Not To Us (22 page)

I power up my cell phone and plug it in to the adapter. The number “5” flashes next to the voice mail symbol. My hand shakes at the memory of checking messages, recalling Bobby’s from six weeks ago.

I lay the phone down and walk over to the closet surveying my wardrobe. There are dresses there that I don’t remember packing, let alone buying. These must be gifts from Carrie or Lisa. I grab a blue crepe one and hang it up on the bathroom hook.

Carrie
. Just thinking her name makes me cry. Why? I wonder. Why does she hurt me so? Over and over, she hurts me. Why?

≈≈

I’ve taken a bath, put on make-up and gotten dressed. The blue dress I’m wearing is this kind of ballooned miniskirt number. Something I wouldn’t normally wear, but it hides the baby bump well and, at this point, that is all I care about. I brush my hair and leave it hanging down my back. I still have my hair. Cancer has not taken that yet. I cannot make myself think about the chemo therapy. Is that the other reason it was so easy to run away?

I survey myself in the mirror. This chic, sophisticated woman with blue eyes and long blonde hair stares back at me. I finish the look with a dark red lipstick.

I stare at my cell phone for five whole minutes, before I decide that calling right now will just unravel my plans. With deference, I turn it on silent, grab my room key card, and make my way to the elevators. Once on, I press the down button for the lounge on the first floor.

Elaina Miles is going out because Ellie Shaw, most certainly, would stay in.

≈≈

I sidle up to the magnificent wooden bar without being too conspicuous and sit at the end that is free of patrons. I’ve already decided what to order on my way down in the elevator. One drink. That’s it. So, I want to make it a good one. Something I can drink slowly and savor for at least an hour. I’m Elaina Miles, not Ellie Shaw. Elaina Miles is not pregnant and doesn’t have cancer. I can order and drink whatever I want. This is the bargain I’ve made with myself. One drink. That’s it.

“Hello,” says this twenty-something bartender. “Would you like a table?”

“No, thank you. This is great. This is perfect.”

“What can I get you?” He gives me that appraising, interested male look. This only makes me smile wider. This is what I need. This is what Elaina Miles wants.

“I was thinking of a martini…something, well; my friend once made me a Crème Brulee Martini. Would you know how to make that?” He gives me this incredulous look and laughs.

“Half and half, Frangellico, vanilla vodka, Cointreau?”

“That’s it.” I give him my best, yeah team smile. He returns it.

With a dramatic flourish, he pours a little Frangellico on a plate and rims the glass with it and then dips the edges in raw brown sugar. My smile gets deeper because this is exactly how I’d made them for a Thanksgiving dinner, a few years ago.

Within three minutes, he combines all the ingredients with ice and masterfully shakes the martini shaker and pours it out in front of me with an exacting, entertaining flair. He smiles at me.

“Perfect. It’s great.” I wipe away the froth of cream and brown sugar from my lips, while he stares at me in this fascinated, still attracted way. What is with these men I’ve encountered today? Am I giving out some kind of signal? Maybe, Elaina Miles is?

“What’s your name?” The bartender of twenty-something asks. I glance around, realizing I’m his only patron at the bar now and the tables behind me are mostly empty, at the moment.

“Elaina. Elaina Miles.” I nod as I tell this lie and then shake his outstretched hand. I smile again and then ask him his name.

“Dan,” he says. His brown eyes are this warm caramel color. He studies me closely as he pours a glass of ice water and sets it down in front of me. He’s tall, muscular, and interested. He grins at me slowly, as I sip my drink seeming to take it all in stride. I stare back with interest as well. We talk about his job. He attends NYU, taking courses in English Literature. I tell him about my editing job. He’s even more interested now. He’s a writer. So am I, I tell him in a silky voice. I tell this lie and realize I need to make it true. My ability to plan for a future makes me feel better. I take another swig of my martini and smile at Dan over the rim of my glass. A cocktail server is trying to get his attention from the other end of the bar and he moves off with this reluctant shrug, while I return an interested look of my own.

The alcohol courses through me faster than pain killers ever could. Dan returns within minutes and hands me a dinner menu. I give him a quizzical look; he moves off, again, when another cocktail server waves for his attention. His charming smile reminds me of Mr. Court Chandler. I feel this brief twinge of guilt for being so unkind to Mr. Chandler in the end, leaving so abruptly after all he did for me this day.

≈≈

My mind goes on. If he hadn’t brought up the two dead teenagers on Bainbridge Island, well, maybe it was best he brought that up because things were heading into an untenable direction. I smile as I think of the word untenable. I
like
the word
untenable
—
baseless, without sound reasoning or judgment and groundless. Yes. Untenable. Things were getting untenable between us
,
very untenable, indeed.

My mind drifts even farther as the alcohol catches up to me. I haven’t eaten today. I sway a bit and grip the granite edge of the bar with my hands. Perhaps the half and half can serve as food in my system. Perhaps not. I contemplate Elaina Miles’ next move.

“There you are,” says this voice from behind me. I turn and meet the grey-blue eyes of Mr. Court Chandler. He slides on to the bar stool right next to mine.

“What are you doing here?”
Untenable. This is untenable. That’s what this is.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay, Ellie Shaw, mother of Nicholas Bradford and wife of Dr. Michael Shaw, father of Elaina Shaw.” Court holds up his Blackberry. His cell phone screen displays the newspaper article showing Elaina’s mangled car. The headline, alone, makes me shudder:
Teenage Sweethearts Tragedy in Worst Car Accident on Island
.

My lies unravel right in front of me. “Don’t do this,” I plead, looking away from Mr. Court Chandler. Dan comes over prepared to do his duty as my first knight. Chivalry is not dead. I try to smile.

“Is there anything you need, Elaina Miles?” I hear the automatic protectiveness for me in my twenty-something Dan-the-bartender’s voice.

I slowly shake my head and give him an everything-is-okay-kind of look. Dan looks warily at my bar mate.

“What can I get you?” Dan asks.

“Whatever she’s having,” Court says with a disconcerted grin.

“Are you
sure
? It’s kind of a girl’s drink.” I don’t attempt to hide this trace of irritation at the man next to me. It begins to beat steadily within me; it comes across in my voice. The truth is I’m unprepared for Court Chandler and his endless questions. My distress only encourages Court. He repeats his request to Dan, who with a reluctant shrug moves off to make
my drink
for this latest patron.

“How did you…how did you find me?” I wonder if he is just highly intelligent? Or, is my trail so obvious and wide open that even Michael will eventually make his way here?

“Not going to say,” Court answers. He takes a sip of the identical drink of mine that Dan sets in front of him and smiles over at me.

“Crème Brulee Martinis? Say it isn’t so,” Court pronounces. “My wife loves these.”

“She does?” I ask in surprise. Court nods at me.

For some reason, this makes me laugh. I feel this release deep inside of me of some of the grief I hold.

My lies have all, but spun out with this man. He knows my secrets, well, most of them. My baby moves in a sluggish way inside of me. This twinge of guilt replaces the grief. I swig the last of my martini. “What’s her name?”

He laughs, then answers more subdued. “Her name is Eve.”

My smile fades. “Are you sure your name isn’t Adam?”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore,” Court says. He looks anguished and tormented.

Unthinking, I reach up and touch his face. “Me neither,” I say.

A half hour late, Dan grudgingly makes us a shaker of Crème Brulee Martinis and charges them to my room. My protector gives me one last pleading look, then, hands me the sugar-rimmed glasses, while Court takes the ice-cold shaker from him.

“Let me know if you need anything, Ms. Miles,” Dan says with a trace of dejection, as we walk away from the bar.

“I will. I promise.” I give him a benevolent smile and turn away before I can feel too guilty about leaving the bar with Court, but not before I see this injured look on the twenty-something-year-old bartender’s face. What is with these men today?

Now, Court and I share the elevator up to the 19
^th
floor. I hold my room key card in my hand. He tells me that he’s going to check into a room in this hotel, too. I can only nod.

We are silent, resigned but, beholden to this thing between us. We’re emboldened enough to take the next step, riding the elevator together because of this thrilling sexual tension that’s been apparent, since we first sat together on the American Airlines flight, just seven hours before.

I’m not scared. I’m not accountable. My baby bump assures me that this thing will end soon enough. I’m not worried. I don’t experience guilt. I file it away in this secret place inside of me, remembering it all. Remembering how easy it all is…this infidelity thing. It’s
easy
.

It makes me less upset at Michael. I think of Carrie and her beauty and her wanton ways and her need for validation, intellectually, emotionally, and sexually,
all the time
. Michael didn’t have a chance. He’s helpless prey in her spider’s web. Carrie is the spider.

Am I Carrie, now? I sway with the movement of the elevator. I close my eyes and try to think. I could never be Carrie. No one can. That’s the thing. Always. I could
never
be Carrie. I could never
be
Carrie. I could never be
Carrie
. I can feel the tears sting behind my eyes
. I can never be
Carrie. Now, I can’t even be
Ellie
.

“What’s your room number?” Mr. Court Chandler asks. I open my eyes and stare at him.

“1923,” I say this, knowing that I’m taking action that I may not be able to take back. “Nineteen, twenty-three,” I say again as if I’m announcing the year.

I’m at ease because my pregnant state, upon his discovery, will turn this right around. I’m so confident that I give him my best, former-UW-cheerleader-yeah-team smile, as we walk down the hallway together. I hand him my room key card and he swishes it through the lock, one-handed, and we enter my hotel suite. I carry the martini glasses and set them down with a flourish. Court shakes the martini mixer behind me. The rimmed sugar glasses sparkle, as he pours the martini mixture into each one. I’m still doing all right, even as he hands me a glass and gives me a meaningful seductive look.

I clink my glass with his and just smile. He glances around the suite with interest. And, I know exactly when his eyes come to rest on the two polished silver urns that sit on the desk. The urns are engraved with their names, their birth dates, and the dates of their deaths in this beautiful script writing. Court leans down to read the captions seemingly unable to actually pick them up. I go over to help him out.

I pick up Elaina’s first. “Elaina Marie Shaw was born August 3
^rd
, 1993 and died March 10
^th
of this year,” I say in this husky voice suddenly overcome with emotion. I set Elaina’s urn down carefully and reach for the other. “Nicholas Robert Bradford was born June 2
^nd
, 1993 and died February 10
^th
. Elaina and Nicholas
,
two angels on Earth and now, two angels together in heaven
,
my son, Michael’s daughter. I couldn’t leave them, so I brought them with me.”

There’s nothing more to say. I take a drink from my martini glass and stare at Court.

“I’m sorry, Ellie. I’m so sorry.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, too.” I finish the glass in one long swallow and set it down. I’m swaying on my feet.

The game is up. The play is finished. I have to stop this thing. “You should go,” I say.

“I should go.” Court looks at me and tries to smile. “I should…most definitely…go.”

“Yes. This is an untenable situation.”

“Untenable,” Court says to me. “Baseless, without sound judgment, weak, questionable, without grounds…untenable.” His voice is melodic and I’m smiling at him, which only seems to encourage him.

This infidelity thing…is so
easy
.

He sets down his martini glass. His hands reach for me and he pulls me in his arms. His kiss is tentative at first; and then, it is
everywhere
. He has unleashed something inside of me and I’m kissing him back because Elaina Miles wants to. We make our way over to the king-size bed. His hands and lips are everywhere setting me on fire wherever they touch me. Until, they rest in one place, on my baby bump and all his actions stop. I open my eyes to stare at him.