Kiss (10 page)

After
I hit my head in the train station, I saw red and green sparklers bursting in front of my eyes. I must have passed out after that because I had this weird, dreamlike reverie about Ed and his being color-blind. Don't ask me why.

In my dream I was color-blind, too. I couldn't see green, which my whacked-out mind was convinced was the color of fear. Green looked the same as red, but red wasn't the color of fear, according to my dream self. What was red the color of?

It became this desperate, urgent thing I needed to figure out. What was red the color of? Green was fear; what was red?

What was red?

Well, red is the color of tomatoes, you might say sensibly, and shut up already. But you know how dreams are.

Anyway, I guess it was around then that I came to.

Heather was too hurt to feel it. Her heart was on autopilot once more. “You've fallen for her, haven't you?”

HER VISION AND AWARENESS CAME back slowly. She blinked open her eyes and then closed them again. Then came the smell.

What the hell was that? Where was she?

Gaia forced open her eyes. Oh God. The bathroom. The awful bathroom in the train station.

She sat up and looked around her. The thugs she'd fought were still passed out on the other side of the room. One of them was breathing loudly, fitfully. The other was clutching his jaw and moaning. They'd be up and at it soon enough.

And the girl. Where had the girl gone? Suddenly Gaia froze. She clambered to her feet, ignoring the searing pain in her temple. She checked the floor around her. She checked the stall where she'd begun to change. Mary's shoes were just where she'd kicked them off, but her bag was gone. Her bag with her wallet and her money and her clothes and shoes. Oh Christ, and where was her coat? Her coat with the train ticket to Orlando inside the pocket.

It was gone. All ofit. Shit.

Well, that was gratitude for you. Save somebody's ass, and they'll rob you blind. Give a lot, and they'll take a lot more.

Shit!

She moved to the sink, splashed cold water on her badly bruised face. When she looked in the mirror, she got a shock. The left side of her face, her cheekbone all the way up to her temple, was already covered by an ugly purple bruise. The corner of her lip was bleeding, not to mention her mascara. Mary's velvet dress was ripped in two places. She was a freaking mess.

She retrieved the shoes and squeezed them on her sore feet, trying not to let herself cry. Now what? She'd arrived at the station full of cash and ready to start a new life.

She'd be leaving it broke and broken.

“WHERE IS GAIA? I THOUGHT SHE'D be joining us.”

Ella took a protracted sip of her third glass of merlot, letting the velvety nectar wash over her tongue. Then she made a whole show of sliding back the sleeve of her blouse to glance at her watch.

“Oh, my, it is getting late, isn't it?” she said, wondering just how Gaia was doing. Although the obnoxious girl had run, she had certainly not gotten away. It was helpful that Gaia had taken off
after
Ella had slipped the tracking device into her coat pocket.

Ella sat with two of George's old agency friends and their wives. They were gathered at a table for six in the opulent dining room of La Bijou, an haute-cuisine restaurant on West Sixty-fourth Street, off Broadway. Most of the patrons here were silver-haired, silver-spooned socialites who just an hour earlier had been watching the new opera across the street at Lincoln Center. The waiters were French to a fault.

And then there was the menu. A menagerie of hunted prey, ranging from roasted duck to wild Scottish hare to rock Cornish hen with the word of caution to be careful of possible bird shot.

This was George's consolation prize to Ella for his being called away on Thanksgiving. The restaurant was fine with her; the company, a bore.

“I would so like to see Gaia, that poor thing,” Mrs. Bessemer agreed. “Her parents were such lovely people.”

Ella stifled a yawn. She shrugged daintily. “Gaia is a teenager, as you know. Her appearances are difficult to predict. I told her of course how much you'd all like to see her, but . . . Gaia has a mind and a schedule of her own.” Ella lied effortlessly, without even needing to listen to herself.

Besides, she has an appointment with a doctor, Ella added silently. She tapped her menu. “Listen, why don't we just go ahead and order? I'll order a little something extra for Gaia so when — if — she comes, she can join right in. I'm sure she won't mind.”

That said, her beeper went off. She opened her purse, extracted the beeper, and looked at the number. “That's probably her now. If you'll excuse me, I'll be back in a moment.”

THE DOCTOR STOOD INSIDE THE phone booth just outside Penn Station's southwest en-trance, annoyed at this particular aspect of his written instructions. Who used a phone booth anymore? It was rather galling. He'd punched in the beeper number as instructed, and now he waited for the ring. There it was.

“Mrs. Travesura, I presume?”

“Yes, Doctor. Is it done?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. And in what condition is our patient?” The woman could barely contain the pleasure in her voice.

“Alive, as promised,” the doctor responded. “Though not likely to recount her experiences any-time soon.” He wouldn't reward her with the graphic details.

“No one saw you?”

The doctor sighed impatiently. “Absolutely not.”

“I'm sure. Now, did you remove the bug from the pocket of her coat?”

This had grown annoying, verging on insulting. “Mrs. Travesura. I am a professional. You need not grill me on these absurd details.”

“I apologize . . .
Doctor
. If you'll permit me one last question?”

He sighed again. “Yes.”

“Are you holding the tracking device in your hand?”

“I am.”

“Good. Good-bye, then, you disgusting, evil bastard.”

The doctor was blinking in fury, barely able to process the childish affront, when the device began beeping in his hand. He held the readout close to his face, trying to discern the message in the darkness ofthe booth.

He could make out numbers scrolling across the screen. 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

The explosion ripped the tiny booth apart.

GAIA TURNED AT THE SOUND OF the explosion. Virtually everyone in the station jumped at the noise. Within a minute she heard a symphony of sirens.

She glanced ahead of her in frustration at the single open ticket booth. She glanced behind her at the ten or so people who continued the line, all of whom looked as cranky as she felt. She didn't care ifher own feet exploded. There was no way she was losing her place in this line.

Scores of policemen were zipping in and out the south doors of the station. Many civilians were running around, too, wanting a piece of the action.

“There was a bomb!” she heard somebody shouting. “Right out front. Blew up a phone booth!”

There were lots of oohs and ahs and murmurs throughout the station, but Gaia was morbidly amused to see that not a single person left her line.

Just wait until the camera crews from the local news get here — then it will really be a circus, Gaia found herself thinking.

Another ticket salesperson opened a second window. That would speed things up. Minutes later, Gaia was waved forward. Before she reached the window, she realized she was being reunited with her old friend Ned.

“How can I help you?” His eyes showed not a flicker of recognition. Apparently she was a lot less attractive battered and bruised.

“Remember me? I bought a ticket to Orlando from you about an hour and a half ago. The sleeper car?”

His face was blank.

“Well, listen, my ticket got stolen. I need to get a refund.”

Ned shrugged. “Sorry. Train 404 to Orlando is long gone. Unless you can produce the ticket, I can't give you a refund.”

Gaia rolled her eyes. “How can I produce a ticket if it got stolen?”

Ned's face was devoid of interest or sympathy. “No ticket, no refund.”

Gaia was starting to feel desperate. If she couldn't get a refund, she'd have no money. Not a cent. Nothing. How long could she last on the streets of New York flat broke? Even the flophouses cost a few dollars. “Ned, please. We're . . .
friends,
practically. Can't you help me out here? I really, really need the cash.”

Ned shook his head. He wouldn't look anywhere near her eyes. A pretty, confident, sexily clad girl with a wallet full of cash was interesting to Ned. A bruised, desperate, penniless girl was not. He focused his gaze over her head. “Next?” he called to the person at the front of the line.

Suddenly Gaia felt overcome by a wave of dizziness so powerful, it almost made her sick to her stomach. She grabbed the edge of the high counter to steady herself. “Ned! Ned. Please. Don't be an asshole. Just listen to me for a minute, okay?” Gaia could hear her voice rising in her ears. “Ned!
Ned!”
God, if he weren't enclosed in the bullet-proof booth, she'd love to belt him. “Ned!”

The next thing Gaia knew, there was a police officer, a young Hispanic man with a crew cut, grabbing her by the arm. “Come on, miss,” he said. “There's a long line here, okay? Gotta keep it moving.”

“But I —” Gaia grabbed her arm back. “My ticket got stolen. And all my money. And I really need —”

Gaia stopped. He wasn't listening. It was hopeless. She could tell the policeman was looking her over, and she could tell exactly what he was thinking, too. Gaia was wearing a shredded, clingy minidress, high heels, and a big bruise on her head.

“Come on, miss,” he said again. His voice was patient, tired, pitying. “Do you want to step out of the way, or do you want me to arrest you? I'd think a girl like you would have good reason to stay out of the way if you can help it.”

A girl like you.
It was obvious he thought she was a hooker. A hooker addicted to drugs who'd just been shaken up by her pimp. It was ironic, but that was exactly what she looked like. While the
actual
drug-addicted hooker who'd been shaken up by her pimp was zipping off to Orlando in a pair of jeans and a fluorescent yellow-green Polartec jacket, carrying almost 450 bucks in her pockets.

Gaia wondered if her luck could be any worse.

HEATHER LAY BACK ON THE COUCH and rested her head on Sam's lap as he flipped channels with the remote control. Without looking at her, he rested his hand on her stomach. She felt her iridescent pink silk blouse riding up over her belly button. She studied his face above her. It was so unbelievably handsome. His strong jaw was smooth and clean shaven for this event. His brownish gold hair had gotten long and was curling around the collar of his cobalt blue oxford shirt. His complicated hazel eyes were framed by long black lashes. She wanted those eyes on her. On her face, her hair, her breasts, the bare swath of skin above her skirt.

But at the moment his eyes were riveted on the television screen as he burned through almost a hundred channels' worth of programming. It was hopeless sitting in a room with a boy, a television, and a remote control. You never got any attention or even the pleasure of watching any one show for longer than three minutes.

She smiled up at him. She didn't mind. This was the kind of relationship problem she enjoyed having.

She heard clinking sounds from the kitchen. Her parents cleaning up the last of the dishes. She heard the faint sound of laughter — Lauren talking on the phone. From her and Phoebe's room she heard the inevitable hum of the stair-climbing machine, Phoebe's most prized possession. God forbid an ounce of turkey should stick to her hips.

“Having a nice Thanksgiving?” she asked Sam.

“Hmmm,” he said, his eyes not flickering from the screen.

“My dad loved your potatoes.”

“Mmmm.”

Sam wasn't going to talk, obviously. But he did move the remote control to the hand that rested on her stomach. He used his free hand to caress her fore-head, softly pushing her hair back from her face. She breathed in deeply and let out a sigh of pleasure. It felt so nice, she wished they could just stay like that forever.

For the first time in weeks she felt truly relaxed. The dinner had gone fairly well. No hysterics or anything. She was relieved to have finally confronted Sam with the Gaia issue and gotten the answer she wanted.

“Hey, wait, hold it there a minute,” she ordered. The local news was showing footage of the Thanksgiving parade. She used to love that when she was a kid. The camera zoomed in on one enormous balloon after another: Barney, some pig or other, a Rugrat, two gigantic M&M's. She remembered sitting on her dad's shoulders for hours — so long that both her feet would fall asleep — and watching the floats and marching bands go by.

The report on the parade ended abruptly, and the picture changed to show a gloomy-looking Penn Station lit up by dozens of red flashing lights.

“God, what happened there?” Heather mumbled.

“Shhh,” Sam ordered, leaning in to listen.

“ . . . Two mysterious tragedies here in one evening,” the telegenic special reporter was saying into the camera. “Are they related, and if so, how? That is what detectives are asking tonight as they start a two-pronged investigation here in Penn Station.”

The camera moved to show a phone booth that had been blown to bits. Twisted metal and glass were everywhere. “A bomb was detonated here, outside of New York City's busy Penn Station, less than an hour ago. . . . One person dead, not yet identified . . .”

The camera moved to show a stretcher carrying a girl. “ . . . And in a second calamity, a young girl, not yet identified, was brutally slashed and disfigured in her sleeping compartment in a train pulling out of Penn Station at 6:47 P.M. She remains in a coma at Roosevelt Hospital . . .”

Beneath her, Heather felt Sam's legs go rigid. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “Jesus.”

Suddenly Sam was on his feet, dumping Heather's head rudely onto the couch. She sat herself upright quickly. “Sam, what's your problem?”

Sam was stammering, pointing at the TV. “Th-That's — could that be? I think that might be Gaia's coat! That green coat? Oh my God.”

Sam was pacing, holding his head, unable to watch the screen and then watching it again. “Her hair. Do you see her hair? It's blond. Is that Gaia? Could that be her?”

Heather glared at him in disbelief. He was
freaking
. Absolutely freaking. She'd never seen him anything like this. She wanted to slap him.

She went closer to the TV and studied the picture. Yes, she recognized that hideous jacket. She squinted and tried to get a look at the face, a crazy mixture of emotions swarming around her heart.

Just before the camera switched back to a shot of the shattered phone booth, Heather caught a glimpse of the girl's face. It was heavily bandaged, but she could see enough to know it wasn't Gaia.

Sam paced. His face was the color of skim milk.

Heather angrily snatched the remote control from his hand and used it to switch off the TV.

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded fiercely. He tried to take the remote back. His eyes were wild.

“Calm down!” she shouted at him.

“Heather! Please!” He made another grab.

“Calm down, you idiot! It
wasn't her!”
she screamed at him.

Those were the magic words. Sam stopped moving finally. In his beautiful hazel eyes Heather saw so much hope and relief, she thought she might throw up.

Sam took a breath. “What did you say?”

Heather didn't try to hide the disgust in her face. And Sam was so far away, he didn't seem to see it or care. “I said, it wasn't her. It wasn't Gaia,” Heather repeated flatly.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, his eyes too vulnerable for words.

Heather couldn't help wondering, in a profoundly awful way, whether anybody,
anybody
would ever care about her as much as Sam seemed to care for Gaia right now.

Real rage began smoldering in her stomach. Couldn't he at least pretend he didn't adore Gaia so deeply? Couldn't he consider Heather for
one single second
and attempt to spare her feelings? “I'm sure,” she spat out bitterly.

“Oh,” he said.

Finally he brought his eyes back to Heather. He seemed to remember she was in the room with him. He took another few breaths. He looked tentative. He was ashamed. But more than that, more than anything, he was relieved that cut-up girl wasn't his beloved Gaia.

In one quiet moment everything was clear. They'd both known the truth long before this. Sam was obsessed with Gaia.

Heather was too hurt to feel it. Her heart was on autopilot once more. “You've fallen for her, haven't you?” Her voice was empty.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, leaving most of it standing straight up. He looked down at the floor, then back to Heather's eyes. “I guess I have.” His voice was so quiet, he mouthed the words as much as said them.

At least he didn't lie or try to bullshit her, she told herself. His honesty made for cold comfort, though.

“I don't know why. I'm so sorry,” he finished earnestly.

She hated him.

“Don't apologize,” she snapped icily. “Just . . . get out of here. I don't want to see you right now. We'll talk about it some other time.” Anger was accessible to her right now. Pain was not.

Numbly she strode to the coat closet and grabbed his corduroy jacket. She practically threw it at him. “Please go!”

He looked sorry, all right. Sorry and regretful, but also relieved. So relieved, he was ashamed ofhimself. He was happy to be getting out of there and away from her.

She hated him.

“I'm sorry, Heather,” he said again as he walked out of the apartment. “I'm really sorry.”

She hardly waited until he was clear of the door before she slammed it with all her might.

She wheeled around. “I hate you!” she shouted at the empty living room.

For some reason the story of Medea invaded her head again. The bitter, scorned, miserable woman.

Heather went back to the couch and threw all the pillows on the floor. It was lucky for Sam that they didn't have any children.