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SCENE 3 - VIAGRA NIGHTS
PART TWO
She’s on her way.”
“How long?”
“Depending on traffic, half an hour.”
“You’re angry with me.”
Fionnella sighs. “I don’t know what I am. But I do want to know what the hell you’re playing at. She wanted to stay at the loft. That was perfect. Why take her out? And why Juniere’s for God’s sake? Maxwell and Delilah could’ve been there.”
“They weren’t.”
“Would you even have noticed if they were?”
My jaw grits. “Yes.”
“Quinn, we’ve come too far for you to hit the self-destruct button prematurely when we’re this close.”
I grip the phone tighter. “I need her, Nella.”
“What about her? Paying her for a job she undertook with her eyes wide open is one thing. This…whatever you’re doing on the side with her… I can’t talk you out of it, I know. But her baggage is as heavy as yours. Take a moment before you drag both of you down.”
“It’s too late.”
She sighs again. “How did I know you’d say that?”
“Because it’s always been too late.”
“Quinn…” she stops and exhales. “Don’t take her to Juniere’s again.”
I turn away from the Fifth Avenue view and rest my back against the cool glass. I hadn’t meant to take Elyse to Mama’s favorite restaurant or sit at her favorite table. That it happened at all is a puzzle I’m grappling with. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she responds.
“What about the Clay situation?”
“I’m on it. I should have something for you by Saturday.”
Fionnella is normally quicker than that, but I know what day tomorrow is.
“Want some company tomorrow?” I offer.
“No. But thanks.” Her voice is bleak and cold with long suppressed grief. “You know I prefer to do the drive on my own,” she adds roughly.
The drive to Maine. To the grave where Michael, her son, is buried. It’s the anniversary of his death tomorrow.
Michael Smith was my age when Adriana Nathanson got her claws into him. A two-tour Marine suffering from acute PTSD, the good doctor fucked with his mind, while fucking him every chance she got.
I met Fionnella Smith on the last day her son was alive. She accompanied him to Dr. Nathanson’s office because she was worried about his treatment. A chance meeting by the water cooler. A desperate confession of her fears for her son. My biting advice to take Michael and run. An email from her a month later that Michael had committed suicide. My own confessions of what those who were supposed to love her had done to Mama.
Those events brought about this unlikely partnership. I may be fucked up beyond repair, but I’m not fucking this up for her.
“Call me when you get back,” I say.