Renhala (4 page)

“No, you take us where we asked,” demands Amber. 

“Get out of my cab,” he says, turning off his meter. I am about to scream at this point, so very afraid of being stranded. He turns to me and bends over the seat, then directly looking into my face, he yells, “
You
get out
now!
”

The sour breath, reeking like a rotting corpse might, has me gagging as his eyes look into mine, daring me to scream again.

The terror is so overwhelming I think I’m going to explode. Amber grabs my arm quickly and pulls me out of the cab. I fumble with my purse, and my makeup bag rips open and spills out everywhere. The cabbie burns rubber as he runs over my Chanel compact, breaking it into a thousand pieces. There are tears in my eyes, but for fear of ruining my mascara, they don’t fall. I sit on the curb and look up at Amber. “I can
’t do this. Who am I fooling? I thought I could, but I can’t.” I look down at my hands that are shaking. 

Amber pulls my chin up to look at her. “You can. Stop doubting, Kailey. If that was me instead of you, believe me, I
’d be locked up somewhere in a straightjacket,” she says. “Look—you’ve made it this far. I know where we are, and so should you. Your mom took us here after...you know...”

I look around and it dawns on me that this is the restaurant—hidden in one of Chinatown
’s many nooks—my mom took us to after Amber broke the nose of one of her mother’s boyfriends, actually the worst on the extensive list. His request of a ménage à trois with Amber and her own mother was the final straw.

“Yeah! You
’re right. I remember they had the most
delicious
lavender jasmine tea.” My blood pressure slowly drops to a livable level as I recall the delicate taste.

Amber smiles warmly at me. “Leave it up to you to remember their damn tea. Let’s go grab some mai tais instead.” She walks toward the front door, leaving me standing with Jell-O legs. 

She’s amazing—already back to her nonchalant self, enjoying life. With my hand in my pocket, I eventually—as she stands holding the door open—convince myself to follow her. Perhaps the simple thought that she might get us some free appetizers draws me in.

After a delicious meal of
free potstickers, Kung Pao Dream, two Dragon mai tais, one pina colada, and a steaming hot tea, I head to the ladies room to touch up my makeup after mentioning to Amber how weak the drinks are. Her heavy eyelids disagree.

As I walk to the restroom
, I’m amazed at how many different shades of red exist in the restaurant. It’s not tacky, though, instead actually very comforting, in a strange sort of way. I admire the many decorations on the walls: fierce, four-toed dragons threaten kimono-clothed girls as they run on their stilted shoes, beautiful golden temples shining in the distance. I breathe in deeply as the smells coming from the kitchen make me want more food—go figure.

Once I reach a mirror,
I raise my hand to apply some powder to my nose, but it never reaches its destination, for I notice a reflection in the mirror of a neon sign outside. It’s a buzzing double happiness symbol—and I’m sure it’s the same sign from the news. Every muscle in my body freezes, except for my heart, which decides it rather try beating its way out through my chest.

I scramble back to our table as quickly as possible, forgoing my attention to my shiny forehead.

“Amber, let’s go walk around,” I suggest. “See some sites.” 

“In these heels?”

“I’ve witnessed you dance in those shoes for
hours
. Come on.”

After a bit more coercing, and a “whatever” from Amber, we walk outside to the end of the block, turn the corner, and her mood suddenly changes as she sees the thriving nightlife of
Chinatown. The storefronts promise goodies if you’re willing to dig through mountains of Chinese imports, and several cutesy candy shops advertise yummy milk candies wrapped in equally yummy bunny-laden wrappers. Decorative dragon spoon rests call to me as Amber buys a sushi set-up for two at Hong Kong Heaven.

As we step out of the shop, my eyes are drawn to the opposite side of the street. I stop right in front of Amber, who walks right into me, dropping her bag. “If you even broke this, I’ll kill you,” she says in a very serious voice as she picks up her bag.

I tell her to shut up. Across the street is a young Asian man dressed in black, motioning for us to join him. I turn around to find my friend smiling, her eyes widened and filled with lust. Another glance across the street reveals that the man is indeed quite handsome. He’s about my height, and thin, but he reeks of hidden muscle underneath his expensively tailored shirt. His silky black hair is short, accentuating his polished skin, and his smile rivals the streetlight in brightness. 

Amber’s smile fades, replaced by a look of determination. “Maybe he needs some arm candy for some cool party. Let’s go.” Before I can say no, she pulls on my arm, dragging me across the street. When Amber has a purpose, watch out, world.

I, on the other hand, no longer trust anything and the gears in my head churn in overdrive. Her arm drags me, against my will, behind her, through throngs of night owls littering the streets.

We make our introductions to the handsome gentleman, and he informs us that, yes, indeed, there is a party down the block, and we should join him. He points to the bar with the longest line of already drunk bar-hoppers and turns to look at Amber. I notice a brief emotion from him, but can only describe it as how one might think a dog feels waiting in its owner
’s car, eyes focused on the door they disappeared through.

I explain
, “My friend’s feet here are killing her, so maybe we shouldn’t.” Amber then jabs me with her elbow. But to our surprise, our new friend leads us straight to the front of the line, and we enter without even having to pay the cover. Amber pumps her arm, letting a “Yes!” escape her mouth as the girls in line shout at us with their plump, glossy lips, which only enlarges Amber’s already large head.

Inside, after finding that I have highly underestimated the size of the bar—and the crowd i
nside is not seedy—I decide there’s nothing scary going on. All the patrons are engrossed in the news feed playing above the bar, which keeps showing shots of a dead, but adorable and humongous, white rabbit. But as the screen pans to where its front left paw should be, we all see one large talon, like a hybrid gone terribly wrong. The men and women alike all shriek in disgust at the sight—Amber specifically grabbing onto Russell’s arm. Apparently, this rabbit, alone, took down a wild pack of dogs before it was shot by an Idaho potato farmer.

Within minutes, Amber leans over to me, shouting, “Kailey, Russell and I are going to get a drink at the bar! Would you like anything?” Her eyebrows are slightly raised, giving me a clue she wants some privacy. Russell points to a reserved table with three empty seats where I can sit and wait like a good doggie. A sore toe obliges with no problem whatsoever, but before I reach the table, I see a short, elderly Asian man standing in a doorway, staring at me. I squint my eyes at him, trying to scare him.

He then smiles at me and motions for me to come over.

I shake my head, refusing the offer.

He then mouths the words “Come, it’s ok.” I reach in my purse, feel my pepper spray and suddenly have enough courage to actually follow this stranger. Plus, the kitchen aromas coming from his direction have won hands down in the arm wrestle with my better judgment.

Upon entering the doorway, he says, “Follow me, I
’ve got something interesting to show you. It might make your day.” He exudes confidence, as though no matter what he says, I’ll listen. His words make my insides feel all excited and fuzzy like a child who has found a new neighborhood park. But I stand, allowing him to continue without me. He stops and says, with a bit of sternness, “Please, follow, don’t be afraid. You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” I follow, not feeling one bit scared or foolish in doing so.

He walks through another doorway, and this room is empty, except for a small table with a lamp and some kind of urn. Out of curiosity, I follow the man yet again, through yet another door. This room has only one door. It must be our destination.

It’s perhaps the most beautiful room I have ever seen. The hardwood floors are mahogany, the walls alternating between a deep, rich, purple hue and a stunning gold, metallic sheen, and the ceiling is painted like the sky. There are striking purple and gold accents here and there, along with lovely vases of tuberoses—my favorite—and purple delphinium. And the smell—god, it smells of rain and grass on a spring morning. A large, curtainless window framed by white, distressed wood looms perfectly in the middle of a wall, beckoning me to look out. The man holds out his hand, giving me permission to observe. I don’t know what I’m looking for as I walk to the window, but I find myself drawn to it.

My eyes widen as I see a cab pulled along the side of the road. It has started raining, and the driver stands, staring at his cab. As he turns slowly, I recognize his Middle-Eastern profile. My blood begins boiling as he bends over, his hands reaching toward the wheel, pulling out a black piece of plastic from the flat tire. I recognize it instantly: Chanel medium bisque. I feel happy, and know I shouldn’t, but he
was
a jerk.

“Someone
has
to still be listening,” the man with me whispers to himself, as he watches the cab driver.

“What?” I
respond.

“
Just talking to myself. Would you like a cup of tea, Kailey?” I jump at words I wasn’t expecting, especially my name. 

He speaks again: “I know you because you called, and of course because of who you are.” 

Suddenly, I feel I made a big mistake. The man has got to be insane.
Where’s the door?
I turn to look for it, but—silly me—the door is gone.

Chapter 4

Tender

I whirl around, thinking maybe
I’m
really the one who’s insane, or else someone slipped me a roofie at the restaurant—or maybe the milk candy I secretly slipped in my mouth from Hong Kong Heaven was tainted with melamine, and karma is getting me back. 

“Have some tea. It will calm your nerves,” says the man while fiddling with a teapot and cups. “Don
’t fight it.”

“It’s probably drugged,” I say, and at once I feel ashamed as he smiles his warm smile again. I hold out my hand, accepting the cup of tea he is suddenly holding before me, and I bow, something I do uncontrollably for some reason in the presence of
elderly Asian people.

“You should sit while you drink your tea,” says the man. 

Behind me, a soft, comfy-looking armchair seems to hold out its arms for me, inviting me in. I hadn’t noticed the chair there before, but now I sit. I drink. I savor the wondrous aroma and sweetness of the tea in my cup. It’s like honey, roses, and crème brûlée all in one. At this point, I’d sit here for a week if he asked, if only I could drink more of this intoxicating elixir. 

He drinks from a cup as well. Between sips, he says, “Did you get my message? You were bound to find it at some point.”

The newspaper ad suddenly appears in my head:

             
ROOKES and pawns.

My eyes widen in surprise. “If you mean the scary ad in the personals, yes,” I say. “And if you even tell me you killed that store owner on the news, or had something to do with it, I’m going to get very scary in this room with no door.” I mean it, too. After all, I recently learned some highly effective protective moves in self-defense class and I did take those three Tae Kwon Do classes ten years ago.

His eyes never leave mine. “I
don’t like to lie, so indirectly I may be related to it,” he hints. At this point, my face gets very warm—and yet I feel no need for fight or flight. “Kailey,” he says, “there are big things in the works, and I have to explain so you understand your involvement.” 

“You must have me mistaken for someone else,” I say, “I don
’t get involved in big things, and I’ve been out of commission for the past few months, anyway.” I want him to get up and lead me outside, apologizing for the huge mistake he’s made.

“Someone else named Kailey? You know, I do not.”

Damn
.

“I needed to get you here as soon as possible,” he says. “You acted much slower than anticipated.” 

I laugh to myself, wondering why I dragged Amber out tonight and didn’t stay home and veg on the couch like she suggested. Why do I attract all the crazies?

“What is your religion, Kailey?” 

“I’m Catholic.” 

“Are you practicing?” 

“Uh, if you count praying the 151 Sheridan will stay at the corner long enough so I can catch it, or that nobody picks up the medium-sized sweater I hid among the extra-smalls on the sale rack, then yes,” I say. 

He turns toward the window and speaks: “Do you believe in a higher power?”

My willingness to answer his questions suddenly starts diminishing. “I really think that maybe I need to go. Um, thank you for the tea.” I stand up and place my tea cup on the small table.

“Kailey, sit, please,” he says. “We need to have this conversation without
interruptions.”

I sit right back down and as I do, my ring falls out of my pocket, unbeknownst to me. The man initially moves to pick it up, but then stops and simply informs me that I dropped it. As I pick it up, I look into his face and his brow softens while a
warm sense of sympathy from him washes over me, like a heavy cloud above me just released its load.

“Thanks,” I sigh
, as I shove the ring into my purse, and figuring I should answer his question. “I believe that all religions are praying to the same higher power, so yes.” 

“Do you believe in spirits or ghosts, and that they wander the earth
, connected to individuals, here?” 

“Yeah, maybe a bit,
” I say.

He gets up and walks to another piece of furniture I didn’t notice: a beautiful, golden, three-drawer chest on a small, mahogany table. He pulls out some kind of pointed stone pendant on a half-foot-long chain. He puts the milky white and tan stone in my hands.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.

“Think of it as speaking to your spirit guides.”

“What drugs are
you
on?”

He laughs, and again, I feel that creeping warmness, like a soft kitten in my insides.

“Humor me,” he says.

“Fine. What do I do?” I say.

“Hold the pendulum slightly above your palm, like this.” He shows me what to do. “Now ask it, ‘What is no?’”

I clench my teeth, asking myself why the hell I
’m still playing along with this man and cannot come up with a logical answer. I figure it best to continue. I know through experience what irrational things strangers are capable of.

I do as he suggests and the pendulum starts swinging back and forth. I check to make sure he is not blowing on it.

“Now ask it, ‘What is yes?’”

I do, and it starts swinging around in a circle. “Is there like a magnet or something inside of this? Are you pl
aying magician with me?” I question, examining the pendulum closely.

He shakes his head no,
and I feel he means it, for there doesn’t exist the wavering feelings I usually sense from outright liars—like the simple dressed, ballet shoe-wearing pythons that often waited outside my mom’s front doors after my assault, offering their help for nothing in exchange, except maybe just a quick, harmless interview. 

“Ask a
question, any question,” he coaxes. “Try something simple.” He is turned toward the window again and not at me, so he doesn’t see my very furrowed brow.

“Are my shoes black?” I ask
. I wait, and then, suddenly, the pendulum starts moving in a circular motion. But I must be shaking it. My concentration wills my heart to slow down and my head to clear. “Did I eat chicken tonight?” I think about that question and realize I really don’t want the answer. “No, nevermind,” I add rather quickly and shake the pendulum. The man laughs to himself. “Do I work at Helping Hands?” Again, the circular movement. “Will I win the lotto?” It swings back and forth. “I had to try.”

“Ask it something mo
re meaningful now,” the man suggests, eagerly.

I think for a bit, and suddenly, “Is Amber okay right now?” The moment I say it, I can’t believe I
’d forgotten about her this whole time—I’m always concerned about Amber. I wait for the pendulum to do the whole circle thing, but to my surprise it doesn’t move. And then, slowly, it starts swinging back and forth. I widen my eyes, and fear surfaces.

“Kailey,” the man says quickly, “You must be more specific—in fact,
very
specific. Think about your question and what you really asked.” 

He’s right. That question could mean anything. What is “okay,” really? Any head-shrink would tell you there’s no “okay” diagnosis. So the girl has some issue—don’t we all? So I ask another question: “Is Amber safe at this particular moment?” Circular motion. Thank God.

The man moves to stand near me, and I let him. He locks his eyes with mine and delves deep, asking me to ask one more question.

I think for a short moment. “Am I safe?” The pendulum starts to move, and I cannot tell what it wants to do. Then, the motion begins—back and forth slowly, then more quickly, until it feels five pounds heavier. Suddenly, it feels like someone is pulling the chain from my hand. I let go, and it falls to the ground. My eyes move toward it as the old man quickly picks it up, then places it
back in my hand.

His eyes meet mine, and I’m compelled to listen to him very carefully. “Some say it
’s spirit guides that make it move, while others say that pendulums like these are really only extensions of ourselves, and that we are in fact all-knowing creatures,” he says. “The pendulum just helps us focus on the truth and reveals it in a specific form. Omniscience is something I would love to believe in, but I don’t know these days. You go home with this and return it to me in three days, before the full moon.” He smiles again, but his expression emanates fatigue. 

I feel like he looks. It’s been a long day and I’m so ready to go home. I’ve decided Amber is definitely spending the night with me, whether she likes it or not. The strangeness of the evening, and my being frazzled beyond belief is enough of an excuse. The gentleman escorts me out the door, which is somehow there again.

After a few turns, we eventually reach the door to the bar, and I turn to the man. “Do you have a name?” I ask.

“My name is Gunthreon,” he says, warmly, “and it’s
been a pleasure.” He extends his hand and I shake it. A feeling of hurriedness and silent fear suddenly rushes over me and I pull my hand back, quickly, and rub it as he stares complacently at me, not making any movement or facial gesture to indicate my reaction.

“Come back in three days, Kailey,” he says. “Come well-rested, because our next meeting may leave you exhausted, too.” It feels like that soft kitten is now turning somersaults in my lower intestines. I wave goodbye and return to the bar.

I quickly scan the area and find Amber sitting at a table by herself. When she sees me, she doesn’t even seem worried. “Here, Russell bought you a key lime martini, with extra graham crackers.”

Yum. I love those
. 

“Did you miss me?” I twitter
, waiting for some response from her, all the while giving her raised eyebrows.

“Geez, Kailey, I just wanted a few minutes of
privacy with Russell,” she spouts, arrogantly. She sips her whiskey on the rocks, frowning at me behind her glass.

I find I want a kudos for being brave enough to be out on my own, but I see that my actions have gone unnoticed. “Amber, can we go home?” I say. “And please say you’ll spend the night.”

“Are you serious? We just got here! And I have so much more to talk to Russell about.” Leave it to Amber to blindly connect to some strange male.

“Yes, sorry.
That kung pao I ate isn’t sitting so well.”

“Ugh! Let me
find Russell and tell him,” whimpers Amber. “It would be rude if we just left.” The daggers I suddenly feel bombarding me make me look down at my body. Nothing. I look up and watch Amber locate Russell and head toward him, swaying her hips in her best Marilyn Monroe fashion. He spots her and strides to meet her, like one of those old-fashioned couples in some black-and-white film. I’m ready for him to grab her and passionately kiss her as they meet, with the wind blowing her hair and her hands firmly squeezing his arms. They don’t, but he does whisper something in her ear, then hands her a piece of paper. She waves a little goodbye to him, and he smiles at her, and then turns to me and waves a sincere goodbye. That was nice of him. I’m impressed. And Amber is glowing. 

Her eyes scan the paper, and her glow intensifies. “Yum,
I could gobble him up,” she drawls. “He is just dreamy.”
Did she really just say that
? She then realizes she’s not alone, but rather has her best friend sitting next to her.  “Shut up. Let’s go, wimp.” 

“Yeah, I love you, too.”

Finding a cab turns out to be difficult, but thanks to Amber’s ability to run in stilettos, we grab one turning the corner and tail-hike it home. I get ready for bed, leaving Amber to herself on my couch.

As I crawl under my covers, with Kioto lying next to my bed, I hear Amber attempting to whisper on her cell phone. I sit up and turn my ear in her direction, and hear, “Russell, I most certainly accept your invitation.” I bite my tongue and resist the urge to call her a slut across the apartment.

Time passes. I can’t seem to fall asleep, so I decide to rummage through my purse for my new pendulum. I find it so intriguing that I end up playing with it for hours. Eventually, I move on to writing things on paper and holding the pendulum above and asking questions about various people at work, like: “Who stole the infamous frozen Lean Cuisine entree at work,” or “Who is cheating on their spouse.”

Delirious three hours later from lack of sleep, I gather the nerve to ask who is “around” me, si
nce Gunthreon did suggest I might be chatting with my spirit guides. I’ve always felt there was one spirit in particular that might be following me around.

My mom had a psychic party one September many years ago in which she invited over a few select family members, and everyone took turns sitting with the psychic. I was quite the skeptic, but decided I’d give it a shot anyway. After she gave me lots of facts I already knew, the psychic suddenly told me that my aunt had entered the room. Since my Aunt Vivian lived in California at the time, I knew it wasn’t her, and my father had no siblings. She could only have meant my mom’s twin sister, Debra Kay, who had died in a car accident when they were only sixteen years old.