Beyond the Pale Motel (7 page)

This was what brought me to my knees onto the kitchen floor as if I were miscarrying.

I cried most of the night, but in the morning, when the sun shone through the same window where a coyote once lurked, I told myself it was not Dash that I had loved, as much as the idea of Dash and what I believed he could give me.

I put Dash's Docs in a bag for the Goodwill and threw his toothbrush away. I could mourn for the child that would never be, but I could no longer mourn for Dash.

I made myself meditate and eat a good breakfast. I went early to the gym. After work I picked Skylar up and took him to practice. Bree had a late-afternoon client and was going out for happy hour after that. (“Agave-sweetened cucumber-kale lemonade only, of course.”) This was good; I loved being with Skylar, and the idea of seeing his new coach wasn't too bad, either, I told myself.

But at the field Jarell looked busy with the kids so I parked and read my Frida Kahlo biography for my next
Love Monster
post while Skylar practiced. I could always spot him easily—he was one of the smaller boys, but the way he squared his shoulders and planted his feet, you could just see every cell poised in concentration. As I sat there, in the shade of the trees, trying to focus on my book and how hot Jarell looked and not on how big and cold my bed felt now, I got a text.

I'm going to be in your area tonight. Would you like to have dinner? Want to make sure you don't waste away.

My heart slammed out of the ballpark and I had to catch my breath.
Was Dash texting from another number?
Until I recognized the area code and realized it was Cyan, of course. I'd given him my cell phone number before he left.

I didn't mind the idea of sitting across from him and staring at his face while we shared a meal. He wasn't Jarell but it was for the best; I knew I wasn't in danger of getting carried away with Cyan. I wanted to distract myself with sex but it was a bad idea. When I was younger and slept around, I always ended up crying as soon as the guy was inside me and scaring him away. This was before I really had all that much to cry about.

Sure,
I wrote back.
At Sky's practice. Done by 7:30. I'll cook, though.

No, I insist. Dinner on me.

A little later the sky was turning a deep pink and Skylar came loping over, flushed, his bat bag swaying on his shoulder, way too big for him. I got out of the car and helped him put the bag in back, hoping Coach might see me and come over, but he didn't.

It's okay, you're going to see Cyan. You can ask about Dash. Stupid, Catt, stupid. You think this will change anything?

*   *   *

It was Bree's whole demeanor that changed when she came to pick up her son and saw my brother-in-law. Ex-brother-in-law? Her eyes got bigger, she pushed out her chest; it was a reflex with her. I was so used to disappearing around her that I just accepted it. Something was different this time, though.

“This is Cyan. Cyan, this is Bree. You've met before. At the wedding.” I couldn't say
our
wedding.

Cyan shook her hand. I looked closely at his face—not a glimmer of change, let alone the sea change I was used to when she entered a space. As if he still didn't really see her. Strange.

“The photographer,” she said, holding his hand an extra second, until he moved it away.

“Yes.”

“You have a really good eye.” Little-girl teeth and dimples.

“Thank you.”

“That picture of Catt getting ready is my favorite.”

“It's all your makeup, Bree,” I told her. Then, to Cyan: “And good lighting and angles.”

“It was all you, Catt,” Cyan said, face placid.

She stood staring at him, seemingly unfazed that he wasn't playing her game. “I'd love to pick your brain about photography sometime,” she said. “People have asked me to model, but I'm more interested in the other side of the camera, honestly. Sometimes I'll just model in order to learn more about taking pictures. You can learn a lot that way.”

He nodded, then turned away from her chatting to me. “I made reservations at eight.”

Bree's eyebrows shot up. “Oh, okay.” She pulled her son against her hip as if she'd just realized he was there. He'd been busy with his iPod and didn't seem to mind either way. “Let's get going, Skylar.”

“I fed him a big meal before and a snack after,” I said.

“Thanks, Catt, you're the best.”

I loved how Sky still threw his arms around me with abandon when we hugged, and I hoped it would continue for as many more years as possible. I pushed his still-damp hair back off his forehead, which, hidden from the sun, was a shade paler than the rest of his face. “See you soon, buddy.” When I opened the door the night air, oversweet with jasmine blossoms, felt cool on my face. I was tired from the day but suddenly I wanted to go out.

Cyan drove us to Palm Latitudes, a restaurant in an old, pink adobe building; we sat in the courtyard beside a fountain, among potted palms strung with chili-pepper lights. I asked him to take some pictures of the place for my blog.

He ordered ceviche and tamales with mango salsa and I watched him across the mosaic table, thinking how much he looked like Dash, and yet how different they were. I'd only seen one childhood picture of the two brothers because Dash said his mother hardly took any to begin with and he'd thrown away the rest.

“Why?” I'd asked, and he'd said his childhood wasn't worth remembering and could we talk about something else?

I knew only that his father had died when he was three and his mother was crazy, that alcohol had killed her. That Dash and Cyan weren't that close, but that Cyan had been protective in some ways and Dash was grateful to him for that.

In the one remaining picture, Cyan pulled chubby-baby Dash and a white Siberian-husky puppy in a small, red cart.

If Dash and I had a child, he would have looked like the baby in the photo.

“You okay?” Cyan brought me out of the fantasy. “Eat your food.”

A waitress walked by with a tray of beers and sangria, and I had to keep myself from staring. I was suddenly wicked thirsty and not for the mineral water he'd ordered. “Thanks. How's your work going?”

“I got some more gigs. Bands mostly. No one wants to pay much these days, though, except for weddings.”

“But you're so good,” I said.

He thanked me. “It's just that with digital, everything's different. People don't understand the cost.”

“How'd you get into it?” I was trying hard not to think about Dash anymore.

“Taking pictures as a kid, nonstop. I guess I got into it the way any artist starts doing art—to make the world look the way you want it to. Like in your blog. Isn't that why you do hair, too?”

I laughed. “Well, I don't know if it's an art. And no. It's to make people feel better.”

He scanned my face, tapping his cleft chin with his index finger. There was a slight growth of stubble. “Of course it is. I forgot who I was talking to for a second. The caretaker.” No sarcasm edged his voice.

“You should know. Why else would you be feeding me like this, checking up on me?”

He shook his head no. “It's for selfish reasons. I don't want to lose my only sister. Free haircuts and everything.”

“You don't really need much hair care.” I reached to touch his polished-smooth scalp but decided against it.
Inappropriate, Catt
. “I thought we'd established that.”

“Too true. The male-pattern-baldness shave I can do myself. But still.”

We made small talk for the rest of the evening, and I almost got away without asking about Dash, even after the “not losing me” comment. Got away with not asking, that is, until Cyan drove me home. I couldn't help it; I invited him in and we sat at the kitchen table drinking tea from the Botanic Garden patterned cups he'd bought for our wedding present. A Björk song came on, “All Is Full of Love.” That did it.

“Okay. What did Dash say?”

Cyan rubbed his eyes with his fists. Tired. “Good song.”

“The best. Not to mention the Björk-bot video. I posted it on
Love Monster
once.”

“I was wondering if you were going to ask.”

It took me a moment to remember what we'd been talking about. Björk was an easier topic. “I tried not to.”

“He's an asshole, Catt, I'm sorry. I know he's my brother, but he's screwing it up.”

I looked away, feeling the tears again.
Damn.
“I don't understand why.”

“I don't think he does, either. Fear? I don't know. Cliché alert here. But you were the best thing that ever happened to him, seriously.”

“No. He was. To me.” I'd been safe, it seemed. Not anymore.

Cyan sat quietly for a while, long fingers wrapping the mug with the purple and white passionflowers on it.
Passiflora caerulea
. My cup had the pink-blossomed virgin's-bower vine clambering around its circumference.

“What should I do?” I blurted.

“Just take care of yourself. The way you do with everyone else. He'll come back or he won't, but either way you'll have you. Which beats the alternative.”

He was right. Why hadn't I learned that? I thought of my mother, then, drinking too much, taking diet pills, not coming home until dawn, out on another date. While I lay awake in her bed that smelled of cigarettes, watching late-night TV, eating cornflakes for dinner. Telling myself,
You'll never be this kind of mother.
Never going to be any kind of mother, now. But I had Skylar. I needed to “have me” for him.

Cyan rubbed his eyes again and yawned. “Damn, I'm about to pass out. Can I just take a catnap on your couch for, like, ten minutes before I go?”

“Of course.” I said. It was comforting to have him around anyway.

An hour later he was still fast asleep, with Sasha sitting on his chest as if she were trying to get him to stay there forever, and I couldn't bring myself to wake him. His feet hung off the edge of the couch, vulnerable in very clean white socks, his boots placed neatly beside him. I covered him with a blanket, studying the hard, symmetrical angles of his face.
You were the best thing that ever happened to him.
Was it possible that Cyan…? No. Impossible. He had called me his sister. He just cared about me. Why couldn't I just let a man care and not try to turn it into more?

I got in bed with my laptop, feeling a little dejected without my cat, and googled Cyan Berns.

I'd seen his shots of Dash's band, of course, and Dash had showed me his brother's website a long time ago, but I hadn't thought about it much, except to agree that it would be great if he could photograph our wedding. Now the images looked different to me—clues into the mind of the photographer. Moody shots of run-down motels and abandoned fairgrounds that infused the rotting structures with a beauty they'd never had before. Close-up, color shots of flowers that had been soaked in liquid nitrogen and shattered into fragments. Black-and-white portraits of musicians and models. I couldn't help it; I looked for Dash. And there he was—an old shot, when he was thinner and still drinking and using. Growling into the mic, his face contorted with shadows. Was she there in the audience—“her”? Had she been watching him, waiting all this time? Of course not. If she'd wanted him, she'd have had him. And she was too young; she probably wasn't old enough to get into a club back then. I clicked back to the models. Their eyes looked preternaturally big, limbs deerlike, their mouths slightly open, long, wet hair streaming down over their chests. They were thin and perfect. I was an idiot.

*   *   *

I woke a few hours later to a loud sound outside, like someone crashing into a metal trash can. Before I knew what I was doing, I had bolted from the bed and was creeping to the living room. Cyan stood at the window in the dark, looking out. A tall silhouette against the dark leaf patterns beyond the glass. Relief at seeing him was like liquor in my blood. If I had been alone, whom would I have called? Who would have come if I just said I'd heard a noise?

He turned to me, his finger to his lips, and relief became embarrassment mixed with a tingling feeling in my nipples; I wasn't wearing a bra.

“Do you have an alarm?” he asked me, looking back outside. His voice was only a whisper.

“It's not working. Dash didn't think we needed it anymore.”

“I think you should get it working,” he said.

“What was that sound?” I shivered and my feet cringed against the wooden floorboards.

“I'm going to go look.”

“Maybe we should call the cops,” I said, alarmed by the weight of his voice.

“I'll just look around a little.”

Cyan shoved on his boots without sitting down and opened the glass doors. “Lock this behind me, okay?”

I did as I was told. Stayed in the same place, gripping the edge of the couch where Cyan had slept, listening to my heartbeat exposed bralessly under the thin, vintage Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt. Felt like I waited forever. I heard Cyan hissing at something and the sound of twigs breaking and scuttling leaves.

When he came back in, I forgot to cover my chest at first. “So, it was a cat?” I asked.
Or maybe a coyote?

“Get an alarm,” Cyan evenly said.

I got back in bed but couldn't sleep so I jammed my hand between my thighs and tried to rub away the tension of the night as I thought of Skylar's hot baseball coach licking me. Cyan's face appeared in my mind just as I came. I slept fitfully after that.

*   *   *

Cyan had to hit the road the next morning, after a cup of green tea and a promise to send me the pictures of Palm Latitudes for
Love Monster;
he had some photography jobs in Santa Barbara.