"We have to get going." It was too terrible. Maslow didn't want to hear any more.
"And then we made another appointment for a few days later. I was so excited. I had planned to tell you that first day. But you were so nice to me. You asked me all kinds of questions. How could I tell you I was just a nobody, with a nothing story. Nobody ever hit me or hurt me in any way. I wasn't starving. I went to school. It wasn't like I was deprived at all. What could my complaint be? Last year I took a course on domestic abuse, so I made up a story like that. I wanted to tell you the whole truth, everything. But I liked being with you. I liked the interest you took in me. It was your idea that you analyze me. I never would have thought of it."
"Oh God!" He was such a jerk. Maslow could see just how it happened. His nausea overwhelmed him. The subway rumbled and a clump of dirt fell from the ceiling behind them. What if she was right and they were going to die in there? He turned away and gagged. A little sour acid came out of him, nothing more. His head spun, and she was still talking.
"I knew, as a patient, I could see you five days a week, every week. But if I told you I'm your sister, who knew what you would do? I felt really bad. On Tuesday I was going to tell you no matter what, but you brushed me off."
"I have to lift this gate, Allegra," he said. "So we can get out of here."
"My name is Dylan Rodriguez and I don't care that I'm dying."
"Oh God." That was what Chloe had said.
Dylan stopped talking. She'd told him what she wanted him to know and now she was finished. The gate was wedged in such a way that he couldn't get it up. Frustration at so many ruined lives made him howl like a dog at the rats in the corner, the shadows in the night.
Fifty-six
Cheryl was fussing around in her new kitchen with the music on and the door half closed. She didn't have any particular intention of cooking anything, but she wanted to make things nice. Her decorator had considered his job done when the appliances were in and the wallpaper was up, so it was up to her to arrange the small appliances and even the utensils. Because of her surgery last week and a number of other things on her mind, Cheryl hadn't gotten to it until now. At the moment, she was trying to decide which was better next to the sink, the Cuisinart or the coffeemaker. Or maybe the toaster oven.
The plain truth was she'd had it with recovery. She wanted to go out and do something, but two things prevented her from taking off. The day was pretty much over in Manhattan, and she didn't think it was such a good idea to go out with things so unsettled with Brandy. Therefore, she was stuck in the house with nothing to do.
She needed the comfort of a man and called Aston at his office.
"Mr. Gluckselig's office."
"Is Aston there?" Cheryl asked.
"Who may I say is calling," his bitch of a secretary asked.
"Cheryl Fabman."
"Oh, Miss Fabman, he's out of the office on vacation this week."
Cheryl was shocked. He hadn't told her he was going anywhere. "Where?" she demanded.
"I'm not at liberty to say." The sweet tone was pure gloat.
Cheryl hated her, and hated Aston, too. She was terribly upset. It was Thursday. That meant she had a whole weekend to wonder what it meant. She chewed on her new lips, worrying as she moved things around on the countertops. She had no idea what the whole thing with Brandy was all about, didn't want to think about it, but brooded about it anyway.
Maybe she was upset about the divorce. People said divorce was bad for kids. Well, it was bad for her, too. She didn't have as much money as before. Her lifestyle had shrunk to nothing. And she couldn't just pick up and go to Jamaica like Aston could. Maybe the toaster oven was better next to the refrigerator. Cheryl checked her watch. Brandy had been in her room ever since the detective left. Cute guy. He didn't seem put off by Brandy in her motor-mouth mode. And her wacko story seemed to sit okay with him. He didn't know Brandy like she did.
Sometimes the kid didn't say anything for days, and then suddenly she was talking a mile a minute and wouldn't shut up. Jesus Christ, why couldn't Brandy be more like her? Cheryl considered going in and talking to her again. But what was the point? The little bitch was sulking now. It occurred to Cheryl that she was not able to handle her daughter, and that was very unsettling, too. She wasn't having a good day.
She chewed on her new lips, which felt weird but looked great. She looked so great she wanted to cry. In her brand-new kitchen a shooting pain in her side made Cheryl double over and almost fall to the floor. She knew the stabbing pain meant she missed Seymour and the life they used to have together. He happened to be a big slob and snored like a horse, but she'd known him for twenty years. And even if she did aim for a richer man to marry next, it wasn't so easy to land one. Seymour had done everything she ever asked of him, except forgive her for one tiny slip. It seemed unfair.
And worse, he was recovering from it, had a new girlfriend who Brandy said was really nice when they went out to dinner together. Prettier and nicer than her, and much younger, the little bitch had been thoughtful enough to report. Cheryl felt the tears coming. Jesus Christ, how could that child of hers cause her so much pain. One child was all she'd wanted. Why did it have to be such a difficult one?
She sighed deeply a few times, sat down at the counter on one of the stools her decorator had bought. She'd specified only two stools because she'd hoped Aston would marry her before the year was out and they would move to a bigger place. She was feeling awfully low. What if she had to stay in a six-room apartment forever? She wondered if Brandy was part of the problem of landing Aston. What if he didn't marry her because Brandy was such a brat? What if Brandy went to college and left her alone? Cheryl poured herself a glass of wine and thought about Seymour with a younger woman enjoying what should be hers. She thought of him, worry-free and happy without her and Brandy.
Why should he be free of responsibility at a time like this, she asked herself. Shouldn't they be in conference on this, consulting on how to handle their mutual daughter? Shouldn't they present a unified front to her? Shouldn't they be thinking about the importance of family and pulling together in a time of crisis? Shouldn't they be talking about getting back together again before it was too late?
She thought about all this and poured herself another glass of wine. Seymour didn't have a God damn thing to say about anything. In their marriage he'd given new meaning to the term silent partner, but maybe he'd changed. She checked her watch, then picked up the phone and dialed his office number. He was still there at seven-thirty.
"See?"
"Who's this?" he said gruffly.
"It's Cheryl. Please don't hang up. If you don't want to talk to me, just listen."
Silence on the other end.
"How are you?" she chirped.
"I'm fine, Cheryl, but I'm very busy. What do you want?"
"I've been thinking about you, honey, just wondering how you are. You know."
"I'm fine, Cheryl. Is that it?"
"No, I wondered if you ever feel, you know, sad about the family?"
Silence on the other end. Cheryl didn't let the silence unnerve her. She knew Seymour very well. He hadn't a clue whether he felt sad or not. He was like a tank on a battlefield. Whatever was going on around him, all he did was keep moving forward. Now she let the idea of sadness sink in a little.
"How do you find Brandy?"
His voice took on an edge. "What do you mean by that?"
"Well, you're seeing her regularly. She's pretty happy about that. How do you find her?"
"What are you talking about, Cheryl?"