Page 4 of Dark Ugly Places

My mind starts to buzz as the painkiller takes effect and dulls my thoughts, a shade pulled down over the window of a sunlit room. The thinking stops for a little while.

I watch the blue liquid swirl around in the sink, tinting the porcelain as it goes down, slowly, slowly.

It’s not the same sink, or the same house, as that wretched day from before, when Emmy was a baby … but my brain doesn’t know that. It thinks the thoughts it wants to, drugs or not. I’m a hostage.

And what do I think about?

Death, of course. How near it was and may still be. I think of how death seems like that nice, clean break, but it leaves so much behind. The seeping, oozing wound of loss, regret, and confusion. The questions unanswered. The things unsaid.

But I also think of that day and finding him, the man behind the wheel. He’s out there somewhere. Alive. Untouched. Carefree.

Or perhaps careless.

I’d like to be as careless as he.

The blue swirl of my saliva and mouthwash moves round and round, and I turn on the tap to make it run clear again. When I look up, my own face catches me off guard. The dark circles. The abrupt pointed end of my nose. The blotchy, colorless yawn of both cheeks that used to be full, that used to make me pretty. Below, small, accented lines strut toward my mouth. I rub my forefinger across my lips and try to make them disappear. I don’t enjoy looking into my own eyes, but I do it anyway, just for a second.

A thought appears, quick and sharp, a tack pressing into my temple. I resist, but it swells, unstoppable, an ocean inside me …

You are not who you thought you were.

2

Nicola

I wait in the driveway for Emmy, readjusting the little air freshener that hangs from the Beetle’s rearview mirror to block out the scent of old fast food and something else deeper, more sour, that we could never quite place. Emmy gets in, slouching low in the seat as we head to Beverly Hills High. When we pull up near the drop-off zone, she’s hunched down and nearly invisible.

“I bet most kids have their own cars here,” Emmy says as we stop at the corner, away from the other moms in Range Rovers, Bentleys, and Teslas.

“Well, you’re not most kids,” I say lightly and instantly regret it. “You’re you.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” she says and opens her door. She gets out with her black JanSport backpack and slams the door before I can think of what to say. I lower my window and lean over. “Emmy. I love you.”

“Love you,” she mutters, looking wearily at the crowd of kids circling near the entrance. A banner with red paint hangs above the double doors, reading, “Welcome Class of 2022.” Outside, some kids are gathering, cliques here and there, and my stomach rolls remembering my first day of high school.

She’ll be fine. She really will be. Relax.

Putting the car in gear, I pull off, and in seconds, I lose sight of her.

My chest burns a little as she goes. The sting of letting her go is sharper than any of the years before. We were always like a jigsaw puzzle, our family of three. But without Ben, there is a piece missing from us. A connecting piece, maybe.

You’re driving, remember? Concentrate.

There are red lights all the way along Wilshire toward the Whitmore Hotel, the place where they filmed a famous movie in the 80s about a reclusive actress. I never intended to work at an upscale hotel in Beverly Hills serving the wealthy elite of the city, but when you’re out of work and owe medical bills, you take what you can get.

I enter through the employee entrance at the back, away from the sweeping, grand foyer with the oversized Tiffany flower display. I take the elevator up to the Club Level, where the eleventh floor overlooks the part of Beverly Hills they call the Triangle, the intersecting streets full of high-end restaurants and designer shops along Rodeo Drive and Beverly Boulevard. The scent of eggs, bacon, and pastries hits me, and my stomach groans. One of the hotel staff is setting out newspapers and the morning’s gourmet breakfast fare for the Club Level guests, mainly creative types and their executives in crisp suits, producers in designer jeans and blazers, and the occasional A-list actor. The high-top tables—empty, except for a couple of men in suits—reflect the daylight from the tall east-facing windows. I turn my back to them as I reach the breakfast buffet and grab a couple of muffins with a napkin and shove them into my purse.

Down on the mezzanine in the single room that is the Reservations Department, Nubia is manning the phones. She glances up and nods to me silently, her fingers flying over the keys. “Great, you’re all confirmed. Thank you for choosing the Whitmore Hotel Beverly Hills. Goodbye!”

As my butt hits the chair, she swivels to face me. “You look like shit.”

“Rough morning. Teenager. Dog.”

“Tell me!” She picks a nail file out of her desk organizer and starts filing one long, purple nail. “I was here at 7:30. Phones started at 7:32. I didn’t have no time to eat, to check the email, nothing. They haven’t stopped ringing since. The next call is yours.”

Shannon, our resident college student, breezes in and throws down her white, monogrammed tote bag right onto the keyboard. She sighs and turns, then flips her head over and gathers up her long, blonde hair into a ponytail. “Morning!”

Nubia glares at her. “You see the time? You’re late.”