I pull a notepad from my purse and write:
Marchant—
I’m sorry about what happened. I hope your re-building process is as quick and painless as possible.
Suri Dalton.
I’m tucking it into his door when it opens.
13
MARCHANT
I’m shirtless in my most beat-up pair of khaki pants, and I’m in no state to talk to anybody, but once I get a glimpse of Suri Dalton, I can’t help myself. I wrap my hand around the doorknob and look down on her through the window in my door. She’s thoroughly f**kable in black shorts and a cream tank top.
My discharge paperwork says I claimed to have come from Suri Dalton’s hotel room the night of my admission.
It probably isn’t true. I have a memory of kissing her in the bathroom at the Wynn, but knowing what I know of her, I’m pretty sure she didn’t f**k me the night of the fire.
The first thing I remember after walking out the ER’s sliding glass doors is catching a ride with a woman on a motorcycle. She took me to The Deuce Longue, on The Strip, where I saw coverage of the Love Inc. fire on the news, got pissed off, and hit the bartender in the face. I don’t remember any of that, but I have the police report. Apparently I told the cops I wasn’t sure if I was really Marchant Radcliffe.
They asked me for ID, and I said I wanted a ride to the local morgue, because I was no one. They decided to take me to the hospital. When I arrived, I got a shot of sedatives and told someone to call Rachelle so she could verify that Love Inc. had not burned. Rachelle called Dr. Libby. We talked for a while, and I told her I stopped taking my Lithium weeks ago. March 15, to be exact. I woke up feeling like shit and I flushed it down the toilet. She understands why. She knows what that date means to me.
I stayed inpatient for five days, long enough to try ECT twice and decided I didn’t like it enough to try it a third time. Long enough to get my medicine figured out and get me within a few days of Dr. Libby’s return. Long enough to remember bits and pieces of what I can only assume was a fantasy.
I remember a mole on her belly. Does she really have a mole there?
I shouldn’t open the door now, but I do. It’s like f**king magic: Suri Dalton, flesh and blood, sharing air with me. She looks me over, head to toes, and frowns.
“Marchant…hi. I—” Her voice lilts a little and she blinks a few times. “I was here, looking for my grandmother’s ring, which I didn’t find, and I wanted to stop by and…bring you this.” She holds a sheet of paper in front of my face. I read it once, then twice, so it sinks into my sluggish brain. “Speedy and painless…” I give her a tiny smile. “I’d drink to that.” Except, of course, I’m back on the wagon.
She looks me over again. “How are you? You seem…tired.”
I rub my eyes. “Yeah. Long day.” I don’t know what else to say. Hi, I had ECT less than twenty-four hours ago and I can barely remember my middle name. Apparently sex with you was a key part of my psychotic delusion.
I take the note. “Thanks.” I let my eyes meet hers. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Lucky guess.” She smiles, and it’s so perfect I can feel an ache through the thick cloak of my medicine. I tap my fingers on my leg, and suddenly I feel illuminated. Like the blood is pumping through my body again. Like I’m alive. It takes me a moment to adjust, and when I do, I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“Hunter wants to hear from you.” Suri’s thin brows scrunch a little. “He’s worried.”
I hold out my arms. “Still kicking.” Except I realize there are track marks on the inside of my elbows. And I’m probably giving her a good look at my tattoo. Fuck.
I scrub my hand back through my hair. “I’m fine,” I tell her. I look down at a bowl on a table in my foyer. My housekeeper, Mrs. Everett, likes to fill it with Starburst—my favorite candy. I pluck out a red one and eat the damn thing in front of her. I don’t know why. I’m nervous maybe.
“You doing okay?” I ask after I swallow.
“Can’t complain.” She runs her palm over her hair. “I’m flying back to Napa tomorrow.”
I want her to stay, but that’s delusional. Irrational. I have a hazy memory of something unpleasant going on between us in the hospital in El Paso when I was manic Marchant. I bet I was an ass**le.
I force a smile. “I hope you have a good flight.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like there’s something else that I should say to her, but I can’t think of it. They told me this was normal after ECT—memory problems; particularly problems with short-term memory. And for all that I hated the anesthesia IV and I hate the way it makes me feel like my insides were scooped out and there’s nothing in me now, I’m not manic anymore.
I look down at my feet and then back up at her. I say the only thing I can think of: “It was nice meeting you. You’re a nice person.”
“Thanks,” she says, frowning.
And I want her to go now. I want her to go because I want to kiss her, and I don’t like feeling out of control the way I do now that I am breathing her perfume.
She takes a small step back, and the vice around my throat loosens a little. And then her eyes widen. “Would it be okay if I used your bathroom? I’m so sorry to ask.”
I can’t tell her no, so I open the door a little wider and she comes inside.
*
SURI
He looks uncomfortable. Unhappy. I remember how he hasn’t been returning anyone’s calls and how strung out he acted on the plane. I remember when I asked if he was okay that night at the hotel and he told me not to. Clearly, he’s got…stuff. And I bet he wants to keep it private. So it’s not surprising that he doesn’t want me in his house. I wish I hadn’t had to ask, but I’m a long way from the nearest gas station, and I chugged a big bottle of water on the way over here. Nerves, I guess.
He points me down a darkish hallway with stone floor and cream walls dotted with framed photos. I notice college-aged Hunter in a few of them, with college-aged Marchant.
“First door on the right,” he calls behind me, and I wonder in what state I’ll find the bathroom.
The bathroom door is tall and heavy—cherry wood with a crystal doorknob—and the half bath I step into is done in warm sage and cream, with a simple pedestal sink, an ordinary-looking toilet, a plush brown rug, and a rough woven basket that holds magazines. I lean over the magazine basket, expecting Playboy or Hustler, and I’m stunned to see The New Yorker and Scientific American. I glance up at the frame above the towel rack and am surprised to find myself staring down a Jack Kerouac quote.