow at noon.”
“Jesus, Mom—”
“One time, Maddie. Then you’re free of my worry. I’ve done my best and I’ll move on too.”
I give up. Fuck it. “One. Time,” I say. “That’s it. And you never bring it up again. You never send another sympathy card to prepare me for the anniversary. You never call me about it. And you don’t make Dad call either. Because I don’t need help, OK? I’m fine.” My pride might very well be the thing that kills me.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Madison,” my mother says.
“Good,” I say.
“I love you,” she says, a soft whisper.
“I love you too,” I sigh back, meaning it.
“And we all miss him. But he’s gone.”
The tears are back. They fall and fall and fall down my cheeks in rivers that might never end.
“Goodbye,” I say, then end the call and throw myself on the bed face first so I can cry into my pillow.
“You can call me Plu. Or you can call me Dr. Brown.”
I’m in Plumeria’s office at noon the following day, just like I promised my mother I would be.
“It’s funny, right?” I say, looking around her office. It’s nice. She’s in some kind of co-op with other counselors. Like roommates, I think. They all share a main reception area filled with high-end leather chairs and coffee tables with stacks of current glossy magazines.
I’m in her private space facing a window that’s got a nice view of the mountains and a whole parking lot filled with mature palm trees that blow in the desert wind.
“What’s funny?” Plu asks.
“Your name, ya know. You used to be Plumeria. So exotic and shit. But now you’re Dr. Brown. Which is about as boring as it gets.”
Plu smiles at me. Then writes something down on her pad of paper. She’s fucking gorgeous. Always has been. Long dark hair. Almost black. Olive-colored skin with large hazel eyes. She looks like some kind of desert princess and the view outside her office makes me think of an oasis.
Which is good, right? That’s what you want to think of when you come see a therapist.
“I know your mother made the appointment,” Plu continues with a new more business-y line of questioning. “And I don’t usually allow this. But since we’re old friends, I made an exception. So tell me, Madison, what do you want to talk about today?”
I sigh. I want to scream at her that I don’t want to talk about anything. But I’m the one who came. And she took the appointment. It’s not her fault I’m here, it’s mine.
“Your brother?” she prods.
I don’t meet her gaze. Just continue staring out at the oasis. Pretending I’m the desert princess, not her.
“It’s been seven years now, right?”
I nod.
“And it’s still hard for you?”
I nod again.
“I know you were close,” she continues. And then she laughs so abruptly, it startles me. “Remember that time when he got drunk at your parents’ anniversary party?” she asks, tilting her head a little like she’s trying to recall every detail, but it’s eluding her.
I nod again. It seems to be the only response I’m capable of.
“He was so funny the way he did all those old dances with you that night. God, I miss him.”
My throat is tight. It feels like there’s a boulder stuck in there and I can’t swallow.
“But I think my favorite memory of him was in ninth grade when he got stuck up in that tree, trying to save that nest of baby birds. Do you remember that? You were, what? Eight? Nine?”
Jesus, this woman is bad at her job.
“He had a kind heart, didn’t he?” Plumeria goes on.
“He did.” I force myself to speak, even though my throat feels like it might close up.
“He always raised the most money no matter what the fundraiser was for. Foster kids, feeding the homeless, Toys for Tots.”
“Yep! He was the best,” I say, forbidding myself to cry.
“And then he was gone,” Plumeria says. She looks at me and her smile fades. “It’s hard when people die young, Madison. It’s not hard for him, because he’s gone. But it’s hard for you. And all the people he left behind, right?”
I just stare at her for a few seconds. How the fuck she ever got a license to do this is beyond me. “I’m not here to talk about him.”
“Good,” she says. “Let’s talk about you. What are you doing these days?”
I sigh. Shrug, so I can pull myself together. “Just keeping busy I guess.”
“Do you work?” she asks.
I laugh. If Perfect Plumeria Brown thinks I’m gonna open up to her about my current situation, she needs to take a few more psych classes.
“Well, what do you do?”
“I run a business,” I say. “I do aerial photography for real-estate agents.”
“Oh, how interesting. Tell me about that.”
“Well… it’s new. I just started it.”
“OK,” she says. “So what did you do after college? You finished, right?”
“Yes,” I say, with more venom than I should. “Majored in business. And I’ve had lots of businesses since then.”
“What kind?” she asks.
“Well.” I sigh, not sure I really want to admit all my failures. But I’m looking at the clock, which says I have twenty more minutes left of this nightmare. So I either come up with shit to say or make a scene walking out. So I start telling her. It’s safe, anyway. No feelings at all attached to those failed ventures. Plu just nods and smiles. Like she approves of what I’ve been doing. And when I’m done she just sits there. Still fucking smiling.
“That’s all of them,” I say.
She looks down at her pad of paper and writes something down. I crane my neck a little to see what it is, but she’s got her pad tilted up so I can’t see. When she brings her attention back to me she says, “Why do you think you have trouble committing?”
I laugh. “I never said I have trouble committing. I don’t even know where you got that idea.”
She taps her pen to her pad, five times. Like she made bullet points on there, listing all my failures, and she’s enunciating each one. “You seem to have lost an awful lot, Madison.”
“Look, the wedding business was going well until Carlos’ stupid daughter got pregnant with another man’s child. That’s not my fault. And the pet bakery was great for a while. But it was just a trend, OK? I didn’t realize it had no staying power. People make mistakes. So I’ve made some mistakes. But I’m only twenty-five fucking years old. Stop judging me.”
“I’m not judging you, Madison. I’m just thinking… you’ve let yourself lose a lot.”
“Let myself… Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t go into these things wanting to fail, for fuck’s sake.”
“Of course not,” Plu says. “You want to win. Everyone wants to win. You just don’t seem to be able to get the job done for some reason. It’s my job to help you figure out why.”
“I know why,” I say.
“Why?” she asks. And this suddenly feels like a trick. Like she’s been letting me blab on about business but now she’s back here, to the place I don’t want to be.
A little timer goes off. Just a small ding near her desk. So I stand up and say, “Well, it’s been fun, Plu. Thanks for the chat.”
I don’t even wait to shake her hand or listen to her goodbyes. I go for the door and ten seconds later I’m back in the safety of my car.
Alone.
It takes me ten minutes to start it up. And then another five to wipe that whole therapy session back there from my memory.
Ford, I decide. I’m gonna think about Ford. I really need that guy’s real name if I’m gonna use him as my escape fantasy. But I’ll probably never see him again. I did blow him off last weekend.
And then I laugh. Blow him.
I think I’ll call him Lumberjack in my fantasy from now on.
So I do. I picture me and Lumberjack fucking outside in the alley like we did last weekend. In fact, I think I’ll pretend this is a weekly thing we do. You know, to keep the relationship fresh.
I like that. It’s enough for me. Fantasy men come with no expectations at all. No commitment. No risk of failure. Lumberjack man is a win if ever there was one.
And I could use a win.
I could really, really use a win.