Twisted (10 page)

goals and having the strategies to achieve those goals. I’m most

definitely a Type A.

Planning is my religion; the To-Do List is my bible.

But as I reach the middle of the lobby of the building that

has been my home for the last two years, I freeze. Because for

the first time in my life, I have no idea what to do next. No

direction.

And it’s terrifying. It feels weightless—like an astronaut cut

from his anchor, drifting out into space. Desolate. Doomed.

My life revolves around Drew. And I never thought I’d need a

contingency plan.

My hands start to shake first, then my arms, my knees. My

heartbeat spikes and I’m pretty sure I’m hyperventilating.

It’s the adrenaline. The fight or flight response is an amazing

phenomenon. It’s action without thought—movement without

permission from the brain.

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And mine is in full swing. Every limb screams at me to

move. To
go
. My body doesn’t care where, as long as it’s not here.
Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man.

The gingerbread man was lucky. he had someone chasing him.

“Miss Brooks?”

I don’t hear him at first. The sound of my own panic is too

deafening—like a thousand bats in a sealed cave.

Then he touches my arm, grounding me, bringing me back

down to earth. “Miss Brooks?”

The gray-haired gentleman with the concerned green eyes and

dashing black cap?

That’s Lou, our doorman.

he’s a nice guy—married twenty-three years, with two daugh-

ters in college. have you ever noticed that doormen are always

named Lou, or harry, or Sam? Like their name somehow predeter-

mined their occupation?

“Can I get you anything?”

Can he get me anything?

A lobotomy would come in handy right about now. Nothing

fancy—just an ice pick and a hammer, and I’ll be a happy member

of the spotless mind club.

“Are you all right, Miss Brooks?”

You know that saying, “It’s better to have loved and lost than

never to have loved at all?”

That’s a crock. Whoever said it didn’t know a fucking thing

about love. Ignorance is better; it’s painless.

But to know perfection—to touch it, taste it, breathe it in

every day—and then have it taken away? Loss is agony. And every

inch of my skin aches with it.

“I need . . . I have to go.”

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Yes, that was my voice. The dazed and confused version, like

a casualty in some massive car wreck, who keeps telling anyone

who’ll listen that the light was green.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to end at

all. he wrote it in the clouds for me, remember?

Forever.

Lou glances at the bag on my shoulder. “You mean to the air-

port? Are you late for a flight?”

his words echo in the bottomless pit that is now my mind.

Airport . . . airport . . . airport . . . flight . . . flight . . . flight.

When Alzheimer’s patients start to lose their memories, it’s the

newest ones that go first. The old ones—the address of the house

they grew up in, their second-grade teacher’s name—those stick

around, because they’re ingrained. So much a part of the person

that the information is almost instinctual, like knowing how to

swallow.

My instincts take over now. And I start to plan.

“Yes . . . yes, I need to get to the airport.”

You know anything about wolves? They’re pack animals.

Familial.

Except when they’re injured.

If that happens, the wounded wolf sneaks off in the night

alone, so as not to attract predators. And it goes back to the last cave the group occupied. Because it’s familiar. Safe. And it stays there to recover.

Or die.

“Lou?” he turns toward me from the doorway. “I need some

paper and a pen. I have to send a letter. Could you mail it for me?”

New York City doormen don’t just open doors. They’re deliv-

erymen, mailmen, bodyguards, and gofers.

“Of course, Miss Brooks.”

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he hands me a clean sheet of paper and a high-end ballpoint

pen. Then he goes outside to hail my cab. I sit down on the bench

and write quickly. Any nine-year-old can tell you that’s the best

way to rip off a Band-Aid.

Kind of feels like a suicide note. In a way, I guess it is.

For my career.

Mr. John Evans:

Due to unforeseen personal circumstances, I will no longer be

able to fulfill the terms of my contract with Evans, Reinhart and
Fisher. I hereby submit my resignation without notice.

Regretfully,

Katherine Brooks

It’s cold, I know. But professionalism is the only shield I have

left.

You know, for a girl, there’s something special about a father’s

approval. Maybe it’s some evolutionary leftover from the times

when daughters were just property, to be bartered and sold to the

highest bidder. Whatever the reason, a father’s endorsement is

important—it carries more weight.

When I was ten, the Greenville Parks and Recreation Depart-

ment had Little League tryouts. Without a son to pour his baseball dreams into, my dad spent his time teaching me the finer points of the game. I was a tomboy anyway, so it wasn’t hard.

And that year, my father thought I was too good to play soft-

ball with the girls. That the boy’s league would be more of a challenge.

And I believed it. Because
he
believed it.

Because he believed in me.

Billy made fun of me; he said I was going to get my nose

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broken. Delores came to watch and paint her nails on the

bleachers. I made the team. And when the season ended, I had

the best pitching record in the whole league. My dad was so

proud, he put my trophy next to the cash register at the diner

and bragged to anyone who wanted to listen. And even to those

who didn’t.

Three years later, he was gone.

And it was crippling because, like a blind person who at one

time could see, I knew exactly what I was missing. I never played

baseball again.

Then later, I met John Evans. he picked me—chose me—out

of a thousand applicants. he nurtured my career. he was proud of

every deal I closed, every success.

And for just a moment, I knew how it felt to have a father

again.

And John brought me to Drew. And our lives intertwined, like

ivy around a tree. You know how it is—his family became my fam-

ily, and all that comes with it. Anne’s gentle admonishments, Alexandra’s protectiveness, Steven’s jokes, Matthew’s teasing . . . sweet Mackenzie.

And now I’ve lost all them too.

Because although I don’t think they’ll agree with what Drew

has done, how he’s treated me, you know the saying: Blood is

thicker. So in the end, no matter how distasteful they find Drew’s choices, they won’t be siding with me.

“Miss Brooks, your car’s outside. Are you ready?”

Before I fold the letter, I scribble two words under my signa-

ture. Two painfully inadequate words.

I’m sorry.

Then I force my legs to stand, and I hand Lou the addressed

envelope. I walk toward the door.

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From behind me, the elevator chimes. And I stop and turn to

the big gold double doors.

I wait.

Hope.

Because this is how it always happens in the movies, isn’t

it?
Some Kind of Wonderful, Pretty in Pink,
and every other John hughes film I grew up watching. Just before the girl walks away or gets in the car, the guy comes sprinting down the street.

Chasing after her.

Calling her name.

Telling her he didn’t mean it. Not any of it.

And then they kiss. And the music plays and the credits roll.

That’s what I want right now. The happy ending that everyone

knew was coming.

So I hold my breath. And the doors open.

You want to guess who’s in there? Go ahead—I’ll wait.

. . .

It’s empty.

And I feel my chest cave in on itself. My breaths come quick,

panting through the pain—like when you twist an ankle. And my

vision blurs as the elevator doors slowly close.

It seems so symbolic.

I guess I’ve got my own doors to close now, huh?

I wipe my eyes. And sniff. And I adjust the bag on my shoul-

der.

“Yeah, Lou. I’m ready now.”

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A
sshole.
They say grief is a process. With stages.

Bastard.

And breakups are a lot like a death. The demise of the person

you were, of the life you’d planned to have.

Cocksucker.

The first stage is shock. Numbness. Like one of those trees in

a forest—after a fire has ripped through it—that are scorched and

hollow, but somehow still standing.

Like someone forgot to tell them you’re supposed to lay down

when you’re dead.

Dick toucher.

Care to hazard a guess what the second stage is?

Oh yeah—it’s anger.

What have you done for me lately—I’m better off without

you; I never liked you anyway—anger.

Ear-fucker.
No, that’s lame.
Eater-of-ass.

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Better.

The alphabetical naughty name-calling? It’s a game Delores

and I made up in college. To vent our frustration against the out-

of-touch, stick-up-the-ass professors who were giving us a hard

time.

Feel free to jump in anytime. It’s cathartic.

And for some reason, a lot easier when you’re a high college

student.

Fuckface.

Anyway—what was I saying? That’s right—anger.

Gooch.

Fury is good. Fire is fuel. Steam is power. And rage keeps you

standing, when all you really want to do is curl up in a ball on the floor like a frightened armadillo.

Herniated Intestine.

here’s a fact for you: Married men live seven to ten years lon-

ger than bachelors. Married women, on the other hand, die about

eight years earlier than their single counterparts.

Are you shocked? Me neither.

Infected dick cheese.

Because men are parasites. The life-sucking variety from the

rainforest that burrow up your genitalia, then lay eggs in your kid-neys.

And Drew Evans is their leader.

Jerk-off.

The flight attendant asks me if I would like a complimentary

beverage.

I’m on the plane. Did I not mention that?

I don’t take the drink; I’m trying to avoid the airplane bath-

room. Too many memories there. Fun, sweet memories.

Kooch
.

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See—Drew doesn’t like to fly. he never came out and said it,

never let it stop him, but I could tell.

Flying requires you to hand someone else the reins—to let go

of the illusion of control. And we all know Drew has enough con-

trol issues to fill the Grand Canyon.

Right before takeoff, he’d get moody. Tense. And then, after

the seat belt sign went off, he’d suggest a joint trip to the lavatory.

To relieve some of that tension.

I could never say no.

The Mile high Club? I’m a gold member now.

Leaky discharge.

After the cart moves past me, I recline my seat back and close

my eyes. And I think about what every scorned woman dreams of.

Payback.

Suffering.

Punishment.

Molester of Llamas.

Not that I’m going to go all Lorena Bobbitt on him. A woman’s

most powerful weapon is guilt—much more lethal than a machete.

So my revenge scenarios revolve around . . . death.

My death.

Sometimes it’s cancer; sometimes it’s childbirth. But in every

one, Drew is banging on my deathbed door, begging to come in,

to tell me how assholishly wrong he was.

how sorry he is.

But he’s always too late. I’m already gone. And that knowledge

destroys him—leaves him wrecked. Ruined.

The guilt eats at him slowly, like a tooth in a glass of Coca-Cola.

Nutsack puller.

And he spends the rest of his life alone wearing black, like an

eighty-year-old Italian grandma.

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Orca fingerer.

I smile.

It’s such a nice thought.

Pillow-biting Pansy.

That’s a double-word score.

Delores would be so proud.

Queef.

Oh, yeah—I went there.

Rim job.

You know, I think it’s better this way. No bullshit. If I look at

the situation objectively, I’m better off this way.

Drew did me a favor.

Smegma eater
.