“Why?” she finally asks. “I mean, after all these years. Why now?”
“I don’t know. It’s a bad idea?”
“Such a bad idea.”
I knew it.
“But,” she adds after a few seconds, “if you need to go, Grace, then you should go.”
“I have a private jet. Well, I mean, I have one available to me. As Mrs. Asher. I’m coming right now.”
“Now? But I’m at work.”
God, I love my adopted sister. She just naturally assumes we’d do this together. “That’s OK, Bebe. I can go alone. Really. It’s not a big deal. In fact, I want to go alone.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine. How about I call you later and maybe we can have dinner?”
“OK.”
She sounds hesitant, so I say goodbye and quickly hang up before she can ask any more questions. I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t want her to feel obligated.
I stare at my phone for a few seconds to get up my nerve. When Vaughn gave me this phone the day after we came home from the hospital, it had all his contacts in it already. His agent. Big Hollywood producers and movie stars. Restaurants he frequents. And the flight coordinator.
I press that tab now and tell them I want to go to Denver. It’s a three-hour drive up to the town I grew up in from Denver, but I can use the thinking time. Plus, I don’t want those people to know I’m coming. I don’t know why, but I don’t want them to know I’m coming. And if I take a jet up to that little airstrip, they will know.
Once the arrangements are made, I get up and take a shower and get dressed. I skip breakfast—they always serve food on the jet—and then I climb into the Audi Vaughn says is mine, and drive out to the airport.
By the time I get there, it’s fueled, the captain is on board, and the only thing missing is me. Vaughn didn’t call and ask me what the hell I’m doing, so I can only assume they didn’t inform him of my plans.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief at that because he’d have all kinds of questions. And I’m not ready to answer those questions.
I really just want some space. I need some space to put things together.
I spend the next few hours staring off into said space. Just thinking.
Thinking about too many things, if I’m honest. About the kidnapping. Both times. About Vaughn. About my leg. It’s better, almost one hundred percent better, but it was very painful. You know, in movies and books they always make it look like getting shot in the leg is no big deal. Well, it was a big fucking deal. My scar is four inches long. It took me three weeks before I could walk without a crutch, and then it took weeks more of physical therapy to get rid of the limp.
The first time I was taken, I came back with no injuries. I mean, he injured me plenty during those eight months. But there was no medical attention required. I didn’t need fixing. I was fine.
This time it’s different. This time everyone knew I was damaged and that I needed attention. And believe me, I got a lot of attention. I almost prefer no attention. In fact, I know I’d prefer no attention.
I like to blend in.
I like to lie low.
I like to be still, and quiet and—
Wait. No, that’s not right.
Grace—or the old Grace, at least—likes to talk. She likes to tweet, and Facebook, and chat. That was my whole social life before… before this happened.
How did I get so confused?
The captain comes on over the intercom and announces that we’ll be landing in ten minutes. I never took my seatbelt off, so his spiel is wasted on me.
I don’t even know why I want to go home to see those people. I guess it’s just killing me to know that I have real blood relatives but I have no connection to them at all.
I sigh and push all those melancholy thoughts away as we descend. And when the wheels touch down, I’m resolved to see this through. No matter what.
“We have a car ready for you, Mrs. Asher. It will pull up into arrivals in ten minutes and should be waiting for you by the time you get outside.”
I nod absently as I chew on my fingernail. Why am I doing this?
I wish I knew. I’m not myself these days. I know that. But it’s like I have this momentum and I don’t know how to stop… whatever direction it is I’m heading.
The plane taxis for another minute and then we stop. I sit quietly as the staff opens things up and then the attendant turns and smiles at me. She has very red lipstick and a tight bun. “You’re all set, Mrs. Asher.”
I hate that they call me that, but I use it myself when I need to get things done. Like taking my husband’s jet for the day.
“Thank you,” I sing back in a cheerful voice. She beams a smile at me like maybe I’m not the damaged freak everyone thinks I am.
You know, it’s funny—I take a few steps off the plane and the wind and cold overtake my thoughts for a second. It’s November in Colorado and I forgot my coat—it’s so easy for me to smile and be fake. I did it so much back when I was a teen. It’s like acting. And that’s what’s funny. Because I married an actor.
Is it this easy for him to hide his true feelings?
I continue with my smile as I walk across the tarmac and go inside the small, but bustling, terminal. The place is abuzz with people. Mostly rich business travelers. None of them pay me any attention as I walk straight across and out the doors to the pickup line.
And stop dead. So I can smile for real. “What are you doing here, bitch?”
Bebe is wrapped up in a stylish red wool coat with a black belt that makes her waist look tiny and her boobs look enormous. She’s got on dark sunglasses and her long, almost-black hair is waving gently around her face in the wind. Bebe looks like a movie star. She slips her sunglasses down her nose and gives me a smirk. “Do you really think I’m going to let you go see those awful people alone?”
I cross the distance between us and she pulls me in for a tight hug. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you so much. I just need to take one more look at them, y know?”
“I know, chica.” And then she pushes me back. “You don’t even limp!”
“I know, thanks to you. I hear you called in for a progress report twice a week.”
“Well,” she says as she puts her arm around me and leads me towards a black car, “it was the least I could do. I wanted to be with you for every second of your recovery.”
“I don’t know. It’s a bad idea?”
“Such a bad idea.”
I knew it.
“But,” she adds after a few seconds, “if you need to go, Grace, then you should go.”
“I have a private jet. Well, I mean, I have one available to me. As Mrs. Asher. I’m coming right now.”
“Now? But I’m at work.”
God, I love my adopted sister. She just naturally assumes we’d do this together. “That’s OK, Bebe. I can go alone. Really. It’s not a big deal. In fact, I want to go alone.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine. How about I call you later and maybe we can have dinner?”
“OK.”
She sounds hesitant, so I say goodbye and quickly hang up before she can ask any more questions. I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t want her to feel obligated.
I stare at my phone for a few seconds to get up my nerve. When Vaughn gave me this phone the day after we came home from the hospital, it had all his contacts in it already. His agent. Big Hollywood producers and movie stars. Restaurants he frequents. And the flight coordinator.
I press that tab now and tell them I want to go to Denver. It’s a three-hour drive up to the town I grew up in from Denver, but I can use the thinking time. Plus, I don’t want those people to know I’m coming. I don’t know why, but I don’t want them to know I’m coming. And if I take a jet up to that little airstrip, they will know.
Once the arrangements are made, I get up and take a shower and get dressed. I skip breakfast—they always serve food on the jet—and then I climb into the Audi Vaughn says is mine, and drive out to the airport.
By the time I get there, it’s fueled, the captain is on board, and the only thing missing is me. Vaughn didn’t call and ask me what the hell I’m doing, so I can only assume they didn’t inform him of my plans.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief at that because he’d have all kinds of questions. And I’m not ready to answer those questions.
I really just want some space. I need some space to put things together.
I spend the next few hours staring off into said space. Just thinking.
Thinking about too many things, if I’m honest. About the kidnapping. Both times. About Vaughn. About my leg. It’s better, almost one hundred percent better, but it was very painful. You know, in movies and books they always make it look like getting shot in the leg is no big deal. Well, it was a big fucking deal. My scar is four inches long. It took me three weeks before I could walk without a crutch, and then it took weeks more of physical therapy to get rid of the limp.
The first time I was taken, I came back with no injuries. I mean, he injured me plenty during those eight months. But there was no medical attention required. I didn’t need fixing. I was fine.
This time it’s different. This time everyone knew I was damaged and that I needed attention. And believe me, I got a lot of attention. I almost prefer no attention. In fact, I know I’d prefer no attention.
I like to blend in.
I like to lie low.
I like to be still, and quiet and—
Wait. No, that’s not right.
Grace—or the old Grace, at least—likes to talk. She likes to tweet, and Facebook, and chat. That was my whole social life before… before this happened.
How did I get so confused?
The captain comes on over the intercom and announces that we’ll be landing in ten minutes. I never took my seatbelt off, so his spiel is wasted on me.
I don’t even know why I want to go home to see those people. I guess it’s just killing me to know that I have real blood relatives but I have no connection to them at all.
I sigh and push all those melancholy thoughts away as we descend. And when the wheels touch down, I’m resolved to see this through. No matter what.
“We have a car ready for you, Mrs. Asher. It will pull up into arrivals in ten minutes and should be waiting for you by the time you get outside.”
I nod absently as I chew on my fingernail. Why am I doing this?
I wish I knew. I’m not myself these days. I know that. But it’s like I have this momentum and I don’t know how to stop… whatever direction it is I’m heading.
The plane taxis for another minute and then we stop. I sit quietly as the staff opens things up and then the attendant turns and smiles at me. She has very red lipstick and a tight bun. “You’re all set, Mrs. Asher.”
I hate that they call me that, but I use it myself when I need to get things done. Like taking my husband’s jet for the day.
“Thank you,” I sing back in a cheerful voice. She beams a smile at me like maybe I’m not the damaged freak everyone thinks I am.
You know, it’s funny—I take a few steps off the plane and the wind and cold overtake my thoughts for a second. It’s November in Colorado and I forgot my coat—it’s so easy for me to smile and be fake. I did it so much back when I was a teen. It’s like acting. And that’s what’s funny. Because I married an actor.
Is it this easy for him to hide his true feelings?
I continue with my smile as I walk across the tarmac and go inside the small, but bustling, terminal. The place is abuzz with people. Mostly rich business travelers. None of them pay me any attention as I walk straight across and out the doors to the pickup line.
And stop dead. So I can smile for real. “What are you doing here, bitch?”
Bebe is wrapped up in a stylish red wool coat with a black belt that makes her waist look tiny and her boobs look enormous. She’s got on dark sunglasses and her long, almost-black hair is waving gently around her face in the wind. Bebe looks like a movie star. She slips her sunglasses down her nose and gives me a smirk. “Do you really think I’m going to let you go see those awful people alone?”
I cross the distance between us and she pulls me in for a tight hug. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you so much. I just need to take one more look at them, y know?”
“I know, chica.” And then she pushes me back. “You don’t even limp!”
“I know, thanks to you. I hear you called in for a progress report twice a week.”
“Well,” she says as she puts her arm around me and leads me towards a black car, “it was the least I could do. I wanted to be with you for every second of your recovery.”
