Walk on Water (17 page)

But the violins were playing Bach. She couldn’t be saying this to me. Not now. When people were all around us having a good time. Luke would be back in
five minutes
and know immediately that something was wrong. He’d ask us, ask me. There was no time to argue with her. She was so incredibly wrong what good would it do anyway? So I saved myself. “I have to go the bathroom,” I said and walked away from her as fast as I could without running.

Hiding in the bathroom, locked in a stall, I leaned against the cool metal and gulped air in rapid breaths. Would she come after me? The worst thing to do would be to cry. Swollen red eyes would testify against me no matter what lie I told. And I would lie. I could not tell Luke what his mother had said. He would never hear from me what she thought of him now. That was why she hadn’t told me about the accident in the mall that day. It wasn’t
magical thinking
at all, or some kind of love-driven misguided faith. She was just ashamed of him. Mommy had been right even though she didn’t know everything, to Betty Sterling her golden boy had lost his shine.

And she thought I was a whore, after Luke for his money. Feeling sick to my stomach I squatted down in front of the toilet preparing to throw up, but more deep breaths helped, and after a moment my stomach quieted. Luke’s
little puppy
. His prostitute was what she really thought of me, which made her a pimp but she probably hadn’t thought that through. She was the one who had brought us back together, as if Luke needed me, or anyone else for that matter, to be happy. I nearly laughed out loud. She was so clueless. So completely clueless. And cruel.

After I had been in the stall a while, I took out my cell phone to check the time. It was almost nine-thirty. Luke must be wondering what had happened to me. What if I just sent him a text explaining that there had been some kind of emergency? Then I could sneak out and away, and this horrible night could be over. But wasn’t that the problem with lies? One was never enough. Once one was born it spawned more and more, exponentially, ad infinitum. I might as well not waste one with a fake emergency. I could get myself together. I could face him.

Emerging from the stall, I stood in front of the mirror and repaired my makeup and hair. Having willed back the tears I didn’t look too worse for the wear. I practiced a smile, forcing it into my eyes even. Luke deserved me at my best. None of this was his fault. Not the accident, nor the outcome, nor his mother’s unforgivable words. She would not hurt him through me.

I was surprised to find Luke waiting for me just outside the women’s restroom door. Seeing him there I was almost overcome, both with wanting to hide in his arms and wanting to retreat to the bathroom stall again. Yet I smiled revealing nothing and merely apologized for taking so long.

“Are you okay?” he asked the way he always asked when he believed I wasn’t.

Did he know? Would Betty Sterling actually tell him what she had said to me? Surely not.

“Yes,” I said cheerfully. “I’m fine. Girls just take longer. Surely you must know that by now with all the women in your life.”

“There doesn’t appear to be a line,” he replied. “And I always heard that was why.”

“Well there can be other reasons too,” I said lightly.

“You weren’t hiding in there were you?”

Must he always be so smart? I forced my smile to stay in place.

“From what?” I asked him. “Now come on. We better hurry. Did you call the restaurant? ‘Cause we’re definitely going to be late.”

As we were leaving I prayed to be spared a
good-night
encounter with his parents again. My performance was tenuous at best and one more bump into the demon-docent would definitely produce cataclysmic results when I either burst into tears or called her a bitch to her face—or both. Luke took my numbered card and claimed my wrap, tipping the coat-room server generously. How could he be her child? Being nice had always come so naturally to him.
Inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me.
And he wasn’t even motivated by the promise of eternal life, always claiming more interest in the journey than the destination.

We waited for the elevator to the garage. Luke watched me intently.

“The Ansel Adams exhibit was fantastic,” I said uncomfortably, having to remember to smile again.

“Where’d you park?” asked Luke.

“We’re on the same level,” I answered.

Which sounded ironic in my head juxtaposed to Betty Sterling’s words. But we were on the same level. In fact I didn’t really believe in levels—not for human beings. Bible prophets, founding fathers, women suffragists, civil rights activists, they had all made eloquent cases for equality in their time, and yet the human tendency, our proclivity really, was to rank each other—and ourselves, and then hold onto those rankings as if God Himself had ordained them. The progress of the journey notwithstanding.

In the elevator we were silent, and when the door opened, Luke held it for me again, and I stepped out. It was really late and it would be at least ten o’clock before we made it to the Grecian Urn. I couldn’t eat anyway.

“So shall I follow you to the restaurant?” I asked Luke.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he replied as he pulled on his fingerless gloves.

We didn’t hurry, and surely we should. When we got to my car, I took out my keys. Another car was parked close to mine so Luke couldn’t open the door for me. We stopped for a moment behind my car.

“Okay,” I tried again. “So I’ll just follow you, right? Maybe you should tell me the address in case I lose you.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” asked Luke.

“What?” I feigned ignorance as my stomach turned over.

“Between you and my mother.”

“Nothing happened,” I said studying the keys in my hand. “We talked for a little bit and then I had to go to the bathroom.”

Two women came off the elevator and walked in our direction. The car next to mine was theirs.

“Is everything all right?” one of the women asked us. “Do you need any help?”

“No we’re good,” replied Luke, flashing them one of his charming smiles.

“Okay,” said the other woman as the first one started the car. “Good night!”

“Good night!” Luke returned. As they pulled off Luke said, “We’d better skip dinner tonight.”

I felt a new wave of nausea, and I was suddenly cold too. I clutched the wrap tightly around me.

“Why?” I asked, hating the immediate panic in my voice because he was absolutely right.

Taking the keys from my hand, Luke unlocked my car door and opened it. I didn’t want to get in.

“Luke, what’s wrong?” I asked stupidly.

“We’ll need to talk about that,” he replied.

Betty Sterling was a liar, but lies often worked, because somehow they could seem easier to believe, easier to accept than the truth. Strung together they resulted in elaborate complex structures, but individually each one was deliberately simple and so seductive. For half my life I had been in love with Lucas Sterling while holding fast to the lie that I wasn’t good enough for him. No, he had not been in love with me enough to make me his wife, but it was never because I was unworthy of him. It was simply that I had not been his choice. And Lucas Sterling, whatever Betty Sterling absurdly believed, would always be a man with choices.

“Okay,” I said a little desperately. “Let’s talk.”

“Not here,” he told me. “It’s late. Get in.”

“I don’t understand, Luke,” I protested. “Are you mad at me? What did I do?”

Was my precious
this
in jeopardy? He was firmly guiding me towards the open car door, pushing me really. But I couldn’t tell him about his mother. It was too terrible. And it wasn’t my business. I couldn’t come between them. When I was in the car, Luke handed me back my keys and then kissed me dryly on the lips.

“Good night,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

.

SIXTEEN

I
t was a horrible night. Sleepless. Weepy. Waiting for the telephone to ring after midnight because Luke liked to kid around with me and could possibly call when it was in fact tomorrow. But the phone didn’t ring. It was as silent all night as I was, sitting there in the dark. At least I didn’t have to look at it. Agatha and T-T cuddled up in cozy balls next to me, sleeping At least I had their approval.

Had Betty Sterling really beaten me so easily? Without a fight? Had I just folded again, like last time with Christina, crumbling into an invisible pathetic heap for my pride’s sake?

The slogan
Never let’em see you sweat
had sold a lot of deodorant by appealing to an American psyche rooted in the British
stiff-upper-lip
syndrome. Being cool was coveted, although there were breakdowns in decorum, furies of four-letter-words and street brawls now captured on
YouTube
for the record, so that an aghast public could look on in shock, and awe, and envy. Because rich or poor, people loved to see a fight. Boxing, hockey, football, reality TV, politics, we eagerly paid to see it, violence as a spectator sport.

Bullies counted on victims conspiring with their cruelties. Nobody wanted to be a tattle-tale, a snitch.
It’s okay to kill me, but I won’t stoop to your level.
Well so what? How could you
stoop
when you were already on the ground?

Then you got blamed anyway. Arrested for obstructing justice because you refused to testify, or you took the law into your own hands and defended yourself. Blaming the victim. Damned if you did; damned if you didn’t. Nobody could see your side.
If it were me I would have
(
fill in the blank
) with any number of heroic hypothetical acts. Except that it was
you
. The situation was
yours
. You were the one staying up all night convicting yourself for being your own worst enemy.

When the alarm went off at six o’clock I got up, depressed and exhausted, and shut off the radio because I really couldn’t take the morning DJs and their perky entertainment interspersed with love songs. What a difference a day made? I had finally allowed myself to look forward to last night. Ansel Adams. New shoes. The pretty blouse. Being with Luke. Corrine would be expecting to hear all about it.

Oh God! I couldn’t face her either. I turned on the computer and logging into the office e-mail, I sent a message to Hilda Banks, my supervisor, with a blind copy to Corrine, that said I would not be in today. I only had a couple of client appointments anyway, and we had a back-up system to ensure that they would be seen by somebody if their situations were urgent. I was just too tired. And Corrine could think what she would because I wasn’t taking any calls.

The phone rang startling me. I had already decided not to tell Mommy anything about last night either. She basically hated Betty Sterling, so why fuel the flames? And besides, me as Luke’s pet, his
puppy
might not be too off-base to Mommy. It was actually what she kind of thought too. It was funny really, neither of our mothers could imagine me with Luke. I picked up the phone and read the caller-ID. Luke was calling.

“Hello,” I said in a voice impacted by sleeplessness and apprehension.

“Did I wake you?” Luke asked.

“No, I’m up.”

“Can you take the morning off?”

“Uh…sure,” I said, striving to sound calm. “What’s up?”

“I owe you dinner,” he replied. “So I was thinking I could pay it with breakfast.”

He could be calm. He was calling all the shots.

“You don’t owe me dinner,” I said.

Dumping me over pancakes? Really? How gallant.

“Well I owe it to myself,” he told me. “So will you meet me? Some place close to your office if you’d like.”

“The Denny’s on Stemmons,” I suggested.

I wasn’t about to risk running into somebody from the office, plus I never wanted to have to go back there again if it turned out to be an awful memory.

“It’s easy to get to,” I added.

“Okay,” Luke agreed. “Eight-thirty?”

“Sure,” I replied.

Doing the best I could with my puffy eyes and applying blush so that at least I looked like I was among the living, I hurried to get out of the house before eight. This time I absolutely was not going to be late, and I made it to the Denny’s in good time. Luke’s car was already parked out front.

The hostess met me with a welcoming
Good-Morning-table-for-one
.

“I’m meeting someone,” I answered, walking passed her to the table where Luke was waiting.

“Hi!” I said faking cheerfulness when I reached the table.

Luke looked fine, having slept the sleep of the
dumper
. He was dressed in a
casual Friday
office outfit: white oxford shirt, burgundy pullover sweater, dark blue khakis. Having forgotten my own wardrobe cover until just this minute, I was dressed in jeans and a black sweater. I wasn’t even wearing earrings. Oh well. So much for style points. I was the
dumpee
.

“Hey,” replied Luke, his expression unreadable.

I didn’t try to kiss him hello.

“Rough night?” he asked, pouring a cup of coffee for me from the thermal carafe on the table.