The Things I Do For You (8 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Things I Do For You
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“Life is an adventure. You have to take risks. This isn’t just going to be a business this time. This time it’s going to be a home, Bails. Our home.” Bailey, horrified with herself even as she was doing it, began to rip up the picture of the lighthouse. She channeled all her frustrations at the piece of paper as she tore into it and let the pieces fall to the ground. Brad simply watched her.
“Our home is right here. Right here, Brad.” She crushed the pieces of the picture underneath her shoe, then walked away. Nothing could have made her feel worse than the sight of Brad picking them up, trying to piece them back together.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly. He sounded so sad, so lost, so dejected. She wasn’t going to fall for it.
“Why wasn’t my signature required on this sale?”
At least he had the decency to look sheepish. “It was a cash sale. And technically . . .” He stopped, treading carefully over his words.
“Technically what?” Bailey could feel her throat tighten, her words come out in a constricted breath.
“Technically the money was left to me.” She couldn’t believe how much that hurt. Even if it was true. Even though she knew as she stood staring at him that Olivia Jordan, wherever she was, would be one thousand percent on Brad’s side. If he had spent the money on a half a million Pop-Tarts, Olivia would be warming up toasters as they spoke.
“I mean nothing to you. Is that it?”
“You mean everything to me.” Brad came over and reached out as if to touch her, but in the end kept his distance. She knew she would have pushed him away, but she was still mad he didn’t touch her.
“You didn’t even consult me.” The urn. She wanted to throw the urn. She wanted to toss the ashes out the window. What would he do? Given his guilt and obsession with Olivia, he would probably go insane. Brad saw she was looking in the direction of the bedroom.
“Do not even think about throwing that,” he said. Bailey hated that he knew her so well. He stepped into their bedroom and returned with the urn tucked protectively under his arm.
“Let’s take Aunt Olivia and go see our lighthouse. I think once you see it—”
“We are not driving anywhere with those ashes anymore. Do you hear me?”
“Bailey. She won’t hurt you.”
Bailey swigged out of the champagne again and then took a step closer to Brad. “Do you hear yourself?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Do you hear how crazy you sound?”
“You think I’m crazy? You think my grief is crazy? You think the fact that I died is crazy? What else? My out-of-body experience?”
Yes, yes, yes, and sorry, but yes
. But as angry as she was, that was still a border she wasn’t prepared to cross. Not just yet. Instead, she focused her anger on the urn.
“Ashes to ashes,” Bailey said. “You know what comes next?”
“Don’t start this again.”
“Dust to dust, Brad. Dust to dust.” She ran her finger along the urn and held it up. “This isn’t the dust they were speaking of, Brad. She has to go back into the earth. Where we all go.”
“That’s my call,” Brad said. “And we’re not ready.”
“We.” He used “we.” We’re not ready.
“You could be a little more supportive,” Brad added.
“What am I supposed to do? Make her a cup of tea? Take her shopping? Find a nice strong vase to fix her up with? My God—you’re looking for a fight, aren’t you? I can commute.”
“What?”
“That’s what you said about the lighthouse. You’ll go live there and ‘I can commute.’ ”
“I told you—”
“Admit it! You want to live in your little lighthouse all by yourself, don’t you?”
“My little lighthouse? Do you hear yourself? Sarcasm and resentment oozes out in everything you say.”
This had gone too far. Bailey didn’t want to see Brad this upset. He had been through a traumatic experience. She had to get a grip on her anger. “Brad.”
“I have to do this, Bailey. I think it’s what I’m meant to do.”
“This is so typical of you! We have a life here. You and me. You promised, Brad, you promised.”
“I know, I know. But things happen, Bailey. I had this incredible, mind-blowing experience. Do you know what it was like? Do you have any idea?”
“You went behind my back—”
“It was pure love, Bailey.”
“You spent our money—”
“Love like I’ve never felt before.” Bailey froze. She felt as if she’d been turned to stone.
Love like he’d never felt before?
He saw the look on her face. He put the urn down and approached her slowly. “Not romantic love, babe. Just . . . all-encompassing love. And now I want to share that love with you. This is meant to be. You have to believe me. It’s our destiny. You and me.”
“No, it’s not. Our destiny is a baby, and a condo with a terrace, and Central Park. Our life is here. Not some godforsaken little lighthouse.”
“I can’t speak for your life, Bails. But there’s one thing—no, make that two things that I do know. My life is not here.” He picked up Olivia’s urn and headed for the door. Halfway there he stopped and turned. “And secondly, there is absolutely nothing ‘little’ about my lighthouse.” With that, he and Olivia’s ashes stormed out.
Chapter 8
B
ailey stood in Olivia’s kitchen, packing the contents of her cupboard into boxes marked D
ONATE
, K
EEP
, and T
HROW
(which to Bailey meant both “throw away” and literally “throw” if things continued to be this stressful) while Jesse sat at the dining room table drinking tea. Jesse was considerably younger than Bailey, at least a decade. Bailey didn’t know Jesse’s exact age because when she’d asked her, Jesse said, “In my realm, age is meaningless.”
When they first met in the book club, Jesse stuck her hand out and said, “I’m Jesse. Spelled like the outlaw.”
She was a spunky girl with delicate features. Her black hair was always cut in a new style. Today half was chopped off while the other half hung in a bob obscuring most of the left side of her face. The one eye Bailey could see was heavily made up. She was petite, yet strong. She was a nurse in the emergency ward at a hospital in the Bronx. She absolutely loved her job, thrived on the chaos and absurdity that filled her nights. Bailey could see it. Jesse was always moving, twitching, doing something. At the book club where they’d met, Jesse was the first to say what Bailey had secretly been thinking about the book selection that month,
Clown Down,
a highly acclaimed literary tale of a business executive who secretly longed to be a clown.
“I thought it was a load of shit,” Jesse said, in a loud, confident voice when it was her turn to speak. Bailey burst out laughing. Couldn’t help it, the laughter came tumbling out of her in a nervous free fall. Bailey had spent the first fifteen minutes of the discussion trying to figure out how to politely say that she didn’t “connect” with the book, crafting exactly the right words. Words that would convey she had been an English lit major in college, and read all the classics, and yet still, for some reason, just didn’t connect with the book. She figured something was wrong with her. Jesse’s perspective, that maybe it was just shit, had never entered her mind. After all, the writer had gone to Columbia, won awards. The
New York Times
raved about the book. Jesse grinned at Bailey. “Right?” she asked her. “Wasn’t it just pure bullshit?”
Bailey hadn’t even finished it. She couldn’t get through the first four chapters and she hated herself for it. Jesse redeemed Bailey’s ego just a little bit that day. “I couldn’t get into it,” Bailey admitted in front of Jesse and the group.
There were a few gasps, one cough, and a quite audible “My God.”
“If the asshole wants to be a clown, he should just go be a clown. Do I really need four hundred pages of clown ambivalence?” Jesse said. Once again, she took the words out of Bailey’s mouth.
“He had a reputation, a high-paying job, a family,” someone interjected. Looks were exchanged all around. Clearly, anyone could see the book was pure genius.
“I was a little confused,” Bailey said. “They kept mentioning his ruddy cheeks and red nose. But they said he never drank alcohol—so were they trying to say he was, like, actually morphing into a clown?”
“You didn’t finish the book, did you?” someone in the group said.
“I used it to prop up my coffee table,” Jesse said. Bailey laughed again. She really wanted to stop, but she couldn’t.
“This book is not for everyone,” the leader of the group said. “I think those who are more literary minded will relate to the angst and metaphors that fill these pages on a deep, human level. It’s everyman. It’s the death of the American dream.”
“No,” Jesse said. “This group is the death of the American dream.”
“I beg your pardon?” the leader said. She was the librarian type. Glasses hung from a chain tucked in her ears. Her legs were crossed at the ankles; the index finger of her left hand lay across her lips and touched her nose. She had the look of a martyr practicing infinite patience.
“I just don’t see how he’s fooled everyone into thinking this book is anything other than complete shit,” Jesse said. “I want to scream at you people. It’s like, hello! The emperor is butt-naked.”
An older gentleman with a vest on top of a sweater threw up his hands. “Buck-naked,” he said.
“What?” Jesse said.
“The emperor is buck-naked.”
“I’m so glad you agree,” Jesse said. She crossed her leg, swung it, and smiled.
But the man didn’t stop there. “Didn’t you get it? He wants to be a clown. He thinks his life would be complete if only he were a clown. But he is already a clown, don’t you see? Corporate America is turning him into a clown, which is what he says he longs to be, only he already is, and he can’t see it. His curly red hair, his red nose, his red cheeks—how everyone laughs at him! The embodiment of his life is the life of a clown, he already has what he thinks he wants, and yet he still yearns for it. He drives a VW Bug and piles all his friends in it, for God’s sakes. I cried when they kept coming out of that car. I laughed, of course, but I cried too! He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see that he already had the life of a clown—”
“But the paycheck of an executive,” someone else chimed in.
“Exactly! Not to mention the allegory that all those CEO types are also clowns. My God, the levels of meaning. Irony! Brilliant, evocative irony! And the ending, my God, the ending!”
At the mention of the ending, the group broke out in titters, and whispers, and exclamations. Now Bailey wished she’d read the book. What was the ending? Did he finally run off and join the circus? She was afraid to ask. Jesse met Bailey’s eyes and grinned.
“Do
you
drink alcohol?” Jesse asked.
“In moderation,” Bailey said, because she still wanted the group to like her just a little bit.
“Good,” Jesse said. “I could really use a cocktail. Let’s go.” With the excitement of a schoolgirl making a new best friend on the first day, Bailey followed Jesse out to the nearest bar. It was the beginning of a surprisingly good friendship. Although Bailey was putting it to the test today. Jesse didn’t want to drink tea. Jesse didn’t even like tea. She didn’t have a say in the matter. It was the first cup of tea Bailey had been allowed to make in Olivia’s apartment. A perverse part of her hoped wherever Olivia was, she could see Bailey lighting the burner. And then, of course, she felt guilty, and then pissed off. If Olivia had just been nice to her when she was alive, if she had liked her and let her make tea and insisted she borrow the Jag once in a while, they could have been the best of friends. They should have cleaned out Olivia’s place months ago; instead, Brad kept putting it off, paying the rent. But it was time.
Bailey whipped out her marker and advanced toward the calendar on the wall. But just when she was poised to strike, the sight before her stopped her dead. It wasn’t the same calendar. Gone were the foggy landscape and barren boxes. Instead, this one featured bustling European cities. The current month boasted Amsterdam.
This calendar was filled with little notes. Poker night. Poker night. Poker night. One night she shook it up and played bridge.
“Are you okay?”
“Olivia played poker,” Bailey said.
“I know,” Jesse said. “Cool.”
“You don’t understand,” Bailey said. “I never knew. I’ve never seen this calendar before.”
Jesse nodded absentmindedly and pushed her teacup far, far away. “At least she had a life, right?” Jesse said.
“Right,” Bailey said, hoping she sounded convincing.
“All that money,” Jesse said, looking around. “And she lived here.” Bailey had been thinking the same thing. Olivia had been loaded, and still chose to rent this humble abode. It was so depressing. Yet beautiful, in a strange way. Few people had such restraint and would’ve blown the money in seconds. Take Brad, for example. Regardless, there had to be a balance in life. Olivia could have spent some of it on herself. She could have taken a cruise or flown off to Paris. Maybe, if she had, they wouldn’t be saddled with a lighthouse right now.
Jesse took her teacup to the sink. The clattering startled Bailey out of her thoughts. “He really said ‘keeper of the light’?” Jesse said.
“He did. Keeper of the light.” Bailey felt guilty talking about her husband behind his back like this, but Jesse was one of the few women she’d met in her lifetime that she could talk to about anything. Besides, she needed someone to guide her through this maze of insanity Brad had thrust upon them.
“I could never leave Manhattan,” Jesse said. “Couldn’t trade this island for another. Isn’t it sad? Without gunshots, and stabbings, and really stupid self-inflicted wounds, I don’t know who I’d be.”
Bailey laughed. “It just means you’re doing what you love. What you’re meant to do.” Could Bailey say the same thing? She tried it in her head.
Without showing condos, and filling out closing paperwork, and scouting the next listing, I don’t know who I’d be.
It wasn’t true. For Aunt Faye definitely, but not for Bailey. But that was just because she was new at it. She liked the job, and she was good at it, and it was great money. That much she did know.
Without Brad, I don’t know who I’d be.
That one rang true. Even through all the craziness.
“Or,” Jesse said, holding up her index fingers, “it means I’m a freak of nature.”
“That too,” Bailey said. “I don’t want to go,” she said suddenly. “I don’t want to live in a lighthouse.”
“Oh, honey,” Jesse said. “I’m sorry.”
“I might have been able to warm up to Maine or Rhode Island,” Bailey mused. “California. Scotland.”
“Ooh, Scotland would be nice,” Jesse interrupted. “I might leave freakville for Scotland.”
“Right? But what do I get? Upstate New York. He wants us to give up Manhattan for upstate New York?”
“Bummer,” Jesse said. “But you have to go.”
“What?” Bailey said. She expected Jesse of all people to want her to stay, convince her that Brad was making a terrible decision and she shouldn’t put up with it. Wouldn’t she miss her?
“Being single in New York sucks the big one, ” Jesse said. “It’s
Clown Down
times twelve. My last blind date met me at Subway. The sandwich shop, not the train. He had one of those punch cards for a free sub.” Bailey laughed. “That’s not the worst part,” Jesse continued. “He didn’t have enough punches for a free sub yet. So he only paid for his own sub, then asked them to stamp his card for my sub too.” Bailey couldn’t help it, she was in hysterics. Jesse joined in the laughter, and within a few seconds, the two of them were shrieking like banshees.
“He should’ve lost you at ‘Let’s meet at Subway,’ ” Bailey said. It felt good to laugh until she cried. What a relief after all the stress of late. She almost hated to think of Jesse finding the one, because she would miss all these hideous dating stories. Thank God Jesse loved her job as a nurse.
“Do you think you could come over to the apartment sometime and, I don’t know, casually check Brad out for brain damage?” Bailey asked.
“I’m afraid that’s outside my realm of expertise. But if you let that cutie-pie walk out of your life, then I’m going to check you out for brain damage.”
“But I love it here. I love my job. I love the guys who flirt with me at the pizza place and know I want eggplant and olives on my slice without even asking. I love that you can even get eggplant on pizza here. I love that you can order toilet paper from the deli at two a.m. and I love that the waitress in Mexicano’s knows never, ever to remove the chip basket until it’s empty.”
“She had to learn that the hard way,” Jesse said.
“And I’m sorry. I know I’m not helping my fellow man like you are, but I love real estate. And I think I have a flair for it. It was my candle, and my romantic pictures, and my sales pitch that sold that penthouse to the Fairytalers.”
“I know. But, Bails. You don’t really want to turn out like your aunt Faye, do you?”
“What’s wrong with my aunt Faye? She’s one of the most successful women I know.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I like her. But don’t you think she’s just a little bit obsessed? She can’t even walk into a restaurant without calculating the square footage and table with the best view. And I’ve seen how she hits up your husband. She would give her eyeteeth to have what you have.”
“I know. But I’ve spent my whole life giving in to Brad. It’s my turn. We were finally somewhat happy. Settled. I want a baby. He’s taking it all away from me, using his NDE as an excuse to completely uproot our life.”
“I’m dying to hear the details,” Jesse said. She’d been slowly sliding down in her chair, but now she was leaning forward eagerly. “I love hearing about near-death experiences.”
“You and everybody else.” Bailey tried to keep her voice light and humorous, but she was aware of it cracking. “He floated above his body, saw—this incredible light, I guess—and since then, he’s just not been the same.”
Love like he’s never felt before.
Bailey couldn’t bring herself to say that part.
“Thus the keeper of the light,” Jesse mused.
“Thus,” Bailey confirmed. “But if he’s the keeper, who am I? The prisoner?”
“NDEs are very common,” Jesse said. “I hear about that kind of thing a lot. Believe me, if you had a drainpipe piercing your chest—don’t ask—you’d be seeing bright lights too.”

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