“I’m glad the bitch is dead,” Mr. Jenson shouts, spraying spit on Lyle’s face.
“You’re an evil man,” Lyle shouts back, his biceps bulging. “She’s his mother, for god’s sake!”
“I’m his mother!” Mrs. Jenson mewls, tears running down her face. “I’m the one who raised him.”
“That’s right, Catherine,” my mother says soothingly. “You’re his mother.”
“That bitch is nothing more than a baby maker,” Mr. Jenson says nastily. “Put in a penis and out pops a kid. Nothing but a whore.”
“Keep your voice down,” I say, furious at his histrionics. “Do you want Paris to hear you?”
“I don’t give a good hot damn,” Mr. Jenson declares, pushing a finger in Lyle’s chest. “She deserved what she got.”
“Listen, you,” Lyle sputters, making a grab for Mr. Jenson’s finger.
“Oh for god sake’s,” I sigh loudly, fed up with the whole scene. “Mom, can I have the keys to your car? I’m going to the gym to work out.”
“This late?” My mother protests. It’s nine-thirty, and it makes her nervous when I travel alone late at night—especially after the last few months.
“I gotta get out of here. I want to check out the gym one more time, anyway.” I pull my cell phone out of my duffel and wave it at my mother. “Look, I’m armed and dangerous.” I shove it in my jacket pocket so I have easy access.
“All right.” She reluctantly hands me her keys. “Be careful,” she warns. I breeze out of the hospital and drive to the gym. There are only two clients, both of whom are wearing headphones, and Jimmy is at the front desk.
“We should go to the hospital,” I say urgently. We gather our stuff, forgetting about our brainstorming session. It’s more important we reach the Jensons and Paris before anyone else does. As we’re rushing down the front steps, Inspector Robinson is walking up them. She is wearing a taupe pantsuit that flatters her figure nicely.
“All right, that’s enough!” My mother says loudly. Everyone but me is so shocked, they immediately stop what they are doing and practically snap to attention. “You are all acting like children. Is this the image you want to present to Paris?” The nurses continue on their way; the cop sits back down; Lyle slowly deflates; Mrs. Jenson’s shoulders sag; Mr. Jenson continues posturing. “I have tried to be diplomatic, but I have failed. Catherine, Douglas, you have the right to do what you want, of course, but I think it’s a crying shame that you want to banish one of the few people who loves Paris for who he is. Why don’t you ask Paris what he wants or don’t you care?” From within the room, we all hear a distinct if faint, “Want Lyle.” Mrs. Jenson has the grace to blush while Mr. Jenson continues to scowl.
I dress with extra care the next morning and even apply a little makeup since my face looks wan from lack of sleep. I don’t wear any of the five outfits I had in mind last night. Instead, I pull on a silvery-gray skirt, black tights, a black blouse and whatever accoutrements I think will match. I brush my hair until it shines, then peer at myself anxiously in the mirror. I’m not usually self-conscious about my looks, knowing that I’m put together in a way that is pleasing to most eyes. Short—five-two—curvy, with glossy black hair, dark brown eyes and full lips. I turn heads when I walk down the street, unless I’m with Paris, of course, who is truly stunning. Thinking about him brings me down to earth and away from my romantic aspirations. My mother nods approvingly at my outfit as I gobble down my breakfast. I am late for work, my sleep pattern being so erratic as of late. I arrive just in time to be pointedly ignored by my colleagues. I plunge into my work in order to not feel the shunning so deeply. I have an email from Libby that is so unlike her normal self, I read it twice.
“Let’s go talk,” Lyle says, grabbing me by the arm. With a wave at the others, he steers me to the cafeteria.
He starts to speak, then falters. He is looking for Paris’s mother, as he doesn’t feel comfortable revealing information to anyone but the next of kin. This doctor is short, about five-six with blond wisps that go every which way but down. He is wearing round glasses that half hide keen blue eyes. My mother informs him with a smile that the Jensons are at the hotel because it’s been such a hard time for Mrs. Jenson, as my mother is sure the doctor can appreciate. The doctor’s sternness melts a little under the warmth of my mother’s smile. Lyle presses the doctor for information, causing the doctor to look at him with a faint look of alarm. Lyle introduces himself; Dr. Price reciprocates, looking at me questioningly. I tell him my name, nodding at him in a friendly fashion. The doctor relaxes, then tells us what’s happened.
Ms. Liang,” the inspector nods at my mother, then frowns. There is the apparent problem of confusion of address with two Ms. Liangs in the room.
“I’m going to see Paris,” I say defiantly, striding towards the room. I positively itch for a confrontation, but this officer, yet a different one, lets me in as soon as I give her my name. I sit down. “It’s a mess, Paris. I’m no closer to finding out who did this to you, and worse yet, I quit my job today. Sort of.” I pour out everything, not wanting to bottle up my feelings. As I’m talking a glimmer of something comes to my mind, but it’s gone. I don’t try to push it because I know it’ll come to me sooner if I let it simmer. I want more than anything for Paris to open his eyes, for him to smile at me, for him to come home. “Oh, god,” I sob, my head dropping forward. How much longer can I stand to see Paris like this? I long to shake him by his shoulders until he awakes.
When I do return to the living room, Lyle is ready to take me to the mat. I can tell by looking at him that he’s itching for a fight. It saddens me because I like him very much, and I don’t want to ruin our budding friendship. He demands to know why he has to hear from the inspector that I’ve fucked his boyfriend, and while I understand his pain, I’m not about to roll over and play dead. If he has a beef, it’s with Paris for not telling him as I haven’t slept with Paris in years. I hope that Lyle will let it go, but he won’t. It’s not enough to know that Paris and I haven’t slept together in a long time; he has to know exactly when was the last time I had sex with Paris. He also insists on knowing how many times Paris and I have slept together, which is even more of an asinine request—order. I press my lips together; I’ll be damned if I let Lyle browbeat me into ‘confessing’ my sins.
I have to go back to the gym tomorrow to find out more about the blond, not to mention try to find Billy. I ask what Lyle found out about Ursula in order not to have to think about returning to the gym. Mirabelle did a search on Ursula because she loves doing research, and she knows a few people in the biz. Turn out, Ursula had exaggerated about her financial assets. She’s worth about ten million, not the twenty-five or whatever she told us. Also, she just returned from a weeklong five-state tour. It was a Midwest swing. Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa and one of the Dakotas. Lyle and I both shudder with the insularity of true Californians, not able to imagine why anyone would live in the Midwest. Lyle resumes his narrative, informing me that Ursula’s latest book has been postponed twice. Her publisher is furious with her, according to Mirabelle, and is threatening to sue her for breach of contract.