Renhala Page 3

  “I love you with all my heart, Kailey. Be safe.”

  “Thanks mom.” I hang up the phone, gently.

  I dial up Amber, and when I hear her yawn right before she says, “Hello,” I know damn well she checked her caller ID.

  “Hi. What are you up to this evening?” I say, not sure if I want her to say she’s busy washing her hair or if I want her to shout out, “Going out with you, of course!”

  “Oh, I’m just waiting for the seven sexual deviants I contacted through Craig’s List to come over,” she prattles.

  “Alright already, I get it. I’m sorry. Last apology,” I blurt as I roll my eyes.

  “Fine, I accept. So, what’s up?”

  I take in a deep breath and then say, “I want to go out with you tonight.” I sit with my eyes closed, feeling my heart race.

  “We’ll do dinner first. I’ll be there by six!” she shouts, excitedly.

  “Ok.”

  She surely notes the lack of excitement in my voice, for her tone changes. “You sure? I can always just come over to watch movies,” she says, genuinely.

  I think about how I already got her all riled up, so I must continue with the plan, for Amber’s sake of course. “Just get your ass over, all dressed up. See ya.”

  Six o’clock means she’ll be here at seven, and that gives me plenty of time to get ready. I can hardly believe I’m the one who initiated a night out, but I’m riding the minute possibility that a few really strong, dirty martinis will crumble a few emotional walls of mine tonight. I’m willing to give it a try, but damn well know the probable outcome—me sitting, totally sober, while already-drunk Amber downs the countless drinks bought for her from overly-anxious meatheads.

  I switch on the radio and get dressed while lightly shuffling to “Good Vibrations,” by Markie Mark. As I check myself out in the bathroom mirror, I stare, unhappy with the somewhat low-cut shirt I chose—too revealing. While taking the shirt off, I bend over to plug the iron back in, and then the power suddenly goes out, engulfing me in total darkness.

  I freeze for a brief two seconds. Then whirl about, using my hands as eyes in the darkness, searching for any weapons in my bathroom. Realizing that two previous nights ago I walked away with a pocket knife usually stored in the medicine cabinet, I grab my cuticle scissors in one hand and my hairspray in the other. Kioto had only been moaning in her sleep that night I moved the knife, but it sounded so alien. Alien. Alien-like grunting.

  The guttural sound of grunting from my assaulter’s throat echoes through my mind as I stand motionless, frozen from fear, remembering the noise as he tore off my cotton panties the day of the assault. I lay there, on my stomach, on top of my newly made bed, staring at Bear—a feeling of despair so great and overpowering pulsing through me. I also remember, too painfully, the blood-curdling scream that escaped my throat as I pleaded to anyone listening, a higher being even, to please save me. Don’t let this happen to me. This shouldn’t be happening to me. I wouldn’t survive feeling that hopeless again.

  After my eyes adjust, and as I wait for the sound of footsteps or breathing, I hear neither, so I peek around the door and see Kioto lying on the ground, head turned toward me—possibly perturbed by the roaring sounds emanating from my chest. I walk, shakily, with weapons still in hand, toward the window and I see the whole block is out. A quick check toward the sky reveals the approaching storm. I collapse on my couch and cry like a baby, doubting my ability to function like a normal human being ever again. Kioto walks toward me, and slowly licks my blackened tears from my face. “Thanks, baby,” I say as I snuggle into her and regain my normal breathing.

  I wipe my running mascara from my face and gather my composure. A glance at the clock tells me that Amber should be here soon. Sooner than I can fix my makeup, the power goes back on, giving me another heart attack when “Kung Fu Fighting” starts blaring throughout the apartment. What a wonderful start to the evening.

  Amber arrives at 7:15 and lets herself in with the key I gave her last week, which was supposed to be for emergencies only. She is absolutely stunning. Her long, straight blond hair complements the lime-green baby-doll dress and her black stilettos. She’s only five foot three, so the extra four and a half inches brings her closer to eye level, but not for long. I decide to wear my knee length, heeled, black boots with my new taupe silk tank top and black pants. I grab my father’s ring off my dresser and slip it into my pocket.

  She stares at me and says, “Girl, I need some of that leg length. If you die, can you donate your legs to me?” I laugh and tell her only if she shares some of the endowment on her chest. She’s about a thirty-two E, compared to my thirty-four B.

  “You sure you’re ready to do this?” She emanates sincerity.

  I shake my head no as the tears fill my eyes and I grab my purse.

  Seeing my reaction, she steps softly toward me and hugs me tightly.

  As she lets go, I say, “I can do this, really. I want to do this.” I sniffle and grasp the ring in my pocket. I pull myself together and say, “I’m ready. Let’s go.” I smile at her.

  “Let’s go and find us some sugar daddies,” she purrs mischievously. My eyebrows raise and she then says, “or some boring, but respectful male who loves his momma, and thinks of nothing but pleasing the female race?”

  I laugh at her as we both say our goodbyes to Kioto, before walking out of my apartment. With a sudden change of tone as we walk downstairs, she asks, “How’s your mom doing?” Amber is always asking about my mom and worries as much as I do.

  “She’s hanging in there. The doctors are repeatedly amazed at how she continues each day without dialysis—which she refuses. The kidney is not doing well.”

  Amber frowns and says, “I hope you tell her how much you love her. Every day.” She looks to the sky and says, “I would,” in a whisper. Her sorrow makes my own eyes tear up and I take a deep breath, holding it deep in my chest, and bringing myself back to my own emotions.

  We decide that, with menacing clouds still lingering above, we don’t want to go anywhere café-ish, where we could have sat outside if the weather was decent.

  “How about that new hot spot over in Lakeview that serves all their food raw?” she suggests.

  I imagine a plate full of vomit-looking butternut squash and steak tartare, and it makes me want to puke. “Sorry, I’m not into that whole raw scene,” I snap. “I want something warm and comforting tonight—maybe with some grease to soak up the cosmos I’ve been daydreaming about.”

  We decide on a soul food restaurant that’s been around for years. We both get excited as we jinx each other with a simultaneous “Cornbread!” But after we hail a cab, we regret it immediately. The cabbie slowly scans us with his beady eyes as we climb in and smiles a smile I rather dislike, displaying his stained teeth. The yellow, rotten teeth, brown-streaked from years of neglect, sneer as he comes close, sniffing my lightly perfumed neck.

  Amber, seeing my reaction, then leans in toward me and whispers with beautiful, professionally whitened, but clenched teeth, “If I smell like this cab at the bar, I am going to start smoking again.”

  She quit three years ago, thanks to my constant nagging, and her comment indeed pulls me back to reality. “I’ll spill some kind of fruity drink all over you so you don’t stink. Sound good?” I give her my best wholesome smile, attempting to wash away negative thoughts that may ruin my night out.

  “You are such a true friend. Thanks,” she says. “You’d probably light a match, too.” She smiles quirkily at me, showing her full set of dazzling white teeth.

  Our chatting turns my mind from the cabbie as we discuss how Helping Hands is doing so poorly. And how maybe, it’s no coincidence considering the increase of strange and depressing news that scours televisions these days. We then both stare at each other, silently acknowledging that we’ve hit yet another topic we should currently steer clear of, so we then divert our focus to the cattiness of our female Helping Hands colleagues, and how we are
just so above that as grown, mature women. Our laughs intertwine as we realize we are so full of shit. But my laugh soon dissipates as a glance out the window informs me we are in unknown territory.

  I grab my purse and the pepper spray inside as I scan the area for street signs. Amber grabs my arm and gives me a glare I’ve grown accustomed to throughout the years—the one informing me I’m overreacting. She asks the cabbie where we are, and he replies, with the thickest Middle-Eastern accent I’ve ever heard, “Dragon Palace, just like you said.”

  “No, it was Regina’s Palate, on Southport.” Amber’s voice rises quickly.

  The driver’s face contorts as the prospect of a decent tip flies out the window—and Amber hasn’t even begun with him yet. “I think you need to pay me now,” he says.

  “No, you take us where we asked,” demands Amber.

  “Get out of my cab,” he says, turning off his meter. I am about to scream at this point, so very afraid of being stranded. He turns to me and bends over the seat, then directly looking into my face, he yells, “You get out now!”

  The sour breath, reeking like a rotting corpse might, has me gagging as his eyes look into mine, daring me to scream again.

  The terror is so overwhelming I think I’m going to explode. Amber grabs my arm quickly and pulls me out of the cab. I fumble with my purse, and my makeup bag rips open and spills out everywhere. The cabbie burns rubber as he runs over my Chanel compact, breaking it into a thousand pieces. There are tears in my eyes, but for fear of ruining my mascara, they don’t fall. I sit on the curb and look up at Amber. “I can’t do this. Who am I fooling? I thought I could, but I can’t.” I look down at my hands that are shaking.

  Amber pulls my chin up to look at her. “You can. Stop doubting, Kailey. If that was me instead of you, believe me, I’d be locked up somewhere in a straightjacket,” she says. “Look—you’ve made it this far. I know where we are, and so should you. Your mom took us here after...you know...”

  I look around and it dawns on me that this is the restaurant—hidden in one of Chinatown’s many nooks—my mom took us to after Amber broke the nose of one of her mother’s boyfriends, actually the worst on the extensive list. His request of a ménage à trois with Amber and her own mother was the final straw.

  “Yeah! You’re right. I remember they had the most delicious lavender jasmine tea.” My blood pressure slowly drops to a livable level as I recall the delicate taste.

  Amber smiles warmly at me. “Leave it up to you to remember their damn tea. Let’s go grab some mai tais instead.” She walks toward the front door, leaving me standing with Jell-O legs.

  She’s amazing—already back to her nonchalant self, enjoying life. With my hand in my pocket, I eventually—as she stands holding the door open—convince myself to follow her. Perhaps the simple thought that she might get us some free appetizers draws me in.

  After a delicious meal of free potstickers, Kung Pao Dream, two Dragon mai tais, one pina colada, and a steaming hot tea, I head to the ladies room to touch up my makeup after mentioning to Amber how weak the drinks are. Her heavy eyelids disagree.

  As I walk to the restroom, I’m amazed at how many different shades of red exist in the restaurant. It’s not tacky, though, instead actually very comforting, in a strange sort of way. I admire the many decorations on the walls: fierce, four-toed dragons threaten kimono-clothed girls as they run on their stilted shoes, beautiful golden temples shining in the distance. I breathe in deeply as the smells coming from the kitchen make me want more food—go figure.

  Once I reach a mirror, I raise my hand to apply some powder to my nose, but it never reaches its destination, for I notice a reflection in the mirror of a neon sign outside. It’s a buzzing double happiness symbol—and I’m sure it’s the same sign from the news. Every muscle in my body freezes, except for my heart, which decides it rather try beating its way out through my chest.

  I scramble back to our table as quickly as possible, forgoing my attention to my shiny forehead.

  “Amber, let’s go walk around,” I suggest. “See some sites.”

  “In these heels?”

  “I’ve witnessed you dance in those shoes for hours. Come on.”

  After a bit more coercing, and a “whatever” from Amber, we walk outside to the end of the block, turn the corner, and her mood suddenly changes as she sees the thriving nightlife of Chinatown. The storefronts promise goodies if you’re willing to dig through mountains of Chinese imports, and several cutesy candy shops advertise yummy milk candies wrapped in equally yummy bunny-laden wrappers. Decorative dragon spoon rests call to me as Amber buys a sushi set-up for two at Hong Kong Heaven.

  As we step out of the shop, my eyes are drawn to the opposite side of the street. I stop right in front of Amber, who walks right into me, dropping her bag. “If you even broke this, I’ll kill you,” she says in a very serious voice as she picks up her bag.

  I tell her to shut up. Across the street is a young Asian man dressed in black, motioning for us to join him. I turn around to find my friend smiling, her eyes widened and filled with lust. Another glance across the street reveals that the man is indeed quite handsome. He’s about my height, and thin, but he reeks of hidden muscle underneath his expensively tailored shirt. His silky black hair is short, accentuating his polished skin, and his smile rivals the streetlight in brightness.

  Amber’s smile fades, replaced by a look of determination. “Maybe he needs some arm candy for some cool party. Let’s go.” Before I can say no, she pulls on my arm, dragging me across the street. When Amber has a purpose, watch out, world.

  I, on the other hand, no longer trust anything and the gears in my head churn in overdrive. Her arm drags me, against my will, behind her, through throngs of night owls littering the streets.

  We make our introductions to the handsome gentleman, and he informs us that, yes, indeed, there is a party down the block, and we should join him. He points to the bar with the longest line of already drunk bar-hoppers and turns to look at Amber. I notice a brief emotion from him, but can only describe it as how one might think a dog feels waiting in its owner’s car, eyes focused on the door they disappeared through.

  I explain, “My friend’s feet here are killing her, so maybe we shouldn’t.” Amber then jabs me with her elbow. But to our surprise, our new friend leads us straight to the front of the line, and we enter without even having to pay the cover. Amber pumps her arm, letting a “Yes!” escape her mouth as the girls in line shout at us with their plump, glossy lips, which only enlarges Amber’s already large head.

  Inside, after finding that I have highly underestimated the size of the bar—and the crowd inside is not seedy—I decide there’s nothing scary going on. All the patrons are engrossed in the news feed playing above the bar, which keeps showing shots of a dead, but adorable and humongous, white rabbit. But as the screen pans to where its front left paw should be, we all see one large talon, like a hybrid gone terribly wrong. The men and women alike all shriek in disgust at the sight—Amber specifically grabbing onto Russell’s arm. Apparently, this rabbit, alone, took down a wild pack of dogs before it was shot by an Idaho potato farmer.

  Within minutes, Amber leans over to me, shouting, “Kailey, Russell and I are going to get a drink at the bar! Would you like anything?” Her eyebrows are slightly raised, giving me a clue she wants some privacy. Russell points to a reserved table with three empty seats where I can sit and wait like a good doggie. A sore toe obliges with no problem whatsoever, but before I reach the table, I see a short, elderly Asian man standing in a doorway, staring at me. I squint my eyes at him, trying to scare him.

  He then smiles at me and motions for me to come over.

  I shake my head, refusing the offer.

  He then mouths the words “Come, it’s ok.” I reach in my purse, feel my pepper spray and suddenly have enough courage to actually follow this stranger. Plus, the kitchen aromas coming from his direction have won hands down in the arm wrestle with m
y better judgment.

  Upon entering the doorway, he says, “Follow me, I’ve got something interesting to show you. It might make your day.” He exudes confidence, as though no matter what he says, I’ll listen. His words make my insides feel all excited and fuzzy like a child who has found a new neighborhood park. But I stand, allowing him to continue without me. He stops and says, with a bit of sternness, “Please, follow, don’t be afraid. You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” I follow, not feeling one bit scared or foolish in doing so.

  He walks through another doorway, and this room is empty, except for a small table with a lamp and some kind of urn. Out of curiosity, I follow the man yet again, through yet another door. This room has only one door. It must be our destination.

  It’s perhaps the most beautiful room I have ever seen. The hardwood floors are mahogany, the walls alternating between a deep, rich, purple hue and a stunning gold, metallic sheen, and the ceiling is painted like the sky. There are striking purple and gold accents here and there, along with lovely vases of tuberoses—my favorite—and purple delphinium. And the smell—god, it smells of rain and grass on a spring morning. A large, curtainless window framed by white, distressed wood looms perfectly in the middle of a wall, beckoning me to look out. The man holds out his hand, giving me permission to observe. I don’t know what I’m looking for as I walk to the window, but I find myself drawn to it.

  My eyes widen as I see a cab pulled along the side of the road. It has started raining, and the driver stands, staring at his cab. As he turns slowly, I recognize his Middle-Eastern profile. My blood begins boiling as he bends over, his hands reaching toward the wheel, pulling out a black piece of plastic from the flat tire. I recognize it instantly: Chanel medium bisque. I feel happy, and know I shouldn’t, but he was a jerk.

  “Someone has to still be listening,” the man with me whispers to himself, as he watches the cab driver.

  “What?” I respond.

  “Just talking to myself. Would you like a cup of tea, Kailey?” I jump at words I wasn’t expecting, especially my name.