Exercept IDENTITY CRISIS
1
Friday Evening
Grace
I STALK ANGRILY into La Parrilla Mexican Grill. I’m beyond pissed! Stephen just canceled yet another dinner with me, the fifth time in two weeks! He’s giving a speech in Dallas, on very short notice, and Friday is supposed to be our date night! I know I shouldn’t be upset. Stephen is currently a US congressman and is running for the US Senate. He says long hours come with being a candidate, but lately, I’ve begun to wonder if something else is going on. I haven’t asked, though. I’m not sure I want to know the answer. I’m even more annoyed when a little voice slips through my thoughts, asking, Why the hell not?
As a distraction, I fiddle with my four-carat engagement ring, which has an annoying habit of slipping around toward my palm. Frustrated, I close my fingers around the stone and realize concentrating on my engagement ring isn’t precisely a distraction from my anger with Stephen.
Instead of a date with Stephen, I’m having dinner at La Parrilla with Karen, my best friend and partner in Bennett Events. Karen and I have come up with some of our best event ideas here over chips and Margaritas, since it’s only a few blocks from our office in downtown Houston. Tonight, I am looking forward to a Margarita or two or four. I drove over, but Uber is always an option.
Once we’re seated with the requisite drinks, chips, and salsa, I grab my Margarita and chug half of it, not even taking the time to relish the sharp, salty taste. I run my fingers through my short hair and let my head fall back against the booth, sighing as I feel the tequila start to work its magic.
Since we came straight from the office, we’re both still dressed for work, in the latest designer wear. People who consider paying tens of thousands (or even hundreds of thousands) to have their wedding or whatever coordinated want to know their consultants are part of their world and understand their problems, so Karen and I don’t skimp on our wardrobes.
My snug-fitting, tailored dark green jacket goes well with the simple flared skirt and looks marvelous with my dark hair, but tonight it feels stifling, constraining me as tightly as the ring on my finger. I wish I had taken the time to change into jeans. I smile, thinking of the look of horror I would get from Karen, who insists we never know when we might meet a prospective client. I have to admit, she’s not wrong.
Karen always wears four-inch heels despite her five-foot-ten-inch height. She makes an impact that at five-seven I’ll never achieve. Her blond hair curves smoothly to her shoulders. She’s model slim and looks elegant in anything. She doesn’t even own a pair of jeans. I do, along with half a closet full of artsy, bohemian stuff, that I feel compelled to buy but never wear.
“So,” I say, searching for a subject, not Stephen, to distract me from my sour mood. I quickly check the list app on my phone. “Looks like everything is in place for tomorrow’s Ames-Stanton wedding and reception.” It’s June, so we are booked solid with weddings.
“Yep, Cecily Ames modeled her dress for me today. It’s a stunner. When she walks down the aisle this time, she’ll look even better than she did at her last wedding three years ago. Of course, she has more to spend with the settlement from hubby number one.”
I like Cecily, and despite my somewhat cynical view of marriage that comes from being in the wedding planning business, I wish her well. I smile and raise my glass. “Here’s to repeat customers.”
Karen sips her drink and watches me crunch a chip dipped in salsa. Then she sets her Margarita down and focuses a laser gaze on me. “We can talk business later. What’s up with you and Stephen? You have been wearing that ring for a month and haven’t even started planning your own wedding. I expected you to hit the ground running.” So did Stephen, who has been pushing me to get things moving.
Her comment makes me uncomfortable. At work, I look for potential problems and figure out how to stop them before they happen. From an angry ex-boyfriend who takes a swing at the groom to a four-year-old ring bearer taking a whiz in the bushes, I can handle anything. Apparently, I am a genius at solving other people’s problems but not my own. I finally say, “Nothing. Why?”
Karen shakes her head and gives me a look. “You’re fibbing. You’re chewing on your bottom lip, and all it took was mentioning Stephen’s name.”
I immediately take a gulp of Margarita, knowing it’s too late to deflect her.
True to form, she zeroes in. “Gracie Bennett, what is wrong with you? Stephen keeps on telling you he’ll be working late. What’s he doing?”
I shrug. “Campaign stuff, I guess. I speak more to his campaign manager than to him.”
Karen lifts one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. The truth is, I’m sick of defending Stephen. I suck up more Margarita and add, “He never sleeps over anyway. When he works late, which is almost always, he says he’s too tired and intends to fall into bed, and since his apartment is close by his office, he goes home.”
“What do you mean he doesn’t sleep over? You’re engaged to the man, for Christ’s sake!”
That sounds downright weird when she puts it like that. “When he put this ring on my finger, he said he wanted to start keeping some things at my house, clothes, toothbrush…, stuff. It felt like he was moving in, and next, he would be explaining how it would make sense for him to let his apartment go. After all, he needs money for his campaign. I’m not ready for that argument.”
“I think you may be right there. Anyway, he might as well go home because the sex you tell me about sounds boring, boring, boring. Doesn’t that bother you? I mean, he’s not there much, and when he is, you’re bored.”
“I never said the sex is boring.” I chug the rest of my drink, a total waste of top-shelf tequila, and catch the waiter’s eye.
“Well,…cut to the chase, Gracie. Is sex with him boring, or not?”
I shrug. I realize I shrug a lot when I’m talking about Stephen. She’s right—sex with him is boring. There’s nothing particularly wrong with Stephen. He’s wealthy, blond, handsome, tennis player fit, and wears a suit like a GQ model, but the last time his lips were on mine, I spent the entire kiss going over my list for our event the next day.
I tip my glass to drink, find it empty, and set it down. I catch myself twisting the ring on my finger. I clench my fist, then drop my hand into my lap. I always chose safe over risky. That’s how I ended up with Stephen, not much risk there. I slot perfectly into his plans for election to the senate, a very secure place to be. Plus, romantically, I’m in no danger. I like Stephen, but he’ll never break my heart. A month ago, when he asked me to marry him, I told myself that sounded great. My mother told me the same. Now, it’s just bleak.
“I think he’s having an affair.”
The waiter appears and asks if I want another Margarita. Given the direction our conversation is taking, I nod and hold up two fingers.
I continue. “I’ve known there was something wrong for a while. I just haven’t wanted to deal with it because if he’s looking elsewhere, I’m probably boring to him too.”
Karen touches my fingers on the table. “You’re bored. He’s bored. What that tells me is there’s no chemistry between you. Instead of being angry with him for cheating, the question you should be asking is, why have you let this go on so long?”
I shrug. “He checked all the boxes.”
“All except the most important one! Can you honestly tell me that you’ve been so hot for Stephen that you felt like you’d die if he didn’t take you to bed right then?”
There it is, the question I’ve avoided asking myself for the past month.
“Do you know how likely I am to find someone like that?”
“Well, it won’t happen if you’re not open to the idea.”
“Ugh. This is depressing.”
“No, what would be really depressing is marrying Stephen and becoming one of those country club wives who’s on the club board, takes tennis lessons and plays in the club tournaments, plays bridge on Thursdays, and does lunch and shopping with her girlfriends on Friday, all while her husband is busy at work.” She makes air quotes around ‘busy.’ “And if you have kids, you can add them to the list of things you’ll do alone.”
I drop my head in my hands, unsure whether to laugh or cry. I sit up and shake my head. “God, that’s awful. Do you know the hardest thing about breaking this engagement? Telling my mother. How pathetic is that?”
Karen leans back and picks up her glass. “So…”
The ring on my finger feels too tight, as though my hand has swelled. I twist it off and drop it into my purse. I raise my left hand and wiggle my ring-free fingers at Karen as I push down the thought of how disappointed my mother will be. Karen smiles back. I can’t help but be aware of the gold band still on her finger after three years of widowhood. “Maybe it’s time you took that off too.”
Her eyes tear up, and she gives a little head shake and raises her chin. “I’m not ready, but good for you.” She holds her Margarita up in a toast.
A full Margarita plus the backup sit beside my hand. When had that appeared? I lift my glass, clink it with hers, and take a long swallow. It tastes so good, I chug the rest, pick up the other glass, and down a large gulp. I feel happier than I have in a while, though that might have had something to do with the third Margarita, which I am already halfway through.
***
I walk out of La Parrilla, smiling. I won’t be marrying Stephen, but I have my friends and Bennett Events. At least I know I won’t be bored for the rest of my life. I want more than tepid kisses, Salvatore Ferragamo loafers, and soft hands. I’m not sure what that leaves, but I want to find out.
I turn to Karen. “Want me to give you a lift home? You’re on my way.”
She shakes her head. “No thanks. Got to take advantage of every calorie-burning opportunity. ”
“You’re seriously going to walk five blocks in heels?”
“Honey, I was born in a pair of heels.”
She takes off walking, and I slip into my red Mazda, thinking about the run I intend to take when I get home.
I’m headed toward the interstate before I remember Uber. I’m hoping four Margaritas in two hours won’t put me over the limit.
I lower the window, and the night air blows gently against my face. I smile as I get into the zone that comes with driving. The engine purrs, and colorful billboards whiz by against the black sky. My left hand feels lighter than it has in a month. Colors are brighter; everything is more sharply focused. I realize what I’m feeling is happiness. The sense of freedom is almost dizzying. It’s as though by taking off Stephen’s ring I ripped off a facade I’ve spent my life building in my quest for approval.
Now that the ring is off, I tell myself, you’re twenty-nine, Gracie, and it’s about time to decide what you want. Unfortunately, I know more about what I don’t want than what I do. A little voice is screaming out what I’ve never admitted. I want someone who isn’t boring to kiss, someone a little edgy, a take-charge guy. Karen described it exactly. I want someone who makes me feel like I’ll die if he doesn’t take me to bed right then. Allowing myself to feel serious heat for someone is risky, but it’s time I took a risk.
I’m still musing about what I really want as I move into the deceleration lane before my exit. A yellow Corvette starts to go around me. I glance over and see Stephen driving and a woman I don’t recognize sitting next to him. Wavy red hair foams around her shoulders, here hands are gesturing wildly. I can’t hear any words, but it looks like she’s screaming invectives at him. What the hell?
It shouldn’t bother me. I mean, I already guessed he’s having an affair, but seeing the truth played out for me feels like a trash bin dropped on my chest and spilled garbage all over me. Everything around me goes into slow motion. I can’t seem to take my eyes away from the drama playing out in the front seat of the Corvette. Stephen looks right at me, shock freezing his features.
Time suddenly starts to move again. I realize my car has drifted several feet into the Corvette’s lane. I yank the wheel to the right, overcorrect, and wrench it back to the left. My Mazda swerves and begins to spin toward the Corvette. Stephen’s car suddenly veers into mine, smashing into the driver-side fender with a screech of tearing metal.
The jarring impact sets off my airbags. Loud, insistent honking surrounds me. Tires scream on the pavement as both cars skid sideways onto the off-ramp, which circles downward in a decreasing radius turn. I stomp on the brake, which has no effect. It’s like being on a deranged roller coaster, but instead of pulling safely to a halt at the bottom of the last nearly vertical drop to allow the passengers to disembark, the two cars go over the edge and fall twenty feet to the street below.
***
I am standing about fifteen feet from the fire rescue truck, watching two cops conferring by a police car. The red and blue lights from the emergency vehicles and cop cars are flashing white-blue-red, like some crazed video game. The Corvette is a heap of torn and broken fiberglass leaning against my crushed Mazda. The entire scene is surrealistic. I’m amazed I was lucky enough to have crawled out alive from the tangled wreckage. I do a quick inventory. Legs work okay, arms too, no headache, no blood. Yup, I’m fine.
EMTs are dragging stuff out of the back of an ambulance. Firefighters walk beside the wreckage looking for victims. I yell, “Hey guys, I managed to get out!” But no one glances over. I guess they can’t hear me. They are yelling back and forth, and there’s a lot of honking from the highway above us as people slow down to gawk.
It occurs to me I will have to call someone to take me home since I won’t be driving my car. I’d call Karen, and I do a quick inventory for my phone, and come up empty handed. Duh, it’s in my purse, still in my Mazda. Then I realize I have no memory of getting out of the car. Why can’t I remember getting out of the car?
I’ve heard extreme trauma can interfere with short-term memory, and that wreck sure qualifies as extreme, pee in your pants trauma. I must have escaped the car before the emergency folks got here. It’s a little strange that everyone is ignoring me. You’d think they’d be glad to know there’s one less person to worry about, but they probably think I’m just a lookie-loo fascinated by crumpled cars, hoping to see bodies.
I search for Stephen and his red-headed companion, hoping they got out too. I try to work up some anger toward him, but I can’t seem to concentrate on that. I feel numb. Somehow the gravity of a collision of this magnitude makes whatever I might feel toward him insignificant. I for sure don’t want either of them dead.
I scan the emergency vehicles for him and his girlfriend and jerk in surprise as I see her standing next to me. She’s beautiful, with pale skin that’s almost translucent. She’s my height, although her hips and bust are more generous than mine. Her light blue silk dress flows around her, lifted slightly by the breeze. It would have been nice if she had said something!
“You okay?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, and I wonder if she has a head injury, but she seems fine. I don’t see any blood.
“Have you seen Stephen?” I continue, hoping for some response.
She turns her eyes to me, her voice empty. “You and I are nearly dead, you know. I saw my body trapped in the car. I didn’t see Stephen.” After a minute, she continues, “You must be Grace.”
Nearly dead? Maybe she means we could have died, except we got out. I focus on her last statement instead. “How do you know who I am?”
“Before the cars, you know,” she waves her hand in a tumbling motion, “Stephen said, ‘That’s Grace, my fiancée.’ He was really upset that you saw us.” She fixates on the wrecks.
“And who are you?” I ask.
She turns back to me. “I’m Julie Ann.”
She’s quiet for a while, and I decide she’s not going to say anything else, but then she adds, “I thought Stephen and I were in love, that we would get married, but then the ring on your finger was all over social media. He told me the contacts from your business would be so valuable to his campaign. I’ll bet you didn’t realize you were being used, did you?”
“Anyway, he said I still had to get a divorce, which would take months. The election would be over, and his divorce wouldn’t be a big deal in the press by then. I should have seen that was a bunch of bull, but I wanted to believe him—stars in my eyes and all that. The thing is, Stephen is really smart. I’m sure he just wanted to marry me because a wife can’t be made to testify against her husband. That would make things neat and tidy.” She sounds so angry and disgusted, I almost feel sorry for her.
Apparently, it’s true confessions time. I try to wrap my head around all that. So many questions jumble in my head, like what the hell she might testify about, but the firefighters carrying a body on a stretcher distract me. One of them yells to the EMTs. “This one’s alive, but we’re losing her!” As they get closer, I see it’s a woman. I’m confused. Was someone else involved in the wreck? Then I see her clothes, a dark green suit like the one I am wearing.
I panic and run up beside her. The two firemen, one on each end of the stretcher, completely ignore me as they trot to the ambulance. I run along beside them, trying to get a better look The woman is unconscious, her breathing rapid and shallow. Her jacket, my green designer jacket, is open. A third fireman is holding a large gauze dressing against her chest. I reach down to touch her shoulder, my shoulder, and my hand passes right through.
Oh, God! This is my body! I didn’t get out of the wreck! Julie Ann was right. She and I are nearly dead—my mind whirls. Dizzy, I stumble back to Julie Ann and stand beside her. I can’t form words at all.
“That was you.” She’s not looking at me. Her voice is flat, shocky. Mine probably is too,
“Yeah.”
“Do you hate me?”
That’s unexpected. “No, I don’t hate you.” Actually, I’m not even mildly pissed.
“Why not? I’m the other woman.”
I shrug. “Stephen’s cheating is on him, not you. He must be happier with you.” I guess if this were a soap opera, she and I would be having a catfight, but there’s nothing like standing around nearly dead to give you perspective.
“I don’t understand. Do you think he was happier?”
I turn back to the wreck. “You just said the two of you were in love. For me, the truth is he isn’t the one. I’m pretty sure I’m not the one for him either. Maybe you are. I had decided to break up with him. Of course, I didn’t picture something this dramatic.”
“No, he just wanted to use me. He doesn’t love me at all.”
Before I can ask her what she means, the firefighters bring another body out. This time I don’t run to the stretcher. I simply think about it, and there I am, right beside it. The body is Julie Ann. She’s unconscious but breathing.
A firefighter calls out, “This one’s not too bad. She’ll probably make it. Looks like the guy will pull through—a probable broken leg. They’re bringing him out now.”
An EMT yells back. “We might be losing this one. We’ve got to roll.”
Julie Ann said, “Grace, they’re talking about you. Do you want to live?”
Is she nuts? “Yes, I want to live.” I feel the truth echo through me. I have wondered how I’d feel at the moment of death. I thought the end would come bang—one minute I would be alive, the next instant—nothing. I never imagined this nearly dead thing, watching myself die. Strangely, I’m not afraid, just sad. No matter how much I want to go on living, my body is dying.
Julie Ann wraps her arms around herself, trying not to cry. “Listen to me. You were talking about the truth a minute ago. The truth is I’m in love, but Stephen isn’t. He promised me a future, but that was all about what I could do for him. I made a whopping mistake, and I don’t think I can live with that. I’m being given a chance to walk away, and I think I’ll take it.”
“What are you talking about?” Knowing Stephen isn’t in love with her is so awful she’d rather die? That makes no sense to me. I want to tell her, he’s not worth it.
“You can live if you take my body.”
That idea is so bizarre I can hardly comprehend it. “Take your body?”
“Yes!”
“You can’t mean that. I’m not even sure it’s possible.”
“I don’t know if it’s possible. I’ve never done this nearly dead thing before. I think I might have a choice. If I do, if I can choose to live or die, I choose to die. My life is a mess, and I don’t know how to fix it. If I were you, I’d choose to live. Give it a shot.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. Just jump in? Whatever you choose, you’d better do it fast. You’re fading.”
I examine my hands, trying to grasp the enormity of what she’s suggesting. Sure enough, I don’t seem as solid as I did. I raise my head, and she is gone. Frantic, I look right, left, then right again and glimpse her on the other side of the wreck, walking toward a light-filled doorway I hadn’t noticed before.
Everything is happening too fast for me to think it through. The ambulance carrying my body is pulling away, and Julie Ann’s body is being loaded into the second ambulance. Without being aware of moving, I’m beside it, staring down at her face, at Julie Ann’s gift to me if I dare to take it. I have a moment’s hesitation. What if this isn’t courage, and instead, it’s the most cowardly thing I’ll ever do. Even with that thought, I close my eyes and chant, “I want to live, I want to live, I want to live,” and jump.