Plush (27 page)

The world is spinning. I’m spinning. I can’t handle who I’ve become. I can’t handle him. I can’t handle being in so much hate and love. I rush inside, up, up, up, up, up the stairs. I push into my bathroom and into the shower. I let the cold water wash it all off, rain it away. I let it disappear down the drain. A clear sky is painted red by my inner storm. Black out. The heat. He’s close up, crawling all over me.

60

Annie, the band, and I are in the studio. The music video screening just finished and there is a silence. He was right. Depth of field, out of focus, smoke and lights - it is not obscene but gorgeous. Even my tears are gorgeous. That is what it took to make them. I hate him, but I’m in love with it. It’s dark and fucked up and everything that I feel right now.

I look around and see all of their jaws dropped. Annie claps her hands and jumps up from the black couch. “I see lotsa dollar bills!” She’s shaking her hips. Enzo gives her the evil eye. Duh, Annie. It’s about the art, not about the condo payments.

Shirtless Donnie jumps up on the coffee table, does one of his former-go-go-boy, thrusting-pelvis moves, and raises a big fat joint in salute: “ENZO, YOU’RE A FUCKING GENIUS! The groupie bitches are about to get a hell of a lot hotter after this comes out!” I can see Diego looking at Enzo in awe. It’s the same way we’d all look at the prophet Jack when he’d say the most profound things.

I still haven’t said anything, and no one has asked how I feel about it. It’s my body, my skin up there. And right as Enzo’s head is turning towards me, Donnie jumps on his lap and does the Vegas stripper dry-hump. “Keep making videos like this, and I may even let you pop my ass-cherry boy!” We all laugh.

On the security monitor I see Carter’s car pulling into the driveway; he shuffles out with the twins and Lila, his every-other-weekend daughter. Annie stands up. I wonder if it’s possible, but every time I see Annie, her jeans are tighter and even more low cut. She ejects the disc and grabs it - how no butt-crack shows when she bends over, I don’t know. “I’m gonna rush this straight to the label and show them.” She sees me eyeing the security monitors. “Come on, everybody. Let’s roll on out of here.” She pulls Diego’s arm and Donnie off of Enzo’s lap. Her long, thin finger points right at Enzo: “That means you too, Enzo.” She says it like she knows what’s going on between us. Ugh.

Enzo whaps her hand away with the nastiness that’s between them. Annie snarks, “Someone sure knows how to act like their shoe size.” Things could explode between them, but he leaves without giving me too much of a look. Phew. I think he’s finally understanding what boundaries are. I wave them off in their cars.

The twins run to me, blonde heads bopping down the hill: “MOMMY, MOMMY, Show us the video!”

“In 10 years!”

Carter comes down. “Well maybe Lila and I can see it?”

Lila, all cute and clean, is starting to get tall. She’s in purple overalls and says super loud, “I’m eleven now, you know. I can handle it!”

I smile. I’m glad this girl has got some spunk. “Yup. As soon as I get a copy of it.” I hope I sound convincing. It’s getting harder and harder for me to swim in my two very different lives when they are clashing against each other.

I scoop up a twin in each arm and sway them wild and yell, “Let’s go look for some mountain lions!” We all head up the hill together, the sun setting behind the ocean in the far-off distance. Leaves and twigs snap at our feet. Rose and orange wild flowers sway in the breeze. The twins laugh as Lila herds them. It’s moments like these that I remember why I married Carter and how good it can be to be a mom. Balance is restored, even if just for the night. Carter puts his arm around me, so big, so strong, so warm. I am a real fuck-up. This guy is the real thing. I can’t keep going on with Enzo, as much as I once loved being in the clouds with him. Not all love is good love. I need to be brought back to Earth.

Maybe Enzo and I were just a twisted fairy tale without the terror of truths delivered to us by fate, and if we kept on we’d come to despise each other like most loves. We’d be laundry, cleaning, and kids: the whole nine. I will end it tomorrow. I have too. I will not be as fucked up as my mom and dad once were.

61

I go into the studio, pop a couple magic Xanax’s and down a drink. I need strength. I’m going to break it off for real this time. I’m really, really going to do this. I call Enzo, but it goes to his voicemail.

Click
.

62

There’s nothing I hate more than doctors – well, except maybe Sir-Mr.-Captain-fucked-up Death. I’m waiting in an exam room, a layer of white paper between me and that weird off-white, faux-leather, seat/bed thing that they lay you back on. I’m super tense and chewing on my lip. Doctors love to judge lifestyles and poke and prod you like an alien on a spaceship.

My lady doctor walks in with a chart and starts to write. We talk a lot of blah, blah, blah, and then I cut right to the chase. She’s my evil dealer-saint. She’s the savior that gave me my Xanax script after Jack died, then I came back after the album failed.

“Doctor, I still can’t sleep. Melatonin and all that natural shit doesn’t work, but Xanax does. I need sleep to function in my work and as a mom.”

Alright. Sound sweet, Hayley. “Can I get two more months worth please?”

She scribbles something down.
Black pen, white coat, questions, and questions
. She asks; I toss off. Come on, you fuck, let’s skip to the end where you give me the pills and I smile and pay.

She nods, ‘And the start date of your last period?” Ugh. I can never remember these things. Days melt into days which melt into weeks which melt into where-the-fuck-am-I-going-with-my-life-?

Think, Hayley, think. “Before the tour, for sure…”

Scribble, scribble, scribble.

Blah, blah, blah.

“Well I need a date. When did the tour start?” Urn… Urn… “Like maybe June 1
^st
or something…” Oh, no. More than six weeks ago. Oh, shit. Holy fuck… Well, maybe it’s just the drugs doing this. She shoves a stick into the urine sample that the nurses made me take. I hope they don’t test me for drugs – nah, they can’t right? The clock above her head ticks so slow.
Tick, tick. Tick, tick
. I feel like I’m back at school. At least here I get to leave with some goods. Happy-makers.

The doc sails in, all smiles: “Hayley, I’m so happy for you. You’re pregnant!” Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Beyond holy fuck! Act cool. Act calm, Hayley. Be cool, baby-doll, like Samuel L. Jackson would say in a Quentin Tarantino film, “Be cool, bitch, be cool.” Ok, deep breath. Her smile starts to dip down when she sees I’m not smiling. “Doc, I mean, well, you see, um… Carter, my husband – “ out with it, Hayley… “ – he had a vasectomy.”

The doctor’s face goes from grim to grimmer. Hey, you’re a professional. Aren’t you supposed to be neutral in all of this? You know I’m fucked; I know I’m fucked, but don’t fucking judge me. Her hands are thick and knobby, not as pretty as mine. Bitch! I see judgment in your eyes!

“There’s a 1 in 2000 chance the vasectomy didn’t work, so maybe that’s it?” I’m beyond fucked! And just when I was finally about to get my shit together – well, for the umpteenth time I should add.

Her voice gets small as I start to drift away onto the ceiling staring down at me. A mess. She’s blah-blah-blahing about no pills, no booze, no ciggies, and especially no Xanax. NOOOOOOOOOOO! I must remedy this situation fast. I shoot back into my body.

“I mean, can’t I just have a lower dosage of Xanax? I don’t think I can just go off just like that; I mean, at least give me a little something… FUCKING SERIOUSLY? Doc, I NEED a little something… My brother haunts me. Please, I can’t handle it if you don’t…”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Hayley. Your baby is more important.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I have my feet in a cement block. I’m thrown off a bridge and I hit the water. I’m sinking so quick, no one can save me. Down, down, down. I’m drowning, water in my nostrils, mouth, and filling my body. Rushes of violent, blue-green pollution, half-eyed fishes, and chemical seaweed wave at me. Water fingers of ancient demons point and laugh. Red heat. And the most fucked up part: I put the cement around my own damn feet and chose to fall off the bridge into a life of obscenity.

Me: “Please… Can I get a DNA test? I mean, I don’t know if I should…” I stare down at my hands; they’re shaking with violence and sadness, but not in the way they do when I’m wrapped up in the land of bondage and Enzo.

“…k-keep the baby.”

A tear comes out, then a waterfall. I’ve never been so truly fucked.

63

I’m drinking a million fucking pots of chamomile tea. Xanax withdrawals. Depression. I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again. On my laptop I’m looking up vasectomies. I can hear the kids screaming fun in the background with Camila’s Italian voice attempting to soothe them. I text Enzo:
Call me fucking call me
. He is always so hot to talk; why the fuck all this silence now?

Cody screams, “HE HIT ME!” Fuck. Mom duty time.

I walk outside, pull them away from each other, wipe some tears, hug them and walk back in – fuck. Carter is at my computer. Did I shut that page on vasectomies? FUCK! He can’t see it. I haven’t even had time to process it, to figure if I’m even keeping it. I mean how can I? The best route of action is to get rid of it, stop seeing Enzo. I keep fucking up and pretending like I’m doing nothing wrong. I’m definitely never going to be bad again ever, ever, ever. I promise.

I wish this was like the movies where I could cut to a different part of the story. I was never born with the magic guide that helps me tell myself ‘no, this decision
will ruin you
.’ Or maybe I’m just not listening to the part of me that is saying that.

Me: “Wow. I didn’t expect you home so early.”

I notice he bought me a new hairdryer. As bad as I am is as good as he is. I try hug him to thank him, but he’s staring jaw-to-the-floor at my computer, reading the vasectomy article. “You went to the doctor today, right? So, are you pregnant?”

Don’t drop your jaw. Don’t show him you’re freaking out. Be cool, bitch, be cool. Wild animals are ravaging my gut, and I smile. What do I do? Carter turns into a machine gun, firing the questions away at me: “You were at the doctor’s today? How far along? When are you due? “ This is it. He must know. He’s not an idiot and the math is the evidence that will condemn me. “Um, I’m not sure… I’ll call the doctor tomorrow.” Karma. I did this to myself. There’s no way to be a victim to the rope I put around my own neck.

Carter rages. “I thought you didn’t want another kid!” The world is crumbling. Turn it around on him; do it! “You THOUGHT that but you never actually talked to me about it… same way you didn’t consult me about the vasectomy.” Check mate. An ocean of disbelief swallows Carter’s face. He reminds me that WE discussed it, and he reminds me that I was enthusiastic – I’m digging deeper instead of finding a ladder. Last chance. “You scheduled your proceedure without even telling me!” I feel bad. I’m to blame for this. I better chill. Spank, then rub. I go up behind him, wrap my arms like a mink stole around those football shoulders, and kiss his cheek.

I whisper in his ear, “It’s our miracle, baby.”

He’s tense and hugs me back so stiff. He would normally lift me up. We sway.

“I’m just glad I sold the book. If they ever close the deal.”

I’m a liar. And I’m not so good at it.

64

Early morning. I walk downstairs, and Carter is at the door with a delivery man who’s unloading an antique baby bassinet with a big fucking bow on top. I rush down to try to stop my world from falling apart and grab the gift envelope. I mean, I didn’t tell anyone about this. My Doc is celebrity discrete. Nobody knows but Carter and me.

He is full of rage, snorting like a stallion. I touch his arm, and he jerks away. “Who the fuck knew about this before I did?”

Umm… fast, Hayley, fast!

“Well, duh. Annie. I mean there’s so much PR stuff,”
blah, blah, blah
, “and leaks; I have to be extra careful.” Carter hates when I talk Hollywood to him, but that hypocrite is part of the machine. He writes all those fucking Hollywood articles for Vanity Fair. He storms away. I want to run and grab him; I want to tell him everything; I want to beg for forgiveness, but I can’t panic. Instead, I go to the studio and open the envelope.