Intermission (5 page)

“I need to go home tonight and pick up some more clothes. The last thing I want is for my southern employer to think I’m some wanton hussy shacking up with a guy.” I quickly brush my teeth and dab on some travel-size perfume. I’m already running late due to the early morning shower shag and yet Zach is still not satisfied. Look at that strapping boy, calmly leaning against the bathroom door, smiling at me with a big fat hard-on.

“But aren’t you my hussy? I’ll go with you and we can stop by and see Mom. There’s something I need to discuss anyway.” Oh damn. Oh God! Could this really be happening?

“Are you proposing? Because I will say no.”

“Hell no! You make an excellent lover, but you would be a horrible wife.” Zach flashes his crooked grin and makes a goofy face.

I cross my eyes and smooch my lips, “Thank god. Okay, pick me up from work around five and we’ll go together.”

After we stop by my house to gather some clothes and my Aveda shampoo, I drive Dad’s car to Zach’s mansion (it drives him insane when I refer to his home as a mansion.) We’re greeted by a middle-aged man in a tennis outfit, same sandy hair and the same navy eyes.

“Hello Dad.”

“Son.” The man acknowledges Zach but keeps his eyes directed at me. “You must be the girlfriend.” He extends his hand but Zach grabs both of my arms and clears his throat.

“Dad, we need to talk. May we use your study?” Raymond Parker grits his teeth and I can only imagine what he’s thinking. I’ve seen enough episodes of
90210
to know that rich guys always knock up the white trash and dishonor the family.

“Fine. Can your friend sit with your mother?” We follow Raymond into the house and the tension is unbearably thick.

“Nat, can you hang out with Mom? I’ll come get you in a few minutes.” Zach places his hands on my shoulders and smiles sweetly. “Just read her a magazine or tell her a funny story. Be yourself, ma femme.” He puts his hands in his pockets and follows his dad down a long hallway. God, I wish I knew what they were discussing!

I make my way into the garden room just past the kitchen. Claire’s eyes are closed and there’s a beautiful opera melting through the speakers. I approach her quietly, not wanting to wake her, but she opens her eyes as soon as my fat ass plops down on the chair.

“Natalie?” she breathes.

“Yes, Claire. Zach and I stopped by because I desperately need your advice about some camels. You see, my new job with Molly requires me to do some crazy stuff. Now, I’ve done some crazy shit in my life, but I never thought I would have to create the Sahara Desert on the Upper East Side.” I pause to see if she’s following and she’s grinning.

“So my mom suggested I just get a bunch of hookah pipes and set up tents and let everyone get really high and imagine the camels. I could even get a couple cardboard cutouts to enhance the mirage. Zach seems to think that monkeys with fez hats would be more fun, but I really don’t want to disappoint Molly or my eccentric clients.” Claire’s chest starts to flail and I’m nervous I did something to hurt her, but she’s smiling and tapping her hand against the rail. I place my hand on top of her frail fingers and she mumbles a few words—

“Il t’adore. Sa femme, Natalie.” She quiets to silence and the only noise is the pressure of the oxygen tank filtering in clean air. Her eyes close, but her chest is still inflating. Goosebumps invade my skin and I contemplate holding a mirror under her nose.

“Natalie? Are you ready to go?” Zach is standing over my shoulder and I know he senses my anxiety. “You did a great job. She’s happily resting.” I release Claire’s hand and stand next to him. He leans over and kisses her head then whispers at a volume I, too, can hear. “La vie est un interlude au salut.”
Life is an interlude to salvation.

On the train ride back to Manhattan, I snuggle into Zach and think about the peculiarity of what I witnessed. Claire speaks French. Zach speaks French. And I still don’t know what’s going on.

“She said you loved me,” I blurt.

“She’s on morphine.” Zach smiles playfully and I jab him in the stomach.

“Be serious for one fucking minute! Stop patronizing me. Stop giving me things to distract me. Stop making me assume you’re full of secrets.” I cross my arms but remain firm. He cannot actually think he’s the one saving me.

“Have you ever wanted something so badly that you would sacrifice a life in order to save one?” He yanks my hand from my chest and pulls it close to his heart. “Can you feel what you do to me? You’re my pleasure from the pain, my distraction from the voyage and the best friend I will ever have.”

I mumble and shake my head, “I don’t—“

“That day on the train, I wasn’t visiting my mom or taking her to treatment, I was getting my things in order. I went to see my physician, update my passport and take care of my trust with the family attorney.”

“Oh god, no! Are you sick? What’s happening?” I cover my mouth in fear and collapse my weak body into his.

“I’m not sick, I’m a Marine.” He strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. “I’m leaving for Afghanistan. Tomorrow.”

“What?” My scream is blood-curdling and every passenger stares in our direction, wondering what could be so horribly wrong between two young lovers. “No! No, you cannot leave me. Absolutely not. What about your family? What about me?”

“This was decided long before I met you and I didn’t realize I would fall so deeply in love with you. But I need you to be okay with this, Natalie, please. Those fuckers impacted our lives but I refuse to let them take our dreams.”

“You’re wrong, so wrong. I’m selfish! I’m a selfish, selfish baby and I want you here. I’m not built like you and I have no honor, please Zach, stay with me,
be
with me.” My sobbing and hyperventilating muffle my plea, but it doesn’t matter, Zach is leaving tomorrow. So that I, a girl he barely knows, can drink Diet Snapple and interview for high-paying jobs and sleep with as many men as I want and buy expensive shoes and say
Shit
and
Fuck
whenever I want and watch crappy television and look for fucking camels to rent for a desert-inspired party. Irony is a bitch.

October 24, 2002

It’s a gorgeous October day in the city that I love. The leaves are turning copper and everything smells like an apple orchard. Fall fashion is probably my favorite, and I look fantastic in jewel tones and boots. I’m doing great at my job, all things considering, and I even pulled off that desert party for The Russell family. Molly and Mr. Ross are officially a “shield your eyes” item and she has scaled back on her event commitments, leaving me with plenty to fuck up.

Zach has spent three weeks in basic training somewhere in Germany and soon he will be dropped front and center on the Afghani battlefields. I hate him and I love him, but mostly, I miss him. After my Metro North Meltdown, we spent the entire night in each other’s arms, talking and laughing . . . ignoring the pain. We made love one last time, honest and real, no joking and no silly dialogue. I shaved his head as we talked about nothing and everything, but promising to never say goodbye. Sometimes when I’m deep in my thoughts, I wonder if I imagined him – like a little prince that fell from the sky in search of a friend.

When I get to the office, the UPS guy is waiting for me, so I sign his clipboard quickly and grab my little package. I see the Deutschland stamp and I know it’s from Zach. I rip open the brown paper and find a small box with a single key and I know exactly where to go!

I run down the four flights of stairs and out onto the street. I’m booking it down Broadway and leaping over anything in my way. He said he would get a short leave and he’s here! I shove past some tourists and manipulate my boots like Nancy Sinatra . . . I’m almost there.

Out of breath and flushed, I take the elevator to the fifth floor and nearly attack the door to 5G. My hands are shaking, but I manage to finagle the key in the hole and swing open the door and it’s . . .

Empty.

Not one piece of furniture. Not one tack left on the wall. No Zach. I walk to the middle of what used to be the living room and stomp my feet. I jump up and down and scream and curse. Fuck! Shit! No! And then I see it,
Le Petit Prince
, resting on the kitchen counter. It’s calling me and I go to it, that stupid book I will never fully understand. I open the cover and run my fingers over his handwritten addition to the title page.

La vie est un interlude au salut.

~Zacharie Pascale Dumas Parker

There’s also a note.

Natalie, ma femme:

First of all, stop carrying on and be quiet. These are your new neighbors and you can’t have them thinking you’re a wanton hussy. That’s right, the apartment is yours. I had the lease transferred to your name and you’re paid up for the year. All my stuff is in storage; ask Wayne (the doorman) for the key and help yourself to anything you want.

Secondly, I bet your tits look great in tight sweaters. Oh yeah, I promise not to bore you with long letters from the battlefront. From what I hear, times can get pretty bleak and there’s no sense in documenting that kind of shit. However, I can receive mail and I expect full-frontal pictures at least twice a week.

I slept with a girl named Heidi. It’s freaking Oktoberfest! So after you get done calling me a dickweed or whatever, go find yourself a nice guy. I would be your wingman if I wasn’t busy doing push-ups and shooting guns. Seriously Nat, live your life how you want and never apologize for being you.

One last thing. You should really read this book.

I love you.

I place the note in the book and pull it close to my chest. Life is made up of millions of destinations: some alone, some with friends, some in fear and some with dreams. And this silly book about the little boy that meets a stranger, enjoys an interlude with a fox and dreams of the salvation in the desert of tears, is my guiding star.

I close the door to my new apartment and wait for the elevator, thinking about the way destiny plays a role in the smaller picture. The doors open and I step inside, running my fingers along the brass rail. I hum an upbeat song and watch the descending numbers flicker. I step into the pristine lobby and wave to Wayne, my new doorman. This all belongs to me now, this is my life!

Once outside in the crisp autumn air, I contemplate my options. I’m a modern woman living her fantasy. I’m free and independent and I feel liberated. The emotions start to build inside of me and I want desperately to jump in the air like Mary Tyler Moore . . . but I’m not
That Girl
, I’m Natalie LeGrange, and I need an
orange
beret. And if I’m going to work a bold accessory like that, I will need a new bag. And some shoes . . . and I should really consider warmer highlights . . . oh, and a French dictionary.