Suspended - Part XIII

“Suspended” is a fictional story about a New York family — husband, wife and college-aged son — who’ve become disconnected from one another and lost their sense of purpose until a beautiful young woman who claims she’s a hands-on-healer enters their lives and shakes everything up.

THIS IS PART 13 of a FIFTEEN-PART STORY

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

Because Fee wanted to, they went to a Japanese restaurant that evening. Marcia would have preferred Chinese or Italian, but Fee was the guest and also a pescatarian and very particular about the foods she put in her body. This suited Danny on his yeast-free diet. Fee wore a summer dress that showed off the pretty bones of her throat and shoulders. Danny sat on one side of her, Rich on the other. Marcia, in a long skirt and frilly peasant blouse, was very quiet as she tried to assess the situation. Rich had greeted her with a hug, but the hug -- stiff-armed and wary -- hadn't hidden how surprised he was to see her in the apartment. "Why didn't you call?" he asked. "Why should I?" she answered. “This is my home.”

Rich hadn’t known what to say to that. When she yelled, “How dare you bring strange women to the apartment without my permission!” he’d stared at her blankly and a full blown, blood curdling argument would have ensued if Danny hadn’t knocked on the door just then and shouted, “Come on you guys. Dinner.”

In the street, on the way to the restaurant, Marcia walked with Danny who seemed livelier and happier than he'd been in months. Ahead of them, Fee and Rich strode in perfect sync, their bodies not touching, but somehow connected. Rich had sworn there was nothing between them. “She just needed a place to stay, that's all.” But Marcia knew they were attracted. In the restaurant, Fee's shapely arm had no trouble resting on the back of Rich's chair. Her fingers brushed his wrist, his shoulder, even once his thigh. And the way she looked at him! With a sweetness, a compassion, a solicitude she made no attempt to conceal. And the way he looked back! With shyness, respect, almost — yes, almost — adoration that he tried to hide, but couldn't. His nasal voice took on a deeper resonance when he addressed her: “Would you like sake? Tea? Some of this Edamame?” 

Marcia tried to be calm and pleasant, but she wanted to ram her chopsticks into Fee's lovey-dovey blue eyes. Eyes that didn't fool her one bit. All that new age crap about chakras and energy. The woman was a cold calculating bitch. “Rich told me you had a concussion,” she said when they were seated. “I’ll help you when we get back to the apartment. I can see you're disoriented.”

“I don't think so,” Marcia said, smiling with her teeth. Rich threw her a be-nice look. So sanctimonious. She smiled at him, too. What else had he told Fee? That they never had sex anymore? That she'd abandoned him for her horse in the country? He was boring — could Fee fix that? Could she fix his habit of sulking or never rinsing dishes before putting them in the dishwasher or leaving pubic hairs on the cake of soap in the shower? But as Marcia studied him, the way he wrinkled his nose up and squinted when he read the menu, the mournfulness of his face with its worry lines and graying beard, the strength and manliness of his arms beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, she saw what she imagined Fee saw: a kind and tenderhearted man who had money and good looks and good intentions and was as lonely and neglected as a cat put out the door. Ripe for the pickin,’ as her mother’s Jamaican maid used to say. Marcia lowered her chopsticks to her plate. Her heart was pounding with bitter energy, churning the sea of her blood, whipping up a dark, violent fury. She wanted to smash her glass against the edge of the table and slash Fee's cheeks with one of the shards. She wanted to ram the toe of her clog into Rich's balls. Instead, large-bodied and regal as the prow of a ship, she rose and sailed from the restaurant. 

What power, what excitement, to sweep down Broadway in the sticky summer heat, the crowd parting for her, her long skirt billowing out like a sail, knowing that back in the restaurant Rich was scurrying to pay the bill, worried about her, about what she'd do. He'd tell the others to take their time and come running after her. She slowed her pace, expecting his hand on her shoulder at any moment. But when she turned, there were only strangers behind her. Her heart shriveled. She wanted to weep.

Cover Image: Jonathan Borba

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