Chapter 6
There wasn't a blasted thing on TV. Leno's smirking monologue trying to find humor in a recent Sarah Palin debacle was listless, and the artificially forced hilarity of his duty bound studio audience wasn't helping. She turned it off and felt completely alone. There was nobody to lean on, no sympathetic ear to lighten the load. Judy, whom she might have called, was by now sound asleep. Instead of being able to relax, she was reduced to pacing, the cramping increasing her worries, her brain firing off hormones in every direction. It was going to be a long night, and feeling good was not going to be a part of the action. It was clear to her the battering would never stop, no matter what she tried, no matter how she tiptoed around him. She'd changed her behavior around him a thousand times, and still it never stopped.
"My God," she said. "I don't know who I am anymore." In spite of herself, she placed the call to her son's cell phone.
"Hi Mom," Jesse Edwin said. Wherever he was, he wasn't alone, the determined background noise suggesting a bowling alley or an arcade. Since Jesse Edwin came out of rehab, he was always surrounded by clean and sober program people, building for himself an impenetrable bulwark of friends who were constantly rooting for him, supporting him, fighting for him. He'd done surprisingly well. They were his new family. She almost felt like an interloper.
"What are you doing, son?"
"Eating. After the meeting, a bunch of us decided we needed an ice-cream fix. Mom, are you loaded? Your voice sounds a little shaky. What are you high on?"
"I'm high? What makes you think that?"
"Mom, it's one o'clock in the morning. I know how it works."
"Martinis. But I'm not drunk. I wish I was."
"What's he done to you this time?"
"How's the storm on your end? They're working on the beach on my end, trying to save it. I told Hershey tonight I wasn't going back to him. I don't think he's too happy about it."
"Where are you, Mom?"
"I'm at Shutters."
"He did it again, didn't he? I'm coming over."
"I'm not feeling so well."
"What's wrong," he said.
"It's just a little tummy ache," she lied. "I think it was the cheesecake. Judy was the smart one; she didn't have any. Don't come over. It's too dangerous to drive in this weather."
"Quit lying to me, Mom. We both know the pain isn't from the cheesecake. I'll be there in an hour."
Things should have been different. Hirschfeld should have been there, stroking her hair the way he used to do. She wondered what exactly she was going to do. She imagined falling asleep, waking up in her own bed to find out the whole thing had been a bad dream.
Against her better judgment, she dialed The Dell. Hirschfeld answered after a few rings, sounding strangely out of breath.
"Why are you so out of breath?"
"I ran to get the phone."
"Liar. You never run to get the phone. What are you doing over there?"
"I told you. I'm out of breath because I ran. You caught me halfway up the stairs. I ran to the phone because I thought it might be you."
"What's that sound I'm hearing?"
"I took your call on the phone in the bathroom. I've got the Jacuzzi going."
"I know the timing of this stinks," she said.
"You're forty-nine," he said. "I'm fifty-seven. We're not the Partridge family. Did you ever think that maybe a kid is what we need? I've been doing a lot of thinking tonight."
"Do you want the baby?"
"...Yes."
"You took too long to answer. Besides, you've probably already killed it."
"Rickie, what's the point of this exercise? I sure don't want you having an abortion. I'm calling Doctor Lerner at UCLA and have her come to the hotel and examine you. Am I wrong to want you to have the baby at this late date? If for no other reason, I'd at least be leaving something behind."
"Dr. Lerner's a board certified surgeon," Rickie said. "She's not running out in this storm at your beck and call."
"She will if she values the future of the Medical Center. Are you forgetting I'm on the board for the new expansion? Not to mention being a major contributor to the place."
"Don't call her out tonight. The cramps aren't that bad. I will tell you one thing. If I'm going to have the baby, you and I both have to stop drinking."
"I am not an alcoholic," Hirschfeld said firmly.
"Okay, fine. Can you do me one favor?"
"Anything."
"Drop dead." She slammed the receiver in a laudable effort to telegraph the full weight of her anger directly through his ear into his brain. Hirschfeld did have high blood pressure and a history of angina. It was mildly conceivable that she’d killed him. Most likely, the immediate and future forecast was for Hirschfeld to continue on doing exactly as he pleased, for the rest of his life.
When will the understanding finally come? She thought. What will it take for Hershey to realize the truth about his sorry behavior?
The thought of Hirschfeld caused her abdominal pain to increase as she envisioned his future demise, which would likely occur in the form of an injury accident someplace akin to Dead Man's curve on Sunset Boulevard south of Doheny. The beginning of the end would come with a clatter and a plunging and a breaking of innocent bones in the heart of Beverly Hills. Hirschfeld, of course, would be drunk, staggering away from the wreckage unscathed and uncomprehending, his BAC soaring off the dial. His actions would trigger a grim series of sessions with hard-faced judges, angry victims and sanctimonious lawyers, who'd parade him in front of the media with a vengeance.
She needed another drink but her sober son was coming. A Coke, then, from the honor bar, with extra cherries.
A stab of pain arced spiritedly upward from the dull ache deep inside her, dropping her into a crouch. She took shallow breaths, feeling the edges of fear. Wanting to be safe and secure. Wanting to be anywhere but crouching on the floor of her suite high up within Shutters on the Beach. She stood up and slowly drew a full breath. The pain struck again, looser and faster than before, forcing her down into the crouch again. Five minutes passed. She stood up a final time and everything inside her broke into a thousand pieces, crumpling her onto the carpet as unseen hands reached deep inside, puncturing all that was good and decent within her. Rickie lay gasping, frightened by the rasping, grating sounds coming from her throat. She managed to get up on hands and knees. Horrified, she realized there was a lot of blood running down her legs and soaking the carpet. Too much blood.
The telephone seemed ten miles away, on the other side of the couch. The pain subsided and she made a move toward it. Halfway there, the pain returned and did things to her she never imagined could be done. The room flickered once and went out. Rickie left Rickie behind and floated to the ceiling and looked down at the whole scene, watching Rickie fade away before her eyes. Something was clouding her view of herself. A dark purple cloud. She touched the cloud and drew back her hand, amused by the shower of stars. There was a lady wrapped in a blue mantle staring back at her, a lady floating in the clouds, neither angry or happy, someone with a face constructed sometime before the universe began.
"My child," the lady said.
Rickie laughed. She was through fighting. In a way, she was glad it was over.