Let the Tornado Come: A Memoir (19 page)

I
n the waiting room of the cardiology department at Boston Medical Center, I wriggled in my seat like a child hyped up on Pop Rocks and Pepsi. After the session with Opther that brought me back to my body, I’d finally decided to take a look at my heart. “I’m worried the doctor is going to find something bad,” I told Larry. He was sitting beside me, flipping through one of the waiting room copies of
Newsweek
.

“It won’t be something bad.” He put his hand over mine. “You’ll see. You’re healthy; your heart is healthy.”

“It doesn’t feel healthy.”

“I know. But trust me,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze. “I’m a doctor.”

We both sort of laughed. But the tentacles of fear I had about my heart ran deep. They took hold when I was eleven and certain I was dying of a heart attack. I woke my father up that morning, my hand over my chest, barely able to utter, “Something’s wrong with my heart.”
And instantly I knew from the way he glared at me, still half sleeping, that I’d made a mistake. I quickly exited his bedroom and quietly but mightily hoped he’d go back to sleep. But he didn’t; he got out of bed and chased me through the dining room and kitchen in a terrifying and seemingly ceaseless loop. As we ran, he threw random things at me. One of them was a brick left over from some remodeling work being done to the kitchen. When it struck the back of my leg, he told me I better never wake him up again, not if I knew what was good for me.

That morning, as I ran from him like some hunted thing, I didn’t know what would kill me first—my heart or my father. And in those moments, nothing else existed in the world but that fear.

That’s what panic was like: only the fear and the fear and the fear. And now, after all those years, I was finally going to learn the truth about my heart.

When they called me into the exam room, the nurse immediately hooked me up to a cardiac monitor. Dr. Davidoff came in and shook Larry’s hand. “Good to see you, Ravin,” Larry said. I wondered if Larry was embarrassed to have his panic-stricken wife in a hospital gown in front of one of his colleagues. Dr. Davidoff was tall and handsome, and I tried to pass off a mien of elegance as I shook his hand and ignored the multiple cardiac leads sprawling out of my gown.

“So you’ve been worried about your heart?” he asked.

I could feel my pulse instantly rise. “Yes,” I said. “I started having panic attacks several months ago, but I’m worried I have an underlying heart condition.” I had told enough people about panic that it had started to become easier to say, less fraught with shame. “Also, sometimes my heart skips a beat. And it beats very fast, even at rest.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at the monitor. “You’re at about one forty right now.” He said this calmly, without a hint of alarm, and for this I was grateful. “Are you anxious right now?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m afraid of what you’re going to tell me.”

Dr. Davidoff took a little more of my medical history, then gave me a stress test, whereby I had to run on a treadmill for five minutes. I
started running, and about two minutes into it, my heart jumped in my chest. “It just did it!” I huffed, my feet pounding the treadmill gracelessly. “It skipped a beat—did you see it?”

“Everything looks good,” he said, “just keep going.”

When I finished, I stepped off the treadmill and hunched over like a marathon runner, trying to catch my breath.

“That little skip you felt,” Dr. Davidoff began, “was a PVC—
premature
ventricular contraction. Basically, it’s what we call an ectopic beat, or early beat. Everyone gets them, though, and in a structurally sound heart, they’re completely benign. I get them myself, in fact.”

“You do?” I wanted to know more. I wanted to know every detail of his irregular beats.

But he just nodded.

“You said they’re benign in a structurally sound heart, but what if my heart’s not structurally sound?” That was the question of my life. I could feel my heart speeding with the asking of it.

Dr. Davidoff smoothed his left hand over his right. “From what I’ve seen so far, your heart is completely normal. But we’ll get you set up for an echocardiogram now, and then we’ll have a complete picture.”

As we waited in the echo room, I asked Larry, “Do you think they’ll find a mitral valve prolapse?”

“I think they’ll find a beautiful heart.” Larry kissed me on the cheek, and my eyes filled. This was my love. My steadfast, imperfect, surprising love.

The technician who would be performing my echocardiogram was a young, sprightly guy, with a soft sweep of hair across his forehead. “Goooood afternoon,” he said, gliding into the room. He was thin and limber in his movements.

He coated my torso with gel, turned off the lights, then slowly pushed a transducer across my chest. The swishing sound of my heartbeat filled the room, wet and percussive, and my heart appeared on the screen—a blob moving in various shades of gray. Finally, here it was, this worried engine of my body, revealed.

I was afraid to ask. “How does it look?”

“It looks like”—the tech pressed the transducer into me firmly—“you have a heart.”

I laughed nervously.

“See this here?” he asked, pointing to more gray. “This is your left ventricle. And over here is your right.” Then he turned to Larry. “But you’ve probably seen this tons of times, Dr. Chin.”

“No, actually,” Larry said. “I look at brains and spines mostly.”

“Then between us, we’ve got the most important stuff covered,” the tech said, grinning.

Despite the jovial atmosphere in the room, I kept thinking that at any moment, one turn of his hand would uncover my hidden malady, this abject thing I’d been carrying inside me. “And they look okay?” I asked. “The ventricles?”

“They look like very good ventricles,” he said. I smiled, and a part of me began to relax. A man had looked straight through my skin and muscle and bone, and hadn’t run screaming from the room.
Very good ventricles
. It was kind of amazing.

The entire exam took almost an hour, during which the tech approached my heart from every angle. When he was finished, I asked him, “What’s the verdict?” I braced myself.

He turned the lights back on. “Your heart,” he said, “is perfect.”

Sometimes a sun rises in a room. Sometimes what we believe for a long time is the wrong thing. Sometimes we get the gift of knowing that, of beginning to believe something new. “Thank you,” I said. A rush began to surge through me, warm and electric—the smooth expanse of relief.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” the tech said, sashaying out of the room.

It was Valentine’s Day? I couldn’t believe it. How could I have forgotten? I sat up on the bed and reached for Larry just as he was reaching for me. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said.

N
obody knows who tried to kill Bader, or why, but Abdullah tells me that he’s slowly getting better; he’s even started breathing on his own. When I ask him about Giselle, he says she’s out of town. She might be in France, but all I know for sure is that she and Bader are gone. Bader’s friends have decided it’s best that I don’t come to the hospital, where I might draw unwanted attention, so I stay by myself in the apartment and wait. There is no humming, no dancing, no slippers, no love. It’s eerie without them. Even the daylight seems dimmer. It’s as if the world has lost an octave.

During the days, I revisit the cupboards for cans of soup and sit around watching game shows and soap operas. When I tire of that, I play music and smoke pot. In the evenings I smoke more pot. I stare at the dark windows and fixate on their black sheen. I keep expecting a head to pop up, and this terrifies me. But I can’t look away. When I finally fall asleep, I dream of windows with faces pressed against them.

On a rainy day, one of Bader’s friends, Duwahi, shows up and breaks the monotony by asking if I want to make a drug run with him to D.C. He is the only one of the Arabs I don’t like, not because he’s not beautiful like the others—with his yellowing teeth and frizzy hair and disproportionate nose—but because he doesn’t smile, not even when everyone else is smiling. But I’m lonely and bored and almost out of pot.

As we drive in the rain, I watch the slick road through the squeaking swipes of his windshield wipers, the runnels from tires spreading into mini rivers. We aren’t even a mile from the apartment when we stop at a red light and a strange feeling overtakes me: something tells me to get out of the car and run. That familiar kick surges through my legs as I peer through my rain-blurred window and instinctively start plotting my path away from the car. I don’t know why I’m doing this, only that it feels urgent. But at the same second I put my hand on the door handle, the light turns green, and Duwahi steps on the gas. So I shrug it off and sit back in my seat while the bleak world streaks by.

Duwahi parks the car on Fourteenth Street, among a row of strip clubs. “I’m picking up a friend,” he says.

“I’ll wait here then.”

“No. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, so you better come in.”

Outside the club is a sign that reads,
THIS IS IT.
Inside there are three naked women on three separate stages. As we approach the bar, one of the dancers comes down the stage toward us, her head up, her large breasts bouncing to the music. I’ve seen nude women before, but the accessibility of their naked bodies here, only a few steps off the public street, is shocking at first. I sit down next to Duwahi, and order a Tequila sunrise. On the next stage over, a woman is squatting face-level in front of a couple, her knees open. They’re having a conversation, the three of them, and I wonder what they’re saying as the couple slips dollar bills inside her garter while peering nonchalantly between her legs. Something about it turns me on.

By the time I notice the girl talking to Duwahi, they’re deep in conversation, leaning in close, speaking into each other’s ears. She’s tall and blond, with a bit of an overbite. When she notices me looking at her, she stares back at me hard. “So you must be Roxanne,” she states coolly, eyeing me up and down. “Interesting name.”

“This is Karen,” Duwahi says.

“C’mon, let’s go back,” she says, motioning toward the back with her head.

I assume two things but am right about only one: Karen is a stripper at the club. But we don’t go to the back of the club for the drugs Duwahi promised. Instead, we step into a small room with a mirrored wall and a single chair. An overweight man dressed in black is in the chair, waiting for us. There is no introduction.

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got,” he says, looking at me.

I look at Duwahi, then back at the man. “Excuse me?”

“What are you waiting for—a written invitation?” Karen barks. “Take your clothes off.”

“Do I even know you?” I ask.

“Listen, smart-ass, you’re going to have to make some money
sometime
—you can’t live off Bader for the rest of your life.”

“What do you care about Bader?” I say.

“This is bullshit,” says the man in the chair.

“You’re a real prima donna,” she says.

Somehow I feel my only choice is to do what I’m told, so I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I take off my shirt and pants, then drop my bra to the floor.

The man in black folds his fat arms in front of his chest. “Everything,” he says, pointing to my underwear.

I slide those off, too.

“Turn around.”

I turn around, while Duwahi and Karen stare blankly at me, then at the man in black.

“When can she start?” he asks, looking at Duwahi.

“Can I get dressed now?” I ask.

“In a few days,” Duwahi tells the man.

And all I want right then is to go back to Bader’s apartment and wait for him to come home. This time I’ll wait as long as it takes.

On our way out of the club, Karen hops up onstage, turns her back to us, and pulls her pants down. She bobs her ass up and down a few times, then jumps off. Buttoning her fly, she tells no one in particular, “When I was young, my body was even better than hers.” Then to Duwahi, “I’ve still got it, don’t I, baby?” He nods, and I vow to myself that once I get back to Bader’s, I will never go anywhere with Duwahi again.

D
uwahi and Karen take me to an apartment in D.C., where Karen lives with a muscular man named A.J. and a woman he calls his bitch, a pretty, dark-skinned woman who shares his bedroom. The apartment has so little furniture that the entire place could be cleared out in minutes. In the center of the living room is an unmade sofa bed. The walls are bare.

“So there’s this guy—he’s so fucking rich his mattress is probably stuffed with money—and he’s a regular at this bar—sits on the same stool each night, knockin’ back Black Label and looking for some pussy. That’s where you come in.” Karen tucks a wad of hair behind her right ear. “What you’re gonna do is flirt with him—get him to pick you up. And then, after you’ve fucked him and he’s passed out—and trust me, he’ll pass out—take everything you can. And check all his pockets because sometimes guys stash money in different pockets. Oh, and that Rolex he wears. Definitely wanna get my hands on that.” Her brown eyes widen.

“Listen,” I say, trying to make sense of where I am and why this woman is saying these things to me and why I didn’t just jump out of
Duwahi’s car when I had the chance, “I thought we were coming here to get some pot. That’s what Duwahi told me, and that’s the only reason I’m here. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but now I need to go home.”

Karen bolts up. “Home? You ain’t got no home! And life ain’t no free ride, girl. What we’re giving you is a chance to make some money.”

“Bader said I could stay with him, and that’s nobody else’s business.” I turn to Duwahi. “I’ll go find a cab.”

He speaks in measured strokes, “You heard Karen. And you’ll do what she says.”

I pick up my purse. “I don’t have to do anything.” But before I can turn to leave, Duwahi fires his backhand into my cheek, sends me falling backwards onto the bed.

“Shut up! Do you hear me, you fucking bitch? Just shut up!”

Now I’m scared. The side of my face burns, but I say nothing. Duwahi stands over me for several seconds, his hand cocked. Nobody moves. And then slowly, as if at any moment he might change his mind, he withdraws his hand.

“Now let’s get you fixed up,” Karen says with a rabbity smile.

She piles my hair up on top of my head and gives me a black silk dress that bows down beneath my cleavage, with a small black beaded purse to match. “You can leave that big red thing here,” she says, pointing to my purse. “It’ll be safe.” She pencils Cleopatra-black eyeliner onto my eyelids and lines my lips with burgundy liner. Then she stuffs a spiky pair of too-big patent pumps with cotton balls so that they don’t fall off when I walk. But by the time we arrive at the bar, Mr. Rolex is already sitting with a redhead.

“Great, we fucking blew it. Why’d you have to make trouble?” Karen hisses.

We sit down at the bar anyway, and I smoke cigarettes and drink amaretto while Karen prods me and points around the room. “What about that guy? I bet he’s got money.” By the time a man with sloping
shoulders and a drooping shirt approaches me, I’m drunk. I ask him his name and he says Timmy, and I laugh and say he doesn’t look like a Timmy, and then Karen and I are following him to his apartment.

“I’ll just wait out here,” she calls from the car.

His apartment is squalid—crusted plates and empty pizza boxes strewn on every surface, the steady stink of mildew thick in the air.

He leads me to the bedroom, and I do as Karen instructed. “No offense or anything, but I kind of need to get the money up front.”

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No.”

“Well how much do you charge?”

“A hundred.”

“How about I give you half now and half after?”

“Okay.”

I put the money in the small purse Karen gave me, and he asks me to take my dress off. “And whatever you have on underneath. But do it nice and slow, okay?”

I struggle to pull the tight dress over my head, then stumble into a wall as I pull my underwear off. “Oops,” I say, “sorry.”

“Can I give you a massage?”

“Um, okay.”

I lay facedown on his musty bed while he puts a movie into his VCR. He straddles me and starts to rub my back, and the movie begins: a woman stands naked as a man pushes her breasts through a metal vise. With pliers, he begins to twist her nipples. She screams, and blood runs out in jagged lines. I turn my head away.

“You know what?” I say, trying to shimmy out from beneath him. “I really don’t feel well—you know, I’m really drunk, and I think I’m going to throw up.”

He slides off me. “Well go in the bathroom—don’t puke here!”

I quickly pull my dress back on, not bothering with my underwear. And then I’m running through his apartment the way you run in dreams from whoever’s about to do you in. All I want is to make it
through the door and never think about bleeding nipples again. I fling it open and barrel down the stairs to the car.

When I get in, I’m out of breath. “Let’s go!”

“Where’s the money?” demands Karen.

I lift up the purse. “It’s in here.”

“What’s
wrong
with you? Why are you shaking like that?”

“Because the guy was a freak, that’s why.”

“Honey, they’re all freaks in one way or another. Get over it.” She smirks knowingly, then puts the car in drive.

Duwahi is waiting for us back at the apartment, in bed with a single lamp on. “How’d it go?”

“Miss
Roxanne
here was only able to pull in fifty.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Spazzed out.”

“She’s new,” Duwahi says. “Now come to bed.”

“Glad to see you’re sticking up for her all of a sudden,” Karen huffs, throwing her purse on the floor.

“Don’t start. Come to bed.” Then he looks at me. “Both of you.”

I am too exhausted to protest.

W
hen I wake up, they are still asleep. I dress quickly and quietly. I grab my purse and start for the door, but Duwahi pops his head up. “Where are you going?”

“Um, I’m going to wash up in the bathroom.”

“Wrong direction,” he says, pointing toward the bathroom.

I turn around, and he puts his head back on the pillow.

In the bathroom, I start plotting. I have to make a run for it. If I can just get to a pay phone, I can call Gina. I unzip the front pocket of my purse, and a chill runs through me. My money and phone numbers are gone. I quickly open the main zipper to find everything but my makeup is gone. My pocketknife, scraps of paper, unsent letters, old letters from my mother—all of it, gone. I look at myself in the mirror. Last night’s eyeliner is smudged around my eyes, and my skin is pale.
Think, think.
I have to think. I splash handfuls of cold water over my face, and then I make a plan.

I come out of the bathroom and tell Duwahi and Karen about a guy I know who would definitely be good for a hundred bucks—Sergio, the French guy from Bader’s apartment complex—but I don’t tell them his name. And I don’t need to; the lure of a quick hundred hooks them. Duwahi asks how I know he’ll be home. (We all know I have no phone numbers left to call.) I tell him the guy works nights and will definitely be there. They agree to take me, and Karen writes a phone number on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “It’s the bar where we’ll be waiting, so call us when you’re finished. And don’t fuck around after—don’t keep us hanging.”

W
hen we arrive, they watch me from the car as I enter the building next to Sergio’s. I wait for a long time before coming out, and when I do, I inch out slowly, peeking carefully around the door for any signs of them. When I see they’re gone, I sprint to Sergio’s building and knock frantically on his door.

“Hey, Roxanne, what a surprise! Come in!” His enthusiasm instantly warms me. “I was just leaving,” he says. “Going to Florida for a little business.” His accent twirls like his mustache.