The Blessed (6 page)

She measured her life in hits, and followers and status—of both the actual and online varieties—was everything. Not one to wring her hands over anything, she had taken shamelessness to new heights, crashing book parties, record parties, movie premieres, department stores, fund-raisers for even the most obscure diseases, attending the opening, as they say, of an envelope. It was a time-tested technique that could barely be held against her, but it was the fact that she got so much coverage that irked everyone, especially on BYTE, the most influential and widely read blog in town. Thanks to her.

She thought back to how BYTE began as a vile little online journal authored by Jesse Arens less than a year earlier to settle perceived slights with his enemies, a snotty clique of
blue-blooded party-hopping prep schoolers of which Lucy was a charter member. As was he, for that matter. But it didn’t take off until Lucy came on board, involuntarily at first. Jesse knew that Lucy was not nearly as well-to-do as the others in her circle, that she blew her “allowance” from her absentee father at the beginning of the month, and then, at the end, was hard up and desperate for cash and attention. He also knew her secrets, her mother’s backstory—a source of huge embarrassment for Lucy, and one she did not want shared.

In an effort to avoid an all-out personal tabloid assault by the release of the humiliating details, Lucy complied. She would secretly provide him with embarrassing information about her high-profile friends, and he would see that every little move she made, everything she said, ate, or wore, would be covered. The more exclusive the info, the more widely read was BYTE, the more famous “Lucky” Lucy or LULU became in turn, which translated into free stuff, gift bags, and coveted invites for her. The “lucky” moniker came from the fact that nobody could quite figure out what she’d done to merit so much notice. With little more than guts and ambition, she’d mastered the fame game. Lucy’s deal with the digital devil had paid off.

Fame could bring many things: personal appearances, sponsorships, free travel, clothing, accessories, carte blanche at clubs—but there was an even bigger thing that it couldn’t bring her. As she brushed the screen gently with her fingertips and spun through the backlog of personal e-mails on
her smartphone, there wasn’t a single entry from anyone she knew asking how she was doing. They had to know, had to have seen the hospital coverage. Not one relative or girlfriend, not one ex-boyfriend, few though there were. Actually, she didn’t have friends anymore, just competitors, sacrifices, distanced from her peers both by her own sudden fame and the means by which she’d achieved it. It was harder to betray people you were close to, even for a media mercenary like Lucy. Especially lately, when her onetime BFFs were becoming increasingly suspicious of her.

Truth be told, she didn’t miss them until she found herself in the ER and found out firsthand that no one genuinely missed her. No one besides Jesse, but his motives weren’t exactly pure and always came with strings attached. The more frantically she searched for some online sympathy, the more depressed she became. Then the cell phone rang. She checked caller ID and wasn’t sure if she should answer, and then she did anyway. “What?”

“Didja see it?” Jesse asked.

“How could I miss it?”

“We did it again. The site is almost crashing from the traffic.”

Lucy fought back the sick feeling that began brewing in her stomach.

“Where are you gonna be in the next hour?”

“In bed.”

“I’m coming over.”

“Ewww. No. Pig.”

“Not for a booty call. For a photo call. I need a picture.
The premium subscribers want some exclusive content. To see how . . . you look.”

Lucy was used to being treated like this. As a thing. Mostly she didn’t mind, but tonight things were different. “Can’t you wait until the body is cold?”

“Not on BYTE. We only run hot.”

Even our verbal sparring revolves around branding,
she thought.

“Wear something sexed-up, you know, heels and boxers, but maybe no makeup,” he said, art-directing her as he usually did.

“You’re so gross,” she said, douche chills running up her arms and legs.

“Don’t be so self-righteous, Lucy. Nobody put a gun to your head.”

“I wish someone had,” she said. “I’ll send something tomorrow.”

“I need eyeballs and advertisers,” Jesse insisted. “Now.”

Lucy crossed her legs and stared at the chaplet. The open eye carving on the charm freaked her out a little, like it was looking right at her again. She looked at it for a second and then turned it around so that the eyes were facing away from her. “Don’t ever speak to me like I’m your bitch. You’re the one that needs me. More people read what I write on my shoe than read your blog. Last word, jerk-off!” she screamed, slamming the phone back in its charger cradle.

The phone rang immediately.

“What the fuck’s gotten into you?” Jesse asked.

“Don’t you get that all this is really disgusting?”

“I’m not a priest, so don’t waste your time confessing to me.”

“I’m not looking for your forgiveness, dickhead.”

“We have an arrangement, Lucy.”

“It’s forever, Jesse. It never goes away. Their grandkids will be able to search it.”

“And?”

“And I have to live with these people, look them in the eye. They know it’s me. I see the look of betrayal on their faces when they read this crap on your site.”

“Not crap,” Jesse admonished. “Content. That you provide. Besides, you dropped out. You barely see these people except for a few hours across some sticky leather banquet.”

“I need a break.”

“You can’t cash checks without consequences, Lucy.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Jesus, Jesse,” she said, revolted by his desperation at pimping her out.

“If we don’t get the picture in the next hour, the buzz dies,” he said. She could hear the desperation in his voice.

“It’s always the next thing—the next shot, the next tragedy, the next failure, the next high. Always chasing . . . something.”

“Just remember what’s at stake.”

“You mean like the reputations of people I rat out for a slimy item?”

“Their reputations,” he began. “Or yours.”

3
The nurse escorted Agnes out and handed her a plain white Dixie cup with a mint green pill.

“Take it,” the nurse demanded.

“No more therapy or anything?” Agnes asked.

“This is therapy.”

Agnes placed the pill on her tongue. Stuck it out at the nurse and then washed it down with a swig of metallic-tasting tap water. Normally, she would be reluctant to take such a medication. She only took holistic remedies, unless she was really ill. But now, she hoped that this pill would help her to stop thinking of Sayer, or anyone else she’d ever fallen for. She wanted to be numb.

“Open,” the nurse ordered.

Agnes opened her mouth to show the nurse that she did indeed swallow.

After documenting the proof on her clipboard, she handed Agnes a loose-fitting bleached ultrawhite psych ward top and white scrub pants and then led her down the hallway.

Once there, she was stripped down.

Bare.

All except for her bandage and her concealed bracelet.

A maze of tiled and mildewed shower rooms beckoned, each with open stalls, steamy windows, oversize showerheads, and ceramic flooring, slightly beveled toward the center to promote proper drainage. In the entry room, there was a little sitting area, also tiled and peppered with drains and a long, wooden, locker-room bench.

She couldn’t decide whether it looked more like a condemned day spa or the funeral home that she worked at
for one unforgettable summer job. While there, it was her responsibility at the end of the day to pull out the hose and wash the hair, nails, flakes of skin, powder, gauze, and whatever else was mixed in down the drain—all of it swirling together with the bright orange embalming fluid, transforming it into a melting creamsicle of runoff. She only worked there for one summer because the owner, the mortician, killed himself. Agnes found that somewhat comforting in a strange way and it had given rise to her preoccupation with life and death that she’d shared with Frey earlier. The mortician worked with the dead, after all; maybe he had some inside info that helped with the decision.

Then, the washing.

Agnes was showered. It was undignified, but like so many undignified things, it felt kind of good. The water was cool, not brisk enough to snap her completely out of the drug-addled stupor she was in, but just enough to remind her that she was a human being—flesh, blood, and five senses. She was suddenly alert enough to cry; warm tears were birthed from her eyes, free falling, mixing seamlessly with the water, until they hit the ceramic tile and disappeared down the rusted drain. She wanted to go with them.

Agnes dried off and put on her hospital issued “outfit.” There were only two occasions where one could pull off this all-white ensemble—being committed to a psych ward and one’s wedding day. She then was taken to a tiny, boxy room with no windows and a roommate.

The place was unremarkable, impersonal, resembling a dorm room that belonged to someone who never received care packages from home. The only thing hanging on the wall was a faded picture of what looked to be a religious icon.

Agnes studied it closely, losing track of time and the fact that she wasn’t alone.

“Saint Dymphna,” her roommate said in a weak tone. “The patron saint of nervous disorders and the mentally ill.”

Agnes looked at the girl lying on her bed facing the wall.

“She was murdered by her father,” the girl said. “See, he was a pagan king and her mother was a devout Christian. When Dymphna was fourteen, her mother died. Her father loved her mother so much that he went totally crazy after her death and tried to get with Dymphna ’cause she reminded him of her.”

The girl closed her eyes and mustered the strength to continue. “She ran away. And, when he found her . . . he drew his sword. And then he . . . ” She paused and swallowed. “CUT off her head. She was sixteen. Like me.”

“You sure know her story well,” Agnes said.

“I’m Iris.”

Iris turned around to face Agnes. She was sickly looking and sunken-eyed.

It hit Agnes that Iris knew Dymphna’s story all
too
well.

“I’m Agnes.”

“So, Agnes, why are
you
in here?”

After looking into the vulnerable girl’s eyes, Agnes put
her arms in front of her and exposed her bandaged wrists.

“Yeah, me too,” the girl said.

“Why did you do it?” Agnes asked.

“Doesn’t matter. No one believes me, anyway.”

The girl turned back over in bed, again facing the wall.

“I will,” Agnes said, surprising herself with the certainty of her reply.
Maybe it’s the pill, or maybe it’s something else,
she thought.

13
“Touché, mothafuckas!” Cecilia yelled, a slim silhouette wielding her guitar from the darkened wooden stage at the Continental bar on the Bowery.

Cecilia was killing.

As usual.

It was her night to headline. Thursday. The midnight show.

The emergency room detour of the previous weekend was a distant memory and the only ones who appeared to be gasping for breath now were the awestruck fans before her. She held them mercilessly, musically, by the throat.

The Vari-Lite rig flicked on. Incandescent beams shone around her head and shoulders like a fractured, multicolored laser light halo.

The PA system crackled expectantly.

The audience, anxiously awaiting her surround-sound sermon.

There she stood.

Silent and powerful. A vanguard vixen vision in white.

A blank screen ripe for whatever the audience wanted to project upon her. With her don’t-fuck-with-me fashion and her weapon of choice, CeCe was ready for the jaded hands-in-pocket hipsters that were gatekeepers on the New York club scene. She accepted the challenge.

And she certainly looked the part. Over her head, she wore a sheer, white, netted veil tucked close, obscuring her face even to those at the edge of the stage. Her hair was pinned up in a messy, romantic do. Her thin, long neck was bare. She wore a white peekaboo kevlar vest, strapped tight with Velcro bands. Her pants were white McQueen “thrift score” leggings, made of vinyl, that laced up the front. A chain mail epaulet dangled from her bare shoulder with a single-strand sash made of old rhinestones crossing her torso. Her nails were painted white with some type from a book faintly visible—she dipped them in rubbing alcohol and pressed a cheaply printed Bible that Bill, her homeless poet friend, had acquired over them so that words would transfer to her nails. Her eyes were dark, smoky black and gray, and her lips glossed in a flesh-colored hue.