Chapter 83
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I lie in my hospital bed and try to decide where I should go when I’m released.
Back to my own apartment? No, not yet. The thought of cooking or cleaning or even just opening a window with one arm seems daunting.
Vicky’s apartment? She’s been insisting I stay there. But Vicky goes to her office every day. I’d be alone for hours with only my regrets to keep me company.
Felicia Velasquez called a few times to see how I was.
She said if I wanted to, I could stay with them while I recuperate.
She told me she’s hated Ben for quite a while, ever since he reneged on a promise to give her a gallery show.
That’s probably what they were arguing about when I overheard them at the club.
And yes, Felicia confirmed, Marianna was originally from Colombia.
And she was about to go back home when they offered to sponsor her here.
Then, the day before I’m discharged, Amber shows up.
She looks spectacular. Designer coat, designer suit, designer handbag.
She’s carrying a large Saks Fifth Avenue box that I’m sure contains a designer something for me, as well as a bouquet the size of a small child—crimson roses, purple orchids, baby’s breath, and massive pink peonies, all wrapped in lavender tissue paper with red velvet ribbons.
Definitely not something she grabbed on her way out of Stop & Shop.
Amber stands in the doorway for a few seconds. She smiles as she takes a few tentative Jimmy Choo–stiletto steps into my room. Then she bursts into tears.
“You look so thin!” she cries. Me? Oh, right. I forgot. Amber’s never seen me without my foam bodysuit, which is now hanging in my closet like a soft skeleton.
Did I say she cries? Make that sobs uncontrollably. Last time I saw anyone weep this hard, it was me at the end of Toy Story 3.
Slowly but surely, Amber cries off her entire face. Her La Mer eyeliner is the first to go. Then her Chanel cream eyeshadow smears into her Charlotte Tilbury blush. Even her waterproof Dior mascara finally gives up and starts zigzagging down her face like a small country road.
“This is all my fault,” Amber keeps repeating between sobs.
Really? “Why do you say that?” I ask. I can’t imagine what she feels guilty about. Being beautiful? Marrying Ben? Giving birth to an angel?
She starts to apologize so I raise my good arm like a traffic cop to stop her. “No,” I say. “This was all my doing. And I’m glad I did it.”
“Yes! You saved our lives!” she blubbers, sinking into a chair.
“If it weren’t for you…” Amber’s vision of what might have been brings on even more tears.
She grabs a handful of tissues to wipe her face, though it’s way too late for that.
The perfect woman who walked in a moment ago now looks messy and crazed, like something Picasso might have painted when he was going through his what-did-I-ever-see-in-Dora-Maar phase.
With my injured arm now in a sling, I hold out the other arm to hug her and she lets me, even though I’m just the help.
She even hugs back.